The Grace Year(41)

“Yes … but…”

“Take off your clothes.”

“What?” she asks, knitting her arms over her chest.

“You heard me. Take them off.” Kiersten runs her hand down Dena’s braid and whispers in her ear. “I’m going to help you. I’m going to set you free.”

Dena looks around the campfire, but no one dares to intervene. Not even me. Letting out a shaky breath, she removes her cape, her chemise, her underpinnings.

As she stands there, shivering, trying to cover herself the best she can in the moonlight, Kiersten steps in behind her, pressing her palms against the girl’s lower abdomen. “You should feel it right here,” she says, fanning out her fingers, making the girl take in a shuddering breath. “Do you feel the warmth? Do you feel the tingling? Like your blood is reaching for the surface, wanting to scream?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“That’s your magic. Latch on to it, welcome it, keep pulling it forward.”

After a few heaving breaths, Dena clenches her eyes tight. “I think I feel something.”

“Now get on all fours,” Kiersten commands.

“Why?”

“Do as I say.”

Dena obeys, getting down on the ground.

I want to step in, save her from this humiliation, but she’s under Kiersten’s spell. They all are. Maybe I am, too, because I can’t seem to tear my eyes away.

As Kiersten removes Dena’s red ribbon, pulling her long auburn hair free, Dena digs her fingernails into the soil.

The girls watch with rapt attention as Kiersten walks around her, coiling the red ribbon in her hand. “Reach out to the animals of the forest. Feel their presence.”

“I don’t know how,” Dena says.

Kiersten whips the red ribbon through the air across her backside. I’m sure it doesn’t hurt, but it surprises her … surprises all of us.

“Close your eyes,” Kiersten commands. “Feel every heart beating in the woods. Find one. Focus in on that rhythm,” she says as she paces around her.

“I hear something,” Dena says as she lifts her head, eyes straining toward the forest. “I feel heat. Blood. The stench of damp fur.”

A howl comes from the woods, making everyone hold their breath.

Kiersten yanks back Dena’s hair. “Answer,” she says.

As Dena howls back, stretching out her neck as far as she can, I see every tendon straining for magic. Yearning for greatness. Longing to be filled with something bigger than herself.

When Kiersten’s finally satisfied, she releases her. Dena stands to face us—flushed cheeks, hair loose and wild, tears streaming down her face, her eyes glassy with madness. “The magic is real,” she says before howling once more and then collapsing in Kiersten’s arms.





I wake to the sound of muffled laughter, blood on my hands, blood between my legs.

Snapping up in bed, I find myself alone on my side of the lodging house, dark red seeping through my underclothes, girls pointing and giggling behind cupped hands.

“I made that happen.” Kiersten laughs, a long feather in her hand, the tip coated in blood.

I look to Gertie, but she refuses to meet my gaze.

Grabbing my boots, I escape the stifling cabin and head to the rain barrel, to wash myself off, only to find it’s been smashed to pieces. That was my last one. I spent weeks bending the wood just right, and with the weather turning, it will be nearly impossible to make another before spring. Kiersten will blame it on the ghosts, but I know this is her doing. Searing anger rises in my cheeks. I’m furious, but I need to keep it together. They’re probably watching me right now, and the worst thing I can do is let them know they got to me.

Making a beeline for the well, I try to shove the bucket over the side, but it’s frozen solid to the stone. I’m trying to pry it free when I hear the most eerie sound.

Singing. At least it sounds like singing.

Abandoning the well, I make my way toward the gate. There’s a tiny figure hunched on the ground. The high voice, her small stature … for a moment I think it’s the little girl from my dreams. I want to run to her, but I force myself to take measured steps. Trust no one. Not even yourself. My mother’s words echo in my head.

I crouch in front of her, but I can’t see her face. With trembling hands, I lift her filthy veil. It’s Ami Dumont. She’s stayed so quiet, so small, that I almost forgot she was here.

Leaning in close, I listen to her song.

Eve with the golden hair, sits on high in her rocking chair,

The wind doth blow, the night unfurls, weeping for all the men she’s cursed.



It’s an old nursery rhyme; I never gave it a second thought as a child, but now … here … in this moment, the words have taken on an entirely different meaning.

Girls beware, if you don’t behave, you’ll be sent to an early grave.

Never a bairn to call your own, never a care to—



Abruptly, she stops singing, with her eyes fixed on the gate; her breath grows shallow in her chest, but it’s not in rhythm with the panting I hear. Following her gaze, I look behind me. At first, all I see is the gate, deep scratch marks embedded in the heavy timber, but beyond that, in the narrow cracks in the logs, I see eyes … dark eyes staring in at us.