The first few days with the girls are the worst—crying fits, bursts of anger, wanting to claw their own skin off. I remember feeling like that when I got banished to the woods, staggering around, trying to find my way back to some form of reality.

But in the passing months, we seem to settle into an uneasy routine.

On the first full moon, they all bleed at the same time—no punishments have been ordered, no new wild claims of magic have come forth, but I still feel out of sync. Out of time.

Though I haven’t had a drop of the well water, sometimes it feels as if I had. Little things: the scratching noise that seems to follow me wherever I go; the bones on the ridge that seem to shift a little every day, her head tilting more toward the sun, her toes pointing down toward the earth, the slight angle of her hip—as if at any moment, she could rise. Maybe it’s merely the power of suggestion making me feel this way. I’ve been telling ghost stories every night to satisfy the girls. Maybe I’m starting to believe my own lies, but nearly every morning, I wake to the smell of lime and bay leaves, my hair braided. I don’t mention it to anyone, because I don’t want to give Kiersten the satisfaction, but I can see it in her eyes, her growing frustration with me.

My biggest obstacle by far is keeping my thoughts from slipping under the fence, walking toward the shore, climbing the ladder to the best feeling I’ve ever known.

When I have the strength, I get up and move, find something to keep myself occupied—weaving rope, rebuilding the rain barrels, clearing the trail, leveling it off so it’s wide enough for the wagon to carry the water without spilling a drop—but at night when everyone is sleeping, and my body has failed me, I have no choice but to sit here, my mind playing through every detail of my last night with Ryker on a constant torturous loop. Sometimes, I close my eyes and try to meet him in my dreams, but I don’t dream anymore. Of anything. Even the girl feels like a distant memory, someone I used to know—just another thing that’s left me.

Although the girls have access to plenty of fresh water now, they still drink from the well on occasion. Maybe it’s self-preservation, knowing what their body needs.

I remember Father treating trappers from the north, feeding them thimblefuls of whisky on the hour. It wasn’t enough to satisfy them, but just enough to keep them from going into the throes of withdrawal. And that’s exactly what this is—a withdrawal. I can’t imagine going cold turkey from the hemlock silt, marching for two days straight while you purge everything from your body. No wonder the girls are so out of it when they return— they’re half dead, and the other half only wishes they were.

Doing it this way will take longer, but they won’t feel like their bones are being turned inside out. Hopefully it will feel natural, like their magic is slowly leaving them, which isn’t that far from the truth.

A few of the girls are well enough that they’ve shown an interest in helping me around the camp. At first, I found it unnerving, their dark beady eyes staring into me, but as they slowly come back to the world, I give them small tasks. One of them is minding Helen. She’s been following me around like a shadow, nicking whatever I’ve left behind. If a spoon is missing, I’ll find it under Helen’s bed. If a button has gone astray, I’ll find it in her pocket. It’s hard to get upset with her. She hasn’t recovered as well as the others. It makes me wonder if she ever will.

On a bright note, Dovey has resumed her usual cheery coo. Helen even offered to let me carry the bird around for a while, but it’s best not to get too attached. I remind Helen that we’ll have to leave her behind when the

guards come for us, but she doesn’t want to hear it. The women aren’t allowed to own pets in the county. We are the pets.

Other than the disturbing night visits, Kiersten has steered clear of me, but the one thing I’ve learned about Kiersten is you can never let your guard down. I’ve been watching her, sometimes staying up all night to try to catch her sneaking off into the woods to move the bones, but she doesn’t seem to leave the camp. She’s been watching me, too. Sometimes, when we’re gathered around the fire, I catch her tracking me like prey. I try to ignore it, pretend it doesn’t spook me, but the fact of the matter is, the more I help them, the more they will remember.

And as the second full moon draws near, I find myself moving in shadows. I don’t feel at ease anywhere anymore. Not even in my own body. My skin.

It’s not just the sound of the ribbon, or the shifting of the bones on the ridge, it’s a presence I feel hanging over me everywhere I turn. Even the girls, who I thought would be further along by now, still spend most of their time listening to the wind, getting lost in the clouds, speaking of their magic like it’s a living, breathing thing. At first, I thought it was just to please Kiersten, a means of survival, but I’m afraid it goes much deeper than that. Maybe it’s something they don’t even want to give up.

 

 

 

Tonight, as the sun gives way to the moon, a million stars making me feel smaller than a speck of dust, I stand on the perimeter, listening to the incessant scratching noise. It’s so dark I can hardly see a few feet in front of me, but I can’t stop picturing her standing there, the ribbon snared around her neck, grating against the bones of her throat.

“Tierney.” Gertrude nudges me. “They asked you a question.” I look back to find the entire camp staring at me.

“Well?” Jenna prods. “What are they saying?”

I haven’t spoken of the girl on the ridge yet; maybe it felt too sacred, too real, like it would be a betrayal of some kind. But maybe this is the one secret I don’t have to carry all by myself.

“I don’t know her name,” I reply. “But her bones lie on the highest ridge of the island.” As I turn my back on the woods, the scratching noise seems to grow more insistent … furious, but I don’t let it deter me. “Do you hear that? It’s the sound of the frayed red ribbon coiled around the bones of her throat. She was strangled so violently that her ribbon ripped in two.”

“Maybe she’s trying to find the other half,” Jenna says. “Just like the story of Tahvo.”

“Is that the Viking one?” Lucy asks.

Jenna nods excitedly. “His entire crew turned on him, stabbed him one hundred times before he fell. Instead of burning his flesh, a proper burial for a warrior, they left his bones to rot on a distant shore.” Jenna leans forward, the firelight dancing in her eyes. “But every full moon he rose from the

dead to take his revenge. It took him eight years to hunt down every single one of them and their kin. Only then could he earn the pyre that would carry his soul to the heavens.”

I’m trying not to let my imagination get away from me, but what if the dead girl’s own grace year girls did this to her? Maybe she’s looking for revenge. And if she’s bound to the encampment forever … maybe we’re the next best thing.

 

 

As Gertrude and I settle into the larder, sweat soaking through our clothes, she says, “If you won’t keep the door open, you should at least take off your cloak.”

“I’m fine,” I say, pulling it tighter around me.

“If you’re worried about Helen taking it from you—”

“I told you I’m fine,” I say, shorter than I’d like, clutching the hatchet to my chest.

The sound of her skimming her fingers over the healed stubble on the back of her head grates on my nerves.

“You haven’t been drinking from the well, have you?” she asks. “No.” I look at her sharply. “Of course not.”

“Then what is it … what aren’t you telling me?”

I take in a deep breath. “You know how I talked about the bones on the ridge?”

“That was a really good one tonight. And then when Jenna said the thing about the Viking … I almost believed it—”

“I think it might be real.”

“What?” she asks, trying to hide the goosebumps on her arms.

“The sound I hear in the camp … it’s the same sound I hear when I’m on the ridge … the ribbon scratching against her bones.”

She looks at me for a moment and then bursts out laughing. “Very funny.”

I laugh along with her and then turn on my side so she can’t see the tears in my eyes.

 

 

 

“You’re finally up,” Gertie says, straightening the jars of preserves on the shelf behind her. “I’ve been begging you to keep the door open all summer, and now that it’s finally cooled down you decide to open it?”

“I didn’t,” I say, sitting up, peeling the cloak away from my skin.

“I heard you do it.” She rolls her eyes. “Oh, and nice touch, blowing out the candle, scratching at your ribbon like that. The girls are going to eat that up tonight.”

