The Grace Year(77)

As she takes in the final bit, the girls line up for their turn. Kiersten stands guard, supervising them. I wonder what she’s thinking—if by drinking this she’ll become more powerful … or if this means the ghosts won’t harm her … whatever’s going on in her hemlock-silt-addled brain, I’m grateful for it.

When the last one has had her taste, Kiersten motions for them to back off.

As they slowly dissipate, I let out a long, quiet breath.

I’ve found the one thing that still scares them: the ghosts of the fallen grace year girls.

I’m not sure how long I’ll be able to keep it up—hopefully long enough to get them clear of the hemlock silt—but my first priority is Gertrude. Not only because she’s my friend, but because they always put her last, they put her out here to die, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that happen.

As I drag her cot out of the rancid shack into the late-afternoon sun, Gertrude blinks up at it in disbelief and then gives me a hazy smile. I wonder how long it’s been since she’s seen the sun. Carefully, using the clump I brought back in my stocking, I spread clay over her hair, her scalp, and wash it clean with a bucket of well water. I then grind the bloodroot stems into a thick paste, applying it directly to her wound.

Limb by limb, I scrub Gertie’s emaciated body with basil and sage leaves. I’m trying to be gentle with her, not expose too much skin at one time so she doesn’t get too cold, but she’s shivering so hard that it rattles the rusty springs beneath her. I ask her if she’s okay, and she just smiles up at me. “Look how pretty the sky is,” she whispers.

Fighting back tears, I look up and nod. She’s so incredibly grateful, but she shouldn’t have to feel grateful for this—for being treated like a basic human being. None of us should.

Outside of the infection, she seems clearer than the rest. Maybe because she hasn’t been able to keep anything down—including the well water.

I give her little sips of fresh water.

“It tastes so good,” she says, latching on to the cup, trying to gulp down the liquid.

I have to pry the cup away from her. “You need to take it slow.”

I remember Ryker saying the exact same thing to me. It’s hard to imagine him caring for me like this. Bathing me, cleaning up maggots and puke. I even stabbed him in the stomach and he still took care of me. But I can’t think about Ryker right now. I can’t think about anything other than getting the camp clear of this poison.

Shredding the kindling into long wispy threads, I arrange the firewood in the pit and hit the flint over and over and over again until I finally catch a spark. I’m out of practice, but the wood shavings catch like a charm. With the fire crackling, I stash some of the fresh water in an empty honey jug in the larder and use the rest to make a stew. Adding carrots, beets, wild onion, and herbs, I set the kettle over the fire, and soon every girl in the encampment is gravitating toward me. Even Kiersten makes an appearance, pacing the length of the clearing like a caged animal. She hasn’t asked for the hatchet back, so I keep it close, just in case they try to jump me, but all they do is sit there, licking their lips, staring into the flames.

I wonder how long it’s been since they’ve eaten a meal. There’s a part of me that wants to refuse them, tell them this is only for me and Gertie—it would serve them right—but seeing them like this, emaciated, dirty, living-breathing-hollowed-out skulls, I have to remind myself, it’s not their fault. It’s the water that made them do all those things. As soon as I get them clear, everything will be different.

One by one, I dish out the portions, and we sit around the fire, just like we did on that first night, but there are a lot fewer mouths to feed now.

A noise rustles on the perimeter. The other girls must hear it, too, because all eyes are focused on the woods now. It’s the same sound I’ve been hearing all day, but I think it goes back further than that … it’s something familiar … a memory tugging at me … but I can’t seem to place it.

“What are they saying?” Jenna asks.

They all look at me, and I realize they think it’s the ghosts. My first instinct is to tell them they don’t want us to drink from the well, but that’s too clumsy. Too obvious. I need to find a way for Kiersten to think it’s her idea. If I come on too strong, too soon, she’ll know I’m up to something. Best to start small. And since I’m a terrible liar, I’ll start with something I know to be true.

“It’s Tamara,” I whisper, the memory of her death making my throat feel thick. “She lived for two more days, had burns on her back and chest from the lightning strike, but her poacher was able to render most of her flesh.”

They all look to Kiersten, but she pretends not to notice, staring directly into the flames.

There’s another sound, closer this time.

“Who’s that?” Jenna asks, peeking up through her fingers.

“It’s Meg,” I reply.

The girls get very still.

“She disappeared months ago,” Dena whispers, the memory of her best friend coming back to her. “We thought the ghosts took her.”

“No,” I whisper. “She escaped, under the eastern barrier … took a knife in the neck. Drowned in her own blood before her poacher even got off her fingertips.”