No one speaks of the grace year.
It’s forbidden.
We’re told we have the power to lure grown men from their beds, make boys lose their minds, and drive the wives mad with jealousy. They believe our very skin emits a powerful aphrodisiac, the potent essence of youth, of a girl on the edge of womanhood. That’s why we’re banished for our sixteenth year, to release our magic into the wild before we’re allowed to return to civilization.
But I don’t feel powerful. I don’t feel magical.
Speaking of the grace year is forbidden, but it hasn’t stopped me from searching for clues.
A slip of the tongue between lovers in the meadow, a frightening bedtime story that doesn’t feel like a story at all, knowing glances nestled in the frosty hollows between pleasantries of the women at the market. But they give away nothing.
The truth about the grace year, what happens during that shadow year, is hidden away in the tiny slivers of filament hovering around them when they think no one’s watching. But I’m always watching.
The slip of a shawl, scarred shoulders bared under a harvest moon.
Haunted fingertips skimming the pond, watching the ripples fade to black.
Their eyes a million miles away. In wonderment. In horror.
I used to think that was my magic—having the power to see things others couldn’t—things they didn’t even want to admit to themselves. But all you have to do is open your eyes.
My eyes are wide open.
