by Kim Liggett
We keep our heads bowed to the ground, and not only so they’ll think we’ve dispelled our magic. We do it out of reverence for everyone who’s walked this path before. Everyone who will be forced to walk it in the future.
When I hear the gate close behind me, a tightness spreads throughout my chest. Leaving this place feels like I’m leaving Ryker, but then the wind finds me, rustling a strand of hair loose from my braid. Maybe he’s standing right next to me, whispering my name.
“It won’t be long,” I whisper back.
“This one’s talking to herself.” A guard nods toward me.
“Better than last year. Remember the Barnes girl, the one with half her ear missing? She pissed herself before we even reached the shore.”
They snicker as they push past, but I don’t mind. Let them think I’m crazy.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of red. As I walk toward it, my heart picks up speed. The flower. I’d almost forgotten about it. Pretending to trip, I crawl over to it, skimming my fingers over the perfectly formed petals, but now there are two. Maybe this is how it spreads. One at a time. Slow, but sure.
It’s easy to think of your life as being meaningless out here, a tiny forgotten imprint that can easily be washed away by the next passing storm, but instead of making me feel small, it gives everything more purpose, more meaning. I’m no more or less important than a small seedling trying to burst through the soil. We all play a part on this earth. And however small, I intend to play mine.
“On your feet.” Two of the guards pick me up by my elbows. I want to fight them off, but I force myself to go limp.
As they put us in boats and we cross the water, it’s impossible not to notice how much we’ve dwindled in size, not just from hunger, and supplies, but in sheer numbers. I count for the first time—eighteen of us have fallen. Out of those, four had veils, which means four men will be choosing new wives among the survivors. Even after everything that’s happened, I wonder how many of the remaining girls are still hoping for a veil. It was enough to get them to leave the camp untorched, but truly believing, giving up everything they were raised on, will take time. Something I’m quickly running out of.
The open water, the breeze, the unobstructed sun glaring down on us—it feels like freedom, but we know it’s a lie. This is how they break us. They take everything away, our very dignity, and anything we get in return feels like a gift.
In front of the guards, we’re silent; we don’t meet their gaze. I keep my cloak wrapped tight around me, our secrets even closer, but at night, with the steady purr of their drunken slumber, the girls whisper in the dark, about the black ribbons they’ll receive, what’s expected in the marital bed, which labor houses they’ll be assigned to, finally giving way to what the council will do to me after I tell them the truth … how I’ll be punished … how I’ll die.
The gallows would be a kindness. Most likely they’ll burn me alive, but at least my sisters won’t be punished in my absence. There will be a stain on my family name, but in time, it will fade. My mother will smile a little harder, my sisters will toe the line, play their part, and hopefully, by the time their grace year comes around, my treachery will be nothing but a distant memory.
On the second day of our march, as we approach the outskirts, the pit in my stomach begins to grow. I wonder if I’ll recognize Ryker’s family. I wonder if they’ve already gotten word of his death.
When I get my first whiff of wood smoke, musk, and flowering herbs, I trail behind the others. I’m suddenly painfully aware of my secret. Searching the sea of women, I stop when I see Ryker staring back at me—not Ryker, but a woman with his eyes, his lips, surrounded by six girls. It brings a fresh wave of pain to the surface, but also relief. In some way, he will live on.
There are so many things I want to say—how much I loved him. How he wanted a better life for them, how he died with his eyes wide open, under a northern star. But before I can gather the nerve to speak, his mother says, “It’s you … you look just like her.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but as I open my mouth to ask, a guard comes up behind me, grabbing my arm, pulling me away.
As I look back, she pulls her hair away from her shoulder, revealing a tiny red bloom pinned to her tunic.
“Wait…,” I whisper, but as I try to go back, the guard yanks me to his side.
“It’s too late to run. You belong to the county now. You belong to Mr. Welk.”
When we reach the gate, the guards hold the line. The church bell tolls for each one of us. We hear a gasp from the people of the county on the other side of the fence: it’s the bloodiest season in grace year history. Out of the thirty-three girls, only fifteen of us are coming home alive.
