I follow her through the woods, a well-worn path I’ve seen a thousand times. Ferns, lady-slipper, and thistle, the mysterious red flowers dotting the path. Five petals, perfectly formed, like they were made just for us. One petal for the grace year girls, one petal for the wives, one for the laborers, one for the women of the outskirts, and one for her.

The girl looks back at me over her shoulder, giving me that confident grin. She reminds me of someone, but I can’t place the name or the face. Maybe something from a long-forgotten memory, a past life, perhaps a younger sister I never knew. Heart-shaped face, a small red strawberry mark under her right eye. Delicate features, like mine, but there’s nothing delicate about this girl. There’s a fierceness in her steel-gray eyes. Her dark hair is shorn close to her scalp. A punishment or a rebellion, I cannot say. I don’t know her, but strangely enough, I know that I love her. It’s not a love like my father has for my mother, it’s protective and pure, the same way I felt about those robins I cared for last winter.

We reach the clearing, where women from all walks of life have gathered—the tiny red flower pinned above their hearts. There’s no bickering or murderous glares; everyone has come together in peace. In unity. We are sisters, daughters, mothers, grandmothers, standing together for a common need, greater than ourselves.

“We are the weaker sex, weaker no more,” the girl says. The women answer with a primal roar.

But I’m not afraid. I only feel a sense of pride. The girl is the one. She’s the one who will change everything, and somehow, I’m a part of all this.

“This path has been paved with blood, the blood of our own, but it was not in vain. Tonight, the grace year comes to an end.”

As I expel the air from my lungs, I find myself not in the woods, not with the girl, but here, in this stifling room, in my bed, my sisters glaring down at me.

“What did she say?” my older sister Ivy asks, her cheeks ablaze.

“Nothing,” June replies, squeezing Ivy’s wrist. “We heard nothing.”

As my mother enters the room, my little sisters, Clara and Penny, poke me out of bed. I look to June to thank her for quelling the situation, but she won’t meet my gaze. She won’t or she can’t. I’m not sure what’s worse.

We’re not allowed to dream. The men believe it’s a way we can hide our magic. Having the dreams would be enough to get me punished, but if anyone ever found out what the dreams were about, it would mean the gallows.

My sisters lead me to the sewing room, fluttering around me like a knot of bickering sparrows. Pushing. Pulling.

“Ease up,” I gasp as Clara and Penny yank on the corset strings with a little too much glee. They think this is all fun and games. They don’t realize that in a few short years, it will be their turn. I swat at them. “Don’t you have anyone else to torture?”

“Stop your fussing,” my mother says, taking out her frustration on my scalp as she finishes my braid. “Your father has let you get away with murder all these years, with your mud-stained frocks, dirt under your nails. For once, you’re going to know what it feels like to be a lady.”

“Why bother?” Ivy flaunts her growing belly in the looking glass for all of us to see. “No one in their right mind would give a veil to Tierney.”

“So be it,” my mother says as she grabs the corset strings and pulls even tighter. “But she owes me this.”

I was a willful child, too curious for my own good, head in the clouds, lacking propriety … among other things. And I will be the first girl in our family to go into her grace year without receiving a veil.

My mother doesn’t need to say it. Every time she looks at me I feel her resentment. Her quiet rage.

“Here it is.” My oldest sister, June, slips back into the room, carrying a deep-blue raw-silk dress with river-clam pearls adorning the shawl neckline. It’s the same dress she wore on her veiling day four years ago. It smells of lilac and fear. White lilac was the flower her suitor chose for her

—the symbol of early love, innocence. It’s kind of her to let me borrow it, but that’s June. Not even the grace year could take that away from her.

All the other girls in my year will be wearing new dresses today with frills and embroidery, the latest style, but my parents knew better than to waste their resources on me. I have no prospects. I made damn sure of that.

There are twelve eligible boys in Garner County this year—boys born into families that have standing and position. And there are thirty-three girls.

Today, we’re expected to parade around town, giving the boys one last viewing before they join the men in the main barn to trade and barter our fates like cattle, which isn’t that far off considering we’re branded at birth on the bottom of our foot with our father’s sigil. When all the claims have been made, our fathers will deliver the veils to the awaiting girls at the church, silently placing the gauzy monstrosities on the chosen ones’ heads. And tomorrow morning, when we’re all lined up in the square to leave for our grace year, each boy will lift the veil of the girl of his choosing, as a promise of marriage, while the rest of us will be completely dispensable.

“I knew you had a figure under there.” My mother purses her lips, causing the fine lines around her mouth to settle into deep grooves. She’d stop doing it if she knew how old it made her look. The only thing worse than being old in Garner County is being barren. “For the life of me I’ll never understand why you squandered your beauty, squandered your chance to run your own house,” she says as she eases the dress over my head.

My arm gets stuck and I start pulling. “Stop fighting or it’s going to—”

The sound of ripping fabric causes a visible heat to creep up my mother’s neck, settling into her jaw. “Needle and thread,” she barks at my sisters, and they hop to.

I try to hold it in, but the harder I try, the worse it gets, until I burst out laughing. I can’t even put on a dress right.

“Go ahead, laugh all you want, but you won’t think it’s so funny when no one gives you a veil and you come back from the grace year only to be sent straight to one of the labor houses, working your fingers to the bone.”

“Better than being someone’s wife,” I mutter.

“Never say that.” She grabs my face in her hands, and my sisters scatter. “Do you want them to think you’re a usurper? To be cast out? The poachers would love to get their hands on you.” She lowers her voice. “You cannot bring shame on this family.”

“What’s this about?” My father tucks his pipe into his breast pocket as he makes a rare appearance in the sewing room. Mother quickly composes herself and mends the tear.

“No shame in hard work,” he says as he ducks under the eave, kissing my mother on the cheek, reeking of iodine and sweet tobacco. “She can work in the dairy or the mill when she returns. That’s entirely respectable. You know our Tierney’s always been a free spirit,” he says with a conspiratorial wink.

I look away, pretending to be fascinated by the dots of hazy light seeping in through the eyelet curtains. My father and I used to be thick as winter wool. People said he had a certain twinkle in his eye when he spoke of me. With five daughters, I guess I was the closest thing to a coveted son he’d ever get. On the sly, he taught me how to fish, how to handle a knife, how to take care of myself, but everything’s different now. I can’t look at him the same way after the night I caught him at the apothecary, doing the unspeakable. Clearly, he’s still trying for a prized son, but I always thought he was better than that. As it turns out, he’s just like the rest of them.

“Look at you…,” my father says in an attempt to draw my attention. “Maybe you’ll get a veil after all.”

I keep my mouth clamped shut, but inside, I want to scream. Being married off isn’t a privilege to me. There’s no freedom in comfort. They’re padded shackles, to be sure, but shackles nonetheless. At least in the labor house my life will still belong to me. My body will belong to me. But those kinds of thoughts get me in trouble, even when I don’t say them out loud.

When I was small, every thought showed on my face. I’ve learned to hide behind a pleasant smile, but sometimes when I catch my reflection in the glass, I see the intensity burning in my eyes. The closer I get to my grace year, the hotter the fire burns. Sometimes I feel like my eyes are going to sear right out of my skull.

As my mother reaches for the red silk to tie off my braid, I feel a twinge of panic. This is it. The moment I’ll be marked with the color of warning … of sin.

All the women in Garner County have to wear their hair the same way, pulled back from the face, plaited down the back. In doing so, the men believe, the women won’t be able to hide anything from them—a snide expression, a wandering eye, or a flash of magic. White ribbons for the young girls, red for the grace year girls, and black for the wives.

Innocence. Blood. Death.

“Perfect,” my mother says as she puts the final touches on the bow.

Even though I can’t see the red strand, I feel the weight of it, and everything it implies, like an anchor holding me to this world.

“Can I go now?” I ask as I pull away from her fidgeting hands. “Without an escort?”

“I don’t need an escort,” I say as I cram my sturdy feet into the fine black leather slippers. “I can handle myself.”

“And what of the fur trappers from the territory, can you handle them as well?”

“That was one girl and it was ages ago.” I let out a sigh.

“I remember it like it was yesterday. Anna Berglund,” my mother says, her eyes glazing over. “It was our veiling day. She was walking through town and he just snatched her up, flung her over his horse, and took off into the wilderness, never to be heard from again.”

It’s odd, what I remember most about that story is that even though she was seen screaming and crying all through town, the men declared she didn’t fight hard enough and punished her younger sister in her stead by casting her to the outskirts, for a life of prostitution. That’s the part of the story no one ever speaks of.

“Let her go. It’s her last day,” my father pleads, pretending to give my mother the final say. “She’s accustomed to being on her own. Besides, I’d like to spend the day with my beautiful wife. Just the two of us.”

For all intents and purposes, they appear to be in love. The past few years, my father has spent more and more time in the outskirts, but it’s given me a fair amount of freedom, and for that, I should be grateful.

My mother smiles up at him. “I suppose it’ll be all right … as long as Tierney’s not planning on skulking off into the woods to meet Michael Welk.”

I try to play it off, but my throat goes bone dry. I had no idea she knew about that.

She tugs down on the bodice of my dress, trying to get it to sit right. “Tomorrow, when he lifts Kiersten Jenkins’s veil, you’re going to realize how foolish you’ve been.”

“That’s not wha … that’s not why … we’re just friends,” I sputter.

A hint of a smile slips into the corner of her mouth. “Well, since you’re so eager to be out and about, you can fetch some berries for the gathering tonight.”

She knows I hate going to the market, especially on veiling day when all of Garner County will be out on full display, but I think that’s the whole point. She’s going to make the most out of this.

As she takes off her thimble to fetch a coin from her deerskin pouch, I catch a glimpse of the missing tip of her thumb. She’s never said as much, but I know it’s a memento from her grace year. She catches my gaze and shoves the thimble back on.

“Forgive me,” I say as I look down at the worn wood grain beneath my feet. “I’ll get the berries.” I’d agree to anything to get out of this room.

As if sensing my desperation, Father gives a slight nod toward the door, and I take off like a shot.

“Don’t stray from town,” my mother calls after me.

Dodging stacks of books, stockings drying on the banister, my father’s medicine bag, and a basket full of unfinished knitting, I rush down the three flights of stairs, past the disapproving clucks of the maids, bursting out of our row house into the open air, but the sharp autumn breeze feels alien

against my bare skin—my neck, my collarbone, my chest, my calves, the bottom half of my knees. It’s just a little skin, I tell myself. Nothing they haven’t seen before. But I feel exposed … vulnerable.

A girl from my year, Gertrude Fenton, passes with her mother. I can’t help but look at her hands; they’re covered in dainty white lace gloves. It almost makes me forget about what happened to her. Almost. Despite her misfortune, even Gertie seems to still be hoping for a veil, to run a house of her own, to be blessed with sons.

I wish I wanted those things. I wish it were that simple.

“Happy Veiling Day.” Mrs. Barton regards me as she clings to her husband’s arm a little tighter.

“Who’s that?” Mr. Barton asks.

“The James girl,” she replies through gritted teeth. “The middle one.” His gaze rakes over my skin. “I see her magic has finally come in.”

“Or she’s been hiding it.” Her eyes narrow on me with the focus of a vulture pecking away at a carcass.

All I want to do is cover up, but I’m not going back inside that house.

I have to remind myself: the dresses, the red ribbons, the veils, the ceremonies—they’re all just distractions to keep our minds off the real issue at hand. The grace year.

My chin begins to quiver when I think of the year ahead, the unknown, but I plaster on a vacant smile, as if I’m happy to play my part, so I might return and marry and breed and die.

But not all of us will make it home … not in one piece.

Trying to get hold of my nerves, I walk the square where all the girls of my year will be lined up tomorrow. It doesn’t take magic or even a keen eye to see that during the grace year, something profound happens. We’d see them when they left for the encampment each year. Though some were veiled, their hands told me everything I needed to know—cuticles picked raw with worry, nervous impulses flickering through cold fingertips—but they were full of promise … alive. And when they returned, the ones who returned, they were emaciated, weary … broken.

The younger children made a game out of it, taking bets on who would make it back, but the closer I got to my own grace year, the less amusing it became.

“Happy Veiling Day.” Mr. Fallow tips his hat in a gentlemanly fashion, but his eyes linger on my skin, on the red ribbon trailing down my backside, a little too long for comfort. Geezer Fallow is what they call him behind his back, because no one knows exactly how old he is, but he’s clearly not too old to give me the once-over.

They call us the weaker sex. It’s pounded into us every Sunday in church, how everything’s Eve’s fault for not expelling her magic when she had the chance, but I still can’t understand why the girls don’t get a say. Sure, there are secret arrangements, whispers in the dark, but why must the boys get to decide everything? As far as I can tell, we all have hearts. We all have brains. There are only a few differences I can see, and most men seem to think with that part anyway.

It’s funny to me that they think claiming us, lifting our veils, will give us something to live for during our grace year. If I knew I had to come home and lie with someone like Tommy Pearson, I might walk straight into the poacher’s blade with open arms.

A blackbird lands on the branch of the punishment tree in the center of the square. The scratching of its claws against the dull metal limb sends a sliver of ice through my blood. Apparently, it used to be a real tree, but when they burned Eve alive for heresy, the tree went with her, so they built this one out of steel. An everlasting emblem of our sin.

A group of men pass by, shrouded in whispers.

There have been rumors circulating for months … whispers of a usurper. Apparently, the guards have found evidence of secret gatherings in the woods. Men’s clothes hanging from branches, like an effigy. At first, they thought it might be a trapper trying to stir up trouble, or a jilted woman from the outskirts trying to get even, but then the suspicion spread to the county. It’s hard to imagine that it could be one of our own, but Garner County is full of secrets. Some that are as clear as fresh-cut glass, but they choose to ignore. I’ll never understand that. I’d rather have the truth, no matter how painful the outcome.

“For the love of God, stand up straight, Tierney,” a woman scolds as she passes. Aunt Linny. “And without an escort. My poor brother,” she whispers to her daughters, loud enough for me to hear every syllable. “Like mother, like daughter.” She holds a sprig of holly to her upturned nose. In the old language it was the flower of protection. Her sleeve slips from her wrist, exposing a swath of pink puckered skin on her forearm. My sister Ivy said she saw it once when she went on a call with Father to treat her cough

—a scar runing all the way from her wrist to her shoulder blade.

Aunt Linny yanks down her sleeve to block my stare. “She runs wild in the woods. Best place for her really.”

How would she know what I’ve been up to unless she’s been spying on me? Ever since my first bleed, I’ve gotten all kinds of unwanted advice. Most of it asinine, at best, but this is just plain mean.

Aunt Linny glares at me before dropping the sprig and continuing on her way. “As I was saying, there’s so much to consider when giving a veil. Is

she pleasant? Compliant? Will she bear sons? Is she hardy enough to survive the grace year? I don’t envy the men. It’s a heavy day, indeed.”

If she only knew. I stamp the holly into the ground.

The women believe the men’s veiling gathering in the barn to be a reverent affair, but there’s nothing reverent about it. I know this because I’ve witnessed the last six years in a row by hiding in the loft behind the sacks of grain. All they do is drink ale, sling out vulgarities, and occasionally get into a brawl over one of the girls, but curiously, there’s no talk of our “dangerous magic.”

In fact, the only time magic comes up is when it’s convenient for them. Like when Mrs. Pinter’s husband died, Mr. Coffey suddenly accused his wife of twenty-five years of secretly harboring her magic and levitating in her sleep. Mrs. Coffey was as meek and mild as they come—hardly the levitating sort—but she was cast out. No questions asked. And surprise, Mr. Coffey married Mrs. Pinter the following day.

But if I ever made such an accusation, or if I came back from my grace year unbroken, I would be sent to the outskirts to live among the prostitutes. “My, my, Tierney,” Kiersten says as she approaches with a few of her

followers trailing behind. Her veiling dress might be the prettiest one I’ve ever seen—cream silk with strands of gold woven in, glinting in the sun, just like her hair. Kiersten reaches out, skimming her fingertips over the pearls near my collarbone with a familiarity we don’t share. “That dress suits you better than it did June,” she says, looking up at me through her sugary lashes. “But don’t tell her I said that.” The girls behind her stifle wicked giggles.

My mother would probably be mortified to know they recognized it was a hand-me-down, but the girls of Garner County are always on the lookout for an opportunity to dole out a thinly shrouded insult.

I try to laugh it off, but my undergarments are laced so tight, I can’t find the air. It doesn’t matter anyway. The only reason Kiersten even acknowledges me is because of Michael. Michael Welk has been my closest friend since childhood. We used to spend all our time spying on people, trying to uncover clues about the grace year, but eventually Michael grew tired of that game. Only it wasn’t a game to me.

Most girls drift away from the boys around their tenth birthday, when the girls’ schooling is over, but somehow, Michael and I managed to remain friends. Maybe it’s because I wanted nothing from him and he wanted nothing from me. It was simple. Of course, we couldn’t run around town like we used to, but we found a way. Kiersten probably thinks I have his ear, but I don’t get involved in Michael’s love life. Most nights we just lay in the clearing, looking up at the stars, lost in our own worlds. And that seemed to be enough for both of us.

Kiersten shushes the girls behind her. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed you get a veil tonight, Tierney,” she says with a smile that registers on the back of my neck.

I know that smile. It’s the same one she gave Father Edmonds last Sunday when she noticed his hands were trembling as he placed the holy wafer on her awaiting pink tongue. Her magic came in early, and she knew it. Behind the carefully arranged face, the cleverly tailored clothes meant to accentuate her shape, she could be cruel. Once, I saw her drown a butterfly, all the while playing with its wings. Despite her mean streak, she’s a fitting wife for the future leader of the council. She’ll devote herself to Michael, dote on their sons and breed cruel but beautiful daughters.

I watch the girls as they flit down the lane in perfect formation, like a swarm of yellow jackets. I can’t help wondering what they’ll be like away from the county. What will happen to their fake smiles and coquetry? Will they run wild and roll in the mud and howl at the moon? I wonder if you can see the magic leave your body, if it’s taken from you like a bolt of heat lightning or seeps out of you like slow-leaking poison. But there’s another thought creeping into my consciousness. What if nothing happens at all?

Digging my newly buffed nails into the fleshy part of my palms, I whisper, “The girl … the gathering … it’s only a dream.” I can’t be tempted into that kind of thinking again. I can’t afford to give in to childhood fancies, because even if the magic is a lie, the poachers are very real. Bastards born to the women of the outskirts—the reviled. It’s common knowledge they’re out there waiting for a chance to grab one of the girls during their grace year, when their magic is believed to be most potent, so

they can sell their essence on the black market as an aphrodisiac and youth serum.

I stare up at the massive wood gate, separating us from the outskirts, and wonder if they’re already out there … waiting for us.

The breeze rushes over my bare skin as if in response, and I move a little quicker.

Folks from the county are gathered around the greenhouse, trying to guess which flower the suitors have chosen for which grace year girl. I’m happy to hear my name isn’t on anyone’s lips.

When our families immigrated there were so many different languages being spoken that flowers were the only common language. A way to tell someone I’m sorry, good luck, I trust you, I’m fond of you, or even I wish you ill. There’s a flower for nearly every sentiment, but now that we all speak English, you’d think the demand would have faded, but here we are, clinging fast to the old ways. It makes me doubt anything will ever change … no matter what.

“Which one are you hoping for, miss?” a worker asks, swiping the back of her callused hand over her brow.

“No … not for me,” I say in an embarrassed hush. “Just seeing what’s in bloom.” I spot a small basket tucked under a bench, red petals peeking through the seams. “What are those?” I ask.

“Just weeds,” she says. “They used to be everywhere. Couldn’t take a step out your house without comin upon one. They got rid of em round here, but that’s the funny thing bout weeds. You can pull em up by the root, burn the soil where they stood, might lie dormant for years, but they’ll always find a way.”

I’m leaning in for a closer look when she says, “Don’t worry bout it none if you don’t get a veil, Tierney.”

“H-how do you know my name?” I stammer.

She gives me a winsome smile. “Someday, you’ll get a flower. It might be a little withered round the edges, but it’ll mean just the same. Love’s not just for the marrieds, you know, it’s for everyone,” she says as she slips a bloom into my hand.

Flustered, I turn on my heel and make a beeline for the market.

Uncurling my fingers, I find a deep purple iris, the petals and falls perfectly formed. “Hope,” I whisper, my eyes welling up. I don’t hope for a flower from a boy, but I hope for a better life. A truthful life. I’m not usually sentimental, but there’s something about it that feels like a sign. Like its own kind of magic.

I’m tucking the bloom into my dress, over my heart for safekeeping, when I pass a line of guards, desperately trying to avert their eyes.

Fur trappers, fresh from the territory, click their tongues as I pass. They’re vulgar and unkempt, but somehow it seems more honest that way. I want to look in their eyes, see if I can sense their adventures, the vast northern wilderness in their weathered faces, but I needn’t dare.

All I have to do is buy the berries. And the sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can meet Michael.

When I enter the covered market, an uncomfortable din permeates the air. Normally, I pass through the stalls unnoticed, slipping in and out of the strands of garlic and rashers of bacon like a phantom breeze, but today, the wives glare as I walk by, and the men smile in a way that makes me want to hide.

“It’s the James girl,” a woman whispers. “The tomboy?”

“I’d give her a veil and then some.” A man elbows his young son. Heat rushes to my cheeks. I feel ashamed and I don’t even know why.

I’m the same girl I was yesterday, but now that I’m freshly scrubbed and squeezed into this ridiculous dress, marked by a red ribbon, I’ve become entirely visible to the men and women of Garner County, like some exotic animal on display.

Their eyes, their whispers feel like the sharp edge of a blade grazing my skin.

But there’s one set of eyes in particular that makes me move a little faster. Tommy Pearson. He seems to be following me. I don’t need to see him to know he’s there. I can hear the beating wings of his latest pet perched on his arm. He has a fondness for birds of prey. It sounds impressive, but there’s no skill involved. He’s not gaining their trust, their respect. He’s just breaking them.

Prying the coin from my sweaty palm, I drop it in the jar and grab the closest basket of berries I can find.

I keep my head down as I maneuver through the crowd, their whispers buzzing in my ears, and just as I’ve nearly cleared the awning, I run smack into Father Edmonds, mulberries spilling all around me. He starts sputtering out something cross, but stops when he looks at me. “My dear, Miss James, you’re in a hurry.”

“Is that really her?” Tommy Pearson calls out from behind me. “Tierney the Terrible?”

“I can still kick just as hard,” I say as I continue to gather the berries. “I’m counting on it,” he replies, his pale eyes locking on mine. “I like

them feisty.”

Looking up to thank Father Edmonds, I see his gaze is fixed on my bosom. “If you need anything … anything at all, my child.” As I reach for the basket, he strokes the side of my hand. “Your skin is so soft,” he whispers.

Abandoning the berries, I take off running. I hear laughter behind me, Father Edmonds’s heavy breathing, the eagle furiously beating its wings against its tether.

Slipping behind an oak to catch my breath, I pull the iris from my dress only to find it’s been crushed by the corset. I clench the ruined bloom in my fist.

That familiar heat rushes through me. Instead of dampening the urge, I breathe it in, coaxing it forward. Because in this moment, oh how I long to be full of dangerous magic.

 

 

 

A part of me wants to run straight to Michael, to our secret spot, but I need to cool off first. I can’t let him know they got to me. Plucking a hay needle, I drag it along the fence posts as I pass the orchard, slowing my breath to my measured steps. I used to be able to tell Michael anything, but we’re more careful with each other now.

Last summer, still reeling after I caught my dad at the apothecary, I let some snide comment slip out about his father, who runs the apothecary, runs the council, and all hell broke loose. He told me I needed to watch my tongue, that someone could think I was a usurper, that I could be burned alive if they ever found out about my dreams. I don’t think he meant it as a threat, but it certainly felt like one.

Our friendship could’ve ended right then and there, but we met the next day, like nothing happened. In truth, we probably outgrew each other a long time ago, but I think we both wanted to hang on to a bit of our youth, our innocence, for as long as possible. And today will be the last time we’ll be able to meet like this.

