Colorless

by Rita Stradling

  My hand shook as I fumbled for the decanter. When the crystal hit my fingers, I grabbed its neck and filled my tumbler to the brim. The liquid dripped onto my hand and slid down my wrist as I lifted the glass and drained it in one drink. After finishing one more, I fought down the cold enough to settle into my chair.

  Pinching the corner of Collin’s letter, I whispered, “I despise you, Collin Stewart.” Then, I folded the parchment and tucked it into the pocket of my smoking jacket.

  As sleep began to pull me under, an image brushed over my mind. A beautiful face lay on a pillow beside me as I looked on with swollen, tear-bleary eyes. Her hands clutched mine as she leaned in, “I’ll always protect you. No one will ever hit you again, I promise. You know how dearly I love you, cousin.”

  My eyes shot open.

  But, no, the thought was insane; I had never had a cousin. My only blood uncle had just died childless.

  I wasn’t insane. People might whisper it about me, but I knew I wasn’t. Yet, a thought rose in my mind, and I could not shake it. I had to return to Hope Manor. I would return. Brend would start the preparations tomorrow, and I would journey there within the week. With the comfort of the knowledge that within days I would ride up to Hope Manor’s gate, I closed my eyes and fell into a deep sleep.

  3

  The Eye

  Annabelle

  I had one blue eye.

  Sitting cross-legged at my cheval mirror in my room, I leaned closer to inspect it for what could be the hundredth time. I had been so startled by my appearance, I’d missed seeing the eye for days after I lost the remainder of my color.

  It was a small blue circle surrounded in ash, like a sapphire dropped in the cinders. That blue, that small cerulean ring, was one of two details that made me doubt I was now a specter haunting my manor. I moved unseen. I spoke unheard. Naturally, it would be a logical conclusion that the news of my parents’ deaths had killed me and I now walked dead among the living.

  Yet, along with the eye, logic told me that dozens of lords and ladies had died within these walls, not to mention the many people who had served them. If ghosts existed, it seemed unlikely there would only be one.

  As I settled back, I regarded myself… or what was left of me.

  “My name is… it’s…” I sighed. My name had fled my mind again. But then I remembered. “My name is Annabelle. I live here—I’ve lived here all my life. This room is my room.”

  I examined my room, the now-colorless floor and bed that the maids had neglected for some time now. As I returned my gaze to the mirror, I remembered another detail of my life. “I like art and traveling to see Fauve’s exhibitions with my parents, but am allowed infrequently. I was supposed to marry my… cousin.” It was coming back to me now. “My cousin threatened to call in the debt on our manor if I didn’t marry him and ensure he would inherit after my parents’ death. He claimed he loved me in a romantic way, but I didn’t believe it. He’s just bitter and miserable, and… ugh. I know one thing—you don’t wake up one day and fall in love with your cousin. My father, unfortunately, had a bigger heart than purse, and we are now nearly penniless. I am now penniless—I mean.”

  I cleared my throat, studying the ashen girl who appeared nothing like me. “They’re dead. In the days since, I’ve overheard no explanation as to the illness that supposedly took them. No one seems to know. My parents are dead. Twenty… twenty-four days ago, I lost my color. And now, I am invisible… or something akin to it.”

  I closed my eyes and could almost feel the heat on my face as I stood to the side of the crowd of black-clad mourners lined up beside two deep rectangular holes. They seemed more than holes, though, as if they were two hungry mouths gaping open from the ground itself. The groundskeeper’s shovel had made a loud rhythmic thudding as it buried into the dirt pile again and again, feeding the soil into those gaping chasms that held my parent’s coffins. That was twenty-one days ago now—twenty-one impossibly long days.

  The will to continue recounting my life left me, and I slumped forward. The memories would come flowing back, as they always did. For one more day, at least, I would remember who I was.

  My threadbare nightdress fell off my shoulder. Righting the strap and standing, I brushed the dust off. There was little point as dust would never show upon it. Like everything I touched, the material was now an ashen gray. I crossed to the pile of material on my floor, and then let my nightdress do what it wanted and fall to the ground. Stepping out of it and into my gown, I maneuvered the material up by its sleeves.

