The Grace Year(57)

I concentrate on his breath, slow and steady as the metronome in Mrs. Wilkins’s parlor. Everyone thought she was blind after she came back from her grace year, but I remember sneaking a candy from a silver dish once, her beady eyes darting toward me like an arrow.

What if this is the same? What if he left the belt there as a test … a trap? I’m praying that he doesn’t notice the empty sheath … my blood on the wide planked floors … my body drenched in sweat.

The smell of pine, lake water, and smoke fills my nostrils, and I know he’s close. All he has to do is lean over me, like he’s done a hundred times before.

As he presses his wrist against my forehead, I hold my breath. I’m only going to get one shot at this, and if I miss … I can’t even think about that.

Gripping the hilt as tight as I can, I kick off the heavy covers and lash out at him with the blade. A strange sound escapes his lips as he staggers back, clutching his lower abdomen. I’m not sure how much damage I did, but there’s blood.

When I leap onto the cold floor, my bony legs begin to buckle, but I can’t give in to this. If I don’t get out of here now, I never will. Propelling myself toward the doorway, I push through the thick buffalo hide; the sun hits me like a bolt of lightning, blinding me, grinding me to a halt. The cold air bites into my flesh. I can’t see the poacher behind me, but I can hear him, dragging his body across the floor. “Stop … don’t take another step.”

I don’t know where I’m going, what’s in store for me out there, but anything is better than this. As soon as tiny dots of muted color begin to prickle the backs of my eyes, I take my first step toward freedom … into nothing but air.





I’m plunging toward the depths when something catches me by the wrist. I try to scream, but the pain is so eviscerating that it robs me of my breath.

When the world slowly comes back into focus, I find myself dangling at least forty feet above the ground. The earth below is blanketed in thick snow, the northerly wind penetrating straight to my bones.

“Grab on to me with your other hand,” a gravelly voice calls out. I look up to see the billowing charcoal silhouette of the poacher leaning over a narrow platform. Look ing around, I’m shocked to discover that I’ve been in some kind of tree house this whole time … a blind … like they use back home for elk hunting. Only this isn’t for elk. It’s for hunting grace year girls. Hunting me.

“Just let me go,” I say, tears stinging my eyes. “Do it, and all of this can be over.”

“Is that what you want?” he asks.

“It’s better than being skinned alive.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?”

Blinking up at him, I concentrate on his face. I’m expecting the same cold, inhuman gaze, but what I find confuses me. I don’t know if it’s the pain or the cold or the sickness making me see things that aren’t there, but in this light, he almost looks … kind.

Reaching up with my other hand, I grasp his wrist and let him pull me up. I could be making the biggest mistake of my life, but even now, after everything that’s happened, I’m still not ready to give up. Surrender.

I groan as my body scrapes against the side of the rough-hewn wood platform. My naked body. Searching the room for my clothes, all I find is strips of linen spread out by the small hearth.

“What did you do to my clothes … to me?” I ask, doing my best to cover up with my hands.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says as he grabs a strip of cloth, tying it around his bloody torso.

“But I’m naked … you were naked. I saw you—”

“You were freezing to death. It was the quickest way to warm you up,” he says as he yanks a hide off the bed and tosses it at me. “You’re welcome.”

I wrap the pelt around me, ashamed by how good it feels. “But I saw you with a knife … you skinned me … branded me.” I peek inside the pelt. Just the sight of the fresh blood oozing from the bandage on my shoulder makes me sway a little on my feet.

“I didn’t brand you,” he snaps. “I had to cauterize the wound, which you’ve probably ripped open again.” He moves toward me, and I back up against the wall, knocking over a pile of antlers.

“Don’t touch me,” I whisper, my fingertips grazing a pointy edge. I’m ready to protect myself if need be, but he softens his tone.

“May I?” he asks, taking a tentative step toward me, nodding toward my left arm.

I don’t like that I can’t see his face. It’s disconcerting, but maybe that’s the whole point. The same way the veils dehumanize us, the shrouds do the same for them. One symbolizes pure innocence, the other pure death.

Letting the pelt slip from my shoulder, he reaches out to unwrap the bandage.

His fingers feel like slivers of ice against my skin.

I take in a hissing breath. “What’s that smell?” I ask.

I follow his gaze to the gaping flesh on my shoulder.

I’ve seen enough stab wounds in my father’s care to know this one is bad, the kind that even the strongest men have succumbed to. A wave of dizziness swells inside of me, making me waver.

“Tierney, you should lie down, you’re in no condition—”

“How do you know my name?” I stare up at him, but my vision is starting to blur. “Who are you?”