by F. E. Greene
Unlike them, Pearl had labored to maintain three dresses over five years. Rather than try to sew new ones, she mended what her mother had abandoned. Now as she stared at a bounty of clothes, Pearl wondered why she needed so much.
Below the dresses, three pairs of footwear sat in an orderly line. She recognized the first two – slippers for dry days and boots for rain – but the last pair perplexed her. Lifting the unusual shoes, Pearl flipped them to find their thick soles were ridged along the bottom. From the footpads flowed straps of plaited leather the color of walnuts.
“What are these?” Pearl asked.
“Sandals.” Bonny spoke the word like it was common. “Nobody wears them outside the docktowns. To show one’s toes is rather bold, you know. But we kept sandals in the prop box at the theatre, and truth be told, I prefer them. Those you’re holding are Beforish.”
Pearl set them down and stepped away. “How long were you a player?”
“Since I can remember.” She sunk into a twisting curtsey. “Bonami Bibelot, by banner and trade. Isn’t it the perfect name? The first was a gift, but I chose the last when I was only seven.”
“You made up your own sirename?”
Straightening with a hop, Bonny assumed a shrewd look. “You didn’t expect to meet a dockland player here, did you?”
Pearl admitted she hadn’t. Her expectations of who a castle would – or should – contain remained as vague as a mist. Seeing the castle. Meeting the king. Pearl’s aspirations ended there.
Still, docktown players were Illial’s version of scraplings, neglected and suspected of plots, vice, and sloth. Pearl never envisioned one serving a king.
“I’m an orphan,” Bonny shared. “I’ve always borrowed my family.”
“So am I,” Pearl replied. “How did you find the castle? The southeastern docks are a long way from here.”
The pause that followed caught Pearl by surprise. Already she was accustomed to Bonny’s effusive responses, even to questions that hadn’t been asked. She expected another rambling answer.
Instead, Bonny’s face went as blank as the walls. No emotions, real or otherwise, tainted her pretty features, and within that absence of reaction, a ghost arose – not evil like the darkgard but just as real and unrelenting.
By her own account, Bonny had been in the castle for less than a year. Whatever misfortune sent her there wasn’t yet laid to rest.
Hastily Pearl apologized. “I don’t mean to pry.”
“You aren’t,” Bonny promised as her buoyancy returned. “You’ll hear my story soon enough – with accents and perhaps even costumes. It’s a tale best told when the moon is high. But today is about your arrival, not mine. So let’s see what else the king brought you.”
In the wardrobe’s lower portion, its sliding drawers were stuffed with undergarments and bedclothes, all neatly folded. The bottom drawer held two cloaks, both strawberry red and trimmed with pale blue. Pearl lifted one to measure its length.
“Were these here last night?” she asked.
“Not when I checked.”
“Then who delivered them?”
“We’re never sure,” Bonny said with a shrug. “If we need something, it’s already there.”
“But how does this all happen? Is it magic?”
Bonny looked skeptical. “I’ve never heard of a magical wardrobe.”
“I once read a story about one, but I didn’t think it could be true.” Returning the cloak to its drawer, Pearl reached up to touch the dresses. They were impossibly soft, expertly stitched, and vibrant with fresh dye. So much lovely clothing made Pearl feel undeserving since she’d done nothing to earn it.
“There’s some truth to all stories, I suppose.” Bonny twirled her way across the room and began to make Pearl’s bed. “Even the magical ones.”
“You just said it’s not magic.”
“I can’t explain what happens, Pearl. I only know it does. There are wardrobes, cupboards, barrels, and chests scattered throughout the castle. What we need appears within them, though only what the season requires. No woolens in springtime or sandals in winter. Or mulled cider on midsummer night.”
“But I’ve got two winter cloaks here.”
“Which means you’ll be staying. And isn’t that good news?” Flitting to the laver, Bonny tied back its drape. “I’ve been wanting a friend, and I can see that you’re just who I wished for! There are far too few women our age in the castle and way too many lads. Oh, but I can’t wait for you to meet them! Then we can discuss how silly they are.”
Pearl closed the wardrobe. “How long will the king let me live here?”