  When it was halfway up my body, there was an awful ripping sound as one sleeve tore free from the gown.

  “Damn!” I threw the dismembered sleeve to the floor. “Damn, you stupid, stupid gown!” I ripped at the material, kicking it to the floor. Standing in my undergarments in the middle of my room, I had to stop myself from screaming. Though, what was the point? No one would hear it. I’d already tried screaming as I stood over all the servants while they broke their fast—not even one so much as flinched. I could stand naked in the middle of Hopesworth and no one would glance my way.

  With the side of my booted foot, I scooted the dress the length of my room until it reached a much larger pile of torn, colorless dresses.

  I crossed to my wardrobe, my gaze passing over its meager contents. At this rate, I’d either have to start stealing gowns or go without clothing.

  My gaze caught on the dress at the end. Among its company, it was conspicuously lacking lace. My love for intricate lace had turned into my curse. Taking a deep breath, I reached toward the brilliant emerald satin. Just before my fingers brushed over the material, I yanked my hand away.

  “Do not be an idiot, Annabelle. You cannot walk around in your undergarments or in your nightgown.”

  Steadying myself, I reached forward again and placed my whole hand on the gown. The colorlessness spread as large emerald drops dripped off the hem and onto the floorboards. The color never lingered long after; it slipped through the cracks in the floorboards, leaving not a single stain to mark that it had ever been there.

  After I managed to get the altered dress on and tied a sash around me as many times as it would allow, the dress still only stayed on by the grace of the gods. Peering over my shoulder, I glared at the gaping back of the dress and my naked skin exposed there. It was better that no one saw me, lest I be charged by the Congregation with indecency.

  The day I lost my color, removing my dress and corset had been so difficult that it had taken several more days to work up the desperation to cut it off me with a knife. It was impossible for me to sew up the back of my dress, as Eda had so often done for me in the mornings. Even if I knew how to sew, I could not reach my back. The couple of dresses I had that didn’t require this were ripped beyond the possibility of salvaging them.

  After slipping on my stained gloves, I wandered through my sitting room, or what remained of it. Of the furniture, only one fainting couch retained its color. The crimson velvet looked almost grotesque, like an open wound, but I did not have the heart to destroy it.

  The only other color in my room was the large painting my godfather Fauve had done for my twelfth birthday. I slowed my pace to a stop, examining the painting. Fauve had done my piece with a pallet knife, using vibrant reds, blues, and yellows in great splashes across the canvas. As every day since the morning I lost my color, a low hum met my ears. And like every time before, I would swear it emitted from the canvas. My palms itched, and I wanted so much to touch the large, colorful strokes across the expansive canvas. Startling from what must have been a trance, I realized my hand had come up and the tips of my gloves were inches from it.

  I jumped away, clasping my hands and squeezing them to my middle. I would never touch Fauve’s artwork, not once, not even with my gloves on. There was a chance that a seam would split and a finger poke through.

  I kept my hands gripped together all the way down to the kitchens, lest one escape my control again. The aromas of baking brea
d, barley, and rye greeted me in the dim wooden stairwell. Yet, even in the low light, the browns and grays looked vibrant compared to the wing I’d just left. A loud, disjointed chatter increased in volume as I descended toward the light of the kitchen.

  “You want me to make more for them to take with them? Are you out of your mind? At this rate, we will have no stores by winter,” Samson, the cook, growled at the housekeeper. Samson was a large man who looked even bigger staring down at Hester’s squat form.

  I’d once told my father the cook and our blacksmith should switch places. Our master blacksmith stood long and lean as a tree branch, where our cook could be the whole tree. My father had hushed me, holding a finger to his lips. “Do not say that too loudly, Annabelle,” he’d said. “I don’t want Samson to ask for a transfer of position. I like him where he is.”

