The Grace Year(9)

“It wasn’t meant to be,” he whispered.

“Will you be okay?” I asked.

“I have you to look after now,” he said, a hint of a smile in his voice.

And he did.

He stood in front of me in the square to block my view of the most brutal punishments; he helped me sneak into the meeting house to spy on the men; he even told me when the guards had their rounds, so I could steer clear of them when sneaking out. Other than Michael, and the girl from my dreams, he was my only friend.

“Are you scared?” he whispers.

I’m surprised to hear his voice. He usually isn’t brazen enough to speak to me in public. But I’ll be leaving soon.

“Should I be?” I whisper back.

He’s opening his mouth to say something when I feel someone tugging on my dress. I whip around, ready to clobber Tommy Pearson or whoever touched me, but I see my two little sisters, Clara and Penny, covered in goose feathers.

“Do I even want to know?” I ask, trying to stifle a laugh.

“You gotta help us.” Penny licks a sticky substance off her fingers. I can smell it from here: sugar maple sap. “We were supposed to fetch Father’s parcel at the apothecary, but … but—”

“We got waylaid.” Clara rescues her, giving me that confident grin. “Can you fetch it so we can get cleaned up before Mother comes home?”

“Please, pretty please,” Penny chimes in. “You’re our favorite sister. Do us this one favor before you leave us for a whole year.”

When I look up, Hans is already at the stables. I wanted to say good-bye, but I imagine good-byes are harder for him than most.

“Fine.” I agree just to get them to stop whining. “But you better hurry. Mother’s in a mood today.”

They take off running, laughing and pushing each other, and I want to tell them to enjoy it while it lasts, but they won’t understand. And why taint the last bit of freedom they have.

Taking a deep breath, I head to the apothecary. I haven’t been since that hot July night, but there’s a part of me that wants to face the ugly truth—to be reminded of where I could end up if I’m not careful. The bell jingles as I open the door, the tinny metallic sound setting my teeth on edge.

“Tierney, what a pleasant surprise.” Michael’s father takes in an eyeful. When I don’t blush, stammer, or avert my eyes, Mr. Welk clears his throat. “Picking up your father’s parcel?” he asks as he fumbles with the packages lined up on the back shelf.

Fixing my gaze on the cabinet, I feel the memory rising in the back of my throat like thick bile.

I’d snuck out, like I did most every night to meet Michael, and on the way home, I noticed the soft flicker of candlelight coming from inside the apothecary. Creeping closer, I found Michael’s dad opening a hidden compartment behind the cabinet of hair tonics and shaving tools. My heart started pounding against my ribs when I saw my father step from the shadows to inspect the tidy rows of secreted glass bottles. Some were filled with what looked like dried bits of jerky, others a deep red liquid, but there was one in particular that caught his eye. Pressing my forehead against the warm glass to get a better view, I saw an ear, covered in small white pustules, suspended in murky liquid. I went to put my hand over my mouth, but I accidentally bashed my knuckle against the glass, drawing their attention.

Though I denied seeing anything, Mr. Welk insisted that I be punished on the spot. “A loss of respect is a slippery slope,” he said. The heat of the switch coming down on my backside only seemed to cement the image in my mind.

I never spoke of it. Not even to Michael, but I knew those were the remains of the girls who were poached during their grace year, their bits and pieces being sold on the black market as an aphrodisiac and youth serum.

Father was a man of medicine, working on cures for disease. I always got the sense that he thought of the black market as superstition, nothing more than going back to the dark ages—that’s why I never expected him to be so vain, so low, so desperate, as to be a customer. And for what? So he could have the stamina to father a precious son?

That earlobe belonged to someone’s daughter. Someone my father might’ve treated when she was ill, or patted on the head at church. I wondered what he’d do if I was the one in those little glass bottles. Would he still want to eat my skin, drink my blood, suck the very marrow from my bones?

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Mr. Welk says as he thrusts the rough brown-paper-wrapped package into my hands. “Happy Veiling Day.”

Tearing my eyes away from the cabinet, from their dirty little secret, I give him my best smile.

Because soon, I’ll be coming into my magic, and he should pray that I burn through every last bit of it before I come home.





As the church bell tolls, men, women, and children rush toward the square.

“It’s too early for the gathering,” someone whispers.

“I heard there’s a punishment,” a man says to his wife.

“But it’s not a full moon,” she replies.

“Did they find a usurper?” A young boy tugs on his mother’s bustle.

I crane my head around the crowd, into the square, and sure enough, the guards are rolling out the staircase for the gallows. The squeaky wheels send a jagged chill through my blood.