“You’ll have to ask him,” Bonny answered. “There is a group who stops here permanently. We call them inkeepers. They have jobs and responsibilities. I suppose I’m one of them, though I don’t do a lot. Three of the inkeepers have a much grander title – the trium. They represent the king in his absence.”
“The king doesn’t oversee things?”
“He does, but he’s often traveling. The trium are his eyes, ears, and mouth – though not in a bad way. They don’t tattle.” Motioning for Pearl to join her, Bonny moved to make room in the laver. “Did Carys show you the faucet?”
Shaking her head, Pearl stayed in place.
“It’s part of an old piping machine. Metal tubes run throughout these walls down to the digaway where there’s a gigantic water oven. Owyn calls it a boiler.” Bonny spun both knobs until water poured from the spout. “Feel this, Pearl. It’s perfectly warm!”
Reluctantly Pearl did. The faucet was made of metal too smooth to come from the smelting pits of Orld. Despite its Beforish origin, it showed no signs of age or decay.
“What about the Simplis Edict?” Pearl asked. “Machines aren’t allowed in the Fourtlands.”
When Bonny turned the knobs again, the water stopped flowing. “The castle has been here since Before – and even before that. Machines are everywhere, and many still work. All of them seem harmless to me. I find the armery much more unsettling.”
Unsure of how to respond, Pearl scrutinized the laver. More than its faucet violated Fourtish law. From the walls hung the remains of archaic lamps said to burn with currents flying down tiny wires. The currents had vanished, their sources extinct. But the lamps hinted at what had been.
“I’ve read about Before.” Out of habit, Pearl lowered her voice. “It ended with the reign of machinations – human inventions that enslaved their makers. Those still living were barely alive.”
“It was a terrible era.” Bonny squeezed free of the laver. “But why should the king ignore what’s useful because others have misused it? Come with me, and I’ll show you the waterbox. That will convince you! No more freezing baths in winter.”
Swayed by Bonny’s enthusiasm, Pearl finally acquiesced. “Do you have time to show me now?”
“I don’t see why not.” She picked up Pearl’s breakfast tray. “There’s never much of a schedule on days like these. Lectures are canceled, meetings postponed. We can sleep until supper if we like. Which I do.”
“But I’m supposed to meet with the inkeeper you mentioned. Owyn, I think?”
“With Owyn?” Still holding the tray, Bonny froze. Her thin face tightened. “When?”
“At 13 bells. The Illiate woman – Carys – said so last night.”
“Legs be broken!”
Bonny slapped the tray onto a table and dashed to the wardrobe. She flung it open, her curls flouncing while she judged its contents.
“Quick, Pearl! Choose a dress – a nice one. You may not return before suppertime. Wash yourself, and I’ll help fix your hair. Somewhere there’s a brush. Maybe we’ll plait it. And shoes! I’d wear the sandals. It still feels like midsummer outside.”
Pearl didn’t move. In the schoolhouse, she’d known children like Bonny. Every smile was a triumph, every tear a tragedy, every morsel a banquet, and every story a masterpiece.
“Twelve bells only just rang,” she mentioned ge
ntly.
“Look above your bed, Pearl Sterling. It’s already half past the chime!”
Pivoting, Pearl checked the wall. Concealed by the canopy, a circle hung flush against the stone. Its white surface displayed a dozen numbers along with other indecipherable gliphs. A duo of straw-like spokes extended from its center, and neither seemed to move although Bonny implied that they had.
Pearl climbed onto the bed for a closer look. “What is this?”
“Owyn calls it a clock. I’m sad to say it tracks time by the minute.”
“You used that word earlier.” Pearl tapped the clock’s surface to discover a colorless panel, not fragile like glass, protecting the spokes. “What’s a minute?”
“There are sixty minutes in a bellspan, and sixty seconds in a minute. They’re Beforish tools for measuring time – when time needed so much measuring.”
“You don’t like clocks?”
Bonny sniffed dismissively. “Clocks are a bother. I had mine removed. Why track what can’t be caught? Some clocks have alarms, but I refuse to learn how to use them. I’ll wake when I’m ready, or I’m not ready to wake.”