When I come back from the grace year, if I make it back, he’ll be married, and I’ll be assigned to one of the labor houses. My days will be spoken for, and he’ll have his hands full with Kiersten and the council during the evenings. He might come by for a visit, under the guise of some type of business, but after a while, he’ll stop coming, until we both just nod to each other at church on Christmas.

Leaning on the rickety fence, I stare out over the labor houses. My plan is to lie low, get through the year, and come back to take my place in the fields. Most of the girls who don’t get a veil want to work as a maid in a respectable house or at least at the dairy, or the mill, but there’s something appealing about putting my hands in the dirt, feeling connected to something real. My oldest sister, June, loved to grow things. She used to tell us bedtime stories about her adventures. She’s not allowed to garden anymore, now that she’s a wife, but every once in a while, I catch her reaching down to touch the soil, digging a secret cocklebur from her hem. I figure if it’s good enough for June, it’s good enough for me. Fieldwork is the only job where men and women work side by side, but I can handle myself better than most. I may be slight, but I’m strong. Strong enough to climb trees and give Michael a run for his money.

As I make my way to the secluded woods behind the mill, I hear guards approaching. I wonder why they’re all the way out here. Not wanting any trouble, I dive between the bushes.

I’m crawling my way through the bramble when Michael grins down at me from the other side. “You look—”

“Don’t start,” I say as I attempt to untangle myself, but a pearl gets caught on a twig and pops off, rolling into the clearing.

“Such poise.” He laughs, dragging his hand through his wheat-colored hair. “If you’re not careful, you might get snapped up tonight.”

“Very funny,” I say as I continue to crawl around. “Won’t matter anyway, because my mother is going to smother me in my sleep if I don’t find that pearl.”

Michael gets down on the forest floor to help me look. “But what if it’s someone agreeable … someone who could give you a real home? A life.”

“Like Tommy Pearson?” I loop an imaginary rope around my neck to hang myself.

Michael chuckles. “He’s not as bad as he seems.”

“Not as bad as he seems? The boy who tortures majestic birds for fun?” “He’s really very good with them.”

“We’ve talked about this,” I say as I comb through the fallen scarlet maple leaves. “That’s no life for me.”

He sits back on his heels and I swear I can hear him thinking. He thinks too much.

“Is this because of the little girl? The girl from your dreams?” My body tenses.

“Have you had any more?”

“No.” I force my shoulders to relax. “I told you, I’m done with all that.”

As we continue to search, I watch him out of the corner of my eye. I should’ve never confided in him about her. I should’ve never had the dreams at all. I just have to last one more day and then I can rid myself of this magic for good.

“I saw guards on the lane,” I say, trying not to be too obvious about my prodding. “I wonder what they’re doing way out here.”

He leans in, his arm grazing mine. “They almost caught the usurper,” he whispers.

“How?” I ask a little too excitedly, and then quickly rein it in. “You don’t have to tell me if—”

“They set up a bear trap, out in the woods, near the border of the county and the outskirts last night. It went off, but all they caught was a light blue stretch of wool … and a lot of blood.”

“How do you know?” I ask, being careful not to seem too eager.

“The guards called on my father this morning, asked if anyone had come into the apothecary looking for medicine. I guess they called on your father, as well, to see if he treated any injuries last night, but he was … indisposed.”

I knew what he meant. It was a polite way of saying my father was in the outskirts again.

“They’re searching the county now. Whoever it is, they won’t last long without proper care. Those traps are nasty business.” His gaze eases down my legs, lingering on my ankles. Instinctively, I tuck them under my dress. I wonder if he thinks it could be me … if that’s why he was asking about my dreams.

“Found it,” he says, plucking the pearl from a bit of moss.

I brush the dirt from my palms. “I’m not knocking it … the whole marriage thing,” I say, desperate for a change of subject. “I’m sure Kiersten

will worship you and bring you many sons,” I tease as I reach for the jewel, but he pulls his hand back.

“Why would you say that?”

“Please. Everyone knows. Besides, I’ve seen the two of you in the meadow.”

A deep blush creeps over his collar as he pretends to clean off the pearl with the edge of his shirt. He’s nervous. I’ve never seen him nervous before. “Our fathers have planned out every detail. How many children we’ll have … even their names.”

I look up at him and can’t help but crack a smile. I thought it would be strange picturing him like that, but it feels right. How it’s meant to be. I think he went along with me all those years mostly on a lark, something to pass the time, away from the pressures of his family and the grace year ahead, but for me, it was always something more than that. I don’t blame him for becoming who he was supposed to be. He’s lucky in a way. To be at odds with your nature, what everyone expects from you, is a life of constant struggle.

“I’m happy for you,” I say as I peel a red leaf from my knee. “I mean

it.”

He picks up the leaf, tracing his thumb along the veins. “Do you ever

think there’s something more out there … more than all of this?”

I look up at him, trying to gauge his meaning, but I can’t get caught up in this again. It’s too dangerous. “Well, you can always visit the outskirts.” I punch him on the shoulder.

“You know what I mean.” He takes a deep breath. “You must know.”

I snatch the pearl from him, slipping it into the hem of the sleeve. “Don’t go soft on me now, Michael,” I say as I stand. “Soon, you’ll have the most coveted position in the county, running the apothecary, taking your place as head of the council. People will listen to you. You’ll have real influence.” I attempt a simpering smile. “Which brings me to a tiny favor I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“Anything,” he says as he gets to his feet. “If I make it back alive…”

“Of course you’ll make it back, you’re smart and tough and—”

“If I make it back,” I interrupt, dusting off my dress the best I can. “I’ve decided I want to work in the fields, and I was hoping you could use your position on the council to pull some strings.”

“Why would you want that?” His brow knots up. “That’s the lowest work available.”

“It’s good, honest work. And I’ll be able to stare up at the sky anytime I want. When you’re eating your supper, you can look down at your plate and say, my, that’s a fine-looking carrot, and you’ll think of me.”

“I don’t want to think of you when I look at a damn carrot.” “What’s gotten into you?”

“No one will be there to protect you.” He starts pacing. “You’ll be open to the elements. I’ve heard stories. The fields are full of men … of bastards one step away from being poachers, and they can take you anytime they want.”

“Oh, I’d like to see them try.” I laugh as I pick up a stick, lashing it through the air.

“I’m serious.” He grabs my hand, midswipe, forcing me to drop the stick, but he doesn’t let go of my hand. “I worry for you,” he says softly.

“Don’t.” I jerk my hand away, thinking how strange it feels to have him touch me that way. Over the years, we’ve beat each other senseless, rolled around in the dirt, dunked each other in the river, but somehow this is different. He feels sorry for me.

“You’re not thinking straight,” he says as he looks down at the stick, the dividing line between us, and shakes his head. “You’re not listening to what I’m trying to tell you. I want to help you—”

“Why?” I kick the stick out of the way. “Because I’m stupid … because I’m a girl … because I couldn’t possibly know what I want … because of this red ribbon in my hair … my dangerous magic?”

“No,” he whispers. “Because the Tierney I know would never think that of me … wouldn’t ask this of me … not now … not while I’m…” He pulls his hair back from his face in frustration. “I only want what’s best for you,” he says as he backs away from me and goes crashing into the woods.

I think about going after him, apologizing for whatever I’ve done to offend him, take back the favor, so we can part as friends, but maybe it’s

better this way. How do you say good-bye to your childhood?

 

 

 

Feeling irritated and confused, I walk back through town, doing my best to ignore the stares and whispers. I stop to watch the horses in the paddock being groomed by the guards for the journey to the encampment, their manes and tails braided with red ribbons. Just like us. And it occurs to me, that’s how they think of us … we’re nothing more than in-season mares for breeding.

Hans brings one of the horses closer so I can admire its mane, the intricate plaiting, but we don’t speak. I’m not allowed to call him by his name in public, just “guard,” but I’ve known him since I was seven years old. I’ll never forget going to the healing house that afternoon to find Father and instead finding Hans lying there all alone with a bag of bloody ice between his legs. At the time, I didn’t understand. I thought it was some kind of accident. But he was sixteen, born to a woman of the labor house. He’d been given a choice. Become a guard or work in the fields for the rest of his life. Being a guard is a respected position in the county—they get to live in town, in a house with maids, they’re even allowed to buy cologne made from herbs and exotic citrus at the apothecary, a privilege Hans takes full advantage of. Their duties are light in comparison to the fields— maintaining the gallows, controlling a rowdy guest or two from the north, escorting the grace year girls to and from the encampment, and yet, most choose the fields.

Father says it’s a simple procedure, a small cut and snip to free them of

their urges, and maybe that’s true, but I think the pain lies elsewhere, in

having to live among us—being reminded day in and day out of everything that’s been taken away from them.

I don’t know why I wasn’t afraid to approach him, but that day in the healing house, when I sat down next to him and held his hand, he began to weep. I’d never seen a man cry before.

I asked him what was wrong, and he told me it was a secret. I said I was good at keeping secrets.

And I am.

“I’m in love with a girl, Olga Vetrone, but we can never be together,” he said.

“Why?” I asked. “If you love someone you should be with them.”

He explained that she was a grace year girl, that yesterday she’d received a veil from a boy and would have no choice but to marry him.

He told me that he’d always planned on working in the fields, but he couldn’t stand the idea of being away from her. At least if he joined the guard, he’d be able to be close to her. Protect her. Watch her children grow up, even pretend they were his own.

I remember thinking it was the most romantic thing in the world.

When Hans left for the encampment, I thought maybe when they saw each other, they’d run away, forsake their vows, but when the convoy returned, Hans looked as if he’d seen a ghost. His beloved didn’t make it home. Her body was unaccounted for. They didn’t even find her ribbon. Her little sister was banished to the outskirts that day. She was only a year older than me at the time. It made me worry that much more for my sisters, but also, about what would happen to me if they didn’t make it back.

Come winter, when I saw Hans alone in the stable, practicing his braiding, his cold fingers deftly weaving in and out of the chestnut tail with the ribbon, I asked him about Olga. What happened to her. A shadow passed over his face. As he walked toward me, he stroked his hand over his heart, again and again, as if he could somehow put it back together again, a tic he carries to this day. Some of the girls make fun of him for it, the constant rubbing sound it makes, but I always felt sorry for him.

“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.

As we gather around the punishment tree, I’m searching for a hint of what’s about to happen, but everyone stares straight ahead, as if transfixed by the dying light glinting off the cold steel branches.

I wonder if this is what Hans was trying to tell me. If it was some kind of warning.

Father Edmonds steps forward to address the crowd, his white robes clinging to his bulbous shape. “On our most sacred eve, a grave matter has been brought to the attention of the council.”

I don’t know if I’m just being paranoid, but my mother’s eyes seem to dart in my direction.

The dreams. I swallow so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it.

Searching the crowd for Michael, I find him near the front. Could he have ratted me out? Was he so angry at me that he could’ve told the council about the girl from my dreams?

“Clint Welk will speak on behalf of the council,” Father Edmonds says.

As Michael’s father steps forward, it feels like my heart is going to burst through my rib cage. My palms are sweaty; my mouth is chalk dry. Penny and Clara must sense my distress, because they nuzzle in a little closer on either side of me.

Standing before us, in perfect alignment with the punishment tree, Mr. Welk lowers his head as if in prayer, but I swear I catch the rise of his cheekbones—the hint of a smile.

I feel sick. Every sin I’ve ever committed runs through my mind, but there are too many to count. I got too comfortable, careless. I should’ve never spoken of the dreams … I should’ve never had them at all. Maybe I secretly wanted this to happen. Maybe I wanted to be caught. Just as I’m getting ready to speak up, promise to repent, vow to rid myself of this magic and be good from now on, Mr. Welk’s lips part. I’m watching his tongue—waiting for it to move to the roof of his mouth to form a T, but instead, he presses his lips together to form an M. “Mare Fallow, come forth.”

I let out a gasp of pent-up air, but no one seems to notice. Maybe every girl in the square did the same. Despite our differences, that’s the one thing we all share in. The fear of being named.

As Mrs. Fallow walks to the front, the women push forward to spit and jeer, my mother always the first among them. I don’t know why she feels the need to rub salt in the wound. Mrs. Fallow was kind to me once. In my fourth year, I’d gotten lost in the woods. She found me, took me by the hand, and led me home. She didn’t scold my mother, she didn’t tattle on her that I was out where I shouldn’t be, and this is how my mother thanks her? It makes me feel ashamed to be her daughter.

Focusing in on the gate, I try to escape in my mind, but Mrs. Fallow’s measured steps, the swish of her underskirts, burrow their way into my senses, like the softest of death knells.

I don’t want to look at her. It’s not out of disgust or shame—I feel like it could just as easily be me. Michael knows it. Hans knows it. My mother, too. Maybe they all do. But I owe her my full attention. She needs to know that I remember … that I won’t forget her.

She looks like a ghost as she passes. Pale papery skin, salt-and-pepper braid lying limp against her curved spine, her husband shadowing her like a bad omen. I wonder if she knew her time was up. If she could feel it coming.

“Mare Fallow. You stand accused of harboring your magic. Shouting obscenities in your sleep, speaking in the devil’s tongue.”

I can’t imagine Mrs. Fallow raising her voice above a whisper, let alone shouting obscenities, but her season has changed. She bore no sons. Her girls have all been assigned to the labor houses. Her womb is a cold, barren wasteland. She has no use.

“Well … what do you have to say for yourself?” Mr. Welk prods.

Other than the thin stream of liquid trailing over the tip of her worn leather boot, she gives away nothing. I want to shake her; I want her to tell them she’s sorry, beg for mercy so she can be sent to the outskirts, but she just stands there in silence.

“Very well,” Mr. Welk announces. “On behalf of God and the chosen men, I hereby sentence you to the gallows.”

By law, the women—wives, laborers, and children—are required to watch a punishment. And choosing to do this on veiling day is no accident. They want to send us away with a message.

Before climbing the rickety steps, Mrs. Fallow looks to her husband, perhaps waiting for a last-minute reprieve, but it never comes. And in that moment, I know if she had any magic left in her, she would use it. She would choke the life out of him, the entire council … maybe all of us. And I can’t say I’d blame her.

When she finally reaches the top of the platform, and they place the rope around her neck, she opens her hand, revealing a small red bloom. It’s so tiny, I wonder if anyone else even notices it.

Right before she steps off the ledge, it hits me like a cast-iron kettle. Scarlet red, five delicate petals. It’s the same flower from my dreams.

I start pushing to the front. I need to stop this. I need to ask her where she got it, what it means. My mother grabs me, squeezing my hand. It’s not a nurturing squeeze. It’s rough and tight. Stand down, child. Do not bring shame on this family, it says.

And so I stand there with the others, watching the red petals dance with every spasm, every final impulse, until her hand finally goes limp.

There’s a moment of silence that follows every hanging. Sometimes it feels like it stretches on forever, like they want us to dwell in it for as long as possible—dwell is the right word, to be domiciled, take up residence, to abide—but this time, it feels too short, like they don’t want us to really think about what just happened … how wrong it is.

Mr. Welk steps to the front, seemingly oblivious to the macabre sight of her corpse swaying gently behind him, or maybe in spite of it.

“And now there are thirteen eligible men,” he announces as he motions toward Mr. Fallow.

Mr. Fallow stands with his hands clasped piously in front of him. Geezer Fallow. I can’t stop thinking about seeing him this morning in the square. He seemed happy as a lark. Not a man who was about to condemn his wife to death, but a man who was on the hunt for a new one.

As the crowd slowly begins to disperse, instead of backing away with the others, I push forward. I don’t want to see Mrs. Fallow up close, but I need to find that flower. I need to know that it’s real, but Michael stands in front of me like a brick wall. “We need to talk—”

“I forgive you,” I say as I peer around him, scanning the ground for the bloom.

“You forgive me?”

“I just … this isn’t a good time,” I say as I drop to my knees to look. Where could it be? Maybe it slipped through the cracks. Maybe it’s wedged between the cobblestones.

“There you are.” Kiersten bounces on her tiptoes in front of him. “Is everything all set?” she whispers.

Michael clears his throat. He only does that when he’s at a complete loss for words.

“Oh, I didn’t see you down there,” Kiersten says through her tight smile. “We’re going to be the best of friends. Isn’t that right, Michael?”

“Okay, lovebirds.” Michael’s father clamps his hand over his shoulder to pull him away. “You’ll have plenty of time for that later. Right now, we have a choosing ceremony to attend.”

Kiersten squeals in delight and flutters off.

At last, I think I’m free, when I’m yanked to my feet from behind. The guards are herding the women back toward the church.

“Wait … there was a flower—” I start to yell, but one of the women elbows me hard in the ribs.

I lose my breath; I lose my bearings. I get swept up in the crowd, and the further I get from Mrs. Fallow’s swaying body, the less I’m certain the bloom was ever there to begin with.

Maybe this is how it starts—how I lose myself to the magic lurking inside of me.

But even if it was real, what would it matter anyway? After all, it’s just a flower.

And I’m only one girl.

 

 

 

Before all the women are locked inside the chapel to await the veils, we’re counted. Normally, this would be my cue to make a round, do something annoying to get myself noticed, which would be followed by a swift admonishment from my mother to keep quiet and behave. I’d then sneak into the confessional booth and disappear through Father Edmonds’s quarters. That was always the creepiest part—the smell of laudanum and loneliness seeping from his bedchamber.

But there will be none of that tonight. Even though I’m not getting a veil, the girls who receive one will want to rub it in, soaking up the envy and disappointment in the room like emaciated ticks.

Standing with my back against the curtain of the confessional booth, I grip the oxblood velvet with hungry fingers. It’s killing me that I won’t be able to witness my own year. But if I close my eyes, I can feel the hay itching my nose, smell the ale and musk wafting up to the loft, hear the names of the girls escape their feverish lips.

I already know the prettiest girls with superior breeding and gentle graces will get a veil, but there’s always at least one wild card. I scan the room wondering which one it will be. Meg Fisher looks the part, but she has a strange savage streak. You can see it in her shoulders, the way they roll forward when she feels threatened, like a wolf trying to decide whether to attack or retreat. Or Ami Dumont. Delicate, sweet. She would make for a docile wife, but her hips are too narrow, beddable to be sure, but not sturdy enough to withstand childbirth. Of course, some men like breakable things.

They like to break them.

“Bless us, Father,” Mrs. Miller says as she attempts to lead the women in prayer. “Please guide the men. Let them use your holy voice to do your bidding.”

It takes everything I have not to roll my eyes. By now, the men will have cracked open a second barrel, telling tall tales of the women in the outskirts, the wicked things they’ll do for coin, bragging about all their bastards roaming the woods, hunting for a girl to poach.

“Amen,” the women say, one after the other. God forbid they do anything in unison.

This is the one night a year the women are allowed to congregate without the men. You’d think it would be our opportunity to talk, share, let it all out. Instead, we stand isolated and petty, sizing each other up, jealous for what the other one has, consumed by hollow desires. And who benefits from all this one-uppery? The men. We outnumber them two to one, and yet here we are, locked in a chapel, waiting for them to decide our fate.

Sometimes I wonder if that’s the real magic trick.

I wonder what would happen if we all said what we really felt … just for one night. They couldn’t banish us all. If we stood together, they’d have to listen. But with rumors swirling about a usurper among us, no one is willing to take that risk. Not even me.

“Do you have your sights set on a particular labor house?” Mrs. Daniels asks, eyeing my red ribbon. As she leans in, I get a whiff of pure iron, but I also smell the decay. No doubt she’s been using grace year blood to try to hang on to her youth. “I mean, if you don’t get a veil … of course,” she adds.

I think about giving her a polite rehearsed answer, but her husband’s on the council, and now that Michael and I are on the outs, maybe she can be of use. “The fields,” I reply, bracing myself for the cluck of disapproval, but she’s already moved on to her next victim. She didn’t really want an answer; she just wanted to infect me with fear and doubt.

“Tierney! Tierney James.” Mrs. Pearson, Tommy’s mother, beckons me over with a single wizened claw. She came back from her grace year missing the other four fingers on her right hand. Frostbite, I presume. “Let

me look at you, girl,” she says as she juts out her bottom lip to survey me. “Good teeth. Decent hips. You seem healthy enough,” she says as she gives my braid a hard tug.

“Pardon,” June says, coming to my rescue. “I need to borrow my sister for a moment.”

As we’re walking away, Mrs. Pearson says, “I know you. You’re the oldest James girl. The one who can’t get pregnant … the one with no bairn.”

“I don’t care if she only has six fingers,” I say as I clench my fists and start to head back, but June pulls me away.

“Breathe, Tierney,” she whispers as she leads me to the other side of the room. “You’re going to have to learn to control that temper of yours. You don’t want to make enemies going into your grace year. It’s going to be hard enough for you as it is, but everything can change with a seed of kindness,” she says as she pats my arm before letting go to join Ivy. I follow her with my eyes, wondering what she meant by that.

Ivy’s stroking her prized belly, bragging about how she can tell it’s a boy. I swear, she got all of my mother’s vanity, but none of the tact. June stands by her side, smiling, but I can see the strain in the corners of her mouth. Even June must have a breaking point.

“Look at Mrs. Hanes,” someone says behind me, which sets off a string of agitated whispers.

“I wonder if she let another man see her with her hair down?”

“I bet he caught her out in the meadow again, looking at the stars.”

“Did anyone see her ankles? Maybe she’s the usurper they’ve been searching for.”

“Don’t be daft, if that were the case, she’d be dead by now,” another woman snaps.

As Mrs. Hanes walks down the center aisle, toward the altar, the women stand back, giving her a wide berth, their eyes affixed to the blunt end of her lopped-off braid, splayed out in anger … in violence. We’re forbidden from cutting our own hair, but if a husband sees fit, he can punish his wife by cutting off her braid.

A few of the women pull their plaits over their shoulders for comfort, but most avert their eyes, as if her shame might rub off on them. It’s not until she’s safely tucked away in the front pew that they resume their vapid conversations.

The whiff of rose oil perfumes the air as Kiersten slips by with Jessica and Jenna trailing behind her. You’d think they might be triplets, the way they move in perfect synchronicity, but Kiersten seems to have that effect on whomever she chooses to shine her light upon. With or without magic, it’s a powerful gift. They quickly zero in on Gertrude Fenton, who’s standing in the corner, doing her best to blend into the cherry-paneled wall, but her fine dress won’t let her.

“Don’t you look fetching in that blush-colored lace,” Kiersten says, toying with the edging on Gertrude’s sleeve. “The gloves are a nice touch.”

Jenna snickers. “She thinks if she covers her knuckles, she’ll get a veil.” Jessica whispers something in Gertrude’s ear; her cheeks turn crimson. I don’t need to hear it to know what she said. What she called her.

Up until last year, Kiersten and Gertrude were inseparable, but all of that changed when Gertrude was charged with depravity. Since she still possessed a white ribbon, the details of her offense were kept hidden, but I think that made it all the worse. Our imaginations ran wild with what it could be. And when they dragged her into the square, whipping her knuckles clear to the bone, that’s when I first heard the name, whispered from girl to girl.

Dirty Gertie.

From that moment on, any chance of receiving a veil was obliterated.

And still, they pick at her. It reminds me of my mother and the other hyenas, always ready to cast the first stone.

A part of me wants to throw myself on the pyre, give Gertrude a chance to escape, but that goes against my plan. I promised myself I was going to get through my grace year with as little fuss as possible and that means steering clear of Kiersten and the like. As much as I hate watching them dismantle such an easy target, maybe it’s time Gertrude learns to toughen up a bit. The year ahead will be full of terrors much worse than Kiersten.

I’ve heard as long as we stay within the encampment, no harm will come to us. It’s considered hallowed ground. Not even the poachers would dare cross the barrier for fear of being cursed. So what made the girls leave the safety of the encampment in the first place? Did their magic consume them … make them do foolish things? No matter the cause, some of us will only be returning to Garner County in pretty little bottles, but at least that’s an honorable death. The worst fate, by far, is not returning at all. Some say vengeful ghosts are to blame, some say it’s the wilderness, madness that makes them take their own lives, but if our bodies go unaccounted for, if we disappear, vanish into thin air, our sisters will bear the brunt of our shame and be banished to the outskirts. I look at Penny and Clara, playing behind the altar, and I know, no matter what, dead or alive, I need to make it back to the county, for their sakes.