  Snatching the furthest loaf of braided bread from where several lined across a cooling rack, I mused I would have to agree with my father on that one. Samson’s kitchen had a messy, earthen feel, and he kept it in disarray. Pots and pans were scattered haphazardly, ingredients were strewn across the tabletops, and utensils remained wherever he put them down. But no complaint could ever be raised about the food that came out of it. Down here was the fragrant realm where Samson was the true lord, and no one but a fool would challenge him.

  That was, no one except Hester.

  “Twenty more loaves!” She pointed into Samson’s big face. Though she stood two feet shorter, she did not seem whatsoever aware of this.

  “I don’t see why we need to feed them at all,” he grumbled darkly.

  “You blaspheming oaf! I should report your mutterings… In fact, I think I will.”

  His nostrils flared. “I didn’t mean to blaspheme.”

  “Twenty loaves. I want them baked immediately. The monks are expected within the hour.” She spun on her heel, but then rounded on him. “You said there were ten loaves cooked. I count nine!”

  I realized my mistake and stuffed the loaf behind a line of spice jars just in time as she stormed toward the cooling rack. Until I ate the food, it would not be forgotten. Colorless food, while edible, contained less flavor than an inhale of air. For that moment of taste, I’d risk almost anything. Only living creatures remained safe from the curse of my touch.

  “Nine,” she repeated angrily.

  Samson’s sharp eyes looked from loaf to loaf. After a second’s hesitation, he said, “My mistake.”

  She spun to glare at him. “You’ll make twenty-one, then. And if you want bread with supper, I suggest you make more.”

  As she strode from the room and into the servants’ corridor, the hem of her heavy skirts slithered over the flour-covered stone floor. The sound lingered for long seconds after she was gone, diminishing into nothing.

  A great thumping startled me, and I lifted my eyes to find Samson kneading into a mass of dough on his wide worktable.

  “You scared me.” I laughed, though I knew he wouldn’t hear me.

  He punched the dough again, making a resounding boom as his hand connected with the table.

  “It doesn’t make sense…”

  I froze. “What doesn’t make sense? What are you thinking, Samson? What are you remembering?” I rushed to the other side of the table. “Remember, Samson. Remember me.”

  “What can they discover? No one else fell ill.” Samson muttered. “And why do they walk around the manor again and again—spooking the horses?”

  A chill ran through me, though I stood near the ovens. Skirting around him, I decided to be far away when the monks arrived for their bread. On the way out the door, I headed for where Samson stashed his beloved apples on the table, but they were gone.

  Behind me, Samson mumbled, “I just don’t understand.”

  I turned to him. “Well, I hope you don’t land yourself into trouble over it, friend.” I blinked hard. “I hope these monks find something. It makes no sense—my parents were never ill.”

  As Samson pulled off sections of dough, I grabbed a bunch of carrots, turned for the open door, and headed into the daylight.

  ****

  Two large horse nostrils blew into my face.

  “You see me,” I whispered through a smile. Every day I came to see him, but it never ceased to amaze me. Marc knew me; he saw me. He was not the only horse that moved to the front of his stall at my approach, either. My father and mother’s horses moved to greet me and made sure to harrumph their displeasure if I only brought treats for Marc.

  His head came forward and moved against mine. I laughed again as soft bristles tickled across my cheek.

  Pulling my head away, I smirked. “Be honest now, are you this happy to see me or are you asking for this?” I held one of my carrots up on a flat palm. Marc took half with one bite.

  The moment he finished, he nudged me with his nose again.

  “I do suspect that you love me only for my treats.” Reaching down, I grabbed another carrot. “As you are my only friend in the world, I will have to satisfy myself with buying your affection.”

  He munched slowly.

  I stroked his large nose. “Every time I see Hester now, she’s yelling at someone. I’d had half a mind to strip the color from her dress yesterday when I saw her scolding Eda for her scrubbing. Eda has suffered the most grievous demotion.” I shook my head. “My mother would have never allowed it. It’s as if these monks who house in the Hopesworth Templum of Weire are the new masters of the manor, and our servants are being forced by Hester to serve them.”