“What are you talking ab—”

Reaching for the ribbon that was tied around my wrist, I freeze. It’s not there. It’s not in my hair. Panicking, I get on the floor to start looking for it.

“Missing something?” she asks.

“Helen,” I say with a deep sigh as I get to my feet and head to the lodging house. She’s got to stop doing this. Sneaking around, taking people’s things. I don’t want to get cross with her, but she needs to straighten up if she’s going to make it back in the county.

As I pass the well, I glance down and catch my reflection, a bright red slit running across my throat. Doubling back, I stare into the water. Then my fingers fly to my neck, cringing when they graze against the silk.

Tugging at it, I’m trying to free myself, but it’s knotted so tight I can’t get it loose. I’m fumbling with the knot, but it only seems to make the ribbon coil tighter.

I’m leaning over, fighting for air, when I see Kiersten’s reflection directly behind me.

“Careful, now,” she says as she reaches her hands around my throat, deftly untying the knot. “Poacher’s Kiss,” she whispers in my ear.

“What?” I gasp, bracing myself against the side of the well.

“That’s the name of the knot,” she says, lacing the ribbon around my wrist, fashioning a gentle bow. “The harder you pull, the tighter it gets.”

“How do you know that?” I ask, staring at her reflection in the water.

“The last time I saw someone stare into the water like that, I made them drown. You remember Laura, don’t you?”

I swallow hard.

“As I recall, you didn’t think my magic was the cause … you didn’t think our magic was real at all.”

“I was wrong,” I whisper as I turn to face her. “That was before I went into the woods. You helped me understand.”

She looks me dead in the eyes. I can’t help the shiver racing over my flesh. I thought the large black pupils were scary, but now that her irises have returned, the cool blue hue is even more chilling.

Whether she’s the one who did this or not, she’s remembering.

As she walks away, I can’t help wondering how long it will take until Kiersten remembers that she wants me dead.

 

 

As I set out for the spring, the ridge, I don’t look at the bones. I don’t listen to the ribbon scraping against her neck. I keep to what I know to be true. The land doesn’t lie.

Lowering myself over the ridge, I notice the tomatoes, squash, and peppers have given way to turnips, broccoli, and beans. The sumac leaves near the shore have just started to turn. Even the air feels crisper. The season is on the verge of change. So am I.

I’ll never forget Ivy returning from her grace year. When she staggered back into the square, I didn’t even recognize her. Clumps of her hair were missing; her eyes looked unreal, like the large buttons from Father’s winter coat. She collapsed in the square before her husband even got her home. There was a time when they thought she wouldn’t make it.

They let me sit with her once, while my father spoke with her husband about her care. I remember leaning in close to look at her, trying to decide if it was really her. I thought maybe she’d shed her skin out there, like the changelings from the old fairy tales. I think that’s what always scared me the most about the grace year, that I would somehow lose myself, come back an entirely different person.

We just get better at hiding things.

I used to wonder how the women could turn a blind eye to things in the county, things that were happening right in front of them, but some truths are so horrifying that you can’t even admit them to yourself.

I understand that now.

On the way back to the camp, when I hear a twig snap behind me, I don’t stop to listen, to wonder, I just keep pushing the cart down the path. I’m the one who gives this thing power, and I’m not willing to do that anymore. No more games. No more distractions.

Tonight, as we settle around the fire, and they ask me what the ghosts are saying, I reply, “I don’t hear them anymore.”

It’s for the good of the camp. For the good of me.

There’s a long pause. A silence so loud I can feel it echoing around the campfire, like a dying ember begging to be reignited.

I’m thinking this is it, the end of all this, when Jenna sits up tall, staring into the woods. “I hear them now. Ever since I started drinking the ghost water.”

“Me, too,” Ravenna chimes in.

“So do I,” Hannah says, nodding her head so fast that it reminds me of a bird getting ready to feed its young.

And then one after another they begin telling ghost stories of their own.

Far more terrifying than anything I could ever come up with.

Gertrude looks at me, confusion in her eyes. But I get it.

The hemlock silt simply helped them see what they already believed.

 

 

 

I wake to footsteps in the clearing. It’s probably Helen; she has a tendency to wander at night. I’m waiting for one of the girls to get up and fetch her, but they never do. They’ve grown tired of babysitting her. We all have. As I get up to open the door, I hear the scratching sound of the ribbon enter my bloodstream. I want to tell myself it’s just Kiersten trying to scare me, but I feel a dark presence oozing from beneath the door.

The handle of the larder door compresses. I’m bracing myself, ready to come face-to-face with whatever’s been haunting me, when a blood- curdling scream rings out from the direction of the lodging house. Gertie snaps awake. I’m yanking on the door trying to open it, but the wood must still be swollen. By the time I finally get it open, I only catch a glimpse of a figure moving past the perimeter, like a passing shadow.

The girls are huddled outside of the lodging house, screaming and crying.

Running across the clearing, I find Becca sheltered in the mass, her eyes wide, her body trembling.

“I was going to the privy … and I saw it…,” she snivels. “A ghost hovering near the larder door.”

“Has anyone seen Dovey?” Helen asks.

Ravenna pushes her out of the way. “Was it Ami or Meg?” “No. It wasn’t like that…”

“Dovey, where are you?” Helen calls out. Everyone shushes her.

“I didn’t see arms or legs,” Becca continues. “I only saw eyes. Dark gleaming eyes staring at me from the shadows. I don’t know how to explain it, but whatever it was … it felt evil.”

Poacher. My skin erupts in goosebumps. Could Anders be here in the camp?

I know I was late crossing over. I might have forgotten to put the shrouds on the other side of the fence, but I did what he asked. I left Ryker, the only real chance I had at happiness. Wasn’t that enough?

While the others settle back in the lodging house to sleep, I sit on one of the logs around the fire. I don’t face the flames, staring at what could’ve been. I stare out into the woods, at what will be.

For months, I’ve felt something building, moving in shadows all around me; as much as I’ve tried to reason it away, hold it at bay, it’s come knocking at my door. No more hiding. No more denial.

“If you want me, come and get me,” I whisper to the woods.

The only reply is the ribbon grating against my very last nerve. Whether it’s Anders or a ghost, I’m finally ready to face the truth. All of it.

 

 

 

Long strands of hair tickle my arms.

At first, I think I’m dreaming of home, that it’s Clara and Penny crawling under the covers to wake me, but the weight is too heavy, the breath too foul. I open my eyes to find Kiersten crouched over me, the hatchet to my throat, her eyes shining like sapphires in the early-morning light.

“Why did you come back here?” she hisses in my ear. “T-to get rid of my magic,” I stammer. “Just like you.”

As the other girls begin to gather around, Kiersten pulls the blade back, but I can almost see the wheels turning in her head—she’s grasping at memories, trying to make sense of things. She studies me in a way that makes me think she’s one tick away from remembering everything.

Getting off of me, she walks back toward the lodging house and slams the door behind her.

As I sit there, dusting off my elbows, I’m looking around trying to figure out what went wrong. They’re pretty much clean of the hemlock silt. I can see it in their eyes, and yet they’re still behaving like wild animals.

Gertie rushes over. “Here, let me help y—” Her breath halts as she stares down at me.

“My cloak,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around my threadbare chemise, trying to cover myself the best I can.

“You can borrow mine,” she says, backing away from me, like she’s just seen a ghost.

“If you’re looking for Helen,” Vivi says, creeping along the perimeter, “I saw her just before dawn. She was out searching for Dovey. If you ask me, it’s about time that bird flew away. Her wing’s been fixed for months now.” She drags her hand along the branches of an evergreen, tearing off a sprig. “I don’t know why you’re always wearing that ratty thing anyways, even when it was hot as hades.”