As the hours tick by, and the refreshments disappear, the tension in the room is palpable. I want to believe we can be different, but when I look around the church, at the women comparing the length of their braids, reveling in another woman’s punishment, scheming and clawing for every inch of position, I can’t help thinking the men might be right. Maybe we’re incapable of more. Maybe without the confines placed upon us, we’d rip each other to shreds, like a pack of outskirt dogs.

“The veils are coming, the veils are coming,” Mrs. Wilkerson finally calls down from the bell tower as she pulls the rope—the manic dull clang, the pinching of cheeks, the stomping of heels, kicking up the stench of desperation.

The doors open and a hush falls over the chapel, as if God himself is holding his breath.

Kiersten’s father is the first to step inside, his face a perfect portrait of maudlin hope. As he places the veil on her head, Kiersten looks at every single one of us, making sure we’re all choking on her good fortune. She’s not only been veiled—she’s the first. An honor.

Jenna’s and Jessica’s veils aren’t far behind. No surprise there. They’ve been setting the bait since their ninth year with diminutive gazes and clear- skinned smiles. God help the boys who fell into that trap.

Mr. Fenton walks in, his face ruddy from drink or emotion, maybe both, but when I see him tenderly place the veil on Gertrude’s head, I can’t help but feel a twinge of happiness for her. Somehow, against all odds, she showed them all.

One after another the fathers file in, the pretty maids are veiled, and with each one down, I feel the chains begin to loosen around my chest. I’m one step closer to building a life on my own terms.

But when my father enters the chapel, the veil held out in front of him like a stillborn calf, it feels as if I’m being gutted with the dull end of an axe.

“This can’t be…” I stagger back against the sea of women, but they only push me forward, rejecting me like a heavy tide.

Through bleary eyes, I look to my mother. She seems just as surprised as I am, wavering on her feet, but she manages to raise her chin, giving me a stern signal to behave.

I feel the heat take over my face, but it’s not embarrassment. I’m furious. And as I look at the other girls, stationed around the room, who would’ve killed for a veil, I feel a pang of guilt.

How is this even possible? I’ve done nothing to encourage a suitor. In fact, I’ve done just the opposite. I openly ridiculed every boy who showed even a glimmer of interest.

I look to my father. But his eyes won’t leave the veil.

Scraping my memory, I search for a hint of who it might be, when it hits me—Tommy Pearson. My stomach roils when I think of him hollering at me when I dropped the mulberries, the way he looked at me when he said he liked them feisty. I search the room for Mrs. Pearson, to find her looking on with great interest.

Kiersten gives me a ghost of a smile from beneath the lacy gauze, and I wonder if she knew … if Michael’s behind this? Just today, he was defending Tommy, said he wasn’t that bad. Did he talk Tommy into claiming me to save me from the fields? He said he only wanted what’s best for me. Is this what he thinks I deserve?

As my father places the veil on my head, he still can’t meet my eyes. He knows this is nothing but a slow death for me.

I’ve practiced every possible expression from despair to indifference, but I never imagined I’d have to fake happiness.

With trembling fingers, he lowers the veil over my raging eyes.

Through the dainty netting, my eyes dart around the room, the jealousy, the whispers, the knowing glances.

I was the wild card. Tonight, I became a wife.

All because a boy claimed it so.

 

 

 

While my parents escort me home, my sisters twitter around us, spouting off the names of every eligible boy, trying to gauge Father’s expression, but he stays stone-faced. As per tradition, I won’t know the name of my future husband until he lifts my veil tomorrow morning at the farewell ceremony. But I know. I can still feel Tommy Pearson’s eyes on my skin like a festering rash. And soon his eyes on me will be the least of my worries.

Husband.

The word makes my knees buckle, but my parents only tighten their grip on my elbows, dragging me along until I regain my footing.

I want to spit and scream like a trapped animal, but I can’t risk being cast out, bringing shame on my younger sisters. I need to hold it together until we’re safely behind closed doors. Even then, I must watch my tongue. I have a few skills, but if I were to get thrown out of the county now, the poachers would hunt me down within a fortnight. That much I’m sure of.

As my older sisters pair off to their own homes, and my mother chases my younger siblings off to bed, I’m left alone with my father for the first time in months—the incident at the apothecary still fresh in my mind.

I grip the banister, imagining the wood bruising beneath the weight of my fingertips.

“How could you let this happen?” I whisper.

I hear him swallow. “I know this isn’t what you planned, but—”

“Why did you teach me those things? Show me what it meant to be free, and for what? I’m just like the rest of them now.”

“I wish that were true.”

His words are cutting, but I turn to face him. “Did you even try to stand up for me? You could’ve told him I haven’t bled or I smell bad … anything!”

“Believe me. There were plenty of protests all around. But your suitor’s mind was set.”

“Did Michael at least try to dissuade him, or was he the one behind all this? Tell me that much.”

“Sweet daughter,” he says as he eases the back of his hand over my cheek—the scratchy veil irritating my skin, his placating touch irritating me. “We only want what’s best for you. There are worse fates.”

“Like the girls in those little jars?” I advance on him with a viciousness that not even I recognize. “Was it worth it? All for the chance at a precious son?”

“Is that what you think?” He staggers back a step as if he’s afraid of me. And I wonder if this is the magic taking over. Is this how it starts—the slip of the tongue? A loss of respect? Is this how I become a monster the

men whisper of?

I turn and run up the stairs before I do something I regret.

Slamming the door behind me, I rip off the veil. I’m tearing at the dress, contorting my hands behind my back trying to get at the corset strings, but it’s no use. They’re tucked away beyond my reach, which only seems fitting.

After a lifetime of planning, wishing, hoping, all it took was a whisper, “Tierney James,” and as soon as the words left his traitorous lips, the life I knew was over. No longer would I be able to pass unnoticed in the lanes. There would be no more dirt allowed beneath my nails, no more scuffed boots and sun-tangled hair. No more days lost in the woods, lost in the curiosities of my own mind. My life, my body, now belonged to another.

But why would Tommy Pearson choose me? I’d made no secret of hating his guts. He was cruel and stupid and arrogant.

“Of course,” I whisper, thinking of his pet birds. His birds of prey. The thrill was in the taming, and once they were tamed, he lost interest, letting them starve to death before his very eyes. This was all a game to him.

I slump to the ground, the raw blue silk billowing around me in a perfect circle. It reminds me of one of the fishing holes my dad and I used to carve out at the deepest point of the lake. How I wish I could slip under the ice— disappear into the cold abyss.

My mother enters the room, and I quickly throw the veil back on. It’s tradition for her to remove it while she tells me of my wifely duties.

As she stands before me, the veil still fluttering in agitation, I’m expecting her to yank me to my feet, tell me to buck up, tell me how lucky I am, but instead, she sings an old tune, a song of mercy and grace. Tenderly, she removes the veil, setting it on the dressing table behind her. Slipping off the red ribbon, she runs her fingers through my braid, letting my hair fall in soft waves over my shoulders. She takes my hands, pulling me to my feet, helping me out of the dress, and when she unlaces the corset, I take in a deep gasping breath. It’s almost painful being able to fill my lungs again. It only reminds me of freedom. Freedom I no longer possess.

As she hangs up the dress, I try to gain control of my breath, but the harder I try, the worse it gets. “This … this wasn’t supposed to happen,” I sputter. “And not Tommy Pearson—”

“Shhh,” she whispers as she dips a cloth in the bowl of water and washes my face, my neck, my arms, cooling me off. “Water is the elixir of life,” she says. “This has been collected from high on the spring, where it’s freshest. Can you tell?” she asks as she holds the cloth to my nose.

All I can do is nod. I don’t know why she’s talking about this.

“You’ve always been a clever girl,” she continues, “a resourceful girl.

You watch. You listen. That will serve you well.”

“In the grace year?” I ask, watching her berry-stained lips.

“In being a wife.” She leads me to sit on the edge of the bed. “I know you’re disappointed, but you’ll feel differently when you return.”

“If I return.”

She sits next to me, taking off the silver thimble, giving me a full view of her missing fingertip, the angry puckered skin. This rare show of intimacy brings fresh tears to my eyes. “You know the stories June used to tell about the rabbits that lived in the vegetable garden?”

I nod, wiping away my tears.

“There was one that was always getting into trouble, venturing out where she shouldn’t go, but she learned valuable things, about the farmer, the land, things the other rabbits never would have known. But knowledge comes at a great cost.”

My skin prickles up in goosebumps. “The poachers … did they do this to you?” I whisper as I touch her hand. Her skin is hot. “Did they try to lure you out of the encampment? Is that what happens to the girls?”

She pulls her hand away, putting the thimble back on. “You’ve always had a vivid imagination. I’m merely talking about the rabbits. We don’t speak of the grace year, you know that. But I suppose I do need to tell you of your wifely duties—”

“Please … don’t.” I shake my head. “I remember my lessons,” I say as I wring my hands in my lap. “Legs spread, arms flat, eyes to God.”

I learned all that ages ago, long before our lessons. I’ve seen countless lovers in the meadow. One time, Michael and I were trapped up an oak while Franklin did it to Jocelyn. Michael and I sat there, trying not to laugh, but it doesn’t seem at all funny now—the idea of having to lie with Tommy Pearson, his red face grunting over me.

As I’m staring down at the floor, I see a drop of blood run down the inside of my mother’s leg, staining her cream-colored stocking. Catching my gaze, she tucks her leg back to hide it.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. And I mean it. Another month without a son. I wonder if her season is coming to an end, which puts her at risk. I can’t imagine my father replacing her, like Mr. Fallow did, but I can’t imagine a lot of things lately.

“Your father and I were lucky, but respect … common goals can grow into something more.” She tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You’ve always been your father’s favorite. His wild girl. You know, he would never give you to someone he thought … immature.”

Immature? I don’t understand. That’s Tommy by definition. “Your father only wants the best for you,” my mother adds.

I know I should keep my mouth shut, but I don’t care anymore. Let them cast me out, let them whip me until I can’t stand. Anything will be better than silence. “You don’t know Father the way I do … what he’s

capable of,” I say. “I’ve seen things. I know things. Like last night, the guards came to see him and he—”

“As I said…” She stands to leave. “Your imagination will be the death of you.”

“What about my dreams?”

My mother stops. Her spine seems to stiffen. “Remember what happened to Eve.”

“But I don’t dream of murdering the council. I dream of a girl … she wears a red flower above her heart.”

“Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t do this to—”

“She speaks to me. Tells me things … about how it could be. She has gray eyes, like mine, like Father’s. What if she’s one of his … a daughter from the outskirts? I’ve seen him leave the gates more times than I can count—”

“Watch yourself, Tierney,” she snaps with an intensity that makes me flinch. “Your eyes are wide open, but you see nothing.”

As I sink back on the bed, my eyes fill with tears.

My mother lets out a deep sigh as she sits next to me. Her skin is clammy, a sheen of cold sweat dotting her brow. “Your dreams…,” she says as she gently takes my face in her hands, “it’s the one place that belongs only to you. A place where no one can touch you. Hang on to that as long as you can. Because soon, your dreams will turn to nightmares.” She leans in to kiss me on the cheek. “Trust no one,” she whispers. “Not even yourself.”

I catch a strong whiff of iron, the metallic smell gripping my senses. As she pulls away, I notice a chalky red substance clinging to the corners of her mouth. A sliver of ice moves through me. Her lips aren’t berry stained.

They’re blood stained.

The bottles from the apothecary. Pieces of poached girls adrift in a sea of blood and moonshine. I always thought my father was buying it for himself, but what if he was buying it for her—all for a taste of youth? Was she so desperate to stay young that she felt the need to consume her own kind? Is that what the grace year does to us? Turns us into cannibals?

As she slips out the door, I rush for the window, opening it, gulping down the fresh air. Anything to drown out the scent of blood.

Aside from the faint crowing of drunken boys, and the muffled weeping of girls who didn’t receive a veil, it’s eerily quiet.

Staring out at the dim lanterns shining from the woods, the outskirts, I wonder if the poachers are watching me now … if they see an easy kill.

Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and hold out my arms like an eagle, letting the bitter wind unfurl around me. I sway to the rhythm of the night until it feels as if I’m soaring high above Garner County. Michael and I used to do this when we were little, when the world felt as if it might swallow us whole. A part of me wants to step off the ledge, see if my magic will kick in, letting me fly away from here, but that would be too easy.

And none of this is going to be easy.

 

 

 

When I wake, I’m alone, nestled beneath soft cotton and goose down. My eyes narrow on the thin strip of hazy yellow light nipping at the edges of the heavy curtains. It could be early morning or late afternoon. For a moment, I think maybe they forgot to wake me, or I dreamt the entire thing, but when I look around the room, at the veil innocently draped over the edge of the dressing table like slow-oozing poison, I know it’s only a matter of time before they come for me. I can hide under the covers, luxuriate in my childhood bed, my childish notions, or I can face this head-on. My father always told me that a person is made up of all the little choices they make in life. The choices no one ever sees. I may not be in control of much, like who I marry, the children I’ll bear, but I have control over this moment. And I’m not going to waste it.

My body shivers in revolt as I rip off the covers. The cold wood floor groans under my weight, as if it senses how heavy my heart is today.

Just as I’m about to peek out the curtains, my sisters come barging into the room.

“Are you mad?” Ivy says as Penny and Clara crash into me, pushing me back. “Someone could see you.”

We’re not allowed to be seen by the opposite sex without our veils on until the ceremony. We’re no longer children … not yet wives. But we’ve been marked as property.

As soon as I’m safely out of view, Ivy flings open the curtains; I shield my eyes.

“Consider yourself lucky,” she says as she pulls down the lace valance. “My year we were drenched rats before we even reached the county line.”

“Knock, knock,” June says as she comes in with my traveling cloak. It’s the only personal item we’re allowed to have. The rest of our supplies are county issued, probably already packed in gunnysacks and loaded on the wagons by now.

“I lined it four times, one for each season,” she says, draping it over my chair. “Cream wool with gray fur trim. To match your eyes.”

“Cream wool? That’s dumb.” Ivy runs her greedy fingers over the cloak. “Come spring, it will be filthy.”

“It’s lovely.” I nod at June. “Thank you.”

She looks down, an embarrassed flush blooming in her cheeks. Most of the girls, including Ivy, came back from their grace year even more spiteful than when they left, but not her. June returned with the same placid smile as when she left. It made me wonder if that was her magic—having no magic at all. They say my mother came back much the same, but it’s hard to imagine her ever being at ease or pleasant about anything.

“Make way,” my mother says as she comes in with a tray full of enough food to feed an army, but when my little sisters reach for a biscuit, she slaps their hands away. “Don’t you dare. This is for Tierney.”

Without a veil, I’d be downstairs, eating porridge alongside my father in flinty silence, but my mother seems more than pleased to wait on me hand and foot, now that I’ll be coming home to a husband.

Mrs. Tommy Pearson. The thought makes my stomach churn.

I sneak one of the biscuits into my napkin and slide it over to the edge; my little sisters seize it like urchins, crawling under my bed to eat it. I can hear them giggling and making fun of Mother, but she turns a deaf ear. She was so strict with June and Ivy, but I think I wore her down.

“Eat,” my mother urges.

I’m not even hungry, but I cram as much sausage, eggs, stewed apples, milk, and biscuits into my belly as I can. Not out of duty or to please my mother. I do it because I’m not an idiot. The guards who escort the girls to the encampment are gone for four days. So I figure it’s a two-day journey each way. The wagons are for the supplies, which means we’ll be on foot.

And I’m not about to faint out there with the poachers watching our every move, looking for an easy mark. I’ll need my strength.

Penny crawls out from under the bed and grabs the veil off the table, putting it on, checking herself out in the mirror. “Look at me … I’m the first wife chosen.” She bats her eyelashes and fans herself.

I know she’s just teasing, but seeing her like that sets something off inside of me. “Don’t!” I yell as I snatch the veil off her head. She looks up at me in shock, as if I’d just given her a fresh slap. She probably thinks I’m being selfish, that I don’t want her touching my precious veil, but it’s the exact opposite. She can be so much more than this. I want to tell her as much, but I bite my tongue. I can’t give her the same false hope my father gave to me. It makes it so much harder in the end.

But in that same breath, if anything close to the girl in my dreams is real … maybe there’s hope for her yet. For all of us.

I lean down to tell her I’m sorry, but she kicks me in the shin. It brings a smile to my face. There’s still fight in her. And maybe there’s still fight in me.

My mother braids my hair with the red ribbon and then helps me dress. A high-neck cotton chemise with a linen traveling smock, followed by my cloak. It’s heavier than I imagined, but that’s because it’s well made. June would make for a wonderful mother. I catch her eyeing Ivy’s swollen belly, and it pains me. Life can be cruel. No one is immune to that, no matter how good you are.

Before my thick wool stockings go on, my brown leather boots laced up tight, I need to be printed. It’s tradition. Clara and Penny are laughing, fighting over which one gets to do what, but my older sisters, my mother, stand stock-still. They know the gravity of this moment. What it means. Clara rolls the gloppy red ink on the sole of my right foot; Penny holds the stiff sheet of parchment in place. I stand, putting my full weight into it. As they peel it off, a shiver runs through me, but not from the cold ink alone. This is my mark, the brand of my father’s sigil that I received at birth, a stretched rectangle with three slashes inside, signifying three swords. Should I be taken by a poacher, only to come home in tiny bottles, this is how they’ll identify my body.

The bell echoes over the square, snaking its way through the narrow streets and narrow minds, until it reaches my house, reaching straight into my chest, squeezing tight.

Hurriedly, my sisters help me finish dressing.

As my mother places the veil on my head, I glimpse my ghostly reflection in the looking glass and take in a shallow breath. “Can I have a moment?”

She nods in silent understanding.

“Girls, out you go,” my mother says as she herds them out of the room, gently closing the door behind her.

Raising the veil, I practice a demure, flaccid smile, over and over and over again until I’ve mastered something that can pass for pleasant. But no matter how hard I try I can’t dim the fire burning in my eyes. Again, I wonder if it’s my magic kicking in. With any luck, flames will start shooting out of my eyes, burning them all to a crisp on the spot. I think about keeping my eyes downcast, but maybe it’s not such a bad thing, the discord between my mouth and my eyes. Tommy will lift my veil expecting an eagle, and I will give him a dove.

But I won’t be a broken bird. Not for anyone.

 

 

 

I never thought I’d be grateful for a veil, but the delicate netting makes the walk to the square almost dreamlike. Leers turn to glances. Sharp words are muffled. The falling aspen leaves look more like a celebration than the death of summer.

Snips of obscenities needle their way into my senses as I pass— “How did she…”

“Who did she…”

“She must have…”

Normally, I’d focus in on every word, searching for clues, but the words have never been about me before.

Burying my trembling hands in the pocket of my cloak, I find a river clam pearl inside. The odd shape, the bluish pink luster. It’s the same one I slipped into the hem of June’s dress for safekeeping. She must’ve placed it here for me as a memento. I roll it between my fingertips, feeling a certain kinship. Like this pearl, I’m the tiny bit of irritant that worked its way into the soft tissue of the county. If I can survive the year, burn through my magic, maybe I’ll come back just as resilient.

The buffalo horn bellows from the outskirts, signaling the approach of the returning girls and the start of a new hunting season.

“Vaer sa snill, tilgi meg,” my father whispers in the language of his ancestors, please forgive me, as he hands me the flower my suitor chose for me. A gardenia. The sign of purity, secret love. It’s an old-fashioned flower, one that’s long gone out of favor. The only thing I can think is that

Tommy’s mother must’ve picked this out for him, because it’s much too romantic for his brutish nature. Or perhaps he’s twisted enough to find delight in the pure, knowing he’s the one who ultimately gets to take it away.

While my family gathers around to say their good-byes, a final prayer, I have to clench my jaw to keep from crying. They say the poachers can smell our magic a mile away. That you can hear the girls screaming for days as they skin them alive. The more pain, the more potent the flesh.

As we take our place in line, with the onlookers crowded behind us, I notice Kiersten standing next to me. She’s dying for me to notice her—the camellia precariously balanced between her delicate fingertips. A red camellia, the symbol of untethered passion, a flame within your heart. A bold choice for Michael, but again, I didn’t know this side of him. I’d be happy for him if I still didn’t want to strangle him.

As the boys start their march from the chapel to the square, the drums begin to beat. Everything wells up inside of me at once—shame, fear, anger. I close my eyes, trying to match my heartbeat to the drum, their heavy footsteps, but my body won’t allow it. Even in this simple act, there’s a part of me that refuses to give in. Surrender.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

I steal a glance and immediately wish I hadn’t. Mr. Fallow is first in line, wetting his paper-thin lips in anticipation. I can’t stop picturing his wife’s body, gently swaying behind him as they announced he would be taking on a new wife.

A new wife.

And just like that, it feels like I’ve been hit square in the chest with an anvil. My breath grows short, my knees weak, my thoughts are racing—the way he looked at me yesterday morning in the square, the way he tipped his hat and wished me a happy veiling day, the way he stared at my red ribbon trailing down my backside. The old-fashioned flower. The saccharine sentiment. I wouldn’t be surprised if he gave the same bloom to his last three wives. And my mother telling me that Father would never give me to

someone he thought … immature. That’s what she was trying to tell me. Geezer Fallow is my husband-to-be. The thought is so repulsive I have to choke back the bile nipping at the back of my throat. I want to pretend it’s my imagination, dread getting the best of me, but when I look over again, he’s staring right at me. The truth feels all at once shocking and like something I’ve always known. Maybe this is God’s way of punishing me for wanting something more. The dreams … the things my father taught me, they were all for nothing. Because here I am … getting what’s best for me.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

As he comes toward me, I’m trying to keep it together, not give myself away, but my veil is trembling under a dead calm sky. Lowering my eyes, I wait for it, wait for the moment he claims me, but his footsteps pass me by, settling in front of a girl to my left who’s holding a pink nasturtium. The flower of sacrifice. I watch him lift her veil, and my heart sinks a little when Gertrude Fenton’s face is revealed. He leans forward to whisper in her ear; she doesn’t smile or blush or even cringe. She doesn’t do anything at all but run her thumb over her scarred knuckles.

I should be relieved it’s not me. The thought of his old wrinkly skin pressing up against mine makes me sick to my stomach, but no one deserves Geezer Fallow. Not even Gertrude Fenton.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

I steal another glance to see Tommy and Michael smiling at one another, until all I can see is red. Clenching my eyes shut, I try to simmer down, but I can’t stop picturing Tommy’s ruddy face grunting over me. I thought I’d prepared myself for this moment, rehearsed my part to perfection, but the closer he gets, the hotter the fire burns. I want to run … set myself on fire … disintegrate into a pile of ash.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom.

Kiersten’s veil flutters next to me. A gasp as her red camellia falls to the ground. No doubt so she can embrace Michael dramatically. She always knew how to put on a show.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

A pair of freshly shined boots settle before me. The heavy breath of anticipation. The susurration of the crowd behind me. This is it. His fingers graze the edge of my veil, lingering in a hesitant, unexpected way. Slowly, he lifts the netting, every movement weighted with intention.

“Tierney James,” he whispers, but his voice is all wrong.

I raise my eyes to meet him, and I feel like a bluegill that’s been tossed on the riverbank, mouthing for air.

“Michael?” I manage to get out. “What are you doing?”

In confusion, I glance over at Kiersten to find Tommy Pearson pawing all over her, the heel of his boot crushing her red bloom into the soil.

“This … this is a mistake,” I sputter. “No mistake.”

“Why?” Feeling light-headed, I rock back on my heels. “Why would you do this?”

“You didn’t think I’d let you be assigned to the field house.”

“But that’s what I wanted,” I blurt, then quickly lower my voice. “How could you sacrifice your happiness for me?”