  Marc snorted.

  “I quite agree. If these monks discover anything but our winter stores, I will be shocked. All they do is arrive at high noon and walk in circles around the estate.”

  Grabbing another carrot, I held it up.

  “I do have some news neither of us will like much, I think. It seems that everyone is under the impression that my cousin, Lord Anthony, is to inherit Hope Manor.” Sighing, I said, “I suppose Tony gets what he’s always wanted then, to own this. It is a small comfort to know I won’t have to marry him. It almost makes my malady bearable, knowing I don’t need to suffer through a lifetime with someone who has proven that he doesn’t care at all how I feel.”

  Marc snorted at that.

  I stroked up his face. “I apologize for rambling on so; I simply am grateful I never need to kiss my own cousin again. I’m not sure I like kissing after that disaster—cigar and whiskey breath—it was horrible.”

  Before that day, I’d often dreamed of my first kiss; I’d wanted it to be the kiss of true love, one to always remember. Unfortunately, I would never be able to forget my first kiss. Instead of true love, the first and only kiss I had ever received had produced the exact opposite feeling. It had been a kiss that extinguished love. That kiss had been a betrayal of the worst kind, the betrayal by someone I once loved with my whole heart. It had been a kiss that tasted only of his abject misery.

  Marc nudged me once more.

  I startled and grinned. “Another carrot? I’d almost believe you were half pig with the way you eat.”

  Perhaps to prove my point, he nibbled at my shoulder.

  I jumped away. Pointing in his face, I told him sternly, “Don’t you dare eat my dress. I have few left that aren’t rags on my floor. When I regain my color, I’ll have almost nothing to wear at all.

  Feeding him another carrot, I leaned against the stall door and whispered, “I’ll tell you a secret, Marc, but you must take it to your grave. So, do you swear?”

  He munched on, his eye fixed on me.

  “Solemnly swear?”

  I decided to take his continued munching as his most solemn promise.

  “I was kissed by one other—well, it was an almost kiss by none other than the Honorable Collin Stewart. It was at his pilgrimage sendoff… before the engagement, of course. He’d asked me to step out on the veranda, like in a novel. Our lips came this close.” I held up my fingers, two inches apart. “That was almost my first kiss… if my s
tupid cousin hadn’t found us and ruined everything.”

  That near kiss had probably been the biggest mistake of my life, the catalyst for everything that went wrong after. In the moment, I’d felt like a heroine from a novel. Everyone knew I was Lord Anthony’s lowest relation, respected only in his devotion to me. And somehow in my mended gown and Mother’s shoes, I’d been noticed by Tony’s wealthiest, highest-ranking friend. Lord Collin was the most handsome boy I’d ever seen, with his firelight eyes and sincere smile.

  “How ridiculous it all seems now.” Heartache, my constant companion in these days of isolation, crept into my chest with the words. My eyes stung, and a single hot tear dropped onto my cheek. I shook my head to dislodge it. “That’s enough of that.” I forced a grin and turned to Marc. “So, Marc, what do you think? Now that I’m free from my engagement, should I marry Collin when I regain my color?”

  Marc shook his head.

  I straightened from the barn door and laughed, a little shocked that he seemed to answer my question. “You don’t, do you?” I chuckled again. “You’re probably right. Imagine how scandalized all those ladies would be, the ones who called me an ‘ambitious girl’ for planning to marry Tony. Like I’d connived a plan for him to force me to marry him or something. Or…” Going to my tiptoes, I kissed Marc’s forehead. “Mayhap you’d prefer I wait for some enchantment be lifted off you that will turn you into a handsome prince?”

  He snorted.

  I settled to my heels. “I should be offended. I’ll have you know I had seven prospective suitors and had only been out in society for an annos—well, to be honest, most of my suitors’ ranks were pretty low—excepting Collin—who didn’t quite court me. But who knows, Marc, who knows? Collin might have declared his love if Tony hadn’t caught us that night—” I cut off as a loud clanking sounded to my left.