“None of your business,” I snap. But as soon as she skitters away, I feel bad.

“Helen’s probably out by the western fence,” Gertie says as she hands me her cloak. I put it on. It’s too small for me, but it’ll do. “If you want, I can go ou—”

“I don’t have time for this,” I say as I head for the perimeter. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” I try to assure her, but inside I’m screaming. “I just want to get the last of the summer berries on the far south end of the encampment. I’ll camp in the woods tonight … be back first thing in the morning,” I say as I cross into the forest, desperate to escape her sympathetic gaze. I’m afraid I’ve already said too much … that she knows too much, but I can’t worry about that. I have bigger problems right now.

 

 

 

As I’m walking toward the brook, there are light quick steps behind me. My first instinct is to turn around, try to catch them in the act, but maybe that’s exactly what they want me to do. Up to this point, all I’ve done is react, and they’ve played me like an expert at marbles, sending me crashing all over the place, but I need to be smart about this.

So instead, I take a deep breath and think about where I can lead them. Where I can get an advantage. There’s a giant oak up ahead that I took refuge behind many times last winter.

Being as sly as possible, I reach down and grab a fist-sized rock. It makes me think of Laura, slipping rocks into the hems of her skirts on the way to the encampment. That was so long ago, and yet the image of her sinking to the bottom of the lake seems to be etched into the back of my eyelids. One good swing, for Laura. That’s all I need.

As I near the oak, I have to force myself not to speed up, not to let my breath get away from me. Ducking around the girth of the tree, I press my spine against the bark, waiting … hoping they take the bait.

The footsteps are getting closer. Closer.

I haul back the rock, ready to swing, when I hear a high-pitched scream. “Gertrude?” I exhale.

She’s standing there, eyes wider than a girl’s at her first hanging. “You almost killed me,” she says, staring at the rock in my hand.

“What are you doing here?” I search the woods behind her. “You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that.”

“I … I just wanted to help. I’m feeling better now … or I was.” She looks down at the trail of urine trickling over her boot.

I let out a deep sigh. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” I say as I lead her up the incline, to the brook.

“You did all this?” she says, looking at all the various ropes and contraptions I’ve set up.

“Here, put your underclothes in this,” I say, showing her the netting I’ve rigged up in the spring for wash.

Wriggling out of her bloomers, she tucks them in the water. “You’re using your veil for this?” She chuckles.

“Seemed fitting.”

“I’m sorry I followed you,” she says, “it’s just—”

“It’s for the best,” I say, checking on the birch pipe. “You need to know how to take care of yourself … the others … just in case.”

“In case of what?” She steps into my line of sight.

I try to play it off, but it’s impossible for me to lie to Gertie. My eyes start to well up, just thinking about the things I have to say to her.

“I don’t know exactly what happened to you out there,” she says, “but I know certain things…”

I pull the cloak tighter around me.

“A boy in a treehouse with cold hands and a warm heart,” she adds. “You heard that?” I whisper.

She nods.

“Ryker…,” I say, running my hand over the deep scar on my shoulder. A pained look crosses her face. “Did he…”

“No. He saved me … nursed me back to health.” My chin begins to tremble at the thought. “He wanted to run away with me. Start a life together.”

“Then why did you come back?” Her brow knots up. “I have a duty—”

“Everything’s different now,” she says, taking my hands in hers. “You must know that.”

“I can’t do this right now,” I say, climbing the ridge, trying to escape her words.

“You’re running out of time,” she says.

It stops me in my tracks. That’s the same thing the girl said to me right before I met Ryker on the frozen lake.

“If it’s because of your sisters,” she says, following after me, “I can speak up for them.”

“And risk being banished to the outskirts?”

“It couldn’t be any worse than having to marry Geezer Fallow,” she says. “Exceptions can be made … especially with Michael taking over as head of the council.”

Michael. It’s been so long since I thought of him that I can hardly conjure his face. It’s like a portrait that’s been left out in the rain.

Gertie gasps when she reaches the top of the ridge. “You were telling the truth,” she says, gravitating to the stark bones.

I join her. “Yesterday, she was lying on her right side, with her legs curled up.”

“And now she’s flat on her back?” she asks, blinking rapidly. “Are you saying the ghost is real?”

“I hope so.” I stare down at the ribbon fluttering in the breeze. “How can you say that?”

“Because the alternative is even more frightening.”

“Tierney. You’re scaring me,” she says, taking a step back. “What could be worse than a vengeful ghost?”

“A vengeful poacher,” I whisper. “Anders.” Even saying his name makes me feel sick to my stomach. “He found me with Ryker, told me that if I didn’t cross back over he would kill us both.”

“Does Ryker know ab—”

“No. No.” I squeeze her hand tight. I can’t bear to hear her say another word.

“But the curse…”

“There is no curse,” I say, thinking of the vial at the apothecary. “It’s smallpox. Anders survived a bout of it last year, and now he believes he’s immune. He said he’d come back for me if I didn’t follow his orders.”

“But you followed his orders, right?” she asks, getting short of breath. I wince in her direction.

“Oh God, Tierney.” She starts to pace. “But that still doesn’t explain

this.” She nods toward the girl.

“Anders,” I say, swallowing hard. “He likes to play with bones.” “What do you mean, likes to play with bones?”

“He makes … wind chimes and things out of them.”

“Tierney!” She raises her voice. “A poacher was in the camp … we have to tell the others … we have to warn them.”

“No,” I say in a panic. “Not yet. Not until I’m certain.” “You sound pretty convincing to me.”

“Tonight, I’m going to stay here, hidden on the ridge,” I say as I pick up the harness to show her. “I need to see it with my own eyes first.”

“Fine,” she says, putting her hands on her hips. “Then I’m staying with you.”

“You can’t.” I drop the rope.

“Of course I can. I’m a part of this now.”

“This isn’t a game.” I grab her by the shoulders. “You don’t know what they’re like … what they do to us.” Her face goes ashen and I soften my grip. “Besides, I need you to take care of the others. If something happens to me…” I set my jaw. I’m struggling to finish my thought when Gertie rescues me.

“I’ll do it. But I have conditions.” “Name it.”

“When you’re back, when you’re sure, you need to tell them the truth.” I open my mouth to argue; she cuts me off. “Nonnegotiable.”

“Fine,” I reluctantly agree.

“And when this is done,” she says, her eyes welling up, “you need to go back to him. You have no choice. You took care of me out here. Now let me take care of you.”

I nod. Anything to get her to stop, to not say another word.

 

 

We spend the rest of the day on the ridge. I show her the garden, telling her about the seeds June sewed into the lining of my cloak, how the storm washed it all away, and the miracle I came back to.

As we share the last summer tomato, we sit on the edge of the spring, talking for hours, until our feet are wrinkled up like old prunes. For a brief moment, I forget about everything, all of the horror we’ve witnessed, but as soon as the sun begins to set, and I have to send her back to the camp, it all comes back to me. That’s the problem with letting the light in—after it’s been taken away from you, it feels even darker than it was before.

 

 

 

As the moon starts to rise, I get into the harness and lower myself over the ridge, just low enough that I’m covered, but high enough that if I stretch my neck, I can still see her bones. It’s torture having to stay still for this long, but at least I have my back turned to the shore, to the tip of Ryker’s shelter that I imagine I can see peeking up through the trees. Even that small thought seems to open up a fresh wound in me. I know Gertie’s right, about everything, but I have to get through this first.