“I did no such thing.” He looks up to the sky for a moment, an anguished smile playing across his lips. “Tierney, you must know.” He takes my hands. “I’ve been trying to tell you for so long. I love y—”

“Stop,” I say a little too loud, attracting unwanted attention. “Stop,” I whisper.

I feel hundreds of eyes on me, their judgment prickling the back of my neck.

“I tried to tell you yesterday,” he says as he takes a step closer. “But I saw you … with Kiersten … in the meadow.”

“And I’m sure you saw her with many others, but you were too kind to tell me.”

“I’m not kind.” I look down at the ground, the tips of our boots almost touching. “I will never be the wife you need.”

He places his warm fingers beneath my chin. “I want more than that,” he says as he closes the gap between us. “You don’t have to change for me.”

Tears burn my eyelids. Not out of happiness, or relief. This feels like the ultimate betrayal. I thought he understood.

“It’s time,” Mr. Welk calls out, staring daggers into me. He must’ve been one of the other protestors my father spoke of at the choosing ceremony. I’m far from the daughter-in-law he imagined.

Michael leans in to kiss my cheek. “You can keep your dreams,” he whispers. “But I dream only of you.”

I don’t have a chance to react, to even take in a breath, before the gates open, signaling the arrival of the returning grace year girls. Instantly, the atmosphere shifts. This is no longer about veils … and promises … and hurt feelings … and dreams—this is about life and death.

As the bell begins to toll, we all stop to count. Twenty-six. Which means nine of the girls have met the poachers’ blade. That’s two more than last year.

There are no elaborate good-byes. No public displays of affection.

Everything has been said. Nothing has been said.

As we’re led out of the square, I notice a long line of men waiting their turn at the guard station, men I don’t recognize from the county, but I quickly lose interest as we pass the returning girls, bone weary, emaciated, reeking of wood smoke, rot, and disease.

The girl in front of me slows to stare at one of the returning girls. “Lisbeth?” she whispers. “Sister, is that you?”

The girl raises her head, exposing a blood-crusted scab where her ear used to be. She blinks hard, as if trying to wake herself from a never-ending nightmare.

“Move it.” The girl behind her pushes her along, the tattered remains of her soiled red ribbon hanging limply from her severed braid.

And to think—these are the lucky ones.

Frantically, I search their faces for a hint of what happened to them out there … what’s in store for us. Beneath the dirt and grime, their gaunt expressions, there’s a glimmer of seething hatred in their eyes. I can’t shake the feeling that their ill will isn’t for the men who did this to them but for us, the pure, unbroken girls who now possess the magic they’ve lost.

“You’re dead,” Kiersten says as she passes, jabbing me hard in the ribs. I’m doubled over, trying to catch my breath, when the other girls from my year walk by hissing insults.

“Slut.” “Traitor.” “Whore.”

Michael may think he saved me from a life in the fields, but all he’s done is put a target on my back.

I think of my mother, blood clinging to the corners of her mouth, telling me to trust no one.

As I look back on the closing gate, at the sisters, daughters, mothers, and grandmothers gathered around to watch the broken birds, it hits me. Maybe the reason no one speaks of the grace year is because of us. How could the men live among us, lie with us, let us care for their children, knowing the horrors we inflict upon one another … alone … in the wilderness … in the dark?

 

 

 

There’s no specific marker in the road, no proclamation of our arrival, but I can tell we’re nearing the outskirts.

It goes beyond the guards tightening their formation around us, beyond the glimpses of thatched stone cottages dotting the woods, and flashes of red darting through the dwindling foliage—it’s the smell that gives it away: a thick gamey scent of fertile soil, freshly tanned hides, green ash soot, flowering herbs … and blood.

I can’t decide if it’s pleasant or repugnant, maybe somewhere in between, but it’s absolutely dripping with life.

Though the women of the outskirts are unprotected by the gates, the church, the council, they seem to survive. I’ve heard the wives who are banished here never last long. If no one wanted them in the county, they certainly wouldn’t want them here, but if they’re young, lucky enough to be taken in, they can be of use serving the men of the county in exchange for coin. Their bastard sons are raised to be poachers, and their daughters age into the family trade. I used to wonder why they didn’t just leave—there’s nothing stopping them … no gates, no rules. It’s easy to tell myself I can’t leave because my younger sisters would be punished in my stead, but deep down I know it’s more than that. I’ve never heard of a soul who’s lived to tell the tale of what lies beyond our world. The men say Garner County is a utopia. Heaven on earth. Even if it’s a lie, there’s no denying our tradition, our way of life, has kept us alive for generations now. And if it’s the truth, I shudder to think what lies beyond the woods, beyond the mountains and

plains. Maybe it’s the fear of the unknown that binds us here. Maybe we have that much in common.

As the women from the outskirts emerge from the woods, gathering alongside the trail, Kiersten raises her chin, higher than I even thought possible. The other girls follow suit, but I can see their fear—veins protruding from rigid necks, like winter geese stretching out on the chopping block, instinctively striving for a clean death.

Not me.

I’ve been waiting to see this my whole life.

I know I said I’d leave the dreams behind, but I know my father has been sneaking off to the outskirts for years. What if the girl is here … waiting for me? A long-lost half sister I never knew. Maybe she’s been dreaming of me, too. I feel dizzy with the prospect. All I need is a fleeting moment of recognition … just to know she’s real.

As I search the crowd, I notice the young girls are all wearing natural linen frocks, while the women wear clothes of beet-dyed linen. It reminds me of our red ribbons. Maybe it’s a symbol that they’ve bled … that they’re open for business.

With hair loose and wild, threaded with withered flower petals, the women press in as we pass—so close I can feel the warmth from their unbound bosoms. A low hissing sound swells through the crowd, making my skin prickle. No, it’s not mere curiosity that brings them here. There’s an undercurrent of seething jealousy. I can almost taste the bitterness on the tip of my tongue.

With their heads held low, they glare up at us through heavy strands, zeroing in on the girls with veils. For a moment, I forget that I’m one of them. I try to tuck away the gauzy netting in my cloak, but it’s too late.

To them, we must represent everything they’ll never have, everything they think they want.

Legitimacy. Stability. Love. Protection. If they only knew.

As uncomfortable as it is, I meet each and every face, Young. Old. Everything in between. There are certain features that remind me of her—a

dark widow’s peak, the slight cleft chin—but no one bears the small strawberry mark under the right eye.

I’m feeling stupid for giving in to this, for even entertaining the idea to begin with, when I spot a tiny red petal threaded into a strand of hair of one of the women lining the path. It’s not the girl, but I’d know that flower anywhere. It has to mean something. I’m gravitating toward her when I’m shoved from behind.

Falling to my knees, I feel a burst of red warmth bloom through my wool stocking, seeping through my chemise and traveling smock. And by the time I get to my feet, the woman is gone. Or maybe she was never there to begin with.

“You should watch your step.” Kiersten smiles back at me.

Something inside me snaps. Maybe it’s the magic rising in me, or maybe I’ve just had it, but as I start to go after her, I feel someone grip my elbow. I turn, ready to lay into one of the guards for touching me, but it’s Gertrude Fenton.

“It’ll only make things worse,” she says.

“Let go.” I try to pull away but she clamps on even tighter. “You need to lay low.”

“Is that right?” I’m finally able to jerk my arm away, but she’s stronger than she looks. “And how has that helped you?”

A deep flush creeps up her neck, and I immediately feel bad.

“Look,” I try to explain. “If I don’t stand up for myself, she’ll treat me

—”

“Like me,” she cuts me off. “You think I’m weak.” “No,” I whisper, but we both know it’s a lie.

“You’ve always thought you were better than us. You think you’re so good at hiding, at pretending, but you’re not. Everything shows on your face—always has,” she says as she continues walking.

I want to let it go, sink back into my solitude, but I feel bad for never coming to her aid before. I wanted to, plenty of times, but I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, and here she is, going out on a limb for me. That’s far from weak.

Catching up with her, I match my footsteps to her own. “You and Kiersten used to be best friends. I remember seeing you together all of the time.”

“Things change,” she says, staring straight ahead.

“After your…” I can’t help staring down at her knuckles. “Yes,” she replies, tugging down on her sleeves.

“I’m sorry about that … about what happened to you.”

“Not as sorry as I am,” she says, fixing her gaze on the back of Kiersten’s skull. “If you’re smart, you’ll stand down. You don’t know what she’s capable of.”

“But you do,” I reply, fishing for answers.

“It wasn’t even my lithograph,” Gertrude says under her breath.

“It was a lithograph?” I ask. Everyone knows Kiersten’s father has a collection of lithographs from long ago.

Gertrude clenches her jaw before lowering the veil over her eyes, signaling the end of our conversation.

And all I can think about is that phrase my father used to say. Still waters run deep.

One thing is certain.

Gertrude Fenton has something to hide. Maybe we’re not so different after all.

 

 

The guards march us east, well past sundown, to a sparse campsite. There’s a strip of dirty linen marked with fresh blood draped over a rotting log. This must be the same spot the returning girls camped last night.

“Two coins on the Spencer girl,” one of the guards says as he spits between the spokes of the wagon.

“You can kiss that money good-bye,” the one with the dark mustache says as he lays down his bedroll. “It’s the Dillon girl.” He glances back at the girls huddled around the campfire.

“The big one?”

“Bingo.” He gives a lopsided grin, but there’s a bittersweet quality to his voice. “Doubt she’ll last a fortnight.”

As they’re sizing us up, I’m sizing them up, too.

These guards are different from Hans. Escorting the girls is the lowest work available, so they’re either too old, too young, too dumb, or too lazy to do anything in the county. They act like they’re disinterested in their virgin cargo, but I can see that’s not entirely true. The way they look at the girls, such longing, such despair, but at the same time they despise us for taking away their manhood. I wonder if they still think it was worth the trade.

I’m leaning against a knotty pine, situated halfway between the guards and the girls. For me, it’s the best observation point. I can listen in on both sets of conversations and still have a good vantage point of the woods surrounding us, but I can see how this must look to the others. And maybe Gertrude’s right, maybe I did think I was better than them. I thought I had it all figured out, that I could slip beneath the surface, unnoticed, unscathed, but that’s certainly over now. Michael betrayed me by giving me a veil, the girl wasn’t in the outskirts, and now I have a target on my back. But all is not lost. There’s Gertrude Fenton—possibly a friend, one that I never thought I needed.

I watch her from the shadows, sitting with the other outcasts, fiddling with the end of her red ribbon. But even her fellow outcasts know to keep their distance. I wonder what really happened to her. If it was Kiersten’s lithograph, and she let Gertie take the blame, that would mean Kiersten is capable of absolutely anything.

As much as I feel the urge to protect her, I keep coming back to my mother’s words. Trust no one. Not even yourself.

A breeze rustles through the camp, and I pull my cloak tighter around me. I’m dying to warm my aching limbs by the fire, but I’m not ready to join the other girls.

Slipping off my boots, I try to rub some feeling back into my toes. I was smart enough to wear the boots around the house as soon as they arrived to try to break them in, but I can tell some of the others weren’t as fortunate.

Without our grandfather clock or the bells of the county, I have no idea what time it is. I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore. The only time that matters will happen thirteen moons from now. Thirteen long moons. But I

can’t get ahead of myself. My father always told me that you only have to solve one problem at a time, and right now, my biggest problem is Kiersten. I need to stay out of her way until we reach the encampment. Maybe we’ll all have cozy little cabins to ourselves, and I’ll scarcely have to deal with her.

For now, I’ll do what I do best. I’ll watch.

I’ll listen.

The wind forces its way through the forest, making the pines creak and yaw.

“Do you think the poachers are watching us right now?” Becca asks as she peers into the dense woods.

“I heard they follow us the entire way to the encampment,” Patrice whispers.

“Let’s find out.” Kiersten stands up. “Is this what you want?” she yells, raising her skirts, flashing her legs to the darkness surrounding us.

“Stop that.” They pull her back down, giggling, like this is some kind of game.

“My oldest sister said they wear shrouds over their whole bodies,” Jessica says.

“Like ghosts?” Helen asks.

“Ghosts don’t wear shrouds, stupid.” Jenna laughs. “That’s only in the Christmas pageant.”

“I heard it’s because they’re deformed,” Tamara says, a dark tone to her voice. “They have giant mouths full of razor-sharp teeth.”

“I bet they’re not even out there,” Martha says. “We haven’t seen them or heard them this entire time. They probably just tell us that to scare us.”

“But why?” Ravenna asks, clinging to her veil, the scratchy sound of the netting grating between her fingertips.

I inch closer. Maybe I’m not the only one with doubts.

“So we don’t escape,” Kiersten says. “They can’t have us running wild with all that magic … all that power.” She leans forward, lowering her voice. “I feel it happening already. There’s a tingling deep inside of me,

right here,” she says as she opens her cloak, stretching out her fingers below her navel.

A flutter of excitement rushes through the group, the same as when the blades are being sharpened in the square before a punishment.

“I can’t wait to find out what my magic will be,” Jessica says, sitting up a little taller.

“I heard speaking to animals runs in our family.” Dena looks to Kiersten for approval.

“Maybe I’ll be able to command the wind,” another girl says, spreading her arms out wide.

“Or be impervious to fire.” Meg runs her finger through a lick of flame. “There now,” Kiersten shushes them as she looks over at the guards.

“We mustn’t get carried away. Not just yet.”

“What are you hoping for?” Jenna nudges Kiersten gently with her knee. “Please tell us.”

“Do tell…,” the other girls join in.

“I want…” She pauses dramatically to make sure they’re hanging on every word. “I want to be able to control people with my thoughts. Lead them to their rightful path … deliver them from sin, so we can burn through our magic and return purified women.”

Gertrude lets out a huff of air. I’m not sure if it’s a sigh, a yawn, or a chortle, but Kiersten glares at her from across the fire. “Maybe even you can be pure again, Gertie.”

The muscles in Gertrude’s jaw flex, but that appears to be the only reaction Kiersten will get out of her.

“And what about you, Betsy?” Kiersten turns her attention to the girl sitting next to Gertrude. The next-closest target.

“Me?” She looks around the campfire as if searching for a witness.

“Is there another Betsy Dillon?” Kiersten asks. “What magic are you hoping for?”

“Not to be so big and ugly?” One of the girls snickers. Kiersten smacks her in the leg.

Even in the dim light, I can see the heat taking over Betsy’s cheeks; she’s either embarrassed or flattered that Kiersten is paying attention to her.

“I … I want to fly, like a bird,” she says as she looks up into the treetops. “Fat chance,” someone murmurs; Kiersten shushes her.

“And why’s that?” Kiersten asks sweetly. Too sweetly.

“So I can fly far far away,” Betsy says, a dreamy look coming over her. “Trust me.” Kiersten narrows in on her. “We all want you to fly far far

away.”

The other girls let out a burst of pent-up laughter.

With tears streaming down Betsy’s face, Kiersten turns her back on her and continues talking to the others.

Gertrude reaches over to try to console her, but Betsy jerks her hand away and gets up, bolting into the woods.

“What’d I tell you,” the guard with the dark mustache says as he watches her run off. “The Dillon girl.”

“Every year…,” the other guard says as he digs two coins out of his pocket and hands them over. “I don’t know how you do it.”

I’m about to go after her, tell her to ignore them, when I hear it—a high- pitched yelp. Followed by another. And then another, all coming from different points in the wood. A classic call and response. At first, I think it must be a pack of wolves, but then I hear it again, closer this time, followed by coarse laughter. I don’t need anyone to tell me that’s the call of the poachers. And they’re herding her.

I look to the guards to do something, but they’re just going about their business of settling in for the night.

“You have to go after her,” I say.

The taller one shrugs me off. “If you run, we’re not responsib—” “But she’s not running away … she just wanted to cry … in private.” “Don’t stray from the path. Those are the rules—”

“But no one told us … no one said—”

“Shouldn’t you just know?” he says, looking me over, shaking his head. I start to go after her, but then I hear screams. Bloodcurdling screams,

echoing through the woods. It feels like the sound is penetrating straight through my skin, sinking deep into my bones, freezing them in place.

“Did you see what I made her do?” Kiersten whispers to Jenna. Jenna then whispers it to Jessica. And just like that, news of Kiersten’s magic

spreads like wildfire.

As I glance back at the girls, their faces lit by the flames, inky shadows nestling into the hollows of their skulls, they look to Kiersten, a mix of fear and reverence taking over.

A hint of a smile pulls at the corners of Kiersten’s perfect rosebud lips. I know that smile.

 

 

 

Huddled up on the damp ground, I can’t sleep. I don’t know how anyone could. Not with all that screaming. I’ve heard the rumors, how the poachers keep us alive as long as possible as they skin us, how pain brings the most potent magic to the surface, but even the guards seem a little unnerved by this one. It’s as if the poachers want us to hear every cry, every cut; they want us to know what’s in store for us.

But as the sun rises, heavy, bloated, on the eastern ridge, the color of a late-summer yolk, the screaming dies down to the occasional whimper, until it finally stops all together. I’ve never been more horrified and relieved at the same time. Her suffering is finally over.

Silently, we pack up for the rest of the journey to the encampment. They take Betsy’s bundle out of the wagon and leave it behind, like it’s nothing. Like she was nothing.

The heavy fluttering of wings pulls me from my reeling thoughts. I look up at the sparse bony branches to find a wren staring down at me. Plain and plump, wanting to be seen.

“Fly far far away,” I whisper.

After we’re lined up and counted, we walk the path. I’m conscious of the woods around me in a way I never thought of before. Last night was proof that we’re being studied. Stalked. And I’ve hunted enough with my father to know they’re probably looking for a weak link.

Taking a cue from Gertrude, I lower my veil. I know it dehumanizes me, the same way we put a sack over a hog’s eyes before slitting its throat, but I

don’t want to let them in. I don’t want them to memorize my face. Dream of me. I won’t give them the thrill of seeing my fear.

A girl stops abruptly in front of me to pick up a heavy stone from the side of the path, tucking it inside the pocket of her cloak. It’s Laura Clayton, a quiet, spindly girl who will probably be sent to work in the mill upon her return. “Sorry,” she murmurs as she presses on, but she won’t meet my eyes. I wonder if she’s looking for a weapon. The way she’s walking, I can tell this isn’t the first heavy object she’s picked up along the way. I’m looking for my own heavy rock when Gertrude slows her pace so she can walk next to me.

“See?” she says as she stares straight ahead up the path.

I look up to find Kiersten whispering to a set of girls. She glances back at me before moving on to the next cluster of eager ears.

“What about it?”

“She’s setting the stage as we speak.” “I’m not afraid of her.”

“You should be. You saw what she can do … her magic—”

“I didn’t see anything other than a hurt girl running off to cry.”

Gertrude looks at me sharply, but I can see it in her eyes: I’m not the only one with doubts.

“Magic or not … there are other ways she can hurt you.”

I remember watching Kiersten do the same thing to Gertrude last year. Spreading that vile name like a plague. But that was done in the confines of the county, with the men watching over us, making sure we stayed in line. This is something new.

A part of me wonders if I had this coming. The way I turned a blind eye watching Kiersten bully whomever she saw fit. I could’ve stopped her then, but now … anything goes.

“I have to ask…,” I say, stealing a nervous glance in her direction. “Did you take the blame for her … for the lithograph? Is that what happened to you?”

Gertrude looks at me, her eyes glassy … haunted.

“Are you talking about Betsy?” A girl sidles beside me, startling us both. It’s Helen Barrow.

Feeling flustered by the intrusion, Gertrude ducks her chin and rushes ahead.

“Gertrude, wait,” I call after her, but she’s gone.

“I know I don’t have a veil,” Helen says. “But you’ve always seemed like a nice girl … nice family. Your father did my mother a great kindness once—”

“Yes. He’s a great man,” I murmur without inflection, wondering where she’s going with this.

“There’s talk,” she says, glancing up in Kiersten’s direction. “You should steer clear of Gertie. You don’t want people to think you’re dirty, too.”

“I really don’t care what they think,” I say with a deep sigh. “And neither should you.”

She looks at me, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean any offense.”

“Just because you didn’t get a veil doesn’t mean you’re anything less.

We’re all the same here.”

Her eyes well up; her bottom lip puckers out. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I’m afraid. Afraid of what’s going to happen when we—” Helen stumbles over her own feet, careening off the path.

Grabbing the edge of her cloak, I yank her back just as a slender blade whizzes past her cheek, embedding into a nearby pine.

“Did you see that?” she gasps, fresh tears making her eyes look even bigger.

Slowly, we turn to look behind us, but there’s nothing there. Only the woods. But I swear I can feel them out there … their eyes on my skin.

“Is Kiersten looking at me?” Helen whispers in horror, keeping her eyes trained on the ground in front of her. “Did she make me trip?”

I don’t want to give it any credence, but when my eyes veer up the path, I swear I catch the swish of Kiersten’s braid. The hint of a smile.

My skin explodes in goosebumps.

“Don’t be silly.” I pull her along. “You tripped over a root, that’s all.” But even as I’m saying it, I’m not entirely sure.

It feels like Kiersten is flowering right before my eyes, a belladonna, ripe with poison.

 

 

 

By day’s end, the forest has become so dense that only an occasional burst of dying light filters through. Every time it’s taken away it feels like an insult, until it doesn’t come back at all.

With every step, the air grows thicker, the terrain more uncertain; the scent of decaying oak and wintergreen gives way to hemlock, fiddlehead ferns, moss, clay, and algae.

The path narrows to the point that it feels like the woods might snuff us out.

Some of the girls have to take off their boots, their feet bloody and blistered beyond recognition. Because of our slow pace, the guards decide not to camp. Maybe it’s for the best; that way we don’t have the time to sit and ponder our fate. It seems baffling to me, but in the short span of two nightfalls, we’ve somehow become resigned to it all.

I have to stop to relieve myself. I’m not even sure where it’s coming from since they haven’t given us a drop to eat or drink. Maybe it’s just a phantom urge. Something my body used to do. Spotting a cluster of ferns, I stumble forward, pull up my skirts, push my underclothes aside, and crouch.

I’m waiting for it, even a drop to satisfy, when the last guard passes by without a word. As I watch the torchlight disappear down the path, I realize he didn’t see me. They don’t know I’m gone, and probably won’t know until we’re counted at the encampment. A spark of adrenaline races through me. I could run right now. Not back the way I came, but somewhere new.

The poachers will be following the pack of girls, and by the time anyone figures out I’m gone, I will have found a stream of water to lose my scent in. I will be untraceable. I know how to hide. I’ve been doing it for years, in plain sight. Michael was right about one thing … I’m strong and I’m smart, and I may never get an opportunity like this again.

I’m starting to gather my skirts when I hear the unmistakable sound of footfalls. Glancing over my shoulder, I see their silhouettes. An endless parade of dark figures emerging from the woods. Poachers.

The realization quickly sinks in that I somehow strayed from the path. I wasn’t thinking. I just saw the ferns and went for it. I’m only a few feet away, ten at the most, but I can’t tell how close the poachers are, how fast they’re coming … because when I look at them, all I see is black clouds floating through the forest like wraiths.

I want to run for the path, cry out for help, but I’m so petrified that all I can do is sink deeper into the foliage and close my eyes.

It’s childish to think that if I can’t see them, they can’t see me, but in this moment, that’s exactly what I feel like—a child. They can dress me up, marry me off, tell me I’m a woman now, but in no way do I feel ready for this. For any of it.

I should bargain with God, promise to never stray from the path again, but I can’t even do that. We’re not allowed to pray in silence, for fear that we’ll use it to hide our magic, but where is my magic now when I need it the most?

As the poachers begin to pass my hiding spot, I can’t believe how quiet they are. They walk at exactly the same pace, so it’s impossible to tell how many of them there are, but I can hear the steel of their blades hum when a breeze catches the sharp edge. No words are spoken; there’s only breath, deep and measured with precision.

After the last of their footsteps dissipate, I open my eyes. I’m thinking maybe my magic did kick in, maybe I’m invisible, when I feel something warm pulsing against the side of my neck. Slowly, I turn to find a curved blade poised at my artery, a set of eyes staring back at me like wet gleaming marbles, but the rest of the poacher remains shrouded in darkness.

