The Grace Year(34)

“Maybe it’s your magic,” Helen says. “Maybe you’ll be able to hover above the ground … float among the stars.”

“Or maybe we’re just overworked,” I say as I pick up the axe, burying it into the stump. “It was a long journey.”

They look at each other; I can tell they’re not entirely convinced.

“Tierney’s right,” Martha says, flopping down in the grass. “Until something happens … until we’re certain … it’s best to keep our heads.”

One by one, we find ourselves lying in a patch of dried-up grass, staring up at the clouds, our bodies spent, our minds splayed open wide enough to speak without any more pretense.

“I don’t know what I was expecting…,” Lucy says, squinting toward the fence. “But it wasn’t this.” A tiny moth flutters around her, landing on the back of her hand. “I thought we’d be fighting off poachers.”

“Or battling ghosts and wild animals,” Patrice says.

“I thought when we stepped through the gate, our magic would rip through us,” Martha says, plucking a willow from the grass, blowing on the seeds. “But nothing happened.”

“I’m glad we’re away from the county,” Nanette says. “If I had to look at my parents’ disappointed faces for one more second, I was going to explode.”

“We knew I wouldn’t get a veil,” Becca says, staring up at the cornflower-blue sky. “I didn’t even have my first blood until May, and no one wants a late bloomer.”

“Better than not having one at all,” Molly says. “I never even had a chance at a veil, let alone a spot in the mill or the dairy. It’ll be the fields for me.”

“I didn’t mind not getting a veil,” Martha says.

They all look at her in shock.

“What?” she says with a casual shrug. “At least I don’t have to worry about dying in childbirth.”

They look appalled, but no one argues with her. What can they possibly say? It’s the truth.

“I thought I was getting one,” Lucy admits.

“From who?” Patrice props up on her elbow, excited for a juicy tidbit.

“Russel Peterson,” she whispers, as if just saying his name is like pressing down on a fresh bruise.

“Why would you think he’d give you a veil?” Helen asks, feeding a bit of apple to Dovey. “Everyone knows he’s been sweet on Jenna for years.”

“Because he told me so,” she murmurs.

“Sure.” Patrice rolls her eyes.

“She’s telling the truth,” I say. “I’ve seen them together in the meadow.”

Lucy looks over at me, her eyes welling up with giant tears.

I’m trying not to picture her—eyes turned to God as Russel grunts over her, whispering empty promises.

“And what were you doing in the meadow?” Patrice asks, clearly trying to dig up dirt.

“Michael,” I reply. “We used to meet there all the time.”

“Just like Kiersten said,” one of the girls whispers.

“No … never.” I lift my head to see who said that, but I can’t tell. “Not like that. We’re friends, that’s all. I was as surprised as anyone when I received a veil. And even then, I was sure it was Tommy or Mr. Fallow.”

“I wouldn’t mind Tommy, at least he has all his teeth, but Geezer Fallow…” Ellie crinkles up her nose.

Nanette elbows her, nodding toward Gertrude, but Gertie pretends not to hear. It’s sad to think how good she is at pretending.

There’s an awkward pause. I’m trying to think of something to say, anything to divert their attention, when Gertrude says, “My parents called it a miracle. I mean, it’s not every day a girl accused of depravity gets a veil.” Her candor seems to disarm everyone. We all find ourselves staring at the thick scars on her knuckles. I want to tell her it wasn’t a miracle, that she’s worthy of a veil, but she’s right. A veil has never been given to a girl accused of a crime before, in all of grace year history, especially nothing as grave as depravity.

“It’s funny,” Gertie says, without the slightest hint of a smile on her face. “The same thing that prevented me from getting a veil from one of the boys in my year is the exact reason I received one from Geezer Fallow.”

“What do you mean?” Helen asks.

She takes in a steeling breath. “When he lifted my veil and leaned in to kiss my cheek … he pinched me hard between my legs and whispered, ‘Depravity suits me just fine.’”

I feel a strange heat move to my neck and cheeks.

Maybe we all do, because it’s so quiet I swear I can hear one of the willow seeds settling between the blades of grass.

Whatever was in that lithograph … I know Gertrude Fenton didn’t deserve this … and I’m fairly certain that Kiersten’s to blame.





Returning to the camp with enough firewood to last the month, we start stacking it up in neat rows under the awning of the larder when screams echo from the eastern side of the clearing. Dropping everything, we run over to help, but what I find is all at once puzzling and chilling. The girls are lined up behind Ravenna, holding hands, as if creating some kind of barrier. Ravenna’s hands are raised to the sky. Muscles strained, veins bulging, sweat trailing down her neck, she appears to be grasping an invisible ball, trembling under the weight of it.