Gripping the rope, I concentrate on what’s in front of me. June’s garden clinging to the hillside. I decide to count everything. What can be more mind numbing than that? Twelve squash, sixty-one beans, eighteen scallions—I do it over and over again until numbers are meaningless, just lines and swirls held together by connective tissue. And when the moon is highest in the sky, and I can no longer feel my legs, I’m thinking about calling it, just going back to the camp, accepting that this was just my imagination getting the better of me, when I hear something splash in the spring. It could be the muskrat hoping for another mollusk, but it sounds bigger than that. Unafraid.

As heavy wet steps climb the ridge, I hear breath. In and out. Out and in. And when the footsteps reach the top of the ridge, that familiar sound swells in my ears: the scratching of the ribbon—slow, steady, deliberate, obsessive—followed by the clattering of bones.

Stretching up to peek over the ledge, I accidentally brush my knee against the hillside, causing a small clump of dirt to tumble to the depths.

I’m holding my breath, hoping I didn’t give myself away, when the scratching sound stops. The bones go still.

Heavy steps walk straight toward me. I’m clinging to the ropes, praying I’m hidden enough in the darkness to avoid being seen. But the moon is so bright. Fertile. Relentless.

The tip of a boot edges over the ridge. I’m afraid to look up. Afraid not

to.

As I slowly raise my eyes, a breeze rushes in from the west, causing the

charcoal-gray fabric to billow over me, hiding me from sight, covering me in a darkness so deep that it feels like I’m in a freefall.

 

 

 

When I come to, there’s an eerie red glow shining over the horizon. At home, we call this a devil’s morn. They say if you’re caught in this light, great misfortune will come your way. But what could be worse than this? I must’ve passed out, but if he’d seen me, I’d be dead right now. I guess I owe my life to the western wind. To Eve. Maybe we’re even now.

As I pull myself up to the ridge and crawl out of the harness, I feel like a woman who’s been lost at sea for years. My body aches, the indentations from the ropes feel like they’ll never recover, my legs and arms tingle as if they’ve been asleep for days, but that’s nothing compared to what’s been done to her.

Dragging my body over to the dead girl’s remains, I have to choke back the bile clinging to the back of my throat. There, for everyone to see, the girl’s bones have been laid out in painstaking detail, spread-eagle with two black calla lilies placed in her eye sockets—the flower of ill will. Death. “Legs spread, arms flat, eyes to God,” I whisper.

As I pluck the bad omens from her eyes, I notice the dark red stain smeared across the mandible, all the way around, where her lips would’ve been.

Spitting on the bottom of my chemise, I’m trying to rub it away, when I realize it’s blood.

I wrench up whatever’s left in my stomach.

There’s only one person who’s not afraid of the curse … who likes to play with bones …

who knows the language of flowers and where to procure them. Anders said he’d come back for me. He kept his promise.

Now maybe it’s time to break mine.

 

 

 

As I head back to camp, there are no eager faces around the campfire waiting to be fed, no Gertie tidying up the larder. No Dovey annoying me with her incessant coo. I’m wondering if everyone’s still asleep, but when I peek in the lodging house, I find it’s empty.

A horrifying thought creeps in. Ryker told me that if the poachers no longer feared the curse, every girl in the camp would be dead by sunrise.

Running into the clearing, I’m starting to panic when I hear hushed voices, weeping, coming from the back of the lodging house.

I should be relieved to see them unharmed, but the way they’re huddled together in a tight circle, staring down at the ground, gives me pause.

“What is it?” I ask, unable to hide the nervous tremor in my voice. “What’s happened?”

Before anyone has a chance to answer, Kiersten advances on me, fire in her eyes, veins bulging from her neck. “Give me your hands,” she screams. “Let me see your hands!”

I’m looking around, desperately trying to figure out what’s going on. Gertrude meets my gaze, but all she can do is shake her head, tears streaming down her face.

Kiersten grabs my hands, inspecting them from every angle. “She must’ve scrubbed it off.”

“Scrubbed what off?” I ask, my breath shallow in my chest. “Don’t play innocent with me. Where did the blood come from?” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“This.” She yanks me over so I’m standing directly in front of the back wall of the lodging house.

There, written in dark red blood, is the word WHORE.

And below it, on the soft dirt, lies a bird, neck snapped, wings spread, a yellow nasturtium placed on its chest. The symbol of betrayal.

“Dovey,” I whisper.

Looking around at their distraught faces, I realize they think I did this. This is exactly what Anders wants. He wants them to turn on me. Cast me out.

“I … I didn’t do this…,” I sputter.

“I suppose you want us to believe a ghost did this. How could you do this to Helen? The weakest among us—”

“Wait … where is Helen?” I ask.

“If this is about your stupid cloak, you can ju—” “Where’s Helen?” I shout.

“We thought she was with you,” Becca says, looking up at me, eyes red with tears.

“Why would you think that?” I ask.

“Last night, we saw her skipping into the woods,” Martha says. “Was she wearing my cloak?” I whisper.

“We tried to get it from her,” Nanette says, “but she said it gave her powers.”

As I take off running toward the woods, Kiersten’s yelling after me, “This isn’t over, Tierney. You have to answer for what you’ve done.”

My heart is hammering. My stomach is so tight you could pound it like a drum. I’m tearing down the path, calling out her name, when I see the tattered hem of my cloak peeking out from beneath a willow.

The dread I feel is overwhelming, but when I pull the edge of the wool and realize it’s not attached to her body, I let out a huge burst of air. “Calm down,” I whisper. She probably just got too warm and dropped it, but as I dust it off and put it back on, I notice something odd: a wide swath of clean fresh dirt leading under the tree. As if someone had been dragged—

Clawing through the veil of stringy limbs, I find her hidden underneath. “Helen.” I gently shake her shoulder, but she’s already gone cold. Sinking

beside her, I see her red ribbon is coiled around her throat so tightly, it cut into her skin. Just like the girl on the ridge. I’m racking my brain, searching for answers, but I can’t understand why he would just leave her body here? A kill like this is all he needs.

But it’s not about that, is it? This is personal. This is about me. He won’t stop until he gets what he wants.

And I’m going to give it to him.

 

 

 

As they load Helen’s body onto the wagon, Kiersten drags me by my hair to the punishment tree.

“Get the hatchet,” she calls out.

I’m trying to think of anything I can say to get out of this, but I’m tired of lying—to them, to myself. Gertie’s right. The truth has come to the surface, whether I’m ready for it or not.

“There’s a poacher in the encampment,” I yell.

Kiersten laughs as she drops me in front of the tree. “It’s always someone else’s fault, right, Tierney?”

“It’s my fault. It’s all my fault,” I say. “I’m the reason Helen’s dead.” My eyes well up as I look back at Helen’s body. “She was wearing my cloak. He thought it was me.”

“Is that why you were so upset about it going missing?” Vivi asks. “Don’t listen to her lies. She’s just trying to trick us,” Kiersten says. “It’s all true.” Gertie steps forward. “The ghost you saw in the clearing,

the sound we kept hearing in the woods, it’s a poacher. Tierney escaped from him, climbed back through a breach in the eastern fence, and now he’s come to claim his prize … the kill that got away from him.”

“The figure at the larder door,” Hannah says with wide eyes. “I thought it was a ghost, but it was the shrouds they wear.”

“You’re not seriously listening to this, are you?” Kiersten grabs the hatchet from Jenna and raises it.

“If you kill me,” I say, holding up my hands, “he’ll take revenge on every single one of you. He wants me. I’m the only one who can stop this.”