“Please … don’t,” I whisper, but all he does is stand there. Those eyes … it’s like staring straight into a sinkhole.

Easing away from him, I crawl toward the path.

I’m waiting for the sickening caw, waiting for him to grab me by my ankles and pull me into the forest to skin me alive, but when my fingertips reach the cleared strip of earth, I scramble to my feet to find he’s gone. Nothing but the void pressing in all around me.

Running ahead, I deftly slip back into the weary herd. I’m trying to act normal, but my body won’t stop trembling. I want to tell the others about the poacher, how close I came to death, but as I look behind me, into the dark, I’m not even sure what really happened. There’s no way a poacher would’ve just let me go. And the truth is, I didn’t even see a body—just a blade … and those eyes.

My chin begins to quiver. It could be exhaustion or the magic slipping in, but no matter what did or didn’t happen, I need to pull myself together, stay alert, because one false step in any direction could very well be my last.

As the sun rises once again, we pass a run-down cabin. I’m wondering if this is where we’ll be spending our grace year, but they spur us forward, all the way to the end of the earth, only a vast wasteland of water stretched out before us. But if you squint just the right way, you can see a tiny speck of land sprouting up in the distance.

And I know this is it.

The beginning of the end for some of us.

 

 

 

We’re assigned to canoes, but given no oars.

Only the guards get the privilege of steering us to our prison. Maybe they don’t want us going feral and knocking them out. Maybe Laura Clayton has been gathering stones for that exact purpose. I keep my eye on her, ready for the slightest hint of a revolt. I don’t know where we’d go, what we’d do, but I think I’m willing to find out.

No one says a word as they begin to row us over the glasslike water. Each stroke of the wood carving through the deep blue feels like someone’s gutting me. Piece by piece. Stroke by stroke, stripping me of everything I’ve ever known, everything I thought I believed in.

Midway across the great lake, I see Kiersten reach her hand over the side, skimming her fingertips along the surface, creating long sensuous trails—it does something to me. Does something to all of us. The only person not looking her way is Laura Clayton. She’s staring straight ahead, clutching the heaviest stone in her lap. Her lips are moving, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.

As I lean closer, she gives me the queerest look.

“Tell my sister I’m sorry,” she says, right before she slowly keels over the side of the canoe.

“Laura—” I call out her name, but it’s too late.

As her black wool cloak envelops her body, she quickly sinks to the depths.

And I realize the only rebellion she had in mind was her own.

No one moves. No one even flinches. If this is what we’ve already become, it makes me shudder to think what we’ll be like a year from now.

Kiersten pulls her hand back into the boat, and the girls give her knowing glances. They think she made Laura do it.

And maybe she did.

A wave of panic rushes through me. Two down, thirty-one to go.

 

 

 

Sunburned and weary, our bodies still swaying from the lull of the water, the emptiness of Laura’s escape, we watch the awaiting guards pull the canoes onto the muddy bank. The scraping of the hulls against the rocky beach is like a razor to my frazzled nerves.

“The perimeter is clear,” I hear one of the guards say. “No breaches to report.”

I know that voice. Looking up, I see that it’s Hans. I start to stand, but Martha, who’s sitting behind me, yanks down on my skirts. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. You saw what happened to Laura.”

Hans steals a glance at me. A look of warning. Martha’s right. No one can know that we’re friends. I could get him in serious trouble.

“I can’t believe you volunteered for this,” the older guard says, shaking his head, looking back over the great lake. “An entire year in that crappy little cabin. Just you and Mortimer.”

I wonder if that’s the shack we saw on the other shore. I heard there were two guards that live nearby to maintain the barrier of the encampment, but it always sounded like more of a punishment than a privilege. Is this what Hans was trying to tell me the other day at the paddock?

Without another word, the guards load the supplies onto rickety wagons, pushing them up a wide dirt path.

We follow. What else can we do?

But it’s more than that. We’ve been building to this moment our entire lives. The grace year is no longer a story, a myth, something that will

happen someday.

That someday is now.

I take in every last detail of the terrain—just beyond the rocky shoreline, there appears to be a series of tall wooden structures in each direction. At first, I think maybe that’s where we’ll be living, but the guards continue to march us inland.

The sparse landscape slowly gives way to spindly white pines and ash. As I look ahead, the trees seem to grow thicker, in varying degrees of height, the tallest ones in the center of the island. I remember hearing stories from the trappers in my father’s care about the islands to the north. Pinnacles of land cut off from the rest of the world. Where man and animal alike go mad.

Hans looks back at me. I think he’s trying to tell me something, but I have no idea what it could be. I’m too tired for subtleties right now.

Through the foliage, I spot a tight curved line of enormous cedars that seem to wrap their way around the entire island, but they’re too close together to be natural. It must be a fence—like the one we have in the county—but instead of the fence keeping us safe from the outside world, this is a fence to protect the rest of the world from us.

I have no idea what we’re capable of, how the magic will consume us, but we haven’t even reached our final destination and two of us have already fallen.

As my damp boots sink into the soft dirt, I think of my mother walking this path before me, June and Ivy, and Penny and Clara, who will be forced to follow in my footsteps.

There are deer tracks, and porcupine, fox, and fowl, but there’s another set of tracks that makes my blood run cold. Large flat-soled imprints, alongside two long rivets, as if someone had been dragged.

Searching the woods, I look for the poachers, but I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Eyes and blades, that’s all I have to go on. Have they camouflaged themselves? Are they perched in the treetops or below our feet in trenches waiting for us to make a false step?

I know the poachers would never cross the barrier for fear of being cursed, so what would draw the girls out? Do they try to run? Do the

poachers sweet-talk them? Or maybe they’re forced out by their own kind?

As if Kiersten can hear my thoughts, she peers back at me over her shoulder, ice-blue eyes singeing a trail from my ankles to the top of my head.

I duck down, pretending to refasten my bootlace, anything to escape her gaze. I can’t stop thinking about Betsy running off into the woods, Laura keeling over the side of the canoe—that look on Kiersten’s face. Whether it’s true or not, she believes she killed them with her magic.

And she’s proud.

I try to shake it off, erase it from my memory, because no matter what happens, how things may appear, I need to keep a level head, my feet firmly rooted in the soil. No more superstition. No more fear.

As I gather my skirts to stand, I notice a tiny red bloom fighting against all odds to make its way to the surface. Reaching out, I touch the five petals, perfectly formed, just to make sure it’s real. Tears prickle the backs of my eyes. It’s the flower from my dream, the same one I saw in Mrs. Fallow’s hand as she stepped from the gallows, the same bloom that was threaded into the outskirts-woman’s hair. It’s beyond me how it got here, how it managed to survive on this well-worn path, but it seems like a truer bit of magic than anything I’ve seen thus far.

“On your feet,” Hans says as he wraps his arm around me, pulling me

up.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper.

“I told you I would look after you,” he says. I don’t dare look at him, but

I can hear the smile in his voice. “If there’s a breach in the fence, they’ll send for me. Do you understand? I will come for you.”

I nod. But I have no idea what he’s talking about.

As we approach the end of the path, we’re faced with a towering wood gate, hundreds of lifeless ribbons nailed to the rough-hewn wood. Some are tattered, long since faded to the softest blush, but others are still crisp, the sharpest of crimson. I want to pretend the girls put them here themselves, one last rebellious act before returning to the county, but I’m done pretending.

These are the ribbons of the girls who’ve been killed.

It’s more than a warning. It’s a message.

Welcome to your new home.

 

 

 

“Are we just going to stand here?” Kiersten asks, tapping her boot impatiently in the dirt.

“One of you will have to open the gate,” the short, stocky guard says as he shifts his weight.

I can’t stop my eyes from veering between his legs. It makes me wonder if he feels the cut more deeply here at the encampment.

Without the slightest hint of reverence for the moment in front of us, Kiersten yanks open the gate.

As the creaky wood swings open, a high whinny of lament, we’re hit with an overwhelming burst of green wood smoke, burned hair, and the sickeningly sweet scent of decay. I can’t help breathing it in. I’m woozy with it. It’s so heavy, so deep, I swear I can feel it clinging to the tiny spaces between my ribs, almost as if it’s afraid to be named.

“You’ll need to take the supplies inside,” one of the guards says, a slight quiver in his voice, like we’ve just opened the gates to hell.

As the girls hop to, dragging the carts inside, the men edge away, never once turning their backs on us, as if just stepping over the threshold will unleash our magic, making us swallow them whole.

We wait for parting words … instructions … anything … but they just stand there in silence.

“Close it,” Kiersten says, eyeing the heavy rope mechanism connected to the gate.

Meryl and Agnes jump at the chance to be noticed and pull it shut.

At the last second, Hans reaches in to unsnag the end of my ribbon from the wood post, his fingers lingering.

Another guard yanks him back. “Are you crazy? The curse,” he reminds him. And I know this is his way of saying good-bye.

As the gate closes on the guards’ troubled faces, it’s clear they truly believe we’re loathsome creatures that need to be hidden away for safekeeping, for our own good, to exorcise the demons lurking inside of us, but even in this cursed place, anger, fear, and resentment boiling inside of me, I still don’t feel magical.

I still don’t feel powerful. I feel forsaken.

 

 

 

This is the first time we’ve been alone. Unsupervised.

There’s a beat—a few weighted seconds—before it fully sinks in. The energy swirling around us feels like a living, breathing thing.

As some of the girls rush off to explore, trills of excitement nipping through the air, others cling to the gate, weeping for the world that’s been taken away from them, but most of us, out of obligation or curiosity, inch forward, one foot in front of the other, edging our way into a vast but barren half-moon clearing that’s been carved out of the dense woods before us.

“It’s a lodging house,” Ravenna says as she peeks inside the long primitive log-cabin structure on the north end of the clearing. There are two small shacks positioned on either side, and beyond that, nothing but forest.

“This can’t be it,” Vivian says as she spins in a slow circle, dragging her veil in the dirt.

I gravitate toward the center of the clearing, to an old stone well and a lone tree, but that’s not what has my eye. Placed at the foot of the tree, there’s a pile of smoldering remains, a string of sumac leaves encircling it like a lewd gesture.

“I heard they did this,” Hannah whispers. “But I didn’t believe it.”

“Did what?” Kiersten says as she kicks one of the leaves out of formation, breaking the chain, which makes most of the girls flinch.

“I shouldn’t say.” Hannah shakes her head, staring down at the ground. “It’s forbidden to speak of the grace year.”

Kiersten’s nostrils flare like she’s getting ready to lose it, but as she exhales, her face softens. “What’s said here … what happens here…” She smooths her hand over Hannah’s ruddy cheek. “… remains here forever. That’s our most sacred vow.”

Hannah purses her lips so tight they turn the shade of newly sprung blueberries before blurting, “It’s the remaining supplies, everything they’ve built … everything they used to get through the year.”

“But why would they burn it?” Jenna asks.

“Because it was done to them,” Hannah says, studying the notches in the lone tree—forty-six. “Year after year. Why should we have a leg up when it was never given to them?” she says, running her fingers over the deepest, freshest cut.

I don’t know why it surprises me, but I feel the betrayal deep within my bones. Not only did they want us to fail, they wanted us to squirm in doing so.

A scream comes from one of the smaller structures. Ruth Brinley is backing out, holding her cloak over her nose and mouth as a flood of black flies comes pouring out of the shack.

Martha cringes as she peeks inside. “I think we found the privy.”

“Ashes,” I say without thinking. “If we put the ashes in the privy it will cut down the smell, help break it down.”

“How do you know that?” Gertie asks.

“My father. I used to go on calls with him to the field house. They have an outhouse similar to this one.”

They all look to Kiersten.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Kiersten barks out an order at me.

Grabbing a sleeve of fallen birch bark, I scoop up the ashes and carry them into the shack. The smell is unbearable; there’s feces and who knows what else spread over the walls. I dump in the ashes, and when I come back for a second round, I notice the stone hidden beneath the debris. It appears to be etched with something. “Look,” I say to the others. “Maybe it’s a message.”

I try to brush away the soot but only manage to kick up a thick cloud of ash.

“Are you trying to kill us?” Kiersten says, fanning the air in front of her. “Get some water to wash it away.” She nods toward the well.

There’s a part of me that wants to refuse on principle. After all, I don’t want to set a precedent, but at least I’m doing something. Not just standing around like a bunch of sheep.

Gertrude joins me at the well. “See? This is smart,” she says as she helps me pull up the heavy bucket. “If you make yourself useful, maybe you can get back in their good graces.”

Green algae clings to the sides of the well, the rope, the bucket. Maybe I’m delirious from the journey, but there’s something about it that looks unnatural. The bright green glow against the drab stone.

“Hurry up.” Kiersten’s brusque voice pulls me back.

I carry over the bucket, trying not to slosh too much over the sides. Kiersten grabs it from me, slinging water over the stone. The etched words come into focus.

Eyes to God.

My skin erupts in goosebumps. This is identical to the plaque we have in the town square. They position the gallows directly over it so when our necks snap, it’s the last thing we’ll see, which always struck me as especially cruel. If your neck is broken, how can you look up? Even in death we’re a disappointment.

As the girls press in to get a closer look, a red drop appears, followed by another.

I crouch to see if it’s rust seeping up through the stone, when a drop appears on the top of my hand.

As I look up, a cloud passes by, the late-afternoon sun filtering through the branches, illuminating hundreds of trinkets tied to the tree like yule ornaments.

Helen’s pointing at the gnarled limbs of the tree, but she can’t seem to find any words.

It takes me a moment to put it together, like a vile jigsaw. It’s not rust. It’s blood. And they’re not yule ornaments, they’re fingers, toes, ears, braids of all shades and textures affixed to the tree.

But while everyone is backing away, Kiersten steps closer.

“It’s a punishment tree,” she says, reaching out to touch the rough bark. “Just like the one we have in the square, only this one is real.”

Becca starts pacing. “I always thought the reason they came back with missing fingers was because they traded them with the poachers for food, not as some kind of punishment.”

“Why would they trade for food, dummy?” Tamara says as she glances back at the wagons. “We have plenty.”

“And yet they come back starving.” Lucy wraps her arms around herself.

“Don’t be so dramatic.” Martha rolls her eyes. “We can always forage if we get scant.”

“Not in those woods.” Ellie shakes her head a little too rapidly as she stares past the log cabin into the surrounding forest. “I heard the animals are mad in there.”

“Animals?” Jenna laughs. “What about the ghosts? We’ve all heard the stories. If you go in there, you don’t come out.”

There’s a deep pause. A strange electricity among us. Suspicious glances quickly turn to panic as the girls take off running back toward the gate, clawing at the wagons for anything they can claim.

“I heard this is how it starts,” Gertrude says. “How what starts?” I ask.

“How we turn against each other.”

I meet her gaze and I know she feels it, too.

I’m waiting for Kiersten to stop this, do something, but she just stands there, a hazy smile perched over her lips. Almost as if she wants this to happen.

Swallowing my nerves, I force my way into the fray. “We just need to stay calm,” I say, but they’re paying me no mind. Two girls fighting over a bag of food bash into me; the burlap rips, sending a cascade of chestnuts spilling to the ground. Girls are piling on top of each other to get to them. Leaping out of the way, onto the empty wagon bed, I yell, “Look at you … behaving like a pack of outskirt dogs.”

They glare up at me, hate burning in their eyes, but at least I have their attention.

“All we have to do is take inventory. Ration. We’re going to have to trust in each other if we want to get through this.”

“Trust you?” Tamara lets out a strangled laugh. “That’s rich coming from the girl who filched Kiersten’s husband.”

I’m opening my mouth to try to explain myself when Kiersten steps forward. “She didn’t steal him from me.” The girls ease back in anticipation of what’s about to happen. “I wanted Tommy all along, a real man who can give me sons.” But even as she’s saying it, I feel a surge of repulsion rush through her. “No…” She looks me up and down before facing the crowd. “This is about betrayal. Tierney never wanted anything to do with us. And now she thinks she can come in and tell us what to do? How to live our grace year?”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do.” I yank off my veil and get down from the wagon. “I’m not trying to take over.”

“Good,” Kiersten says, but I can tell she’s slightly disappointed. She was ready for a fight. “Everyone, put the supplies back. The only thing that belongs to you right now is your pack. Gather that.”

The girls do as they’re told, but they’re still staring at each other skeptically.

As I’m searching for my bundle, out of the corner of my eye, I see something sail over the fence.

I turn to look, but all I find is Kiersten standing there, a priggish look on her face as a gaggle of girls hover around her trying, and failing, to stifle their laughter.

“All set?” Kiersten asks.

Looking around, I see everyone has their supplies, everyone except me. “I don’t have mine.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Kiersten replies. “Yours must’ve rolled off somewhere along the way. You’re welcome to go back and find it.” She nods toward the barrier.

I want to go after her, drag her to the gate, make her go out and fetch it, but then I think of Gertie’s warning. As hard as it is, I need to show Kiersten that I’m not going to be a threat to her. And if that means being a little less comfortable than the others, so be it.

“I’m sure it will turn up,” I say, lowering my eyes.

“That’s the spirit,” Kiersten says, smug satisfaction dripping from every syllable. “But hear me,” she says as she walks through the group. “If someone took Tierney’s supplies, stealing will not be tolerated. There will be punishment.”

“But who’s going to do the punishing?” Hannah asks. “At home, the punishers are men, chosen by God.”

“Look around,” Kiersten says as she stares me dead in the eyes. “We are the only Gods here.”

 

 

 

As we pry open the door to the small structure on the left, we discover a narrow space with shelves lining each side.

“This must be the larder,” Ravenna says.

“Or a place to stack the bodies,” Jenna whispers to Kiersten.

“Oh no, pretty dovey,” Helen cries, barging past everyone, coming out with a scrawny ringnecked dove cradled in her hands. “I think her wing is broken.”

Kiersten picks up the rusty axe propped up in the corner. “I’ll do it.” “No … you can’t,” Helen says, pressing the bird against her ample

bosom.

“What did you say?” Kiersten snaps back.

“I mean … I’ll take care of her.” Helen quickly softens her tone. “You won’t even know she’s here.”

“I’ve always wanted a pet,” Molly chimes in, stroking the bird’s smooth, drab head. “I’ll help.”

“Me, too,” Lucy says.

Soon Helen is surrounded by girls offering to pitch in.

“Fine,” Kiersten says, setting down the axe. “Anything to get you to shut up, but I hate birds.”

“You better get used to them,” someone mutters from the crowd. Kiersten whips around. “Who said that?”

We all stand there, desperately trying not to laugh. It’s common knowledge that her husband-to-be has an affinity for torturing majestic

birds. I think Martha may have said it, but I can’t be sure. Maybe we’re just exhausted, but in this moment, it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. But the levity quickly dies when we realize how little they gave us in the way of supplies.

Taking inventory and setting up the larder is a tense undertaking. We end up having to count everything aloud, in unison, just like we did in our first year of arithmetic at the schoolhouse, only this time we’re not counting beads, we’re counting the things that will keep us alive over the next year. It’s going to be tight, but as Kiersten seems more than happy to point out, not all of us will make it to the end. You’d think that would somehow bring us closer together, bind us in a common cause, but it feels tenuous at best, like there’s only a single silk thread connecting us—one false move, one false accusation, and everything will unravel.

After gathering stray limbs from the perimeter, any kindling that seems dry enough to catch, I try to teach them how to build a proper fire, the same way my father taught me, but there’s little interest. A few pay attention— mostly girls who will be assigned this type of work upon their return, Helen, Martha, Lucy—but Kiersten and the rest of her followers seem annoyed that I’m even bothering them with something so mundane.

It’s only when Gertrude offers to take the first meal shift that they suddenly take an interest.

“She can’t make our food … it’ll be dirty,” Tamara says.

Heated whispers erupt on the subject of Gertie, but she just goes about her business of filling the kettle with water, pretending not to notice. Maybe she’s so used to it now that it doesn’t even bother her. But it bothers me.

“Gertrude and I will take the first shift. If you don’t like it, you can make your own,” I say, which seems to quiet them down.

No matter what she did, there’s no reason for her punishment to continue here. Veiled or not, depraved or saints, we’re all equals in death.

As the conversation shifts to what they think their magic will be, Gertie and I work on putting supper together. It’s meager, just some beans with a few rashers of thick-cut bacon thrown in for flavor, but all we can really taste is the well water—it has a pungent, earthy aftertaste that seems to

cling to the roof of your mouth. Looking around at this landlocked parcel, I guess we should be grateful we have drinking water at all.

As we eat supper, the nervous chatter fades away to make room for the new world around us. Beyond the crackling fire, the sound of spoons scraping against the bottom of tin bowls, we find ourselves listening to the forest pressing in on us—the breeze rustling the last of the autumn leaves, the strange skittering sounds of unknown creatures, the lake water lapping against the pebbled shore. But it’s not the water or the wind or the woods that has us on edge—it’s the absence of the call of the poachers. Are they even out there? Or maybe that’s exactly what they want us to think … how they’ll lure us out. Not by cunning sweetness or threatening words … but by silence.

I can’t stop thinking about the poacher I came face-to-face with on the trail. The look in his eyes—I try rubbing the chill from my arms, but it’s no use. He could’ve killed me right then and there. I was fair game. I’m not sure what stopped him. But then again, I’m not even sure if he was real. Out here, the veil between our world and the unknown feels so thin that you could punch a hole right through it.

The wind moves through the camp, making the firelight dance. “I wonder if it’s them?” Nanette says, staring into the woods.

“Who?” Dena asks.

“The ghosts,” Jenna replies.

Katie pulls her cloak tighter. “I heard it’s the souls of all the grace year girls who died here.”

“Katie should know,” Helen whispers to me, the bird cooing in her lap. “All three of her sisters were poached.”

“But they’re not all benevolent spirits,” Jenna adds. “What do you mean?” Meg asks.

“The unclaimed girls, the ones who vanished, they still cling to their magic, even in death.”

Though we’re forbidden from speaking of the grace year back home, it seems we’ve all heard bits and pieces. Maybe truth, maybe lies, probably something in between. I can’t help thinking that if we put all the pieces

together we could somehow solve this elaborate puzzle, but it feels too slippery. Elusive. Like trying to catch smoke.

“There was a veiled girl in my sister’s year who went into the woods,” Nanette says. “It was near the end of her grace year. There was something haunting her every move. She would wake up to find her braid was different, the end of her ribbon hog-tied to her ankle. There were whispers in the dark. And when she finally went into the forest to confront her tormentor, she never came back. Her body was unaccounted for.”

“Olga Vetrone?” Jessica whispers. Nanette nods.

A chill breaks out over my flesh. That was the girl Hans joined the guard for. I’ll never forget his face when he came into the square that day, and then watching her little sister being banished to the outskirts.

A deep thud comes from the gate. A few girls scream, gasp for breath, but every single one of us stands at attention. There’s something in here with us.

With trembling hands, Jenna holds up a lantern, illuminating the outline of a large lump on the ground in front of the gate.

“What is it?” someone whispers. “A body?” “Maybe it’s a poacher…”

Taking cautious steps, we move in one huddled mass to investigate.

When Jenna gets close enough, she nudges the mysterious mound with her boot. It rolls over. “It’s just a county-issued pack.” She laughs.

“Hey, isn’t that Tierney’s family sigil?” Molly points toward the three swords embroidered in the burlap.

Helen noses her way in. “Did you do that, Tierney? Did you use your magic to make your bundle come back to you?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I swear, it wasn’t me.”

“How can that be?” Meg asks. “We all saw what happened to it … when Kiers—”

“I’m not without mercy,” Kiersten says with a smile.

 

 

 

Before the last ember dies out, we light a few more lamps and file inside the long, dismal log-hewn structure. No one says it out loud, but I don’t think any of us likes the idea of being trapped inside with one another. We’re not locked in and counted, like we are at the church, but something about it feels even more dangerous. We’re so vulnerable during sleep. Anything can happen here, and no one will tell the tale.

There are only twenty iron beds set up with mattresses; the rest are piled up in a corner of the room like old bones. Half of those are missing their mattresses. I don’t even want to think about what happened to them. It’s a heavy reminder of how many of us won’t make it home alive.

