The Grace Year(72)

“He’ll never forgive you for this.”

“If you breathe a word to him … if you don’t follow my exact instructions, I will kill you. And if you think you’re safe behind that wall, you’re wrong. Do you see my face?” he says, forcing me to look him in the eyes. “I’m the only person who’s ever survived the curse, which means I’m immune. If you try to get a message to him … if you try to lure him to the fence … if you so much as breathe in his direction, I’ll know. And I’d rather watch him die a thousand deaths than watch him betray his family … his oath.”

“You mean, betray you,” I manage to get out.

He gets so close to my face that I can smell the bitter herbs clinging to his breath. “I would love nothing more than to peel the skin from your face like an overripe peach.” He takes in a deep breath through his nostrils, re gaining his composure. “But I don’t want to hurt him. And I don’t think you want to, either. Play nice, play by my rules. Or I will come for you.”





I don’t know how long I sit there, running through every possible scenario, but by the time I find the will to move, the day has passed me by. The sky is smudged in pinks and purples—not unlike the colors my neck will be, come morning.

Hearing boots on the bottom tread of the ladder, I start rushing around, gathering my meager belongings, my cloak, my boots, my stockings. I don’t know what I’m going to say to him, but I don’t even know if it’s Ryker. What if it’s Anders coming back to finish the job … or the guards … Even if it’s Hans, how could I begin to explain this?

Grabbing a knife, I crouch next to the table. My hands are trembling.

A shrouded figure steps inside. I’m ready to slice his tendons wide open.

“Tierney?” Ryker calls out.

I let out a shuddering breath; he turns to find me crumpled on the floor.

“Hey … hey … it’s okay,” he says. “I’m here. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. I told you that.”

As he pries the knife out of my hand and pulls me to my feet, I hold on to him, tighter than I’ve ever held on to anyone.

“Everything’s good now. I talked with Anders. He’s on our side. You have nothing to fear from him. He wants to help.”

I’m opening my mouth to try and tell him what happened when he says, “I have something for you. Anders actually helped me find it. He knows a place.”

He takes a piece of linen from his pocket, holding it as gently as if he’s carrying a butterfly. Peeling back the layers, he reveals a tattered deep blue pansy.

I feel a distant memory tugging at me. My veiling day. I was on my way to meet Michael when I stopped to look at the flowers … there was a woman working in the greenhouse who told me that one day someone would give me a flower—that it would be a little withered around the edges, but it would mean just the same. A wave of raw emotion rises inside of me. What she didn’t tell me was that it would mean so much more.

Looking up at him, I have to blink back the tears. I doubt Ryker knows what it means—he probably just thought it was pretty, but it’s hard not to see it as a sign.

“This is the flower of good-bye,” I whisper. “A bittersweet parting.”

“I thought it meant everlasting love,” he says.

“That’s a blue violet,” I explain.

“I guess Anders isn’t as good with flowers as he thinks he is.”

“It’s a tricky one,” I reply. But I think Anders knew exactly what he was doing when he picked this.

“Can we just pretend it’s a violet?” He smiles.

Desperate to hide my feelings, I nod, and quickly turn away, placing the bloom on the edge of the table.

As he takes off his shroud, I realize how good I’ve gotten at pretending.

Pretending not to notice the knives covering nearly every surface—knives that were specially designed to peel my flesh. Pretending that eating preserves out of the same kind of jar they use to store our body parts in to sell back to the county is perfectly normal. Pretending this isn’t crazy … that we could actually get away with it … live happily ever after.

But there’s one thing in all of this that’s not pretend.

I’m in love with him.

I may not be able to spend my life with him, grow old with him, but I can choose to give him my heart. My body. My soul. That’s the one thing they will never be able to control in me.

Untying the bow from my ribbon, I wait for him.

He swallows hard before stepping toward me.

Taking in slow, measured breaths, he twirls the strand around his finger.

Our eyes meet. The energy radiating between us is so intense it feels like we might burn down the world.

As he pulls the strand, releasing my braid, I know I should avert my gaze, turn my eyes to God, the way we’re taught, but in this moment, all I want is for him to see me. To be seen.

As he lifts my slip over my head, it’s like lifting my veil.

As I unbutton his trousers, I’m accepting his flower.

When he presses his skin against mine, the bloom he chose for me opens up, filling the space with a heady perfume of longing and pain. Entirely ephemeral. Absolutely forbidden. And completely out of our control.