“I think she might be telling the truth.” Jenna sidles next to her. “Why else would he have left Helen’s body behind?”

Kiersten kicks the edge of my boot. “How?” “I’ll go into the woods. I’ll wait for him.”

“And we’re supposed to trust you?” She huffs, tightening her grip. “What do you have to lose?” I say. “Either way, you win. If I kill him or

he kills me … all of this will end.”

“Kiersten, please.” Jenna pulls on her arm. “We’re so close to going home. Let him have her.”

Kiersten takes in a deep breath through her nostrils, and then lowers the blade.

I’m shocked she’s agreeing to this so easily, but I’m not about to wait around for her to change her mind.

As I turn and walk toward the perimeter she says, “But first, you have to put Helen outside the gate.”

My body freezes in place. “I can’t,” I whisper.

“You want her sisters to be punished? You want her body to be unaccounted for? She deserves an honorable death. And since it was your fault—”

“Don’t make me do this,” I say, my face contorting in agony, but I know she’s right. This is my responsibility.

As I walk toward Helen’s body, the girls step back, giving me a wide berth. Gertie gives me a supportive nod, but I can see she’s on the verge of falling apart. We all are.

I push the wagon to the barrier, then open the gate; the high-pitched groan of the rusty hinges settles deep inside my gut. Putting my hands under her arms, I lift her off the wagon, but I’m so shaky that I end up dropping her in an ugly heap. Tears are streaming down my face. I can hardly catch my breath. This is not what she deserves.

Even though I can hear the call of the poachers, see their shadowy figures emerging from the tree line, I take my time. I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies in the healing house before, but never one that’s been a friend.

And Helen was my friend.

Straightening out her limbs, her dress, I close her eyelid and place her hands together on her chest. Out of respect. Love.

I only hope someone will do the same for me.

 

 

 

Walking to the ridge feels like something out of a dream … a nightmare.

I feel dead inside. But maybe that’s exactly what I need to get through this.

Setting up a guide rope, I gather as many fallen branches as I can find and start to dig.

I dig through the morning, I dig through the afternoon, and when the sun begins to set, still red on the horizon, I stop. I wanted to dig so deep that I’d reach the devil himself, but this will have to do.

Honing the branches into needle-sharp points, twenty in all, I bury the blunt ends into the bottom of the pit. It’s primitive, but so is Anders.

With bloodied, blistered hands, I climb the rope to the surface. It feels good to breathe again. To feel the air on my face. I head down to the spring and plunge my aching hands into the cool water. I want to leave them there until I can’t feel them anymore, but I’m done trying to numb myself. Untying the veil from the rocks, I stretch it over the pit until it’s taut and then tack down the sides with hawthorn spikes. It would be a lot easier to use rocks, but I can’t afford anything to impede his steps. I need a clean drop.

Sprinkling a thin layer of fresh dirt over the surface, I stand back to survey my work.

This is the best I can do.

This is all I have left in me.

As I sit on the ridge, staring past the woods, the barrier, beyond the shore, I acknowledge the three moons that have passed since I last saw Ryker. I want to tell myself it’s easier now, that sometimes I can’t remember his face, or the sound of his voice, but I cling to the memories like stolen jewels, only to be taken out on special occasions. But it’s no use hiding them away anymore. He’s with me all the time now.

As dark comes, I don’t bother trying to conceal myself. I want him to see me. And who would dare try to hide from this moon?

Just before dawn, I hear footsteps coming up the incline, past the spring, toward the ridge. It takes everything I have not to look back, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my fear.

When he reaches the top of the ridge, I know the moment he sees me, because the scratching sound grows more intense … fevered.

With each step closer, it feels like he’s hacking away pieces of me, until I’m nothing but a pile of discarded flesh.

I’m convinced he’s seen my trap, that he’s making his way around it right now to slit my throat, when I hear the most beautiful sound in the world—the wet crunching sound of his body being impaled.

 

 

 

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.

As I break through the trees behind the lodging house and make my way into the clearing, it’s like coming upon a battlefield, long after the last cannon has been fired.

Girls are standing around in a daze, some are throwing up, a few are down on their knees praying.

Kiersten walks toward me, chin held high, a streak of blood across her face. “We took care of it for you,” she says, glancing back toward the punishment tree.

Following her gaze, I see a man, stripped naked, lying still on the ground. Dead still.

As I walk toward him, there’s a low thrum hammering in my ears. I don’t want to remember him like this, but I need to see him one more time … to say I’m sorry … to say good-bye.

Kneeling next to him, I press my ear against his chest, hoping that by some miracle he’s still clinging to life, but there’s nothing. Only a cold bloody shell. But a shell belonging to a different man. Looking beyond the blood, the broken bones, I know in my heart this isn’t Ryker.

As I get to my feet, I let out a burst of noise. I’m not sure if I’m laughing or crying, maybe something in between, but as I look around at their ravaged faces, I realize they’re looking at me like I’m the lunatic here. “I don’t know what to say…”

“Thank you would be a good start,” Kiersten says.

“The intruder is dead in a pit in the woods,” I say, enunciating each word. “You took this man against his will. His family will now starve because of you.”

“Who cares?” Kiersten snaps. “He’s a poacher. Our enemy. He deserved to die.”

“It’s murder.”

“It’s the grace year!” Kiersten screams back at me. “Our magic made us do it,” Jenna adds, quietly.

“There is no magic,” I yell, dragging my fingers through my tangled hair. “It’s the well water … the algae … it’s hemlock silt. That’s what’s been making you see things, hear things, feel things that aren’t real. And you’ve been nearly clear of it for months. You’re better,” I say as I look each one of them in the eyes. “But you don’t want to be better, because then you’ll have to face what you’ve done.”

“Don’t listen to her. She’s poison,” Kiersten says. “I told you that from the beginning.”

“Think about it,” Martha says, staring down at the well. “We only started feeling better when Tierney came back with fresh water.”

“I knew this was wrong,” Hannah says, looking at her trembling hands, caked in blood. “I told you this was wrong.”

“Hemlock silt wouldn’t give us powers,” Kiersten says. “No.” I raise my chin. “You did that all on your own.”

“I’m not listening to this heretic anymore.” Kiersten starts to walk off, but no one seems to notice.

“I understand how it happens now … how we become this,” I say as I walk around the clearing. “I thought it was just the water, but I was wrong. Even without the hemlock silt, there were times when I got so caught up in it that I nearly succumbed. I mean … who doesn’t want to feel powerful? Who doesn’t want to feel like they’re in control for once in their lives? Because without it, what would we be?” Looking up at the bloated limbs of the punishment tree, I say, “We hurt each other because it’s the only way we’re permitted to show our anger. When our choices are taken from us, the fire builds within. Sometimes I feel like we might burn down the world to cindery bits, with our love, our rage, and everything in between.”

A few of the girls are crying, but I have no idea if I’ve really gotten through to them.

And it’s not my problem anymore. Gertie’s right. I have other things to think about now.

Tying my red ribbon to the punishment tree, I walk away. From all of it.

I have no idea if I’ll make it back to Ryker’s shelter. If he’ll even have me. But I have to try.

Just as I clear the perimeter, I feel someone lace her pinkie through mine. I don’t need to look to know who it is. “Gertie,” I whisper. Tears fill my eyes. My chin is trembling. “Please tell Michael I’m sorry. That he deserves so much better. But for everything we were, everything he wanted our lives to be, to spare my sisters. Please don’t punish them for my sins.”

“You have my word,” she says without hesitation, tears running down her face. “You’re doing the right thing.”