The clinking of coin cuts through the atmosphere, drawing my attention to the guard station, where men are lined up, the same as when we left for the encampment last year. It’s not until I spot a few heavy leather satchels among them that I realize they’re not here to watch the broken birds, they’re here for payment. For a brief second, I catch myself searching for Ryker’s face, but he’s gone now. And he’s never coming back.
The gates open, jarring me back to the present. As the new grace year girls funnel out in a prim line, it takes me by surprise. They look so young, so pretty, like dolls being dressed up for a dance—not being sent for slaughter. I think about the way the returning girls looked at us when we passed them last year, as if they despised us, and I wonder what these new girls see in us. I hope they know the leap of faith we’ve committed, that we tried to make things better for them.
Though my chin is quivering, I try to smile. “Take care of each other,” I whisper on the breeze.
And as the last girls disappear, I turn to face the open gate.
My eyes fill with tears, my body feels welded in place, but somehow I move. Maybe it’s the momentum of the crowd; maybe it’s something more primal than that.
My moment of truth.
The heaviness is palpable. I feel it in every part of my body, but I feel it from the other girls as well. They know what this means for me … that this is the end of the line.
As we move into the square, people are craning their necks trying to see which girls made it. There are sighs of relief, disappointed gasps.
The men who offered a veil take their places, standing in front of the girl of their choosing, a black silk ribbon in hand. I see the tips of Michael’s fine boots in front of me, but I can’t bear to meet his eyes.
Four new girls are chosen to replace the fallen brides, but there are whispers. Peering down the line, I see Mr. Welk standing before Gertie.
He places his hand on her shoulder; I see her recoil. “We’re sorry to inform you that Mr. Fallow passed this winter. Please accept our condolences.”
Gertie puts her hands over her mouth, taking in a gasping breath.
“Look how broken up she is,” I hear someone comment from the crowd.
“I heard they’re sending her to the fields.”
She looks over at me, a flash of wild excitement in her eyes, but her secret reverie dies as she takes in Michael standing in front of me.
And I know the longer I put this off, the harder it’s going to be … for all of us.
Unbuttoning the clasp of my cloak, I let it slip from my shoulders. As the tattered wool hits the ground, I raise my chin to face the crowd. The first person I see is Michael. He’s standing before me, a gardenia in his lapel. The flower he chose for me—the flower of purity. He smiles at me, the way I always remembered him, standing in the meadow, his shirtsleeves rolled up, the sun glinting through his hair, but as the autumn breeze seeps through my threadbare chemise, making the fabric cling to my swollen belly, I see the blood drain from his face, hurt and shock welling up in his eyes.
I blink long and slow, hoping to erase the image from my mind, but when I open them again, I immediately spot my family standing in the front row. My father’s gritting his teeth; Ivy and June are cov
ering Clara and Penny’s eyes. My mother stands like a statue, stone cold indifference, as if I’m already dead to her.
But it’s nothing compared to the chill I feel from the county.
There are hisses and whispers, demands for punishment.
Someone throws a flower at me, hitting me square in the cheek—an orange lily, the flower of anger, hatred. Disgust. Picking it up off the ground, I trace my finger along the razor-curved edges, but I can’t allow myself to disappear right now. As much as it hurts, I have to stay present, I have to stay in my body, in this moment.
Back in the encampment, I was so full of purpose, but now that I’m here, standing before them, I can’t help but feel regret. Not for what I did—being with Ryker was the closest I’ve ever felt to God—but I feel bad for doing this to my family, to Michael. They don’t deserve this humiliation. None of us do.
The unpleasant din sweeping through the crowd quickly escalates to shouts and accusations. “Whore. Heretic. Burn her.”
My knees start to give way, but I lock them in place. I have to be brave—for Ryker, for the grace year girls … because I know the truth.