“And you’re worried about my lateness?”
“That’s different. It’s Owyn. Arrive on the chime, and he thinks you’ve forgotten.”
Pearl lifted the clock to peek behind it but couldn’t see much. She would have to dislodge it to examine it fully, and she wasn’t feeling that bold. “What makes the straws move?”
“The hands, you mean? Red sand.”
“There’s red sand in the castle? Where does the king get red sand? And how does it make Beforish things work? They didn’t have red sand back then.”
When silence replied, Pearl peered over her shoulder.
Next to the wardrobe, Bonny held a green dress. “A costume is only as fair as its wearer.” For emphasis, she gave it a shake.
With a sigh, Pearl surrendered to the frenzy of preparation. More than once her gaze returned to the clock on the wall. Its spokes did move in slow progression, and what powered it left Pearl unsettled.
Red sand was harvested in just one place – the Abstergian Desert. Few men were brave enough to collect it. Not even Orldics bothered. Yet the king had enough red sand on hand to maintain Beforish machines in unoccupied rooms.
The castle was intriguing, Pearl decided as she dressed, but it wouldn’t solve all her problems. Lessons on faucets and waterboxes and clocks would have transfixed her father. Even her mother might have been diverted for awhile. But diversions were not the same as solutions, and amusements were no source of hope.
It was hope that she needed, not meetings and meals. Hollycopse had been her reason to endure. To keep working. To sleep and to wake. Now Pearl didn’t know what might motivate her, even if she did stay in the castle.
That would require real magic – or something better.
Chapter Thirteen
Hurrying down the stairwell, Pearl entered the forte to find it empty. Either the overly-punctual Owyn was late for his own meeting, or he’d abandoned her already. Neither option improved her mood.
While she waited, Pearl explored the forte. Its boxy space contained multiple doors leading to places she couldn’t recall, and she resisted the urge to forge ahead on her own tour. She wasn’t normally so cavalier, but if the castle was going to be her new home, she might as well try to know it.
For practice, Pearl opened several unlocked chests that concealed nothing magical – only blankets and canvas. One chest brimmed with boots but not the usual sort made of calfskin or cloth. These were colorful and stiff, like tortoise shells stained with paint. Lifting one boot from the pile, Pearl couldn’t guess who had made it. Or when.
“Lost something already?”
The unexpected question came from behind. Tossing the boot back into the chest, Pearl let the lid fall shut as she spun around.
“I’m sorry!” she blurted.
From beneath a doorway, a man watched Pearl like she meant to loot the place.
“Sorry to be looking?” he asked. “Or sorry to be caught?”
Panic welled inside her. “Both.” She hoped it was the right answer.
The man smiled. He wasn’t overly tall, but his strong features – a prominent nose, a sturdy chin – gave him a magnanimous air. His pale shirt and dark trousers seemed dull beneath a vest that favored an oak tree in autumn, with reds and golds woven into its green fabric. Thick spectles magnified the man’s eyes, creating an impression that he missed nothing.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We won’t boot you out for snooping. You’re not the only soul to put your foot in it on the first day.”
Unsure of how to reply, Pearl stayed silent.
“Rubber,” the man said.
“Is that your name?” Pearl asked.
“No, no – the boots. They’re made of rubber. Do you know that word?” When Pearl shook her head, he looked disappointed. “Once we used a lot of words in this world. Some were born, and some were borrowed. I’m fond of most.”
Leaving the doorway, the man laid an arm across his chest, right palm resting lightly over his heart. In his other hand, he clutched a mug. “The word for me is Owyn.”
Relieved, Pearl gave her name and rested her arm where a sash should have sat. Only Rosperians greeted strangers that way. While the man wore a vestment, he didn’t sound Orldic, and he would blend perfectly in a southland marketplace.
“Welcome to the castle, Pearl.” With grey salting his hair, Owyn appeared to be her father’s age if not a bit older. “I’m supposed to give you the grand tour, but we’ll have to do this quickly as I’m pinched for time. I have an appointment at 14 bells, and I always prefer to be early.”