Kiersten lies down on one of the good beds to test it out, stretching out her long legs.

Jenna sits on the next bed over. “I can’t believe we have to sleep here.” She crinkles up her nose as she stares down at the dingy mattress. “I think this one belonged to a bed wetter.”

“We’re here to rid ourselves of our magic. That’s all.” Kiersten sighs. “Besides, as soon as the first girl with a mattress dies, you can have hers. Double up.”

I look over at her sharply. I can’t believe how casually that just rolled off her tongue. As if dying is a given—not a question of how, but when.

Glancing around the room, I’m wondering if we can somehow change this. Maybe Gertrude’s right—if I can be of use, maybe they’ll start to trust me … listen to me.

“I saw a lavender bush on the edge of the clearing,” I say as I pretend to inspect the stacked-up bed frames. “If we mix lavender with baking soda, that will spruce them right up. In the morning, I can set up a washing station. We can also build rain barrels to collect drinking water and—”

“We don’t need any of that.” Kiersten cuts me off.

Jenna looks at her pleadingly. “But the well water tastes funny.”

“We’ll drink from the well, like every other grace year girl before us,” Kiersten says.

“Is that her magic?” one of the girls whispers. “Knowing things … knowing about plants and how to fix things?”

“It’s not magic,” Kiersten snaps. “It’s just because her father treated her as a son,” she says as she gets to her feet, prowling toward me. “Do you have a willy under there? Maybe you’re not a girl at all.” Kiersten cups her hand between my legs. It takes everything I have to force myself to stand still and take it. “Or maybe you like girls? Is that your secret?” She’s whispering in my ear. “Why you’ve always been so afraid to be around us?”

“Please stop,” Gertrude says.

“What’s it to you?” Kiersten’s eyes flash toward her.

I shudder to think what the punishment for that would be. Back in the county it meant the gallows. Certainly, under Kiersten’s rule, it would be something much worse.

“I wonder what your magic will be?” Kiersten says, picking at Gertrude. “Something depraved.” She stares down at her scarred knuckles. “A power only a sinner could possess.”

I know I told Gertrude I’d stand down, take the punishment, but I didn’t say anything about standing by watching her punish someone else.

“Leave her alone,” I say.

“There she is.” Kiersten gives me a sly look. “I wondered how long it would take you to come out, Tierney the Terrible.”

“That’s right. You’re good with nicknames, aren’t you?”

“Don’t.” Martha tugs at my sleeve. “You saw what happened to Laura … what she can do.”

“Laura had been collecting stones the entire way, slipping them into the hems of her skirts. She chose to die.”

Kiersten stiffens as if a metal rod has been inserted in her spine. “Are you calling me a liar? After I took mercy on you and got your supplies back for you? Are you saying my magic isn’t real?”

“No.” I swallow hard. “I’m not saying that. I just think we should slow down. Examine everything … question everything … no matter how things may appear.”

“You sound like a usurper,” Kiersten says. “Back in the county, they’d tie you to the iron tree and burn you alive.”

“But we’re not in the county anymore,” I say, forcing myself to meet her gaze. “If we stick together, if we’re careful, maybe no one else has to die.”

Kiersten laughs, but when no one joins in, she steps so close that I can feel her breath on my skin. “Deny it all you want, but deep down you feel it. You know what needs to happen here. You know what I can do to you.”

The room goes completely still, the same hush that precedes a hanging.

Kiersten’s eyes narrow on me. I’m trying to stay calm, act like I’m not afraid, but my heart is pounding so hard I’m sure she can hear it.

“That’s what I thought.” Pulling the red ribbon from her hair, she shakes her braid free, sending long tendrils of honeyed waves spilling over her shoulders. The girls seem to take in a collective breath, enamored and fearful of this wanton act. Other than our sisters, we’ve never seen a girl with her hair down before.

Ravenna starts to pull out her own ribbon, but Kiersten grabs her wrist, squeezing it so tight that I see her fingers blanch. “Only girls who’ve claimed their magic can remove their braid.”

As she slowly walks back to the other side of the room, the girls watch her with envious eyes. Even I find myself wondering what it would feel like to be free of it.

“Veiled girls on this side,” Kiersten says as she claims the bed against the far wall, center stage, so she can survey her new kingdom.

As the veiled girls scramble for the best mattresses, jockeying for position near Kiersten, Gertrude and I stand back with the others. Kiersten is drawing a line in the sand. And this is clearly a test. She wants to see what we’ll do. If we try to join them, she’ll probably just laugh, cast us off with the others. But if we don’t try, she’ll take it as a sign of aggression.

I’m trying to figure out the right move when Gertrude laces her pinkie through mine. The strange warmth, the firm grip, catches me off guard.

“Come on, Tierney,” she says as she pulls me back. I’m shocked that she’s taking this stand, but I’m glad.

It’s wrong of Kiersten and the others to flaunt their veils in this way. It must feel like salt in the wound to some. But on top of being cruel, it’s foolish. The fact remains that there are more unveiled girls than there are of them.

Untangling the iron frames, the rest of us drag them into position on the other side of the room. The metal scraping against the well-worn oak floors sets my teeth on edge. I can’t help thinking of the girls who slept here before us. Were they just as scared as we are? What happened to them?

After a few minutes, Jenna whispers something to Kiersten.

“Fine,” Kiersten says with a heavy sigh. “Except for Tierney and Gertie, whoever wants to come over to our side can, but not too close.”

Martha and the rest of the unveiled girls look at each other, then at me. I’m expecting them to jump at the chance and start dragging their beds to the other side of the room, but instead, they simply lay their bedding where they stand.

The familiar heat moves through my limbs, prickling the back of my eyes, but it’s not anger this time. There’s something in this simple act of rebellion that gets to me—gives me a bit of hope.

As I unpack my belongings, laying the bedding on bare springs, I find a braided leather tassel hidden inside, the same kind they use to adorn the riding crops in the stable. “Hans,” I whisper, running my fingers over the elaborate braid. I know this is his handiwork. It’s possible he slipped this into my pack as a memento when they brought the supplies to the gate, but what if he put it in there right before he threw the pack over the gate so I would know it was him? What if Kiersten’s magic had nothing to do with it?

 

 

 

The girl leads me through the woods, but something’s different.

The trees are taller, the birdsong has changed, even the sound of distant water has shifted; instead of the steady rhythmic trickling of the river, there’s a slow swell, followed by something that sounds like lard hitting a hot pan. I remember that sound from when we arrived—it’s the sound of waves hitting a pebbled shore.

“Where are we?” I ask, tripping over a slippery cluster of rocks. “Is there a gathering?”

She doesn’t reply; she only presses forward, finally coming to a stop in front of a cluster of trees—only they’re not trees—it’s a fence made up of massive cedar logs.

Reaching out, she presses her palms against the wood; it begins to crumble.

I can’t see anything on the other side, but I hear it—heavy breath moving in and out.

“Don’t!” I pull her back. “There’s poachers out there. They’re waiting for us.”

Peering over her shoulder, her gray eyes pierce right through me. “I know,” she whispers.

 

 

I wake with a gasping breath. It takes me a good minute to remember where I am.

Turning on my side, I find Gertrude staring straight at me. I can’t even begin to decipher the expression on her face. It’s strange that I never really noticed her before. I took her as plain, a scared rabbit among a den of wolves, but she’s so much more than that.

“You were dreaming,” she whispers.

“No, I wasn’t.” I wrap my cloak tighter around me. “I was just talking to myself.”

“It’s okay.”

“But…” I look around to see who else has heard.

“Whatever happens during our grace year will never leave the encampment, you know that.”

The way she says it, the dark tone in her voice—it makes me wonder if the rule was created by us. A way to avoid prosecution.

“Do you ever … dream?” I ask, having a hard time even getting the word out.

“I think I did once,” Helen says, from the bed on the other side of me.

I turn to see her with her knees pulled to her chest, like my younger sister Penny does during a storm.

“But my mother put a stop to that,” Helen adds, skimming her fingers over the ruler-sized scars on the top of her feet.

It makes me think of my own mother. She knew I had the dreams, but she never punished me for them. I never really thought about that before now.

“What do you dream of?” Gertrude asks.

I think about telling them that I dream of ponies and a dashing husband, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I don’t think I realized until this moment how I’ve been aching to share my secret … to feel connected to someone of my own sex … friends. Maybe they’ll believe me. Maybe they won’t. But I have to take that chance. “I dream of a girl.” I glance up at them, trying to gauge their expressions.

“Oh,” Helen says, a flush creeping into her cheeks.

“No. Not like that.” And suddenly, I’m the one embarrassed by the suggestion.

“Go on,” Gertrude whispers.

“She has eyes like mine, but her hair is dark and shorn close to her scalp. She has a small strawberry mark under her right eye. At first, I thought she must be a half sister from the outskirts—”

“That’s why you stopped to look at them like that,” Gertrude says.

“Yes,” I whisper, surprised by how observant she was. “But she wasn’t there.”

“What does she do in your dreams?” Helen asks, nuzzling the dove under her chin.

“Usually, she leads me through the woods to a gathering.”

“What kind of gathering?” Martha props herself up on her elbow.

I want to shut it down, stop talking, but as I look at her eager face, I think, What do I have to lose at this point?

“It’s all the women—wives, maids, laborers, even the women from the outskirts, they’ve all come together, a red flower pinned above their hearts

—”

“What kind of flower?” Molly whispers from two beds away.

I look over to find eyes on me from every direction. They appear to be hanging on every word, but I don’t stop.

“It’s a flower with no name. Five tiny petals with a deep red center. There’s something about it that’s so familiar, and yet I can’t tell you where I’ve seen it before. But I think Mrs. Fallow was holding one between her fingers when she stepped off the gallows. And I think I saw a petal threaded into the hair of a woman in the outskirts. There was one on the path from the shore to the gate. Did anyone else see it?” I ask, my heart fluttering at the possibility.

They look around at each other and shake their heads.

As if sensing my disappointment, Gertrude adds, “But we weren’t looking for it.”

I stare at the door. “Tonight, the dream was different, though. I wasn’t home, in the county … I think I was here … in the woods.”

“Was it scary?” Lucy asks, hugging her blanket. I nod. I don’t know why, but my eyes are wet.

“I wonder if that’s your magic,” Nanette says, her brow buried in deep thought. “The dreams … the girl … the flower. Maybe you can see the

future.”

There was a time when I wanted that to be true, more than anything, but in this last dream, there were no encouraging words, no comfort of the crowd. It was just the two of us in the dark woods. I’m trying not to let my imagination get the best of me, but I can’t help wondering if she was trying to tell me something. If she was trying to show me how I’ll die.

Pressing my palm against my stomach, I stretch out my fingers the same way I saw Kiersten do on that first night. “It doesn’t feel like magic. Do you feel anything?”

“Not yet,” Helen says. “But Kiersten—”

“Remember when Shea Larkin got those red itchy welts a few summers back and they got infected and she nearly died, and then all the other girls in her year fell down with the same?” I ask.

They look at each other and nod.

“They said it was a curse, that one of the girls came into her magic early, hid it and infected the others. My father treated them all, said the other girls itched themselves raw, but there were no welts to be found.”

“Are you saying they were faking it?” Martha asks.

“No. I think they truly believed it,” I say as I glance in Kiersten’s direction. “And that’s the scariest thing of all.”

 

 

 

The sun seeping through the rough-hewn logs fills the air with glittering dots of moted light. If I didn’t know they were flecks of pollen from long- forgotten weeds, or dead skin from grace year girls long past, I might call it beautiful.

There’s something about it that makes me hold my breath, as if breathing it in might infect me with whatever they had, lead me to the same bitter end—just another stacked-up, mattress-less frame—a flaccid red ribbon nailed to the gate.

Easing out of bed, I slip on my boots and tiptoe through the maze of cots. My body aches from the journey, the spent adrenaline lingering in my muscles, or it could just be from the unforgiving springs crushing my spine, but all I want to do is find a soft bed of pine needles and sleep the day away.

As I slip out the door, I take in a deep breath of fresh air, but there’s nothing fresh about it.

Every comfort, everything we’ve grown accustomed to in the county has been taken away from us. They even stripped us of our common language. There are no greenhouses here, no curated flowers, just weeds. Without it, I wonder how we’ll communicate. I want to believe it’s with words, but looking at the punishment tree, I can see it’s with violence.

After all, it’s what we know, how we’ve been raised, but I can’t help thinking that maybe we can be different.

Walking around the clearing, I take note of everything we’ll need to get through the year. At the very least, we’ll need a covered area for cooking

and eating, a washing station … enough firewood to get through the winter.

Stepping to the edge of the forest, I study the ragged, hacked-off stumps marking the perimeter. It doesn’t appear the girls have ever ventured further than this. I wonder how deep it is, where it goes, how many creatures call this place home, but whatever lurks beyond the clearing, mad animals or vengeful ghosts, we’re trapped in here together by a fence taller than giants. The wind filtering through the branches makes the last of the fall leaves shiver. There’s something about it that makes me shiver, too.

I may not know much about the encampment, what happens to us here, but I do know land. This island doesn’t care that we’re grace year girls— that we’ve been put here by God and the chosen men to rid ourselves of our power—winter will descend upon us just the same. And I can tell by the chill in the air that there will be no mercy.

The sound of a stake being driven into the earth grabs my attention. Behind the punishment tree, toward the eastern fence, Kiersten appears to be erecting a series of tall sticks. I thought I was the first one up, but from the looks of it, she must’ve been up for hours collecting fallen branches, sharpening the ends. I’m thinking she must be building something for the camp—maybe it’s the start of a washing shed or even maypoles for dancing

—but when she drives the last stake into the dirt and stands back to survey her work, I understand what this is. A calendar. One post to signify each full moon. This year, there are thirteen. A bad omen. I want to believe it’s simply a way to keep track of our time out here, but the placement is no coincidence. Back home, full moons are punishment days. Totems to our sin.

As if Kiersten can sense my presence, she turns and stares over her shoulder. My skin prickles beneath her gaze. There are twenty-six days until the next full moon. Twenty-six days to figure out how to turn this around. Because if I don’t, I’m certain I’ll be on the top of her list.

“Get back, veiled girls first,” I hear someone holler.

Peeking around the larder, I find Jenna and Jessica pushing their way to the front of the well, grabbing the bucket from Becca.

I want to sink back, disappear into the grainy wood, but those days are over. And I certainly didn’t help matters by getting in Kiersten’s way last

night. I thought I’d be a lone wolf out here, but even after this short amount of time I feel a certain responsibility for Gertie and the others. The others. That sounds terrible, but that’s how we’re raised to think of it—the unveiled, the unwanted, the undesirable—what I should’ve been. But if I start thinking about that right now, about Michael, I’ll get so mad I won’t be able to see straight.

Taking in a deep breath, I walk toward the well. “Is there a problem?”

The girls at the front lower their veils and glare at me before traipsing off to join Kiersten.

We’re all standing there, staring at one another, wondering if anyone has changed in their sleep, but we all seem to be the same. Just as scared … just as confused. Last night, emotions were running high, lines had been drawn, but after a good night’s rest, all of that could change. I wouldn’t blame them. Kiersten clearly has it in for me. And Gertrude … well, Gertrude is a whole other story. I know they’re still a little wary being around her, but I don’t think she did anything wrong. I wonder how long it will take for Gertie to confide in us about what really happened.

“Do we have to drink this?” Molly asks, sniffing the water in the bucket. “Didn’t Tierney say something about a rain barrel?” Martha asks.

Gertie nudges me forward.

I clear my throat. “I thought we could use the well water for bathing and washing, and then rain water for drinking and cooking.”

“You heard what Kiersten said.” Tamara barges forward, fumbling to get her arm out from under her veil so she can scoop her pewter cup into the bucket. “We drink from the well.”

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Martha says, “How long do you think it would take to make one?”

“Couple of days,” I reply. “If we had the right tools.”

“Well, there goes that idea,” Martha says, dipping her cup into the bucket, drinking it down. She gags a little. “Only the best for the grace year girls.”

I don’t know if she trips or just loses her footing, but Martha seems to wobble on her feet, accidentally pushing the bucket over the edge. She grabs the rope, nearly going down with it. “I’m fine,” she calls out. With

her skirts raised high in the air, we have to hold on to her legs to pull her back, and it hits me—literally hits me in the head.

“The hoops. We can use the boning from our skirts to bind the wood for the barrels.”

“But you heard what they said.” Becca chews on her cuticles.

Martha, now upright, her eyes bright with mischief, says, “They can have their water. We’ll have ours.”

The girls look at each other nervously before nodding in agreement.

Back in the county, cutting up our clothes, removing our underskirts would be enough for a whipping, but everything’s different now. The realization gives us a surge of energy.

After a humble breakfast of cornmeal cakes, we gather the axe, and any nails we can dig from the ashes, and head off to the west, in the opposite direction of Kiersten and the others, who seem to be doing nothing more than kneeling in the dirt and praying.

Maybe our magic will consume us, making us little more than animals, but until that time comes, until the poachers lure us out of the gate to be cut up and placed in pretty little bottles, there’s work to be done.

Toward the western edge of the clearing, we settle near a grove of ash and oak. I set my sights on a widowmaker near the perimeter. It’s dead, so it’s already seasoned, which will give us decent wood to burn until the other timber dries out.

I’m waiting for everyone to pitch in, give their opinions on the best angle for the first cut, but they look completely bewildered. Clearly, I’m the only one who knows how to do this, so I’m going to have to start with the basics.

“The key is a good split. Once you get it in there, it will eventually give. Like this,” I say as I slam the axe into the wood. Prying it out, I hand it over to Molly. She takes it from me as gingerly as if she’s accepting a flower from a suitor, but as soon as she gets her first bite of wood, she grins, gripping the axe a little tighter. When her arms have turned to soft custard, she passes it on to Lucy.

Lucy hauls it back for the first strike.

“Wait, wait, wait,” I call out, grabbing the hilt. “You have to at least keep your eyes open.”

Some of the other girls laugh.

“No, it’s okay. You’ve never done this before,” I assure her. “But this is serious. You wouldn’t believe the timber injuries I’ve seen in the healing house.”

At the mention of this, the girls pipe down.

“Here…” I position the axe in her arms. “Feet wide, strong grip, take in a deep breath through your nose,” I say as I back away, “and when you exhale through your mouth, lock eyes on your target and swing.”

Lucy takes her time, and when the blade makes contact with the wood, there’s a satisfying crack. As the tree begins to lurch, I’m looking up trying to see which way it’s going to fall, and when it starts to go down we all run to the other side, laughing, hooting, and hollering.

Cutting the tree into chunks and splitting the wood into quarters is grueling work, but it seems to be exactly what we need. The girls take turns going back to the well for water, sneaking dried apples from the larder, and as the day goes on, we’re talking and laughing, like we’ve been doing this for years. Maybe it’s being away from the county, being able to use our bodies to do something useful, but I think opening up to them last night about the dreams, about the girl, seemed to have given them permission to do the same. To be themselves.

Looking around, it’s hard to fathom that in a year’s time we might turn on one another, sacrifice bits and pieces of our flesh, and burn this place to the ground, but if it’s anything close to what Kiersten is claiming to be true? God help us.

As the girls pile up the boning from their skirts, I get to work on the rain barrels, cutting large discs from a mighty oak. I’ve only seen the men in the fields make these a few times, but I’m not about to tell them that. Confidence is key, that’s what my father always said. When he went on calls, even if he wasn’t certain how to treat someone, he never let on. He was afraid that if he showed even the slightest waver, they’d go right back to the dark ages—drinking animal blood, relying on prayer to heal them, or

worse, the black market. He needed their trust. He needed them to believe he could help them even if he couldn’t.

As I get to work, cutting the planks for the sides, Ellie asks, “Why did your father teach you all this?”

An unexpected wave of emotion comes over me. “I guess I was the closest thing to a son he was ever going to get.” But even as I’m saying it, I’m wondering if it goes deeper than that. I want to believe he did this so I would be able to take care of myself out here, but if that’s the case, that means he knows exactly what this place really is, and he sent me here anyway. The night before I left he said teaching me was a mistake … like I was a mistake.

“Tierney? Are you okay?” Ellie asks.

I look down to find my hands trembling. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here like this, staring off into nothing, but long enough that all the girls are watching me with concern. That’s never happened to me before.

“Here, why don’t you give it a try?” I say, putting the axe in Ellie’s hands, anything to get the attention off me.

As she pulls it back to swing, she loses her balance and goes spinning round and round, until she finally collapses to the ground, narrowly missing cutting off her own foot in the process.

As we gather around, Martha says, “Give her some air.” Nanette brings a cup of water to her lips.

“I don’t know what happened,” she whispers, her cheeks flushed, her eyes struggling to focus. “It was as if my head got so light that it felt like it was going to drift away.”

“Maybe it’s your magic,” Helen says. “Maybe you’ll be able to hover above the ground … float among the stars.”

“Or maybe we’re just overworked,” I say as I pick up the axe, burying it into the stump. “It was a long journey.”

They look at each other; I can tell they’re not entirely convinced. “Tierney’s right,” Martha says, flopping down in the grass. “Until

something happens … until we’re certain … it’s best to keep our heads.”

One by one, we find ourselves lying in a patch of dried-up grass, staring up at the clouds, our bodies spent, our minds splayed open wide enough to speak without any more pretense.

“I don’t know what I was expecting…,” Lucy says, squinting toward the fence. “But it wasn’t this.” A tiny moth flutters around her, landing on the back of her hand. “I thought we’d be fighting off poachers.”

“Or battling ghosts and wild animals,” Patrice says.

“I thought when we stepped through the gate, our magic would rip through us,” Martha says, plucking a willow from the grass, blowing on the seeds. “But nothing happened.”

“I’m glad we’re away from the county,” Nanette says. “If I had to look at my parents’ disappointed faces for one more second, I was going to explode.”

“We knew I wouldn’t get a veil,” Becca says, staring up at the cornflower-blue sky. “I didn’t even have my first blood until May, and no one wants a late bloomer.”

“Better than not having one at all,” Molly says. “I never even had a chance at a veil, let alone a spot in the mill or the dairy. It’ll be the fields for me.”

“I didn’t mind not getting a veil,” Martha says. They all look at her in shock.

“What?” she says with a casual shrug. “At least I don’t have to worry about dying in childbirth.”

They look appalled, but no one argues with her. What can they possibly say? It’s the truth.

“I thought I was getting one,” Lucy admits.

“From who?” Patrice props up on her elbow, excited for a juicy tidbit. “Russel Peterson,” she whispers, as if just saying his name is like

pressing down on a fresh bruise.

“Why would you think he’d give you a veil?” Helen asks, feeding a bit of apple to Dovey. “Everyone knows he’s been sweet on Jenna for years.”

“Because he told me so,” she murmurs. “Sure.” Patrice rolls her eyes.

“She’s telling the truth,” I say. “I’ve seen them together in the meadow.”

Lucy looks over at me, her eyes welling up with giant tears.

I’m trying not to picture her—eyes turned to God as Russel grunts over her, whispering empty promises.

“And what were you doing in the meadow?” Patrice asks, clearly trying to dig up dirt.

“Michael,” I reply. “We used to meet there all the time.” “Just like Kiersten said,” one of the girls whispers.

“No … never.” I lift my head to see who said that, but I can’t tell. “Not like that. We’re friends, that’s all. I was as surprised as anyone when I received a veil. And even then, I was sure it was Tommy or Mr. Fallow.”

“I wouldn’t mind Tommy, at least he has all his teeth, but Geezer Fallow…” Ellie crinkles up her nose.

Nanette elbows her, nodding toward Gertrude, but Gertie pretends not to hear. It’s sad to think how good she is at pretending.

There’s an awkward pause. I’m trying to think of something to say, anything to divert their attention, when Gertrude says, “My parents called it a miracle. I mean, it’s not every day a girl accused of depravity gets a veil.” Her candor seems to disarm everyone. We all find ourselves staring at the thick scars on her knuckles. I want to tell her it wasn’t a miracle, that she’s worthy of a veil, but she’s right. A veil has never been given to a girl accused of a crime before, in all of grace year history, especially nothing as grave as depravity.

