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.

 please make summary