The Grace Year(99)

“My son speaks the truth.” His shoulders slump as he turns to face the crowd. “The magic has left her.”

The men let out a disappointed groan.

“But this is proof that the girls’ magic is getting stronger,” Mr. Welk says with a newfound lilt. “This proves that we need the grace year more than ever.”

It takes everything I have to keep my mouth shut, to listen to him stoke fear in the community, creating an even bigger lie, but when I look around at the women, I see the slightest shift. Hope spreading like a balm over an angry rash. It’s not the rebellion of my dreams, it’s not a show of strength like the girl possessed, but maybe it’s the start of something … something bigger than ourselves.

“Please, don’t do this, son,” Mr. Welk pleads. “She’s not worth it. She’s making a fool out of you.”

Michael holds up the black ribbon, telling me to turn around.

I know this is my last chance to speak up, to be heard, but in that moment, I feel the child move inside of me. Ryker’s child. If I don’t stand down, if I don’t accept this kindness, Ryker’s line will die with me.

I turn, tears streaming down my face.

Knotting the black silk around my braid, he rips out the red strand with more force than necessary, but I don’t mind. In this moment, I need to feel anything but this—anything to distract me from the pain of being silenced once and for all. But this isn’t about me anymore.

A guard rushes forward with a rolled sheet of parchment, handing it to Mr. Welk.

He breaks the seal and studies the register; there’s a dark glint in his eye. “I believe this falls upon you, Michael. Your first official duty as head of the council.”

As he hands it over, I can tell this is something bad. A way to get back at him for choosing me.

Michael grits his jaw, taking in a deep breath through his nostrils, before calling out, “It’s come to my attention that Laura Clayton’s body is unaccounted for.”

Laura. The haunted look on her face before she keeled over the side of the canoe.

As the county turns their attention to the Clayton family, Mrs. Clayton stands there seemingly unaffected, but then I see her fingers blanch around her youngest daughter’s shoulder.

“Don’t,” I whisper to Michael. “Please don’t do this.”

“I’ve used up all of my goodwill on you,” he replies through his teeth. “Priscilla Clayton…” Michael raises his chin. “Step forward.”

Mr. Clayton pries the girl away from her mother’s grasp and gives her a nudge in our direction.

As the girl walks to the center of the square, nearly tripping on her errant shoelace, she pulls her plait over her shoulder, nervously fidgeting with the white ribbon. I recognize her from Clara’s year. She’s only seven years old.

“Are you ready to accept your sister’s punishment?” Michael asks.

Tears spring to her eyes, but she doesn’t make a sound.

“On behalf of God and the chosen men,” Michael says, the slightest waver in his voice, “I hereby banish you to the outskirts for the rest of your days.”

The sound of the massive gate creaking open makes me flinch.

As she takes her first wobbly step toward the outskirts, Michael stops her.

I let out a shaky breath thinking he’s had a change of heart, that he won’t go through with this, but all he does is reach down, pulling the white ribbon from her hair, letting it fall to the ground.

I look up at him in disgust. How could he do this? But he’s one of them now.

Kneeling down to tie her boot lace, I whisper, “Laura wanted me to tell you that she’s sorry.” I double-knot it. “Find Ryker’s mother. She’ll watch over you.” I look up, expecting a soft smile, a teary thank-you, but I’m met with a cold flash of anger. And why shouldn’t she feel angry? We all should.

As the labor houses are assigned, the black ribbons administered, I follow the white strand of abandoned silk as it twists in the breeze, drags in the dirt, all the way beyond the gate, across the great lake, back to the woods where I left part of my heart, and I wonder if Ryker’s still out there, if he can see me. What he must think of me.

As the ceremony ends and the crowd disperses, I watch the guards carry unmarked crates from the gate to the apothecary. I’m looking around wondering if anyone else can see what I see, but the women give away nothing, their eyes a million miles away. In wonderment. In horror.

The things we do to girls. Whether we put them on pedestals only to tear them down, or use them for parts and holes, we’re all complicit in this. But everything touches everything else, and I have to believe that some good will come out of all this destruction.

The men will never end the grace year.

But maybe we can.





In strained silence, Michael escorts me to our new home, a tidy row house filled with gardenias. I’m almost choking on the heavy perfume, on his good intentions.

As soon as the door closes, I say, “Michael, you need to know … I wasn’t taken … against my will.”

The look on his face is so gutting I almost wish they’d just burned me alive. “Don’t…,” he says, taking the gardenia from his lapel, crushing it in his fist.

“I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask you to lie for me.”