The Grace Year(6)

“It’s the James girl,” a woman whispers.

“The tomboy?”

“I’d give her a veil and then some.” A man elbows his young son.

Heat rushes to my cheeks. I feel ashamed and I don’t even know why.

I’m the same girl I was yesterday, but now that I’m freshly scrubbed and squeezed into this ridiculous dress, marked by a red ribbon, I’ve become entirely visible to the men and women of Garner County, like some exotic animal on display.

Their eyes, their whispers feel like the sharp edge of a blade grazing my skin.

But there’s one set of eyes in particular that makes me move a little faster. Tommy Pearson. He seems to be following me. I don’t need to see him to know he’s there. I can hear the beating wings of his latest pet perched on his arm. He has a fondness for birds of prey. It sounds impressive, but there’s no skill involved. He’s not gaining their trust, their respect. He’s just breaking them.

Prying the coin from my sweaty palm, I drop it in the jar and grab the closest basket of berries I can find.

I keep my head down as I maneuver through the crowd, their whispers buzzing in my ears, and just as I’ve nearly cleared the awning, I run smack into Father Edmonds, mulberries spilling all around me. He starts sputtering out something cross, but stops when he looks at me. “My dear, Miss James, you’re in a hurry.”

“Is that really her?” Tommy Pearson calls out from behind me. “Tierney the Terrible?”

“I can still kick just as hard,” I say as I continue to gather the berries.

“I’m counting on it,” he replies, his pale eyes locking on mine. “I like them feisty.”

Looking up to thank Father Edmonds, I see his gaze is fixed on my bosom. “If you need anything … anything at all, my child.” As I reach for the basket, he strokes the side of my hand. “Your skin is so soft,” he whispers.

Abandoning the berries, I take off running. I hear laughter behind me, Father Edmonds’s heavy breathing, the eagle furiously beating its wings against its tether.

Slipping behind an oak to catch my breath, I pull the iris from my dress only to find it’s been crushed by the corset. I clench the ruined bloom in my fist.

That familiar heat rushes through me. Instead of dampening the urge, I breathe it in, coaxing it forward. Because in this moment, oh how I long to be full of dangerous magic.





A part of me wants to run straight to Michael, to our secret spot, but I need to cool off first. I can’t let him know they got to me. Plucking a hay needle, I drag it along the fence posts as I pass the orchard, slowing my breath to my measured steps. I used to be able to tell Michael anything, but we’re more careful with each other now.

Last summer, still reeling after I caught my dad at the apothecary, I let some snide comment slip out about his father, who runs the apothecary, runs the council, and all hell broke loose. He told me I needed to watch my tongue, that someone could think I was a usurper, that I could be burned alive if they ever found out about my dreams. I don’t think he meant it as a threat, but it certainly felt like one.

Our friendship could’ve ended right then and there, but we met the next day, like nothing happened. In truth, we probably outgrew each other a long time ago, but I think we both wanted to hang on to a bit of our youth, our innocence, for as long as possible. And today will be the last time we’ll be able to meet like this.

When I come back from the grace year, if I make it back, he’ll be married, and I’ll be assigned to one of the labor houses. My days will be spoken for, and he’ll have his hands full with Kiersten and the council during the evenings. He might come by for a visit, under the guise of some type of business, but after a while, he’ll stop coming, until we both just nod to each other at church on Christmas.

Leaning on the rickety fence, I stare out over the labor houses. My plan is to lie low, get through the year, and come back to take my place in the fields. Most of the girls who don’t get a veil want to work as a maid in a respectable house or at least at the dairy, or the mill, but there’s something appealing about putting my hands in the dirt, feeling connected to something real. My oldest sister, June, loved to grow things. She used to tell us bedtime stories about her adventures. She’s not allowed to garden anymore, now that she’s a wife, but every once in a while, I catch her reaching down to touch the soil, digging a secret cocklebur from her hem. I figure if it’s good enough for June, it’s good enough for me. Fieldwork is the only job where men and women work side by side, but I can handle myself better than most. I may be slight, but I’m strong. Strong enough to climb trees and give Michael a run for his money.

As I make my way to the secluded woods behind the mill, I hear guards approaching. I wonder why they’re all the way out here. Not wanting any trouble, I dive between the bushes.

I’m crawling my way through the bramble when Michael grins down at me from the other side. “You look—”

“Don’t start,” I say as I attempt to untangle myself, but a pearl gets caught on a twig and pops off, rolling into the clearing.

“Such poise.” He laughs, dragging his hand through his wheat-colored hair. “If you’re not careful, you might get snapped up tonight.”

“Very funny,” I say as I continue to crawl around. “Won’t matter anyway, because my mother is going to smother me in my sleep if I don’t find that pearl.”