The Grace Year(37)

They all did.

Soon, wild rumors of ghostly activities swept through the camp. Things were disappearing, being smashed to bits in the night. Interestingly enough, the ghosts were only going after the things I’d built, but I didn’t let it deter me.

As crazy as it got in the camp, I tried my best to stick to routine, keep up with the chores, but it was getting harder and harder to rally even myself, let alone the other girls. I suppose sitting around the fire talking about ghosts and magic is a lot more appealing than hard labor, but I promised myself that I would keep my head. If the magic takes me, so be it, but I won’t give in without reason, without a fight.

In the early-morning hours, with whoever’s willing, we head out to the western side of the clearing, to start on some futile project or another, but soon find ourselves lost in the clouds … the wind … the trees.

It makes me think of the women in the county—draping their fingers over the water, tilting their faces toward the late-autumn wind, is this what they’re remembering? Is this what they’re trying to get back to?

I feel like I’m missing something … a key piece of the puzzle. But when I look at the fence, the endless sea of stripped cedars stretching out for miles, it occurs to me—even though we’re sent here against our will, to live or die like animals, this is the most freedom we’ve ever had. That we’ll probably ever get.

I don’t know why it makes me laugh. It’s not funny at all. But I find Gertie, Martha, and Nanette laughing along with me, until we’re crying.

Walking back to the camp, there’s a sense of dread. Maybe it’s just the weather turning, but it feels like something more. Every day the tension seems to be mounting. What it’s mounting to, I cannot say, but it’s palpable, something you can feel in the air.

As we approach the campfire, we find the girls already assembled, feeding on their own whispers, their dark eyes tracking us like slivers of wet shale.

Grabbing a pitcher of water from the rain barrel, a handful of dried fruit and nuts from the larder, we escape their heavy gaze, retreating into the lodging house, only to find four more beds have been moved to the other side of the room—Lucy, Ellie, Becca, and Patrice have all succumbed. No one says a word, but I know we’re all wondering which one of us will be next. It doesn’t even feel like an if anymore, but a when.





A mournful cry echoes through the forest, making me flinch. I’m not sure if it’s a nightmare or reality, but they feel like one and the same as of late.

Listening closer, I only hear the heady lull of slumber all around me, the soft coo of Dovey sleeping in Helen’s arms. “Everything’s okay,” I whisper to myself.

“Is it?” Gertrude asks.

I turn on my side to face her. I want to tell her yes, but I’m not sure anymore. I’m not sure about anything. I can’t stop staring at her knuckles, the thick ropelike scars glinting pink and silver in the lamplight.

“Go ahead and ask,” she whispers. “I know you want to.”

“What do you mean?” I try to play it off, but as Gertie pointed out, I’m bad at pretending.

I’m trying to find the words, how I can phrase this without causing her any more embarrassment, any more pain, but then she does it for me.

“You want to know what was in that lithograph.”

“If you don’t want to say, I underst—”

“It was a woman,” she whispers. “She had long hair that was loose around her shoulders, ringlets barely skimming her breasts. A red silk ribbon coiled around her hand like a serpent. Her cheeks were flushed; her head was tilted up.”

“Eyes to God,” I say, thinking of our lessons.

“No,” she says in a dreamy tone. “Her eyes were half closed, but it felt like she was staring right at me.”

“In pain?” I ask, remembering hearing about some pictures that were confiscated from the trappers a few years back. Women bound, contorted in ungodly shapes.

“The opposite.” Gertrude looks up at me, eyes shining. “She looked happy. Rapturous.”

My imagination is running wild. That goes against everything we’ve been taught. We’ve all heard the rumors about the women in the outskirts, that some of them might even enjoy it, but this woman had a red ribbon. She was clearly one of us. I swallow hard at the thought. “What were they doing to her?”

“That’s the thing,” Gertrude whispers. “She was alone. She was touching herself.”

The notion is so shocking that my breath catches in my throat.

“Dirty Gertie,” someone hisses from the dark, and the entire room erupts in giggles. Jeers.

I want to tell them it was Kiersten’s lithograph, that Gertie took the blame, but I made a promise. It’s not my story to tell.

As I watch her sink back into her covers, my heart aches for her.





To clear my head, get my mind off the deteriorating state of the camp, I set out to chop wood along the western perimeter.

I don’t expect the rest of the girls to help out anymore, but Gertie’s absence is a little more worrisome. Ever since the other night in the lodging house, when the girls overheard her talking about the lithograph, she’s kept scarce … distant.

Some of the girls have been whispering, saying that she must be coming into her magic, but I think it’s shame. It must feel like she’s being punished in the square all over again. I want to help her, pull her out of whatever mood she’s in, but I’m struggling myself.