The Grace Year(89)

In the dim early light, I walk to the edge of the trap. I’ve spent the entire night fantasizing about what I’m going to say to him, but as I gaze down at the figure, flesh twisted around spikes, I see a face I never expected to see. It’s so shocking that it takes me a minute to even place him … to form his name. “H-Hans,” I finally manage to get out. “What are you doing here?”

“The barrier. I thought you needed my help,” he whispers, coughing up a fresh stream of blood. “I told you I’d come for you.”

“But you’re not supposed to be here.” I put my hands to my throat. I’m shaking so hard that I can barely speak.

“Please, can you help me?” he whispers.

“I’m so sorry … so sorry,” I murmur as I climb down the rope, carefully navigating around the spikes so I don’t cause him any more pain. “Where are you hurt?” I ask, kneeling as close to him as I can. He tries to move. That’s when I see the damage—a spike going through his groin, his right side, his left arm, and shoulder, pinning him down like a specimen in Father’s study. It’s a miracle he hasn’t bled out by now.

“This wasn’t meant for you,” I try to explain, but I’m crying so hard, he probably can’t understand me. “There’s a poacher who’s been terrorizing the camp…”

“My left arm.” He cringes in pain. “Can you take out the spike so I can move my arm?”

I nod, quickly trying to pull myself together for his sake. The least I can do is try to make him more comfortable, hold his hand in the end.

I’m leaning across his body, trying to figure out how to pry up the spike without hurting him any more, when I see the glint of a blade buried in the earth, the hilt in the palm of his clenched fist. Maybe he was trying to cut through the spike, but how could he have reached for it with his arm pinned like that, unless he already had it in his hand when he fell? Taking in a deep breath, I smell it—bay leaves and lime, the same odor I always detected in the larder when I woke up with my hair done up in elaborate braids. That’s the cologne Hans buys from the apothecary, but there’s something beneath that. Fetid meat and bitter herbs. Anders’s scent. I’m starting to recoil from him when I feel the scratchy fabric between my fingers. I know that sensation by heart. It’s the feel of a shroud. I look down to find he’s swathed in charcoal fabric. This is Anders’s shroud. But the most damning thing by far is the sound—the incessant scratching of the ribbon. Following the noise, I see him rubbing his hand over his breast pocket, the way he’s always done back in the county, but now I see the reason why—the frayed end of a faded red ribbon peeking out from his pocket, like it’s begging to be seen.

The ribbon. The knife. The braids. The missing shrouds. The scent of his cologne. He said he’d come back for me, just like the girl warned.

It was never Anders in the encampment. It was Hans, all along.

My skin explodes in goosebumps.

Glancing up toward the surface, toward the ridge, I know who the dead girl is.

“Olga Vetrone,” I whisper as I sit up, rigid as a plank. “You killed her. Why?”

Reaching out with his right hand, he tries to grasp my throat, but I’m just out of his reach.

“She was a whore who deserved to die,” he says, veins bulging in his neck. “I faced the knife for her.” He’s trying to catch his breath, but I can hear the fluid filling his lungs. “And when I came back to get her, she acted like she didn’t know me. That what we had wasn’t real.” When he’s finally exhausted himself, he leans his head back, returning to the ribbon. The obsessive rubbing. He’s been doing it for so long now, I wonder if he even notices it anymore. “And when I came back for you…” A look of anguish passes over his face. “You’re just like her. You betrayed me.”

“How did I betray you?” I ask, my body trembling.

“You were supposed to be with me,” he says. “The first time I saw you … I knew what you wanted.”

Tears are streaming down my face—not out of sadness but out of pure rage. “I was seven years old … trying to be kind.”

“You wanted me,” he screams. “I know you did.” He coughs up blood. “You’re all a bunch of whores. And look at you now. You soiled your flesh with a poacher,” he whispers, blood bubbling through his teeth like venom. “That’s right. I heard you with him that night. And soon everyone will know exactly what you are.”

There’s nothing I can say, nothing I can do, but climb out of this pit.

I don’t belong here.

But he does.

I don’t mind the obscenities he screams at me, because the more he yells, the quicker he’ll drown in his own blood.





I’m heading down the incline from the ridge when I see Gertie running up the path.

“What is it?” I ask, rushing down to meet her. “Did they hurt you?”

She’s shaking her head rapidly, struggling to take in enough air. “I tried to stop them, but they wouldn’t listen … they took a poacher … he was lingering by the breach in the eastern fence. Tall. Dark hair.”

“Ryker,” I whisper.

Taking off back toward the camp, I don’t think about watching my step, I don’t think about Gertie struggling to keep up, all I can think about is what they could do to him. What I’ve seen them do to their own kind is horrific enough, but given the chance with a poacher, they’re capable of anything. God, please let me get there in time.