We embrace, and I realize this is probably the last time I’ll ever see her. I squeeze her tight. “I wish I could take you with me.”

“I’ll be okay,” she says, but her entire body is shaking. “Knowing that you’re out there … knowing that you’re free is enough for me.”

I want to believe her, but I’ve seen what the county does to us. “Don’t let them break you,” I whisper.

She nods, burying her wet face in my neck. “At sundown I’ll create a diversion by the gate. Run and don’t look back,” she says. “Be well. Be happy.”

There’s so much more I want to say to her … but I’m afraid if I start, I’ll never be able to stop … I’ll never be able to leave her behind.

 

 

Climbing back inside the pit, I take Hans’s knife and cut the shrouds from his body. I’m trying to pull the severed ribbon free, but he’s clenching it so hard in death that I end up having to break his fingers, one by one, in order to get it loose.

I’m happy to do it. I’d break every bone in his body if I had to. He doesn’t deserve to be buried with her ribbon. It doesn’t belong to him. Never did.

As I shovel heaps of mother earth over him, I don’t say a prayer. I don’t shed a tear. He’s nothing but another ghost to me.

Unsnagging the shredded ribbon from Olga’s vertebrae, I unite it with the other half and fold it in the bones of her hand.

One could look at it like she’s hanging on to it—one could look at it like she’s letting go.

I know what I see.

Tucking hawthorn branches, leaves, and herbs in the spaces between her bones, I work the flint until it catches. Hawthorn is seldom used in the county anymore, but in the old language, it signified ascension. A higher purpose. I have to believe that she’ll find peace.

As I fan the flames, they grow higher and higher, until I’m sure God himself can see the smoke.

I tend to her remains as if they belonged to one of my sisters, releasing her to the wind … the water … the air … wherever she wants to roam.

It’s a pyre fit for a warrior, which is exactly what she was.

With the sun melting into the horizon, the forest still tinged in bloodred glow, I wash the shrouds clean of every bit of hate, then hurry through the woods toward the eastern fence. This time, I’m not running from something, I’m running to, compelled forward by something much greater than fear.

Hope.

Wrapping myself in the torn shrouds, I peek my head out of the breach, making sure it’s clear, and then start to pull myself through. It’s harder this time. I have to contort my body differently, but as soon as I get my torso through, the rest comes easily. As I stand up and face the shore, the endless water stretched out before me, I can’t help thinking of the last time I did this. I was bleeding out, freezing to death, dying, and now I’m full of life.

I dart between the trees, trying to remember the way back to Ryker’s shelter, when I hear voices on the shore. Ducking behind a cluster of evergreens, I see men of all ages, getting into canoes, passing a bottle around.

“He was a good man,” a hunter with a fresh scar running down his neck bellows.

“He was a prick,” another man says as he climbs in, grabbing the bottle. “But no one deserves that kind of death. Not even Leonard.”

“And so close to the end of the season,” a boy says as he pushes them

off.

“Poor bastard. Probably cursed his entire family,” another one says as he

climbs into the next canoe.

I can’t figure out why they’re leaving. The guards don’t come back for us for another two days.

I’m getting ready to edge closer, see if I can spot Ryker among them, when I’m grabbed from behind, a hand over my mouth, jerking me away from the shore. My limbs are flailing, I’m trying to get away, but he’s too strong for me. When we reach the cover of a blind, he lets out a ragged whisper in my ear, “Tierney, stop. It’s me … Ryker.”

My whole body goes limp in his arms. I don’t know if it’s the sheer emotion of hearing his voice or knowing that he’s okay, but my chest is

heaving … I’m trying to find the air. “I thought … I thought it was you in the camp … I thought you were dead.”

Spinning around in his arms, I pull the shroud from his face, kissing him with a fierceness that not even I recognize. He runs his hands down my body, over my waist, and then stops—

“Tierney,” he says with a heavy breath.

I open my mouth to say something, but words fail me. For a moment, I’d almost forgotten. Forgotten how much time has passed. That I owe him an explanation for all of this.

Leaning my forehead against his, I say, “The day I left, Anders came to your shelter. He said if I didn’t leave by first light, he’d come back for me … that they would come for you, too. I wanted to save your life, the way you saved mine, and I realize coming back here now, like this, is the most selfish thing I’ll ever do…” My voice is starting to tremble. “But being without you isn’t an option anymore. If you don’t feel the same, if you don’t want to be with me, if this is too much, I’ll understand, I’ll turn around and—”

Sinking to his knees, he wraps his arms around me, pressing his face into my skirts. “We’ll find a way.”

 

 

 

Climbing the ladder to Ryker’s shelter feels like a choice this time, one that I would make again and again. Even the air smells like home to me—pine and lake water, sundrenched salty skin. My happiest and most painful hours have been spent here. It feels impossible to separate the two, and honestly, I don’t think I’d want to.

We’re more careful with each other now, but tonight, every kiss, every caress, every loving gaze feels weighted with the past, present, and future. No more floating among the stars; tonight I feel grounded to the earth, as if we’ve taken root in the soil.

Under the eyes of God and Eve, we open up to each other and accept our fate. But we face it together.

In this dark wood, in this cursed place, we’ve found a bit of grace.

 

 

We stay up all night, talking, touching, basking in each other’s company, and when every last feeling has been revealed, he speaks to me of the future. Something I never allowed before. But instead of tensing up, I stay soft, like raw clay in his hands.

“We’ll leave just before dawn,” he says, wrapping clean bandages over the open blisters on my hands. “We’ll take one of the canoes. Most of the hunters left today to get more time at home.”

“They don’t stay until the end?”

“A few of the first-years will stick around, hoping for a miracle, but it’s extremely rare to get prey this close to the end.”

“What about supplies?”

“Knives, pelts, food,” he says as he looks around the blind. “I’ve been preserving all summer for the next hunting season. We’ll take as much as we can carry. Go east. We’ll drift until we find an island of our own or a settlement where we can live as man and wife. Even if there’s nothing else out there, I’m a good hunter. You’re resourceful and sharp as a blade. If anyone can make it, it’s us.”

“And what about Anders?” I ask.

I feel his muscles tense at the mere mention of his name. “We were supposed to meet in two days to go back to the outskirts together. I’d like to tell him good-bye, but I’m afraid if I see him, I’ll have to kill him.” He lets out a deep sigh, leaning back on the bed. “He shouldn’t be a problem, though. He’s been preoccupied lately, spooked by a guard who’s been lingering between our territories.”

“A guard?” I ask, my breath hitching in my throat.

“Anders is convinced this guard knows about us, knows that I harbored a grace year girl. I thought he was just being paranoid, but now I think it was probably the guilt eating away at him.”

Now it’s my turn to tense up.

“Whatever we face out there, Anders or a guard, I can handle it. I will protect you.”

Curling up in his arms, I let it go. Some secrets are best left buried.

 

 

 

Just before dawn, we pack up whatever we can carry. While Ryker tends to the weapons, the heavy jars of food, I use my overskirt to bundle up the pelts and blankets, then hoist them onto my back. I can tell he doesn’t like me carrying anything, but he’s smart enough to keep it to himself.

The sun is on the cusp of rising, the softest orange glow making the water look like it’s on fire, which seems fitting—Ryker and I running straight into the flames.

As we walk toward the shore, I notice how much the leaves have changed; how much I’ve changed with them. Instead of thinking about all the ways I could die, I start planning for all the ways I want to live.

