The Grace Year(79)

“What happened to us?” she asks, staring into my eyes. “One minute we were building things, changing things, and then…”

“It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault … not even Kiersten’s.”

“How can you say that?” she asks.

I’m not sure how much of this she’ll be able to take in, but I can trust Gertie. And it feels like if I don’t tell her, then it’s not real somehow. Leaning in close, I whisper, “It’s the well water. The algae … it’s hemlock silt. The same thing the crones use in the outskirts to speak with the dead.”

She stares up at me, and I can see her starting to put the pieces together. “The dizziness, the hallucinations, the violent impulses, it’s all from the well water? But if the magic isn’t real…,” she says, reaching out to touch my hair. “The ghosts in the woods … Tamara, Meg, you made all that up?”

“The ghost part, yes, but that’s the truth about what happened to them … how they died.”

“How do you know that?”

I think of Meg’s face—the look in her eyes when the dagger pierced the side of her neck. “Because I was there,” I whisper.

I see a chill race over Gertie’s flesh. “But if the ghosts aren’t real … how did you make those sounds happen?”

I want to put her at ease, tell her I planned the entire thing, but I’ve never been able to lie to Gertie. “I didn’t,” I whisper, trying not to imagine what else could be out there. Trying not to think of Anders’s threat.

“When you left … I thought…” Gertie’s eyes are getting heavy. She’s fighting it, just like Clara used to do at bedtime. “It’s like … you’re back from the dead.”

“Maybe I am,” I whisper, tucking the blankets in around her.

“Then tell me about heaven … what’s it like?” she asks as her eyelids finally come to a close.

As the last bit of the flame sputters out, I whisper, “Heaven is a boy in a treehouse, with cold hands and a warm heart.”





“He said he’d come back for you,” she says.

It takes me a minute to recognize her, to realize I’m dreaming, but then I notice the shaved head, the small red mark beneath her eye.

“Where have you been?” I ask.

“I’ve been waiting,” she replies, standing in front of the door.

“Waiting for what?”

“For you to remember … for you to open your eyes.” She pushes the door ajar.

I snap awake to find myself hunched over Gertie’s cot, the slightest whiff of bay leaves and lime in the air. It reminds me of the apothecary … of home. I used to love that smell, but now it seems too harsh … astringent.

But if it was just a dream, why is the door ajar? I’m certain I pulled it shut last night. I was so tired I suppose I could’ve opened it myself and not even remembered. Just because I’m back in the camp doesn’t mean I’m going to go crazy. Taking a deep breath, I try to concentrate on something pleasant, something real—dawn is slipping in, gray-pink on the verge of spilling into gold. I think this is my favorite time of day, maybe because it reminds me of Ryker. If I close my eyes I can hear him climb the ladder, remove his shrouds, and slip in next to me, the smell of night and musk clinging to his skin.

“See, I didn’t scratch,” Gertie says, startling me.

I look back to see her holding up her makeshift mittens. “Good.” I smile up at her, thankful for the interruption, but even more thankful to see the slightest bit of color return to her cheeks.

I catch her staring at my left shoulder, the deep indentation of missing flesh and muscle; I pull on my cloak.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “I can’t imagine the horror you must’ve faced out there.”

I want to tell her about Ryker … about how he saved my life, that the only reason I left him was to save his … but not all secrets are equal. In the county, if Gertie’s secret got out, she would be banished to the outskirts, but if my secret got out, it would mean the gallows.

“You need to teach me how to do a braid like that,” she says, trying to lighten the mood. “I mean … when my hair grows back,” she adds.

Lifting my hands to my hair, I find it’s been done up in an elaborate box braid.

Yanking the ends free, I shake it loose, as if it’s full of snakes. There’s no way I could’ve done something like that in my sleep. I don’t even know how to make a braid like that, but I know someone who does—Kiersten. She wore a similar braid on veiling day. I remember on our first night at the encampment, the girls talking about Olga Vetrone, the girl who disappeared in the woods. They said she was being haunted, that the ghosts would braid her hair at night, tie up her ribbon in strange configurations. Made her go crazy. Nice try, Kiersten.

After I get Gertie situated, I go outside to find Kiersten and the others gathered around the well. As soon as I start walking across the clearing to the privy, they stop talking. They turn to watch me. I can feel their eyes on me like a dozen weighted lures sinking into my flesh.

“Come here,” Kiersten says, the tone of her voice making my insides shrivel.

I look behind me, praying she isn’t talking to me, but there’s no one else.