“It’s funny,” Gertie says, without the slightest hint of a smile on her face. “The same thing that prevented me from getting a veil from one of the boys in my year is the exact reason I received one from Geezer Fallow.”

“What do you mean?” Helen asks.

She takes in a steeling breath. “When he lifted my veil and leaned in to kiss my cheek … he pinched me hard between my legs and whispered, ‘Depravity suits me just fine.’”

I feel a strange heat move to my neck and cheeks.

Maybe we all do, because it’s so quiet I swear I can hear one of the willow seeds settling between the blades of grass.

Whatever was in that lithograph … I know Gertrude Fenton didn’t deserve this … and I’m fairly certain that Kiersten’s to blame.

 

 

 

Returning to the camp with enough firewood to last the month, we start stacking it up in neat rows under the awning of the larder when screams echo from the eastern side of the clearing. Dropping everything, we run over to help, but what I find is all at once puzzling and chilling. The girls are lined up behind Ravenna, holding hands, as if creating some kind of barrier. Ravenna’s hands are raised to the sky. Muscles strained, veins bulging, sweat trailing down her neck, she appears to be grasping an invisible ball, trembling under the weight of it.

“Keep going,” Kiersten says, urging her on. “Just a little lower.” “What’s she doing … what’s going on?” Martha whispers.

“Shut up, dummy,” one of the girls hisses from behind her veil. “She’s making the sun go down.”

Patrice passes it on, as if everyone isn’t hanging on every syllable. “She thinks she’s making the sun set.”

“Maybe she is,” Helen whispers, staring in awe. “It does feel earlier than yesterday,” Lucy adds.

As they’re watching her grunt and sweat and strain, I can see it in their eyes. This is what they’ve been waiting for. This is what they thought their grace year would be.

I want to tell them that the sun will set a little earlier every day until the solstice, but even I’m starting to wonder.

When the sun finally reaches its resting place, Ravenna collapses to the earth in a heap of sweat-drenched flesh. The girls rush in around her,

picking her up, patting her on the back, congratulating her.

“I knew you could do it.” Kiersten reaches for the end of Ravenna’s braid, pulling the red silk ribbon free. The release I feel is undeniable. It’s not just the idea of feeling dusk move through my hair, although that must feel like heaven—it’s the sense of unwavering purpose they share.

As Ravenna kneels down to pray, they join her.

“Deliver me from evil. Let this magic burn through me so I can return a purified woman, worthy of your love and mercy.”

“Amen,” the girls whisper from beneath their veils.

Kneeling in the dirt, barefoot, eyes to God, bathed in golden light, they look like something not of this earth. No longer girls, but women on the verge of coming into their power. Their magic.

I promised myself I would keep my feet firmly rooted in the soil, that I wouldn’t give in to superstition and flights of fancy, so why am I trembling?

 

 

 

Dinner around the bonfire is quiet, tense. Each group clinging to their secrets. I want to air our grievances, get everything out in the open so we can work together, but that’s clearly never going to happen, not as long as Kiersten’s in charge.

“What are you staring at?” Kiersten asks. I quickly avert my gaze.

Kiersten whispers something to Jenna, Jenna to Jessica, Jessica to Tamara, and I know they’re talking about me. I don’t know what kind of lies she’s spreading, what kind of clever new nickname she’s given me, but she’s obviously up to something.

A high-pitched shriek rings out from the forest, making everyone stop midbreath and stare into the dark woods.

“It’s one of the ghosts,” Jenna whispers. “I heard that if you get too close, they can take over your body. Make you do things you don’t want to do.”

“Isn’t that what happened to Melania Rushik?” Hannah asks. “I heard they got into her head, whispered things, beckoned her into the woods with the promise of a veil, and when she finally succumbed, they spit her body out of the barrier in twelve different pieces.”

The noise rings out again, which sets off a flurry of gasps and nervous whisperings of who the ghosts will go after first.

“It’s an elk,” I say.

“How would you know?” Tamara snaps.

“Because I used to go into the northern forests with my father this time of year to check on the trappers who didn’t make it in for trading. It’s looking for a mate.”

“Whatever it is … it’s creepy,” Helen says, nuzzling Dovey under her cloak.

“You think you know everything, but you don’t,” Jessica says, glaring at me.

“I know that we chopped enough wood to last the month, made the meals, cleaned up, built rain barrels … what did you do?”

“You’re wasting your time with all that,” Kiersten says with a placid smile. “Every day that goes by that you don’t embrace your magic is a day lost.”

“We should get to bed,” I say, standing up, faking a yawn. “We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow … you know, building a washing station, a tub … things that will actually help us survive.”

“You may think you’re helping them, but you’re not,” Kiersten says. “You’re only holding them back.”

I pretend not to hear her, but I’m bad at pretending.

“I hope that tub’s for Dirty Gertie,” one of the veiled girls calls after us. “She’s going to need it.”

Laughter erupts around the campfire. I want to go back and clobber them, but Gertie shakes her head. Short. Precise. She fixes me with the same look my mother gave me when my father delivered my veil to the church.

“Don’t,” she whispers.

As the other girls file past us into the lodging house, I hold Gertie back. “I know it was Kiersten’s lithograph. You should tell the others.”

“That’s my business,” she says firmly. “Promise you won’t interfere.”

“Promise,” I reply, feeling bad for pushing her. “But can you at least tell me why you took the blame?”

“I thought it would be easier,” Gertie says, staring straight ahead, but I can hear the emotion in her voice. “I thought if I took the blame she would

—”

“Coming?” Martha says, holding the door open.

Gertrude hurries along, more than happy to end the conversation.

With the lanterns low, we settle into our beds, peering up at the spiderwebs clinging to the beamed ceiling, trying not to imagine what’s happening around the fire.

“What if it’s true?” Becca says, breaking the silence. “What if we’re wasting our time? You know what they’ll do to us if we come back without getting rid of all of our magic.”

“We just got here,” I say, trying to position my body around the springs. “There’s plenty of time for all that. They’re just trying to scare us.”

“It’s working,” Lucy says, pulling her blanket up to her nose. “I for one am in no hurry to lose my mind,” Martha says.

“But I was a late bloomer,” Becca says, sheer panic in her hushed voice. “What if it’s the same with my magic? What if it comes too late and I can’t get rid of it in time?”

“It’s not the same thing,” Patrice says. “How do you know?”

A low groan echoes through the woods, making us all hold our breath. “It’s just another elk, right?” Nanette asks.

I nod, though I’m not entirely sure.

“Did you see the way Kiersten was looking at me tonight?” Lucy says from beneath her covers. “She’s always hated me. I have three younger sisters … if she makes me do something with her magic … if I walk into the woods and my body is unaccounted for—”

“We’re getting carried away,” I say. “This is what she wants. All we have to do is stick together. Be sensible.”

“But you saw what Ravenna can do,” Ellie says.

“All we saw was a girl holding an invisible ball,” I say.

“But I felt it.” Molly presses her palms against her lower abdomen. “There was a moment when I saw the sun in her hands. They were one.”

“I thought it was about to crack open between her fingers like a soft yolk,” Ellie whispers.

I want to say something, find a reasonable explanation, but the truth is, I felt it, too.

“Hey, where’s Helen?” I ask, noticing her empty bed, the absence of cooing.

“She stayed by the fire,” Nanette says, staring toward the door.

Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I swear I hear a hint of sadness in her voice, longing.

Maybe they all wish they’d stayed behind.

As much as I want to deny it, bury the thought, there’s a part of me that can’t help wondering if Kiersten was right … if I’m the one holding them back.

Maybe there’s nothing wrong with the grace year. Maybe there’s something wrong with me.

 

 

 

In the weeks that followed, while we were busy clearing away the scorched debris, building a covered area for cooking, making rain barrels, chopping wood, divvying up chores, Kiersten was busy “helping” the veiled girls embrace their magic.

It started off with silly things, doling out little dares to try to jar their magic loose, singing hymns of Eve as they knotted flower crowns in the morning dew, sitting in a circle around the punishment tree telling cautionary tales, but what at first seemed like harmless tasks turned into something infinitely more dangerous. But isn’t that how every horrible thing begins? Slow. Insipid. A twisting of the screw.

Night after night, Kiersten returned from the bonfire with another convert, glassy eyed, hair cascading down her back, making some wild claim or another.

Tamara said she could hear the wind whispering to her, and Hannah said she made a juniper berry wither just by looking at it. I could chalk it all up to their imaginations, social conditioning, superstition gone awry, but they weren’t the only ones experiencing strange goings-on. Something was happening to the rest of us. Something I couldn’t explain.

Along with dizzy spells, loss of appetite, double vision, it seemed like our irises were disappearing, soft black eroding away any color, any light. I kept thinking it was just exhaustion, or maybe some kind of illness passing through the camp, but the more I tried to make sense of it, the worse things seemed to get.

And as the full moon drew near, we bled. All of us at the same time, even Molly, just like a pack of wolves.

I tried to tell the girls that just because you can’t explain something, that doesn’t make it magic, but one by one they inched their beds closer to the other side of the room, drawn to wild tales of magic and mysticism.

Honestly, I couldn’t blame them. I’d lived with these doubts about the grace year my entire life, and even I was starting to question things.

Question my sanity.

A few nights ago, as we were huddled around the fire, Meg swiped her hand through the flames. “I can’t feel it,” she exclaimed. As she looked to Kiersten, I felt something pass between them, a surge of invisible energy. Maybe it was all in my head, maybe it was Kiersten’s magic, a language I couldn’t understand, but in the next moment, Meg held her hand in the flames until her skin bubbled up like a hundred singing bullfrogs.

“What are you doing?” I yelled as I grabbed on to her, pulling her back from the heat.

Meg looked up at me, with those huge black eyes. She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She laughed.

They all did.

Soon, wild rumors of ghostly activities swept through the camp. Things were disappearing, being smashed to bits in the night. Interestingly enough, the ghosts were only going after the things I’d built, but I didn’t let it deter me.

As crazy as it got in the camp, I tried my best to stick to routine, keep up with the chores, but it was getting harder and harder to rally even myself, let alone the other girls. I suppose sitting around the fire talking about ghosts and magic is a lot more appealing than hard labor, but I promised myself that I would keep my head. If the magic takes me, so be it, but I won’t give in without reason, without a fight.

In the early-morning hours, with whoever’s willing, we head out to the western side of the clearing, to start on some futile project or another, but soon find ourselves lost in the clouds … the wind … the trees.

It makes me think of the women in the county—draping their fingers over the water, tilting their faces toward the late-autumn wind, is this what

they’re remembering? Is this what they’re trying to get back to?

I feel like I’m missing something … a key piece of the puzzle. But when I look at the fence, the endless sea of stripped cedars stretching out for miles, it occurs to me—even though we’re sent here against our will, to live or die like animals, this is the most freedom we’ve ever had. That we’ll probably ever get.

I don’t know why it makes me laugh. It’s not funny at all. But I find Gertie, Martha, and Nanette laughing along with me, until we’re crying.

Walking back to the camp, there’s a sense of dread. Maybe it’s just the weather turning, but it feels like something more. Every day the tension seems to be mounting. What it’s mounting to, I cannot say, but it’s palpable, something you can feel in the air.

As we approach the campfire, we find the girls already assembled, feeding on their own whispers, their dark eyes tracking us like slivers of wet shale.

Grabbing a pitcher of water from the rain barrel, a handful of dried fruit and nuts from the larder, we escape their heavy gaze, retreating into the lodging house, only to find four more beds have been moved to the other side of the room—Lucy, Ellie, Becca, and Patrice have all succumbed. No one says a word, but I know we’re all wondering which one of us will be next. It doesn’t even feel like an if anymore, but a when.

 

 

 

A mournful cry echoes through the forest, making me flinch. I’m not sure if it’s a nightmare or reality, but they feel like one and the same as of late.

Listening closer, I only hear the heady lull of slumber all around me, the soft coo of Dovey sleeping in Helen’s arms. “Everything’s okay,” I whisper to myself.

“Is it?” Gertrude asks.

I turn on my side to face her. I want to tell her yes, but I’m not sure anymore. I’m not sure about anything. I can’t stop staring at her knuckles, the thick ropelike scars glinting pink and silver in the lamplight.

“Go ahead and ask,” she whispers. “I know you want to.”

“What do you mean?” I try to play it off, but as Gertie pointed out, I’m bad at pretending.

I’m trying to find the words, how I can phrase this without causing her any more embarrassment, any more pain, but then she does it for me.

“You want to know what was in that lithograph.” “If you don’t want to say, I underst—”

“It was a woman,” she whispers. “She had long hair that was loose around her shoulders, ringlets barely skimming her breasts. A red silk ribbon coiled around her hand like a serpent. Her cheeks were flushed; her head was tilted up.”

“Eyes to God,” I say, thinking of our lessons.

“No,” she says in a dreamy tone. “Her eyes were half closed, but it felt like she was staring right at me.”

“In pain?” I ask, remembering hearing about some pictures that were confiscated from the trappers a few years back. Women bound, contorted in ungodly shapes.

“The opposite.” Gertrude looks up at me, eyes shining. “She looked happy. Rapturous.”

My imagination is running wild. That goes against everything we’ve been taught. We’ve all heard the rumors about the women in the outskirts, that some of them might even enjoy it, but this woman had a red ribbon. She was clearly one of us. I swallow hard at the thought. “What were they doing to her?”

“That’s the thing,” Gertrude whispers. “She was alone. She was touching herself.”

The notion is so shocking that my breath catches in my throat.

“Dirty Gertie,” someone hisses from the dark, and the entire room erupts in giggles. Jeers.

I want to tell them it was Kiersten’s lithograph, that Gertie took the blame, but I made a promise. It’s not my story to tell.

As I watch her sink back into her covers, my heart aches for her.

 

 

 

To clear my head, get my mind off the deteriorating state of the camp, I set out to chop wood along the western perimeter.

I don’t expect the rest of the girls to help out anymore, but Gertie’s absence is a little more worrisome. Ever since the other night in the lodging house, when the girls overheard her talking about the lithograph, she’s kept scarce … distant.

Some of the girls have been whispering, saying that she must be coming into her magic, but I think it’s shame. It must feel like she’s being punished in the square all over again. I want to help her, pull her out of whatever mood she’s in, but I’m struggling myself.

Just this morning, I had the feeling that there were a million fire ants crawling on my skin, only to find nothing there. I don’t have a name for what’s happening … I don’t know what to call it … but that still doesn’t mean it’s magic.

As I near the western edge of the clearing, I feel a heat move through me, like I’m burning from the inside out. Taking off my cloak, I lay it down over a stump and take in a deep breath of cool air. “Whatever this is, it will pass,” I whisper.

Grabbing the axe, I set my sights on an old pine. As I place my hand against it to steady myself, my fingers begin to tingle. The deep ridges in the rough bark seem to be pulsing with energy. Or maybe the energy is coming from me, but I feel like it’s trying to tell me something.

Pressing my ear to the bark, I swear I hear it whispering. I think this must be it, my magic taking over, when I realize the sound is coming from behind me.

Peering over my shoulder, I see Kiersten sitting on the stump, stroking my cloak, her nails scraping against the grain of the wool. I don’t know how long she’s been there watching me, but I don’t like it. I’m searching behind her, wondering where the rest of her followers are, but I think she’s alone.

“Put that down. It’s mine,” I say, gripping the axe in my hands.

“I don’t want your cloak,” she says, pushing it aside. “It’s heavy. No wonder you’re so muscular now.”

Peering down at my arms, I know she doesn’t mean it as a compliment. “It feels good, to do something useful,” I say as I snatch the cloak from

her, putting it back on. “You should try it.”

“Because isn’t that the biggest sin of all for a woman?” she says, twirling a sunlit curl around her finger. “Not to be of use.”

Her tone catches me off guard, but I need to stay cautious. “Why are you here, Kiersten?”

“I need you,” she says with a deep sigh. “The girls need you. You can help them.”

“If this is about the magic … I can’t embrace something I don’t have—” “You’re right. I don’t think you have any magic, either.”

“What?” I perk up.

“I think you’ve been hiding it for years, that you burned through it right under our noses.” She gets up, stalking toward me. “That’s how you got your father’s attention, got him to teach you those things, and that’s how you stole Michael from me. You squandered your magic, and now you want them to bury theirs. Is there no decency in you?”

“Decency?” I jut my head back. “You’re one to talk. What about Gertie?”

“What about Gertie?” Her eyes narrow.

“You can cut the innocent routine. I know everything.”

“Do you, now?” She flashes an uneasy smile. “It would be a shame if Gertie was the first girl in the camp to fall.”

“Don’t threaten me.” I tighten my grip on the axe. “There’s no reason we have to die here.”

“We all die, Tierney.” The corner of her mouth twists up. “In the county, everything they take away from us is a tiny death. But not here…” She spreads her arms out, taking in a deep breath. “The grace year is ours. This is the one place we can be free. There’s no more tempering our feelings, no more swallowing our pride. Here we can be whatever we want. And if we let it all out,” she says, her eyes welling up, her features softening, “we won’t have to feel those things anymore. We won’t have to feel at all.”

Staggering back, I rest against the pine, feeling the wood beneath my fingertips … something real, something to anchor me to reality. But this is happening. Kiersten’s human, after all. I think I finally understand her. She’s afraid.

There’s a part of me that wants to give in … wants to believe … wants to be a part of this, so I can unleash my anger and be rid of it, but I can’t do it. Maybe it’s the memory of the girl from my dreams or maybe it’s just me, but I know we can be more than this.

“I can’t help you,” I whisper.

“Then I can’t help you,” she replies, her face hardening back into its usual mask. “I think you’ve done enough,” she says, taking the axe from me. “I’ll take it from here.”

 

 

After pacing the perimeter, trying to figure out what just happened, what to do, I’m heading back to camp to tell the others when I hear voices. I close my eyes, trying to block it out, but it’s not in my head this time.

“It’s the right thing … for both of you … for the good of the camp.” Peeking around the larder, I find Gertie standing there with Kiersten.

“Hey,” I call out.

Gertie looks up at me. Her face is red and damp with tears.

“The choice is yours,” Kiersten says before returning to the camp. “What choice … What’s for the good of the camp?” I ask.

She wipes her face with the back of her filthy hand, clearly trying to pull herself together. “Kiersten’s called a gathering tonight … for the full moon.”

Thinking about what this means at home, I clench my hand into a fist, wondering which of my fingertips will be the first to go. “We can stay scarce.”

“Everyone has agreed,” she says as she glances toward the clearing. “Everyone but you.”

“Oh,” I say with a deep exhalation of breath, trying not to look as disappointed as I feel.

“The girls are talking … having doubts.” “Are you?” I ask.

She stares down at the shriveled sprig of elderflower cupped in the palm of her hand. It’s an old flower, seldom used anymore, but it’s the symbol of

absolution.

“Did she give that to you?”

Gertie closes her fingers around it, like she’s holding the most fragile egg.

“You know you can’t trust her. She’s not God. She can’t absolve you from something she did herself. She’s the reason you were punished. Remember what she did to you.” I reach out for her hands to turn them over, to show her the scars, but she pulls away from me, staggering back a few steps in the process.

“She apologized,” Gertie says as she slowly regains her balance. “We’re friends again.”

“Friends?” I laugh.

“You have no idea what it’s like … being an outcast … being reviled.” “Look around … I don’t see anyone trying to help me.”

“But that’s your choice.” She shakes her head. “You never wanted to be one of us.” A pained look comes over her. “All you have to do is accept your magic and—”

“I can’t accept something I don’t feel. Maybe it’s an illness, but whatever’s happening to us—”

“She’s calling you a heretic,” she says, her chin trembling. “A usurper.”

I don’t know why it makes me laugh. Back in the county, if you were accused of heresy, they didn’t even bother with the gallows. They just burned you alive. I pull my cloak tighter around me. “Kiersten just wants chaos because she wants control.”

“You’re wrong.” Gertie’s brow knots up in a tight line. “She truly believes that by embracing her magic, turning herself over to the darkness inside of her, that she will get to go home a purified woman. Rid herself of her sins, start anew.”

“What sins? The sin of being born a girl?” “We all have sin,” she whispers.

A caw rings out over the woods, making Gertie flinch.

“It’s just a crow,” I say, but I’m not sure this time. I’m not entirely sure I heard it at all. Looking up, I see the clouds race by so fast that it makes me

dizzy. “Kiersten,” I say, lowering my eyes, trying to regain my focus. “She came to see me today. She’s just using you to get to me.”

“Not everything is about you, Tierney.”

“Then what’s it about? Tell me. What’s really bothering you?”

She looks up at me, her eyes large and glassy. “I don’t want to be Dirty Gertie anymore. I just want it to stop.”

“If this is about the other girls … I can talk to them … I can get them to

—”

“I don’t need your help anymore.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Did she threaten you? Did she promise you something?” I’m searching her face, looking for any kind of clue, but Gertie’s good at pretending. “What are you hiding?” I ask.

Gertie looks toward the punishment tree. I can’t see the expression on her face, but I notice the tension in her jaw. It’s almost as if she’s clamping her mouth shut so nothing will slip out against her will. “I think it’s best if we don’t speak anymore,” she says before joining the others.

 

 

I spend the rest of the day tapping maples, collecting tinder from the perimeter, anything to keep my mind occupied, keep away from the camp, but I feel myself drifting, like a piece of deadwood caught in a violent current.

My palms are blistered up beyond recognition by the time I decide to head back to camp. I take my time, in part because I don’t want Kiersten to think I’m taking this gathering seriously, but also because there’s a part of me that’s scared. I overheard some of the girls saying they came into their magic just by staring into the flames. I keep thinking there has to be another explanation for all this. There’s no denying we’re in a weakened state right now, vulnerable, but I can’t stop them if they want to succumb. People see what they want to see. Including me.

As I approach the fire, the wood isn’t the only thing crackling. The very air surrounding the assembled girls feels charged. There’s lightning in the distance, and a low grumble, like the echo of an avalanche from clear across the world.

On instinct, I find Gertie in the crowd, but she doesn’t motion for me to join her. She doesn’t acknowledge me at all. I want to fix this, apologize for whatever I did to offend her, but maybe she needs space right now. What I wouldn’t give for a little more space. My eyes scan the fence keeping us from the outside world. So far, the poachers have made no attempt to lure us out. If I hadn’t seen one of them with my own eyes, I might even

question their existence. I wonder if they’re watching us right now. Taking bets on which one of us will be the next to fall.

A roar of thunder releases. Closer this time.

“Listen. She’s trying to communicate,” Kiersten says. “It’s only thunder,” Martha murmurs.

“Only thunder?” Kiersten says in a stern singsong voice. “Might I remind you of the story of Eve. Mother Nature herself. She was once a grace year girl. I think she’s trying to reach out to one of us.”

“What does she want?” Tamara asks, sinking deeper into her cloak. “She’s trying to warn us.” Kiersten lowers her chin, the fire casting

ghoulish shadows across the planes of her face. “What happened to Eve could happen to us. If we do not listen … if we do not heed her warning,” Kiersten says staring directly at me. “Like some of you, Eve didn’t believe. She laughed in the face of God. She held on to her magic, and when she returned home, she pretended she was purified, but every day that passed, the magic grew inside of her until it could no longer be contained. Under a full moon, on a night just like tonight, she killed her entire family.”

A wave of repulsion swells through the crowd.

“If the men of the council hadn’t stopped her, she would’ve killed them all.”

I always thought it was just an old wives’ tale, a fable, but looking around the campfire, I can see they’re eating it up.

Kiersten raises her chin, looking up at the churning night sky. “When they burned her in the square, the sky opened up, taking her in, and there she remains as a reminder to us all.”

A clap of thunder makes everyone jump.

“Listen,” Kiersten whispers. “She will not be ignored. If she’s communicating with someone in this group, speak up, claim your power. It’s the only way to save yourself.”

A girl from the back meekly raises her hand. “I hear her.” Kiersten motions for her to step forward.

