The Grace Year(4)
The younger children made a game out of it, taking bets on who would make it back, but the closer I got to my own grace year, the less amusing it became.
“Happy Veiling Day.” Mr. Fallow tips his hat in a gentlemanly fashion, but his eyes linger on my skin, on the red ribbon trailing down my backside, a little too long for comfort. Geezer Fallow is what they call him behind his back, because no one knows exactly how old he is, but he’s clearly not too old to give me the once-over.
They call us the weaker sex. It’s pounded into us every Sunday in church, how everything’s Eve’s fault for not expelling her magic when she had the chance, but I still can’t understand why the girls don’t get a say. Sure, there are secret arrangements, whispers in the dark, but why must the boys get to decide everything? As far as I can tell, we all have hearts. We all have brains. There are only a few differences I can see, and most men seem to think with that part anyway.
It’s funny to me that they think claiming us, lifting our veils, will give us something to live for during our grace year. If I knew I had to come home and lie with someone like Tommy Pearson, I might walk straight into the poacher’s blade with open arms.
A blackbird lands on the branch of the punishment tree in the center of the square. The scratching of its claws against the dull metal limb sends a sliver of ice through my blood. Apparently, it used to be a real tree, but when they burned Eve alive for heresy, the tree went with her, so they built this one out of steel. An everlasting emblem of our sin.
A group of men pass by, shrouded in whispers.
There have been rumors circulating for months … whispers of a usurper. Apparently, the guards have found evidence of secret gatherings in the woods. Men’s clothes hanging from branches, like an effigy. At first, they thought it might be a trapper trying to stir up trouble, or a jilted woman from the outskirts trying to get even, but then the suspicion spread to the county. It’s hard to imagine that it could be one of our own, but Garner County is full of secrets. Some that are as clear as fresh-cut glass, but they choose to ignore. I’ll never understand that. I’d rather have the truth, no matter how painful the outcome.
“For the love of God, stand up straight, Tierney,” a woman scolds as she passes. Aunt Linny. “And without an escort. My poor brother,” she whispers to her daughters, loud enough for me to hear every syllable. “Like mother, like daughter.” She holds a sprig of holly to her upturned nose. In the old language it was the flower of protection. Her sleeve slips from her wrist, exposing a swath of pink puckered skin on her forearm. My sister Ivy said she saw it once when she went on a call with Father to treat her cough—a scar runing all the way from her wrist to her shoulder blade.
Aunt Linny yanks down her sleeve to block my stare. “She runs wild in the woods. Best place for her really.”
How would she know what I’ve been up to unless she’s been spying on me? Ever since my first bleed, I’ve gotten all kinds of unwanted advice. Most of it asinine, at best, but this is just plain mean.
Aunt Linny glares at me before dropping the sprig and continuing on her way. “As I was saying, there’s so much to consider when giving a veil. Is she pleasant? Compliant? Will she bear sons? Is she hardy enough to survive the grace year? I don’t envy the men. It’s a heavy day, indeed.”
If she only knew. I stamp the holly into the ground.
The women believe the men’s veiling gathering in the barn to be a reverent affair, but there’s nothing reverent about it. I know this because I’ve witnessed the last six years in a row by hiding in the loft behind the sacks of grain. All they do is drink ale, sling out vulgarities, and occasionally get into a brawl over one of the girls, but curiously, there’s no talk of our “dangerous magic.”
In fact, the only time magic comes up is when it’s convenient for them. Like when Mrs. Pinter’s husband died, Mr. Coffey suddenly accused his wife of twenty-five years of secretly harboring her magic and levitating in her sleep. Mrs. Coffey was as meek and mild as they come—hardly the levitating sort—but she was cast out. No questions asked. And surprise, Mr. Coffey married Mrs. Pinter the following day.
But if I ever made such an accusation, or if I came back from my grace year unbroken, I would be sent to the outskirts to live among the prostitutes.
“My, my, Tierney,” Kiersten says as she approaches with a few of her followers trailing behind. Her veiling dress might be the prettiest one I’ve ever seen—cream silk with strands of gold woven in, glinting in the sun, just like her hair. Kiersten reaches out, skimming her fingertips over the pearls near my collarbone with a familiarity we don’t share. “That dress suits you better than it did June,” she says, looking up at me through her sugary lashes. “But don’t tell her I said that.” The girls behind her stifle wicked giggles.
My mother would probably be mortified to know they recognized it was a hand-me-down, but the girls of Garner County are always on the lookout for an opportunity to dole out a thinly shrouded insult.
I try to laugh it off, but my undergarments are laced so tight, I can’t find the air. It doesn’t matter anyway. The only reason Kiersten even acknowledges me is because of Michael. Michael Welk has been my closest friend since childhood. We used to spend all our time spying on people, trying to uncover clues about the grace year, but eventually Michael grew tired of that game. Only it wasn’t a game to me.