I think about waking up alongside him, our children tugging at our covers, tending to our garden, laughter all around us, and at night, sitting around a roaring fire, telling long-forgotten tales of the grace year. I’ll miss my family. I’ll miss seeing my sisters grow up. But we’ve been given a chance at another life, and we have to take it. Sometimes I wonder if I’m so accustomed to struggling that anything else feels foreign to me, like something I’m not supposed to feel, but here we are. We’re really doing this. Together.

As we clear the last of the trees, we keep our heads down, bodies hunched low. Moving in the open like this is dangerous under any circumstances, but I can see the shore. I can feel the sun on my face.

Hearing a noise behind us, the rhythmic crunch of leaves, a clipped huffing sound, we both freeze midstep. Slowly, Ryker peers over his

shoulder and holds out his hand, signaling for me to stay put. Still.

The rhythm is getting closer, so close that I can feel it pounding up from the earth. I’m about to dive for cover when I see the rise of Ryker’s cheek. The start of a smile.

Glancing back, I see a deer running straight toward us. A young buck. I’m thinking we should move out of its path, but Ryker stands his ground, watching in awe as it thunders past.

And I know exactly what he’s thinking—it’s just like his dream, only the stag didn’t run right through him.

Smiling back at me, he reaches out for my hand, but before I can grab on to his, I stagger forward to my knees, as if I’ve been shoved from behind. I look over my shoulder to see a dagger embedded in the pelts.

“Ryker?” I whisper.

He has the strangest expression on his face. His skin has turned to ash; his breath is coming out in short bursts. “Run for the gate. Head straight south, follow the barrier.”

His words … his face … nothing makes sense … and then I see the hilt of a blade protruding from his stomach.

“I’m not leaving you,” I say as I start to get up.

“Then stay down … close your eyes,” he grunts. “But if something happens … I need you to run.”

I nod. I think I nod. I know he told me to close my eyes, but I can’t do it.

Grabbing the hilt of the blade, he pulls it out, blood dripping from eight inches of etched steel. That’s when I hear the caw. It’s more than a warning. More than a call to run. It’s the sound of death.

“They’re coming,” he says, his eyes focused somewhere behind me. Holding the blade to his side, he widens his stance and takes a deep breath through his nostrils.

Two sets of heavy footsteps approach. “We only want the prey,” one of them says. “Leave right now and we can forget all about this.”

“We’ll even cut you in,” the other one says. Ryker doesn’t answer. Not with words.

Tightening his grip on the blade, he starts swinging.

There are boots stamping all around me; I hear a scream, the slicing of flesh, the grinding of bone. I’m praying that it’s not Ryker when a body slams to the ground, one hazel eye locked on me, the other with a dagger pierced right through it.

“Stop,” I hear someone call from the distance.

Beyond Ryker fighting the other poacher for control of the knife, there’s a third poacher coming toward us. I have to do something. I can’t just lie here and play dead, no matter what I promised.

Slipping out of the pack, I grab the knife embedded in the hides and get to my feet. I want to help, I’m trying to help, but they’re moving so fast. The last thing I want to do is hurt Ryker even more, but if I don’t do something, we may never make it to the shore. I’m on the verge of throwing myself into the fray when the poacher kicks Ryker’s legs out from under him, holding a knife to his throat. Ryker’s eyes land on the knife in my hand, and I know what he wants me to do—toss it to him, the way we used to pass the time last winter.

With trembling hands, I lob it toward him. I’m thinking I didn’t use enough force when he manages to snatch it right out of the air, swinging his arm back, plunging the steel into his assailant’s ribs, but not before the poacher drags the knife across Ryker’s throat.

There’s a moment of complete and utter silence. The world stops turning.

The birds stop singing.

And in the next breath, everything seems to speed up, faster than I can even process.

“Run,” Ryker manages to get out, before he crumples to the ground in a sea of his own blood.

 

 

 

I’m standing there, frozen, not knowing what to do, how to breathe, when the third poacher reaches us. He takes one look at Ryker, the two poachers lying on the ground, and lets out a horrifying growl. “It was only supposed to be you.”

It’s enough to snap me out of this … enough to run.

Taking off toward the south, I’m scrambling past the poachers’ abandoned blinds, following the barrier the best I can, but tears are stinging my eyes, clouding my vision. I hear fast footsteps behind me, but I can’t look, I can’t bear to see Ryker’s body. The place of his death. A knife slices through the air right next to my head, nicking my ear. I weave between the trees trying to lose him, but he stays right with me. Diving for me, he manages to grasp my cloak, ripping half of the wool from my body, but I kick him as hard as I can and keep going. I keep striving. For what, I have no idea, but Ryker told me to run and that’s all I can focus on right now.

“Open the gate,” I yell as I get closer.

I hear the girls arguing, but I don’t have time for this. I’ll never be able to scale it like I did before. Not now.

“Please,” I scream as I bang against the wood. Tears are streaming down my face; my entire body is trembling. Pressing my back against the gate, I’m trying not to think of Ryker, the look in his eyes when he told me to run. The blood. The bodies. As I stare down the long path, I get the faintest glimpse of the vast lake in the distance, and I can’t help wondering if this is punishment for believing I could somehow escape this … that I could be

happy. After everything that’s happened, surviving the woods, being stabbed with an axe, being hunted by a guard, having my heart broken into a million pieces, I can’t believe this is how it ends. On the final day of my grace year, hunched outside the gate of the encampment, condemned to death by my own kind.

I close my eyes, finally ready to accept my fate. Then I’m pulled inside.

 

 

 

Covered in blood and filth, my torn cloak exposing my body for all to see, I sink to my knees before them.

They stand there in shock, staring down at me.

Gertie is reaching out to comfort me when Kiersten screams, “Don’t touch her … she’s a whore.” She’s dragging a rain barrel to a huge pile of supplies in the middle of the clearing. Everything I built to keep them going this past year. “We need to burn everything … burn her with it,” Kiersten says as she hacks into one of my barrels, splitting it into pieces. “Get the torches,” she yells.

“You can’t be serious,” Gertie says through her split lip. I’m sure it was a fight to even get them to open the gate.

“She can’t go back with us,” Kiersten says, taking out her rage on my cooking stand. “Not after everything that’s happened here. And if we don’t burn everything, the next year’s grace year girls will never suffer, and if they don’t suffer, they won’t be able to get rid of their magic.”

“Haven’t we all suffered enough?” Gertie says, her voice trembling. “Shut up,” Kiersten says.

“No … she’s right.” Jenna steps forward. “My little sister is in the next year. Allie. She’s never done anything wrong … been good her whole life … followed all the rules. Why should she have to suffer for something that’s not even real?”

“The magic is real,” Kiersten screams. “Jenna … you can fly, Dena … you can talk to animals, Ravenna … you can control the sun and the moon.”

But the girls just stand there in silence.

“Fine,” Kiersten says as she stomps toward the gate. “I’m putting an end to this right now.”

“What are you doing?” Jenna asks.

“I can prove the magic is real.” Kiersten yanks open the gate. “Watch.

No harm will come to me,” she says as she steps over the threshold.

I know most of the poachers have already left the island, but there’s at least one more out there.

Counting her steps, Kiersten seems to gain confidence with each stride, and when she reaches ten, she turns to face us, spreading her arms out wide. “See. I told you. Nothing can touch me. My magic forbids it. Come, join me and you’ll see.”

A few of the girls are edging closer when a dark figure stumbles from the brush.

The girls freeze at the sight of him.

Kiersten glances at him over her shoulder and laughs. “Look, he’s trembling. He can’t come any closer.”

The poacher stands there, eyes darting wildly around the scene, trying to decipher if this is some kind of a trap or madness. Tentatively, he takes a step toward her.