Michael’s father steps forward, wearing a mask of concern, but I see what lies beneath. The glint in his eyes. He’s thrilled to be rid of me.
“Never in my years has a crime been so apparent,” he adds, motioning toward my protruding belly.
A screeching wail breaks out in the crowd; women come rushing toward me, hissing, spitting, grabbing at me. As the guards pull them away, I see my mother’s face among them. Of course, she’s one of them. The hurt I feel is overwhelming, but the shame is unbearable, a death all its own. As they’re dragging her away, she lifts her skirts, baring her naked ankle, a jagged scar running down the side. I’m wondering why she did that, what it means, when a shoe comes hurtling my way. I duck just in time. The crowd is screaming for blood. My whole body is trembling. But I have to calm myself. I have to be able to speak clearly. Speak the truth. I won’t let them scare me into silence.
I don’t remember clenching my fist, but when I uncurl my fingers, I find the most startling thing. A tiny red flower. Five petals perfectly formed. The flower from my dreams. But how did it get here?
My breath grows shallow in my chest. I’m searching the crowd, looking for an answer, when my eyes settle on my mother. Her glassy eyes are locked on mine; her bottom lip has the slightest quiver. Pushing aside the scarf draped around her neck, she reveals a tiny red flower, pinned over her heart. The realization hits me so hard that I have to brace my hands against my knees so I don’t pass out.
It’s her.
The scar on her ankle—it’s from the trap the guards set the night before veiling day. That’s why she had blood running down her leg, why she was drinking bloodroot, to stave off infection. And the reason she was always first to join in on a punishment was so she could offer a kind word, a flower, a bit of comfort. Ryker’s mother said you look like her—it had nothing to do with the girl from my dream; it was because my mother is the one that’s been meeting with the women of the outskirts all this time.
She is the usurper the county has been whispering about, hunting.
I want to run to her, thank her … for letting me dream, for risking her life to try to help the women of the county, but I can’t. All I can do is stand here and swallow it, like we have to swallow everything else. I’m trying to hold back my emotions, but I can feel my face contorting. That strange heat moving to my cheeks. I always thought it was magic moving through me, but now I know it to be rage.
Mr. Welk puts his hand on Michael’s slumped shoulders. “As you know, today is the day I relinquish my role as head of the council to you, but given the grave nature of the offense, I will take on this burden for you.”
I’m waiting for him to say it, aching for him to deliver my sentence, because once that happens, I’ll be able to speak my truth. It’s the law that every woman must stand with open eyes, open ears, for the duration of a punishment. And even if they try to cut me off, it takes a long time for a body to burn.
Mr. Welk proudly addresses the crowd. “As my final act of service, a gift to my son, I hereby sentence Tierney James to—”
“The child is mine,” Michael says, his eyes still trained on the ground in front of him.
A collective gasp rises from the crowd. From me.
“There, now.” Mr. Welk holds his hands out in front of him. “We all know Michael hasn’t left the county in the past year. He’s in shock, that’s all, he’s confused. Just give him a moment.” He turns to his son. “I know you’re upset, but—”
Michael pulls away from him. “Tierney came to me in a dream.” He speaks directly to the crowd. “Night after night we lay together in the meadow. That’s how strong our bond is. That was Tierney’s magic.”
“That’s not possible,” someone calls out. “She’s a whore, anyone can see that.”
Mr. Welk motions for the guards to seize me, but Michael squares his body in front of me. “If you need to punish someone, punish me,” Michael says. “I’m to blame. I commanded her to come to me in her dreams, I made her lie with me, because I was selfish and couldn’t wait an entire year to be with her.”
I study his face—I can’t tell if he’s delusional enough to truly believe this or if he’s lying to protect me.
“I know of Tierney’s dreams.” Gertie steps beside me. “They’re as real as she’s standing before you.”
“It’s witchery,” a voice booms from the crowd. “Those two are in on it together. Depraved.”