He dug a metal sphere from a pocket in his vest. It was tiny, linked to a golden chain, and when its lid popped open, Pearl gasped. What it contained Pearl couldn’t see – and apparently neither could Owyn. Lowering his spectles, he lifted the sphere until it nearly touched his nose.
“That gives us about half a bell,” he announced. “You’ll be early to Jeron, but he won’t mind. He thinks of schedules like I do sardines. Can’t stand the things.”
Motioning for Pearl to follow, and spilling tea from his mug as he did, Owyn left through the western doorway. The wooden staircase deposited them between two more doors, both closed and signposted. A door opposite the stairs displayed a wide metal sign.
SCHOOLING HALL
NO HORSEPLAY
Beneath the staircase, an array of painted plaques framed the other door.
QUALIFIED PERSONS ONLY
ALL DISHES MUST BE RINSED
HOARDERS WILL BE
STRONGLY CAUTIONED
CONSUME ALL FOOD BY 24 BELLS
Tacked to the door’s middle, another sign – handwritten and much less official – added its refrain to the chorus.
BEETS are made for eating
NOT bowling
Groaning, Owyn yanked the paper from the door and stepped inside.
Rich scents enveloped Pearl as she followed Owyn into a kitchen larger than most Rosperian homes. It was expansive but jammed full of cooktools and food. Stone walls flowed behind cupboards. Hearths housed iron spits. At the kitchen’s far end a deep beehive oven sheltered a bulbous cauldron, and vent holes in the ceiling lured smoke to escape.
Although crowded, the kitchen was well-ordered. Elongated tables filled much of the room, their functional surfaces covered with sandwiches arranged like soldiers awaiting inspection. Some sat unfinished. All looked delicious.
Owyn strode into the room’s center. “Henny, are you here? Some clever lad has been adding to your signage!”
No one replied. Owyn’s magnified eyes slid back and forth. Then he helped himself to a sandwich.
“Don’t tell Henifred,” he ordered as he chewed.
Pearl promised with a nod. “Where does everyone eat?”
“On typical days we take breakfast at 8 bells. You’ll dine in the gallery with the girls. The
boys stay downstairs so you don’t have to see their manners – or the lack of them. At lunchtime we eat with our morning appointments, mostly because no one likes to smell the lads after Carys works them into a lather. If the weather is good, we might picnic on the courtyard green. No matter where it happens, lunch is always taken at half past 12 bells.”
“But it’s well after that,” Pearl mentioned.
“This is an unstructured day. Hardly my favorite sort, since mayhem tends to erupt.” He lifted the sign from the door to prove his point. “This morning everyone woke when they wanted – except for dear Henny, bless her. Breakfast is informal, and lunch is in the garden at 14 bells.”
As Owyn devoured the sandwich between details, Pearl wished she were hungry enough to try one. “What about supper?”
“It’s a common meal also. Everyone meets in the king’s hall and always at 18 bells sharp. But again, tonight will be different since –”
He broke off talking when a scraping sound erupted to their left, and a curved portion of the wall began to rotate. Like a rolling pin propped on its handle, the structure churned open with an ominous rumble. Beside it was another sign.
CHEESE WHEEL
The wheel, as it turned out, was a door, and through it stepped a woman with silver hair anchored in a perfect bun. She carried a block of cheese in one hand and a candlete in the other. Neither tiny nor tall, she was much thinner than the cooks in Castlevale. A checkered pinafore engulfed her body.
“I wondered if you were working today.” Owyn sounded stern like he’d caught the woman neglecting her job.
She laughed at his censure. “Working, yes. Working to keep you out of my kitchen.”
Harrumphing, he held out the sign. “The lads left you a present.”
“At least they wrote something sensible for a change.” The woman set down the cheese and candlete before approaching Pearl with her right hand raised. While her palm bore no brand, the greeting was undoubtedly Illiate.
This time Pearl knew how to respond, and she offered her full name as she did.
“I’m Henifred Orten,” the woman replied. “Henny to most folks. I spend my days serving as the castle cook – when Owyn isn’t getting in the way.”