Vivian Larson, a mouse of a girl, who received a veil from her cousin, someone that Kiersten has never paid any attention to a day in her life. I

doubt she even knows her name, but now Vivi finds herself in the center of the sun, basking in Kiersten’s approval.

“Tell us. What is she saying to you?”

“E-everything you said.” Vivian clasps her hands in front of her. “She’s warning us of what could happen.”

“Did she say there’s a heretic among us … a usurper?”

Another bolt of thunder groans above, and Vivian shoots me an uneasy look. The same look she gave me when I stumbled upon her in the meadow with a boy from one of the labor houses last year. “I’m not sure.”

I pretend not to notice, but I can feel eyes on me from every direction. “All in good time. Keep listening, friend,” Kiersten says as she pulls

Vivi’s red ribbon free, running her hands through her unkempt, oily hair. Vivi smiles up at the moon, like she’s just been released from the devil. From me.

“I only hope it’s not too late for the rest of you.” Kiersten paces around the fire. “All of these things you’ve been building, laboring over…,” she says, pushing over a cooking stand. “They’re meaningless.”

“They’re not meaningless,” I can’t help blurting out. “You’ve certainly benefited from all of our hard work.”

Kiersten turns on me with a focus that makes my skin prickle. “Being comfortable and well fed is not going to lead us to our magic. We’re put here to suffer, to rid ourselves of the poison inside of us.” Her eyes look wild in the firelight, menacing. “We’re here because Eve tempted Adam with her magic. Poisoning him with ripened fruit. If we don’t use our magic, if we don’t rid ourselves of our demons, you know what will happen. You’ve seen what happens to the returning girls who try to hang on to their magic—they’re sent to the gallows … or worse.”

A shiver of fear ripples through the crowd … through me.

“But what if Tierney’s right?” a small voice calls from the back. It’s Nanette. She sleeps on the bed next to me. “What if it’s just our imagination or some kind of illness?”

Instead of exploding in anger, Kiersten gets calm. Scary calm. “Is this because of Tierney’s wicked dreams?”

I look around the campfire, wondering which one of them told, but I’ve got bigger problems right now.

“Don’t you see what she’s doing? Filling your heads with devious thoughts. Trying to distract you from the task at hand,” Kiersten says. “She’s not special. Look at her. She can’t even keep the one true ally she has.” Kiersten looks pointedly at Gertrude, and my worst fears are confirmed. She’s just using her to get to me. And Gertrude knows it.

“Tierney wants you to hold on to your magic, and when you return to Garner County you’ll be sent to the gallows. This is her way of getting rid of us.”

“Why would I want to do that? We’re all in this together.”

“Together?” She laughs. “Did she ever reach out to any one of you back home? Has she ever shown the slightest interest in our ways? This is her magic. Turning us against each other … who we are … what we’re meant to do.”

“You’re lying,” I say, but no one seems to be listening to me anymore.

“You,” Kiersten says, pointing to a girl in the middle of the group. It’s Dena Hurson. Tentatively she steps forward. “Didn’t you say communicating with animals runs in your family magic?”

“Yes … but…”

“Take off your clothes.”

“What?” she asks, knitting her arms over her chest.

“You heard me. Take them off.” Kiersten runs her hand down Dena’s braid and whispers in her ear. “I’m going to help you. I’m going to set you free.”

Dena looks around the campfire, but no one dares to intervene. Not even me. Letting out a shaky breath, she removes her cape, her chemise, her underpinnings.

As she stands there, shivering, trying to cover herself the best she can in the moonlight, Kiersten steps in behind her, pressing her palms against the girl’s lower abdomen. “You should feel it right here,” she says, fanning out her fingers, making the girl take in a shuddering breath. “Do you feel the warmth? Do you feel the tingling? Like your blood is reaching for the surface, wanting to scream?”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“That’s your magic. Latch on to it, welcome it, keep pulling it forward.”

After a few heaving breaths, Dena clenches her eyes tight. “I think I feel something.”

“Now get on all fours,” Kiersten commands. “Why?”

“Do as I say.”

Dena obeys, getting down on the ground.

I want to step in, save her from this humiliation, but she’s under Kiersten’s spell. They all are. Maybe I am, too, because I can’t seem to tear my eyes away.

As Kiersten removes Dena’s red ribbon, pulling her long auburn hair free, Dena digs her fingernails into the soil.

The girls watch with rapt attention as Kiersten walks around her, coiling the red ribbon in her hand. “Reach out to the animals of the forest. Feel their presence.”

“I don’t know how,” Dena says.

Kiersten whips the red ribbon through the air across her backside. I’m sure it doesn’t hurt, but it surprises her … surprises all of us.

“Close your eyes,” Kiersten commands. “Feel every heart beating in the woods. Find one. Focus in on that rhythm,” she says as she paces around her.

“I hear something,” Dena says as she lifts her head, eyes straining toward the forest. “I feel heat. Blood. The stench of damp fur.”

A howl comes from the woods, making everyone hold their breath. Kiersten yanks back Dena’s hair. “Answer,” she says.

As Dena howls back, stretching out her neck as far as she can, I see every tendon straining for magic. Yearning for greatness. Longing to be filled with something bigger than herself.

When Kiersten’s finally satisfied, she releases her. Dena stands to face us—flushed cheeks, hair loose and wild, tears streaming down her face, her eyes glassy with madness. “The magic is real,” she says before howling once more and then collapsing in Kiersten’s arms.

 

 

 

I wake to the sound of muffled laughter, blood on my hands, blood between my legs.

Snapping up in bed, I find myself alone on my side of the lodging house, dark red seeping through my underclothes, girls pointing and giggling behind cupped hands.

“I made that happen.” Kiersten laughs, a long feather in her hand, the tip coated in blood.

I look to Gertie, but she refuses to meet my gaze.

Grabbing my boots, I escape the stifling cabin and head to the rain barrel, to wash myself off, only to find it’s been smashed to pieces. That was my last one. I spent weeks bending the wood just right, and with the weather turning, it will be nearly impossible to make another before spring. Kiersten will blame it on the ghosts, but I know this is her doing. Searing anger rises in my cheeks. I’m furious, but I need to keep it together. They’re probably watching me right now, and the worst thing I can do is let them know they got to me.

Making a beeline for the well, I try to shove the bucket over the side, but it’s frozen solid to the stone. I’m trying to pry it free when I hear the most eerie sound.

Singing. At least it sounds like singing.

Abandoning the well, I make my way toward the gate. There’s a tiny figure hunched on the ground. The high voice, her small stature … for a moment I think it’s the little girl from my dreams. I want to run to her, but I

force myself to take measured steps. Trust no one. Not even yourself. My mother’s words echo in my head.

I crouch in front of her, but I can’t see her face. With trembling hands, I lift her filthy veil. It’s Ami Dumont. She’s stayed so quiet, so small, that I almost forgot she was here.

Leaning in close, I listen to her song.

Eve with the golden hair, sits on high in her rocking chair,

The wind doth blow, the night unfurls, weeping for all the men she’s cursed.

It’s an old nursery rhyme; I never gave it a second thought as a child, but now … here … in this moment, the words have taken on an entirely different meaning.

Girls beware, if you don’t behave, you’ll be sent to an early grave. Never a bairn to call your own, never a care to—

Abruptly, she stops singing, with her eyes fixed on the gate; her breath grows shallow in her chest, but it’s not in rhythm with the panting I hear. Following her gaze, I look behind me. At first, all I see is the gate, deep scratch marks embedded in the heavy timber, but beyond that, in the narrow cracks in the logs, I see eyes … dark eyes staring in at us.

“They can smell your blood.” She smiles up at me.

I’m backing away, trying to get away from whatever’s happening here, when my vision starts to blur. I’m staggering around the clearing trying to find anything to latch on to. The well. If I can just get some water. As I reach out for the stone ledge, my legs go out from under me. Smacking my head against the hard surface, I go down like a sack of bones.

 

 

As my eyes slowly come back into focus, I hear someone say, “All you have to do is run to the cove and back.”

Tilting my head back, I see the girls huddled in front of the gate.

“As soon as you embrace your magic, I’ll take out your braid,” Kiersten says, as if she’s talking to a child. “You can be one of us.”

Getting to my feet is harder than I thought it would be. My head is pounding. The dizziness makes the fence blur in and out like the dial on Father’s microscope.

“Can you hold Dovey for me?” Helen offers the bird to Kiersten. Kiersten cringes, shoving Jessica forward to take it. “She likes it best when you nuzzle her under your chin,” Helen adds.

“Wait,” I say as I make my way over. “She can’t leave the barrier.

There’s poachers out there.”

Jenna shoots me an exasperated look. “We thought you were dead.” “Yeah … no such luck.” I brush past her. “Helen, you can’t do this.” “But I’m invisible,” she says with a grin.

“Since when?” I ask.

“Go away,” Tamara says, pushing me aside. “Not that she needs any help, but we’ve got Ami distracting the poachers by the eastern fence with that awful singing.”

I squint toward the east. I think I see Ami’s tiny frame crouched by the barrier, but I can’t be sure.

Frantically, I’m stumbling around the crowd, searching for anyone who can talk some sense into Helen, when my eyes settle on Gertie. “You have to do something,” I whisper.

Although she’s looking away, pretending not to hear, I see real fear in her eyes.

“All you have to do is concentrate. Feel your magic,” Kiersten says, pressing the palm of her hand against Helen’s belly. “Remember, if something goes wrong I can always use my magic to make the poachers do what I want.”

Helen looks up at her and nods, but I can tell she’s not right … she’s not completely there. She looks like one of those dolls Mrs. Weaver makes with the huge blinking eyes.

“I’ll even let you wear my veil. For protection,” Kiersten says, placing the netting on top of her head. “That’s how much I believe in you.”

“Hey, that’s my veil,” Hannah says from the crowd, but she’s quickly shushed.

As Kiersten lowers the netting, they open the gate. I know I should turn around, walk away, Helen’s made her choice, but I can’t stop thinking about those scars on her feet, the ones her mother gave her for dreaming. “A seed of kindness,” I whisper.

I’m terrified of even going near the gate, let alone through it, but I can’t let this happen.

Pushing past the girls, I dart out after her. Some are screaming at me to turn back, but Kiersten says, “Let her go.”

The second I leave the safety of the encampment, the sheer force of the wind coming off the great lake hits me, taking the air right out of my lungs. I stagger back a few steps. The openness, the nothingness … maybe I’ve been cooped up in there too long, but I don’t feel free here, I only feel … exposed.

A caw in the distance slips under my skin. I’m not sure if it’s real or imagined, but it’s what I need to regain my focus.

Searching the vast landscape, the muted palette of autumn giving way to winter—blue to gray, green to beige—I spot a blur of movement. Helen’s veil clinging to her like a cloud of low river gnats.

When the second caw arrives, I know it’s real because Helen freezes in place. I’m running toward her, motioning for her to come back, but her eyes are fixed to the north, on an advancing poacher. Just the sight of him makes me woozy. He’s covered from head to toe in a gauzy charcoal fabric, a gleaming blade in his hand. Everything inside me wants to turn away, but I can’t let her die like this. For nothing.

Picking up my pace, I call out her name.

She looks at me, sheer panic washing over her face. “You can see me?” “Run.” I shove her back toward the encampment and then take off in the

opposite direction. “Run!” I scream. I’m looking over my shoulder, making sure the poacher took the bait, when I trip on a tree root, skidding to the cold earth. Instead of closing my eyes, bracing myself for what’s to come, I flip over to face my executioner. He raises his blade to deliver the blow— and then stops.

“Kick me.” A soft whisper emanates from the thin dark cloth covering his nose and mouth.

I have no idea if he said it or if it’s just the sickness settling in, but I’m not about to stick around and find out.

Pulling my knees in, I kick him as hard as I can. He reels back before doubling over on the ground.

I think about taking his knife, slitting his throat right then and there, but there’s something about the way he looked at me—something in his eyes. I wonder if it’s the same poacher I met on the trail … the one who let me go before. Leaning over his body, I’m sure it’s him. I feel it in my gut. I’m reaching out to remove the cloth obscuring his face when I hear caws coming from each direction. Backing away from him, I run toward the gate.

As Helen makes it through, the gate starts to close. I’m thinking it must be a mistake, they just don’t see me yet, but when the latch locks into place, I know this is Kiersten’s doing.

Between the poachers’ fevered calls and the girls’ screeching, I can’t think, I can’t breathe. I’m pumping my legs as hard as I can when a dizzy spell crashes over me, tilting the very ground I’m running on, but I can’t afford to give in to this. If I don’t make it back over the fence, the only way I’ll be going home is in a row of pretty glass bottles. Leaping onto the gate,

I grab the dead girls’ ribbons, pulling my way up, and when I run out of ribbon, I dig my fingernails into the splintery wood and claw my way to the top edge. I’m kicking my legs up, trying to get a foothold, but my thighs feel like they’re made of lead. As one of the poachers gets within cutting distance, I exert everything I have, managing to pull myself over, but as soon as I hit the ground on the other side, Kiersten is on top of me.

Nostrils flaring, eyes raging, she pins me to the ground, the axe pressed against my throat.

“Why did you do that?” she demands. “Why did you interfere? You almost got her killed.”

“I saved her…” I strain against the force of the blade to get the words out. “If I hadn’t interfered she would’ve been—”

“Perfectly fine!” Kiersten screams, veins bulging in her temples. “And who do you think it was that saved you?” She thrusts the steel in a little deeper. “I did,” she says. “I’m the one who made the poacher stop. They all witnessed it.” She glances back at the crowd of girls. “Do you still deny our magic?”

I’m trying to speak, but I’m afraid. Afraid of the blade going in any deeper, but more afraid of my answer. “I … I don’t know what made him stop,” I whisper, my eyes tearing up. “But it happened before … on the trail.”

Kiersten shakes her head in disgust. “If you want to deny your magic, risk facing the gallows upon your return, be my guest. But don’t drag the rest of them down with you.” She pulls the blade back and I take a deep gasp of air, clutching my throat.

Kiersten stands to face the crowd. “We’ve tried to help her, but she’s lost to us now. Anyone caught consorting with this heretic will be punished.”

As I lie on the ground, watching them walk back toward the camp, I can see it in their eyes. This is the final bit of proof they needed, when all I could offer them was a secondhand dream.

But I know what I saw. I know what I felt. They can call it magic.

I can call it madness. But one thing is certain.

There is no grace here.

 

 

 

Just before dawn, a sickening wave of caws echo through the woods, and when the sun rises, slow and thick over the eastern fence, Ami isn’t sitting by the gate anymore. I hear the girls whispering, saying Kiersten made her do it so she would stop singing that song, but I saw it in Ami’s eyes long before our grace year. She was always far too delicate for this world. And now she’s gone.

No one speaks to me anymore. No one even looks at me.

With all of the rain barrels destroyed, I have no choice but to drink from the well, but every time I get near it they chase me off.

Crawling along the perimeter, I lick the morning dew from the leaves, but it only makes me crave water all the more. My tongue feels thick, like it’s taking up all the room in my mouth, and there are times when I think I can feel it swelling, like it might choke the life out of me.

Walking the fence, in a half-moon shape, from the very edge of the clearing on the west all the way to the edge of the clearing on the east, I listen to the lake rush in and out with the tide, but that’s not all I hear. There’s breathing. Heavy. Constant. Like a living shadow. Sometimes, I convince myself that it’s Michael walking beside me, but Michael always talked my ear off. Or maybe it’s Hans, but it doesn’t feel like a protective presence. It’s the silence that’s killing me. Silence, knowing in my gut that it’s the poacher.

“I know you’re there,” I whisper.

I come to an abrupt halt and listen, but there’s no response.

I feel like a crazy person, and maybe I am. I think I crossed that line the moment I arrived in this cursed place, but I want to know why he didn’t kill me on the trail, why he let me go when I went after Helen. I know it wasn’t Kiersten’s magic, because she was nowhere near me the first time. So, what stopped him?

 

 

In the early evening, lured to the fire by the smell of burning stew, I take my place in the back of the line. I know I’m taking a risk, but I’m too famished to care. Without food or water, I won’t last long.

As I reach the front, I hold out my bowl. Katie scrapes the bottom of the kettle for the last scoop and pours it onto the ground. My stomach lets out an angry growl, but I can’t afford to be picky right now.

I’m leaning down to scoop it into my bowl when Katie presses her boot into it, the gravy gurgling around the edges of her muddy sole.

I look around at the other girls, waiting for someone to speak up for me, but no one does. It hurts. Especially after everything I’ve done to try to help them … to help the camp.

Taking in a steeling breath, I walk past their glaring eyes into the lodging house to find dead space where my cot used to be, my belongings gone. I could get another dead girl’s frame from the corner, drag it over, have them cackling at me behind my back, but I’m too tired. Tired of fighting, tired of caring, tired of everything. Curling up on the floor, I’m trying not to cry, but the harder I try, the worse it gets.

When the lodging house door creaks open, I hold my breath, hold myself still. A single set of boots comes toward me. I feel like that possum Michael and I found on the road leading to the meadow a few summers back. We thought it was dead, but it was just pretending. It seemed like such a useless survival skill at the time, but what else can you do when you feel completely defenseless. Outnumbered. Beaten.

The footsteps stop just short of my lower back. I’m bracing myself for impact when there’s a soft tap on the floor, followed by a quick retreat. Picking up the lamp, I manage to catch a glimpse of the hem of a moss- green cloak leaving the lodging house. Gertie.

And where she stood, there’s a small potato.

Snatching it up, I sink my teeth into it. The skin is scalding hot. It burns my throat to the point that I can’t even taste it, but I don’t care, anything for a moment of warmth. It takes everything I have not to devour it in one fell swoop, but I have to be smart about this. After all, I’m not sure how long my punishment will last. Tucking the remaining half into my pocket, I feel the smallest shred of hope.

 

 

 

“You,” Kiersten says, loud enough to wake the entire island. “You stole from the larder. How dare you.”

“What?” I struggle to prop myself on my elbows. “I did no such thing.” “Empty your pockets,” Kiersten yells at me.

The potato.

“Hold her down,” Kiersten says.

The other girls grab me while Kiersten rifles through the pockets of my cloak.

A satisfied grin spreads across her lips like wildfire as she pulls the cold, half-eaten potato from my pocket.

“She’s the one that told us we need to ration, trust in each other,” Jenna says.

“She only did that so she could steal from us,” a voice hisses against the back of my neck.

“I didn’t steal it. I swear—”

“Then who gave it to you?” Kiersten asks.

I shoot Gertie a nervous look. “I … I just found it.” “Liar,” she seethes.

The girls tighten their grip.

“And what happens to girls who spread lies?” Kiersten asks. “They lose their tongues,” the girls answer in unison.

Kiersten smiles down at me. I know that smile. “Get the calipers.”

As the mob drags me out of the lodging house toward the punishment tree, I scream for her to stop, but I know it’s no use. Kiersten is the only God here, and she wants everyone to know it.

Ellie skips over to us with a rusty iron clamp.

Kiersten then grabs my face, squeezing so hard that I can feel my teeth cutting into the inside of my cheeks. “Stick out your tongue,” she commands.

I’m shaking my head, tears are burning the back of my eyes, clouding my vision, but I hear Gertie yelling, “Stop … I did it.” She pushes through the crowd to get to us. “I gave her the potato,” she says, pulling Kiersten away from me.

“How could you?” Kiersten seethes. “After I gave you a second chance?

After I forgave you?”

“Forgave her?” I blurt. “You’re the one who should be begging Gertie for forgiveness. I know what you did. That was your lithograph. You took it from your father’s study and blamed it on Gertie. You ruined her life.”

Kiersten raises a brow. “Is that what she told you?”

“Come on, Tierney, let’s go,” Gertie says, locking her arm through mine. “Yes, it was my father’s lithograph,” Kiersten says. “But that’s not why

she was charged with depravity.”

“Please … don’t.” Gertie shakes her head, a haunted look on her face. “Do you know what she did?” Kiersten asks, her eyes welling up. “Don’t listen to her…,” Gertie urges, but I hold my ground.

“She tried to kiss me. And I knew then and there what she was … what she wanted,” she says, her chin trembling with rage. “She wanted me to do the dirty things that were in that picture. Sin against God.”

I feel the weight of Gertie’s body and I realize her knees must’ve gone soft. Clenching my arm tighter around hers, we take our first step back toward the lodging house, when Gertie’s head jerks back.

The sickening sound of a blade scraping against the back of her skull makes my blood turn cold.

I turn to find her crouched on the ground next to me, Kiersten standing over her with Gertie’s ribboned braid coiled around her fist. At the end, a bloody patch of scalp drips in the moonlight.

 

 

 

“You’re a monster,” I whisper.

“And you’re a fool,” Kiersten says, rolling her shoulders back. “But I am not without mercy. I’ll give you a choice. Embrace your magic … or face the woods.”

The girls stand there, watching in anticipation.

I look to Gertie, but she’s huddled in a tight ball on the ground, rocking back and forth like a broken seesaw.

“I can’t…,” I whisper back. “I can’t accept something I don’t feel.” “So be it,” Kiersten says with the wave of Gertie’s scalp. “Good-bye.”

“Now?” I ask, fighting for control of my breath. “I can’t … it’s dark … at least give me until morning.”

“My mercy has run out.”

“Wait,” I say, trying to get her attention. “I can try. What do you want me to do? Take off my clothes, howl at the moon? Do you want me to put my hand in the fire, roll around in sumac?”

“Do you hear something?” she says mockingly, swatting the air in front of her. “There’s an annoying gnat buzzing in my ear.”

“Or I’ll take the punishment. Do you want a finger … an ear … my braid? I’ll do whatever you want, but don’t make me—”

“Get rid of her.”

Without hesitation, the girls pick up the rocks from around the fire pit and start pelting them at me. One whizzes right past me, narrowly missing my temple, and I take off.

Stinging branches whip at my skin as I fight my way through dense foliage. I look up at the sky to get my bearings, but the moon and stars are hidden beneath the clouds as if they can’t bear to lay witness. I’m running when something grabs me by my skirts. I start swinging my fists wildly but only make contact with a thicket. I’m trying to untangle myself when I hear it behind me. Or maybe it’s right next to me. Is it a ghost, trying to take over my body? Or a wild animal starved for human flesh? Whatever it is, it’s something I can feel over every inch of my skin. Something watching me.

Yanking my skirt free, I take off running in the opposite direction—at least I think it’s the opposite direction. My heart is pounding, my limbs are burning with the strain, but my head is empty, some deeper part of me taking over.

I’m pummeling through the darkness, running blind, for what feels like hours, until I hit something solid.

Stunned from the impact, I stagger back; shocks of blunt pain ricochet through my limbs. At first I think I must’ve run into a giant tree, but when I reach out to touch it, it’s too smooth, like it’s been stripped clean.

“The fence,” I whisper. Sinking down next to it, I’m happy to find something familiar. Something to anchor me to reality. As the heat of my escape quickly leaves me, the chill sinks in. I’m pulling my cloak tighter around me when I hear heavy breathing. I’m hoping it’s my own, but when I place my hands over my mouth, it’s still present, steady as the grandfather clock in our front hall.

“Is that you?” I whisper through my trembling fingers.

There’s no reply, but I swear I can feel the heat from the poacher’s body seeping through the cracks in the wood. It’s the same feeling I had when I first encountered him on the trail.

“Why didn’t you kill me?” I ask, pressing my palms to the fence. “Twice you’ve let me go.”

I listen closely. There’s a sound of a blade being released from a sheath. “You won’t hurt me,” I whisper, resting my cheek against the splintery

wood. “I know it.”

As the cloud cover breaks, unveiling a full moon and a swath of bright stars, a blade comes shooting through the narrow gap in the fence, nicking my chin.

I jump to my feet. The sudden movement makes me dizzy, or maybe it’s the warm blood coursing down my throat. As the glint of steel recedes, I peer inside the slit to find cold, dark eyes staring back at me. His breath is so loud in my ears now that it’s all I can hear. I stagger back a few steps before the world tips on end, sending me crashing to the cold hard ground, a veil of darkness spreading over me like a thick lead blanket.