The Grace Year(97)
My moment of truth.
The heaviness is palpable. I feel it in every part of my body, but I feel it from the other girls as well. They know what this means for me … that this is the end of the line.
As we move into the square, people are craning their necks trying to see which girls made it. There are sighs of relief, disappointed gasps.
The men who offered a veil take their places, standing in front of the girl of their choosing, a black silk ribbon in hand. I see the tips of Michael’s fine boots in front of me, but I can’t bear to meet his eyes.
Four new girls are chosen to replace the fallen brides, but there are whispers. Peering down the line, I see Mr. Welk standing before Gertie.
He places his hand on her shoulder; I see her recoil. “We’re sorry to inform you that Mr. Fallow passed this winter. Please accept our condolences.”
Gertie puts her hands over her mouth, taking in a gasping breath.
“Look how broken up she is,” I hear someone comment from the crowd.
“I heard they’re sending her to the fields.”
She looks over at me, a flash of wild excitement in her eyes, but her secret reverie dies as she takes in Michael standing in front of me.
And I know the longer I put this off, the harder it’s going to be … for all of us.
Unbuttoning the clasp of my cloak, I let it slip from my shoulders. As the tattered wool hits the ground, I raise my chin to face the crowd. The first person I see is Michael. He’s standing before me, a gardenia in his lapel. The flower he chose for me—the flower of purity. He smiles at me, the way I always remembered him, standing in the meadow, his shirtsleeves rolled up, the sun glinting through his hair, but as the autumn breeze seeps through my threadbare chemise, making the fabric cling to my swollen belly, I see the blood drain from his face, hurt and shock welling up in his eyes.
I blink long and slow, hoping to erase the image from my mind, but when I open them again, I immediately spot my family standing in the front row. My father’s gritting his teeth; Ivy and June are covering Clara and Penny’s eyes. My mother stands like a statue, stone cold indifference, as if I’m already dead to her.
But it’s nothing compared to the chill I feel from the county.
There are hisses and whispers, demands for punishment.
Someone throws a flower at me, hitting me square in the cheek—an orange lily, the flower of anger, hatred. Disgust. Picking it up off the ground, I trace my finger along the razor-curved edges, but I can’t allow myself to disappear right now. As much as it hurts, I have to stay present, I have to stay in my body, in this moment.
Back in the encampment, I was so full of purpose, but now that I’m here, standing before them, I can’t help but feel regret. Not for what I did—being with Ryker was the closest I’ve ever felt to God—but I feel bad for doing this to my family, to Michael. They don’t deserve this humiliation. None of us do.
The unpleasant din sweeping through the crowd quickly escalates to shouts and accusations. “Whore. Heretic. Burn her.”
My knees start to give way, but I lock them in place. I have to be brave—for Ryker, for the grace year girls … because I know the truth.
Michael’s father steps forward, wearing a mask of concern, but I see what lies beneath. The glint in his eyes. He’s thrilled to be rid of me.
“Never in my years has a crime been so apparent,” he adds, motioning toward my protruding belly.
A screeching wail breaks out in the crowd; women come rushing toward me, hissing, spitting, grabbing at me. As the guards pull them away, I see my mother’s face among them. Of course, she’s one of them. The hurt I feel is overwhelming, but the shame is unbearable, a death all its own. As they’re dragging her away, she lifts her skirts, baring her naked ankle, a jagged scar running down the side. I’m wondering why she did that, what it means, when a shoe comes hurtling my way. I duck just in time. The crowd is screaming for blood. My whole body is trembling. But I have to calm myself. I have to be able to speak clearly. Speak the truth. I won’t let them scare me into silence.
I don’t remember clenching my fist, but when I uncurl my fingers, I find the most startling thing. A tiny red flower. Five petals perfectly formed. The flower from my dreams. But how did it get here?
My breath grows shallow in my chest. I’m searching the crowd, looking for an answer, when my eyes settle on my mother. Her glassy eyes are locked on mine; her bottom lip has the slightest quiver. Pushing aside the scarf draped around her neck, she reveals a tiny red flower, pinned over her heart. The realization hits me so hard that I have to brace my hands against my knees so I don’t pass out.
It’s her.
The scar on her ankle—it’s from the trap the guards set the night before veiling day. That’s why she had blood running down her leg, why she was drinking bloodroot, to stave off infection. And the reason she was always first to join in on a punishment was so she could offer a kind word, a flower, a bit of comfort. Ryker’s mother said you look like her—it had nothing to do with the girl from my dream; it was because my mother is the one that’s been meeting with the women of the outskirts all this time.
She is the usurper the county has been whispering about, hunting.
I want to run to her, thank her … for letting me dream, for risking her life to try to help the women of the county, but I can’t. All I can do is stand here and swallow it, like we have to swallow everything else. I’m trying to hold back my emotions, but I can feel my face contorting. That strange heat moving to my cheeks. I always thought it was magic moving through me, but now I know it to be rage.