I’m telling Gertie to stand down, don’t get in trouble for me, when Kiersten follows suit. One by one, the girls fall in around me. It nearly brings me to my knees. Never in my life have I seen a group of women stand together in this way. And as I look around the square, I can tell it doesn’t go unnoticed. The men are too caught up in their rhetoric, screaming red-faced into the void, but the women stand in soft silence, as if they’ve been waiting for this their whole lives. And like smoke signals on a distant mountain, I see a flash of red spread throughout the crowd.
A tiny red flower under the apron bib of the woman from the flower stand; she gave me a purple iris before I left, the symbol of hope. There’s a red flower beneath the ruffle of Aunt Linny’s dress; I remember her telling me to stay in the woods where I belong, even dropping a sprig of holly, just like the bushes leading to the ridge. There’s a red flower pinned underneath June’s collar; June sewed every single seed into my cloak … in secret. And my mother, telling me that water was best when it came from high on the spring.
They risked everything to try to help me and I didn’t even know it. All I can hear is my mother’s words. “Your eyes are wide open, but you see nothing,” I whisper.
Tears burn my eyes, but I don’t dare blink; I don’t want to miss a single moment.
“This has gone too far,” Mr. Welk says, signaling to the guards.
“Are you calling them liars?” Michael asks. “All of them?”
Mr. Welk grabs his elbow. “I understand what you’re trying to do, it’s noble, but you don’t know what you’re dealing with. This could get out of hand.”
Michael jerks his arm free. “Or maybe you’re calling me a liar?” he exclaims, loud enough so everyone in the county can hear. “Because if you don’t accept this, what you’re really saying is that the magic isn’t real.”
“Don’t be ludicrous,” Mr. Welk says with a forced chuckle. “Of course the magic is real.” He swallows hard. “I think the real issue here is safety.” He appeals to the crowd. “How do we know she won’t come for us in our dreams … murder us in our sleep?”
“Tierney’s magic is gone. I can feel it when I look at her,” Michael says as he stands before me, and yet he still can’t meet my eyes. “Come … see for yourself.”
The men press forward, scrutinizing every inch of me. I want to claw their eyes out, but I force myself to stand still.
“Enough of this nonsense.”
Mr. Welk signals to one of the guards. “Get the torches.”
Michael stares his father down. “I’m warning you. If you burn Tierney, you burn me with her.”
The color leaches from Mr. Welk’s face. And in that brief moment, I see how much he loves his son, how he’d rather endure anything than give him up. Even me.
“Tell you what…” He signals to the guards to hold off. “I’ll examine her,” he says through his teeth, as if it’s causing him physical pain to be near me. As he stares me dead in the eyes, I can feel the hatred pouring out of him, but there’s something more than that. Fear. He’s losing control, and we both know it. And like he said to me when he was whipping my backside in the apothecary that night, lack of respect is a slippery slope.
“My son speaks the truth.” His shoulders slump as he turns to face the crowd. “The magic has left her.”
The men let out a disappointed groan.
“But this is proof that the girls’ magic is getting stronger,” Mr. Welk says with a newfound lilt. “This proves that we need the grace year more than ever.”
It takes everything I have to keep my mouth shut, to listen to him stoke fear in the community, creating an even bigger lie, but when I look around at the women, I see the slightest shift. Hope spreading like a balm over an angry rash. It’s not the rebellion of my dreams, it’s not a show of strength like the girl possessed, but maybe it’s the start of something … something bigger than ourselves.
“Please, don’t do this, son,” Mr. Welk pleads. “She’s not worth it. She’s making a fool out of you.”
Michael holds up the black ribbon, telling me to turn around.
I know this is my last chance to speak up, to be heard, but in that moment, I feel the child move inside of me. Ryker’s child. If I don’t stand down, if I don’t accept this kindness, Ryker’s line will die with me.
I turn, tears streaming down my face.
Knotting the black silk around my braid, he rips out the red strand with more force than necessary, but I don’t mind. In this moment, I need to feel anything but this—anything to distract me from the pain of being silenced once and for all. But this isn’t about me anymore.
