The Grace Year(5)

Most girls drift away from the boys around their tenth birthday, when the girls’ schooling is over, but somehow, Michael and I managed to remain friends. Maybe it’s because I wanted nothing from him and he wanted nothing from me. It was simple. Of course, we couldn’t run around town like we used to, but we found a way. Kiersten probably thinks I have his ear, but I don’t get involved in Michael’s love life. Most nights we just lay in the clearing, looking up at the stars, lost in our own worlds. And that seemed to be enough for both of us.

Kiersten shushes the girls behind her. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed you get a veil tonight, Tierney,” she says with a smile that registers on the back of my neck.

I know that smile. It’s the same one she gave Father Edmonds last Sunday when she noticed his hands were trembling as he placed the holy wafer on her awaiting pink tongue. Her magic came in early, and she knew it. Behind the carefully arranged face, the cleverly tailored clothes meant to accentuate her shape, she could be cruel. Once, I saw her drown a butterfly, all the while playing with its wings. Despite her mean streak, she’s a fitting wife for the future leader of the council. She’ll devote herself to Michael, dote on their sons and breed cruel but beautiful daughters.

I watch the girls as they flit down the lane in perfect formation, like a swarm of yellow jackets. I can’t help wondering what they’ll be like away from the county. What will happen to their fake smiles and coquetry? Will they run wild and roll in the mud and howl at the moon? I wonder if you can see the magic leave your body, if it’s taken from you like a bolt of heat lightning or seeps out of you like slow-leaking poison. But there’s another thought creeping into my consciousness. What if nothing happens at all?

Digging my newly buffed nails into the fleshy part of my palms, I whisper, “The girl … the gathering … it’s only a dream.” I can’t be tempted into that kind of thinking again. I can’t afford to give in to childhood fancies, because even if the magic is a lie, the poachers are very real. Bastards born to the women of the outskirts—the reviled. It’s common knowledge they’re out there waiting for a chance to grab one of the girls during their grace year, when their magic is believed to be most potent, so they can sell their essence on the black market as an aphrodisiac and youth serum.

I stare up at the massive wood gate, separating us from the outskirts, and wonder if they’re already out there … waiting for us.

The breeze rushes over my bare skin as if in response, and I move a little quicker.

Folks from the county are gathered around the greenhouse, trying to guess which flower the suitors have chosen for which grace year girl. I’m happy to hear my name isn’t on anyone’s lips.

When our families immigrated there were so many different languages being spoken that flowers were the only common language. A way to tell someone I’m sorry, good luck, I trust you, I’m fond of you, or even I wish you ill. There’s a flower for nearly every sentiment, but now that we all speak English, you’d think the demand would have faded, but here we are, clinging fast to the old ways. It makes me doubt anything will ever change … no matter what.

“Which one are you hoping for, miss?” a worker asks, swiping the back of her callused hand over her brow.

“No … not for me,” I say in an embarrassed hush. “Just seeing what’s in bloom.” I spot a small basket tucked under a bench, red petals peeking through the seams. “What are those?” I ask.

“Just weeds,” she says. “They used to be everywhere. Couldn’t take a step out your house without comin upon one. They got rid of em round here, but that’s the funny thing bout weeds. You can pull em up by the root, burn the soil where they stood, might lie dormant for years, but they’ll always find a way.”

I’m leaning in for a closer look when she says, “Don’t worry bout it none if you don’t get a veil, Tierney.”

“H-how do you know my name?” I stammer.

She gives me a winsome smile. “Someday, you’ll get a flower. It might be a little withered round the edges, but it’ll mean just the same. Love’s not just for the marrieds, you know, it’s for everyone,” she says as she slips a bloom into my hand.

Flustered, I turn on my heel and make a beeline for the market.

Uncurling my fingers, I find a deep purple iris, the petals and falls perfectly formed. “Hope,” I whisper, my eyes welling up. I don’t hope for a flower from a boy, but I hope for a better life. A truthful life. I’m not usually sentimental, but there’s something about it that feels like a sign. Like its own kind of magic.

I’m tucking the bloom into my dress, over my heart for safekeeping, when I pass a line of guards, desperately trying to avert their eyes.

Fur trappers, fresh from the territory, click their tongues as I pass. They’re vulgar and unkempt, but somehow it seems more honest that way. I want to look in their eyes, see if I can sense their adventures, the vast northern wilderness in their weathered faces, but I needn’t dare.

All I have to do is buy the berries. And the sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can meet Michael.

When I enter the covered market, an uncomfortable din permeates the air. Normally, I pass through the stalls unnoticed, slipping in and out of the strands of garlic and rashers of bacon like a phantom breeze, but today, the wives glare as I walk by, and the men smile in a way that makes me want to hide.