Kiersten’s manic smile begins to waver, but she stands her ground. “That’s as close as my magic will allow. Watch.”

Slipping the knife from his sheath, he takes another step.

“Stop. I command you. Don’t come any closer … or else,” she says, her voice starting to betray her.

Lunging forward, the poacher grabs her from behind, holding a blade to her throat, so close that when she murmurs, “What’s happening…,” the steel bites into her skin.

With blood trickling down her chest, her confusion swiftly turns to terror.

There’s a part of me that should feel satisfied—Kiersten’s finally getting what she deserves—but I only feel tired. Tired of hating each other. Tired of feeling small. Tired of being used. Tired of men deciding our fate, and for what?

Picking up a shattered piece of the rain barrel, I hold it in my hands, feeling the weight of the solid wood.

“Enough,” I whisper.

The girls look at me, then look at each other, and without a word, they pick up whatever they can get their hands on—rocks, buckets, ribbons, nails.

As we step over the threshold, I feel something swell inside of me—it’s more than anger, more than fear, more than anything they tried to pin on us, it’s a sense of belonging … that we’re a part of something bigger than ourselves. And isn’t that what we’ve all been searching for?

We may be without powers, but we are not powerless.

As we march forward as one, the poacher digs the knife in further. “Come any closer and I’ll skin her right in front of you.”

“Please … help me,” Kiersten whispers, a fresh trail of blood seeping down her neck.

The girls are following my lead, waiting for a signal, but as the poacher’s eyes scan the crowd, I recognize something. I’ll never forget those eyes, the ones I saw when he climbed the ladder to Ryker’s shelter to threaten me.

And suddenly, I don’t see a poacher, I see a boy, who lost his entire family, whose eyes are still wet from witnessing the death of his best friend. We have that much in common.

It’s not just the grace year girls that are victims of the county. It’s the poachers, the guards, the wives, the laborers, the women of the outskirts … we’re all a part of this. We’re the same.

Lowering the wood plank, I say, “Go home, Anders. There’s a family that needs you.”

He looks at me, all of me, and his eyes seem to soften.

As he lowers the blade, they grab Kiersten, carrying her inside the encampment.

Anders and I watch each other until he backs away into the foliage, until all I can hear is his heavy breath … until all I can hear is my own.

 

 

 

Huddling on the floor of the lodging house, I realize we’re right back where we started. But that’s not entirely true.

“What do we do now?” Kiersten asks, wiping away her tears, and I realize she’s looking to me. They all are.

There’s a part of me that wants to tell them they’re on their own, this isn’t my fight anymore, but I promised myself that as long as I had breath in my body, I would strive for a better life. A truthful life. Looking around at the empty iron bed frames stacked up around us, I think about Betsy, Laura, Ami, Tamara, Meg, Patrice, Molly, Ellie, Helen, and so many others.

“We can start by leaving this place how we would’ve liked to have found it.”

Whispers erupt among them.

“Despite everything that’s happened here, I’ve seen glimpses of strength, mercy, and warmth from every single one of you,” I say as I meet their eyes. “Imagine if we were able to let that shine, how bright the world could be. I want to live in that world. For however much time I have left. My father always told me that it’s the small decisions you make when no one is watching that make you who you are. Who do we want to be?”

A hush falls over the room, but as I look around, I realize it’s a good hush. A necessary hush.

“But what about you?” Gertie asks, her chin quivering. “You can’t go back … not now … not after everything that’s happened—”

“You’re right. I can’t go back to the county to be a wife, but I can tell the truth. I can look them in the eyes and tell them what the grace year really is.” It takes everything I have not to lose it right then and there, but I have to stay strong. One crack in the veneer, one chink in my armor could dismantle me completely, sending me crashing to the floor. I’ll let myself feel, I’ll let myself grieve when they light the match for my pyre. But not until then.

No one says a word, but I can tell they’re worried about being punished themselves—guilt by association. And I don’t blame them.

“I’m not asking you to join in. No grand gestures,” I assure them. “When we reach the gates of the county, I want you to step away from me, pretend you don’t know me, but I will say my piece. I owe it to every fallen grace year girl. I owe it to myself.”

 

 

We spend the last night doing what we should have done all along.

After washing out the privy, cleaning the larder, tidying the clearing, we get to work untangling the bed frames. The girls decide to set up the beds in one large continuous circle. There’s something about it that gets to me. I think about Ryker telling me about the women in the outskirts who meet with the usurper in the woods, how they join hands and stand in a circle. It’s easy for the men of the county to scoff at such things, the silly work of women, but they must not think it’s all that silly or they wouldn’t be working so hard to stop the usurper. I hope they haven’t caught her—I hope she’s still out there.

Someone tugs at my cloak and I flinch.

“I just want to mend it for you,” Martha says.

Taking a deep breath, I let it go, laying it in her hands as if it’s made of gold. And for me, it is. It saved my life more than once out here. “Thank you.” I squeeze her hand. I’m grateful she thought of mending it. I want June to see that it survived. That I made full use of her gift.

As I walk around the camp, taking it all in, I see they managed to bind together enough timber to cover the well. They even scorched POISON into the wood for good measure.

The only thing left hanging over us, hanging over the entire encampment, is the punishment tree. Forty-seven years of hate and violence dangling from its limbs.

“Maybe we can strip the branches. Bury the offerings,” Jessica says.

“We can do better than that,” Gertie says as she pries the hatchet from the chopping block. Back home, vandalizing the punishment tree would be sacrilege, instant death, but who’s going to tell, who’s going to see? Kiersten was right about one thing—we are the only Gods here.

Taking turns, pouring all of our sadness and rage into each swing, we hack into the trunk. Braids, toes, fingers, and teeth rattle in the trembling branches, and when the tree finally drops, I feel the weight of it in every inch of my body. Even though I won’t be here to see the ramifications of this, it’s enough to witness its demise. I know I’m a far cry from the girl from my dreams, but I want to believe there’s a part of her that lives in me … in every single one of us.

After burning the hacked-up tree and everything it stood for, we bury the ashes and decorate the stump with weeds—clover, wood sorrel, and buttercups. They’re low flowers, seldom used anymore in the county, but they once symbolized fragility, peace, and solitude.

Just seeing the display makes me realize how much we’ve lost out here, but maybe we had to destroy everything in order for something to be born anew.

From death there is life.

 

 

Just before dawn, we cut a fresh trail to the ridge, setting up markers as we go, so the next year of girls will be able to find the spring … June’s garden.

When we reach the top of the incline, Martha begins to hum. The women of the county aren’t allowed to hum—the men think it’s a way we can hide magic spells—but maybe that’s exactly what we need right now, a spell to make this okay.

Taking off our clothes, we lay them on the rocks and beat out a year’s worth of dirt and blood, lies and secrets. The girls try not to stare, but I can feel their eyes on my skin.

As we step into the cold water to bathe under the waning moon, we open up to each other, giving voice to every fallen girl’s name, telling stories to remember them by. Maybe it’s the moonlight or the gravity of going home, but it feels pure. Like we can finally be clean of this. It makes me wonder if Eve is looking down at us now with a benevolent gaze. Maybe this is all she ever wanted.

When the sun rises, mellow and hazy on the eastern shore, we sit on the edge of the ridge and braid each other’s hair, tidy up our rags, shine our tattered boots.

It may seem futile, a lost cause, something the men will never notice, but we’re not doing it for them. It’s for us … for the women of the outskirts, the county, young and old, wives and laborers alike. When they see us marching home, they’ll know change is in the air.