The Grace Year(56)
“We got a deal?” the poacher says. “Take whichever one you want.”
“Your loss.”
I hear something heavy being pulled off a rod. The same sound as in the market when the reindeer hides come in from the north. And then I hear the poacher catch something.
As they say their good-byes, I’m straining my neck, determined to get a peek at my outside surroundings, but when he slips back through, all I can see … all I can focus on is the frozen gray clump in his hands.
My cloak.
Just the sight of him touching it fills me with rage. June made that with her own two hands. For me. It’s mine. He has no right to it. But clearly, he wants a trophy.
As he hangs it on a meat hook on the far end of the room, hot acid fills my throat, but instead of turning my head, letting it dribble out the corner of my mouth, like some pathetic victim, I swallow it. I swallow all of it.
I have no idea what he has planned for my body, but I have a plan of my own.
Most of the time, I can’t see him, but I feel him watching me. I vaguely remember the sight of his naked backside, but I have no idea what his face looks like, what kind of deformity he’s hiding under his shroud. In my head, he’s a monster.
The only time I’m sure he’s not watching is when he tends to the hearth, which he does with an almost religious fervor. It tells me he’s disciplined. Careful. Vigilant. But I know how to make myself invisible, to play the broken bird. I’m a grace year girl, after all. I’ve been training for this my whole life.
So I stop fighting.
I stop spitting and screaming.
And after a few days, the bit comes out of my mouth.
When he raises the cup to my mouth, instead of try ing to bite down on him like a wild animal, I part my lips, storing as much of the liquid as I can in my cheeks, and the moment he turns to set the pewter cup on the bench, I tilt my face, slowly releasing the liquid onto the peat mattress. The fetid smell of the insipid honeycomb used to mask the bitter taste of the poppy makes me gag, but nothing comes up anymore. Maybe that’s part of his plan, what he’s trying to do—dry me out like a piece of jerky.
As soon as I stop ingesting the liquid, the world begins to sharpen. Unfortunately, so does the pain. I hide it the best I can, biting down on the inside of my cheek when I feel it gnawing away at me, but the fever raging through my body will not be denied. I know he’s just trying to keep me quiet so he can take his time, salvage every piece of me. I’m not sure if the blade or the infection will kill me first, but time is running out.
When he leaves twice a day for water and firewood, I practice moving my toes, flexing my calves and thigh muscles, but my movement is limited because of the ropes. Despite the restraint pinning down my right arm, it seems to be working just fine. The left arm is another matter. It doesn’t seem to be tied down, but the slightest movement of my pinkie sends an unbearable bolt of pain ricocheting through my entire arm, settling deep inside my chest.
But I have to remind myself, pain is good.
No matter what he’s done to me, it means that I still have an arm. That I’m still alive.
I count the steps that it takes for him to walk to the doorway. I imagine doing it myself, over and over and over again. Sometimes, I wake from a fitful sleep to think I’ve already done it, that I’m free, but the blur of gauzy charcoal fabric in my peripheral brings everything back to me … why I’m here.
When he leans over me, I try not to look him directly in the eyes. I don’t want to give myself away, but it’s more than that. I’m afraid of what I’ll see reflected back. What’s become of me. When I feel my strength waning, I stare at the crudely carved female figures perched on the mantel. No doubt a display to remind him of how many girls he’s killed. But I will not be joining them.
It takes eight more cups of forced liquid, and nine trips outside of the shelter for supplies, before he’s careless enough to leave his blade belt on the bench next to me.
I try not to stare at it longingly, but this is it. This is everything.
As soon as he turns his attention to tend to the hearth, I lift my arm from beneath the pelts. The pain is so intense that I have to clench my teeth together so I don’t scream out against my will. My arm is trembling, a cold sweat beads up on my forehead, but as soon as I grasp the hilt of the blade, something else in me takes over. A determination I haven’t felt in months. I will get out of this. I will survive. As I ease the blade from the sheath, fresh blood seeps from my shoulder, dripping onto the wood floors, but I can’t stop now. I can’t let go.
Slipping the blade under the pelts, I start working on the restraint holding down my right arm. I’m prepared for a long arduous fight, but the blade slices right through, as if I’m cutting into a fresh block of lard. It startles me, but it’s good. That means it’s sharp.
Switching the blade to my right hand, I twist my body and quickly sever the restraints on my ankles.
As soon as I’m free, all I want to do is fling off the pelts and bolt for the door, but I have to be smart about this. I’m not foolish enough to think I can outrun him—not in my condition. Tightening my grip on the blade, I close my eyes and do one of the hardest things I’ve ever done in my life … I wait.
I try to listen for his steps, but he’s so quiet—just like the first time I encountered him on the trail.