Colorless

by Rita Stradling

  Reaching forward, I lifted the paper to the candle to read it more carefully.

  “Your house… our home?” I whispered the words, hoping they would make more sense when I spoke them aloud, but they did not.

  Perhaps it meant that those rules dictated to the lords in the house were carried down to the commoners’ homes, but that would not be much of a political statement. That was the order of things. The highest-ranking lords brought issues before the magicians’ council, pled for their position, and enforced the council’s rulings. However, the image had an enraged feel, as if the statement more said: This may be your house, but it is our home. That sentiment, however, made no logical sense to me.

  A loud crash had me dropping both the paper and the candle. The candle hit the table, sending droplets of tallow flying in all directions. The flame extinguished.

  I spun toward where I heard the crashing sound. Nothing had changed in the small amount of workshop illuminated by the lantern’s light.

  “Sophie?” I whispered.

  No one answered. Something creaked, and then it came again. The noise drew closer, the sound of someone walking over loose floorboards.

  I backed away from the table. It was too late to hide that I had been in here, but my hope rested in the thought that this new visitor hadn’t answered me because they were among those who couldn’t see me.

  The footsteps continued, a slow, even creaking through the room.

  From within the shadows, a form moved, growing and taking shape as it came into the light. The figure halted just outside the circle of light. It wasn’t Sophie. As big as Sophie had been, this figure was bigger.

  “What in Weire’s fiery ass are you doing in here?” a deep voice growled from the shadows.

  “You can see me,” I whispered, more a statement than a question. Obviously, he saw me.

  Two massive hands came out of the shadows and grabbed either side of the table beside me. “What are you doing here?” The table started to shake as the man’s hands gripped it. He leaned into the light, bright blue eyes searing into mine. “Tell me what you’re doing here!”

  “Calm yourself, sir! I am no intruder. I was let in here by a woman named Sophie,” I shouted over the racket made by the table banging against the floor.

  Another loud crashing boomed behind the man. A moment later, a second figure came into view. This one was smaller than the massive man, but not by much. He sprinted well into my circle of light, but skidded to a halt as his eyes fell on me. “What—what is that?” He scrambled away. “It’s a wraith—” Grabbing an ink bottle on the table, he flung it at me.

  The bottle came flying too fast to dodge. The glass container hit me on my chest, bouncing off and shattering at my feet.

  I grabbed my breastbone. “Ouch, that hurt! I’m no wraith!”

  “That’s no wraith!” the bigger one growled, echoing my words as he leaned further over the table. “It’s solid… it carried the candle and lit the lantern. It’s something else!”

  “I am not an it. My name is Lady Annabelle Klein.” I glared right back at the brutish man. “I am a lady—the Lady of Hope Manor!”

  The thinner one pointed at me. “Dylan!” It sounded like an accusation, but I wasn’t sure what he meant by it.

  “Damn it!” the other one said, hitting the table.

  The smaller one shook his finger. “This is what all that was about today… with the monks and them throwing gold at Dylan while he rode some horse—that’s what everyone was talking about.”

  “And why he’s still working at the manor. Lady Klein she said… he’s not chasing some skirt,” the bigger one growled, his glare still hot on mine. “What has that fool gotten us into?”

  The smaller one ran both hands through his blond hair, sending it sticking in every direction around his head. “They said she was an iconoclast—hundreds of monks are looking for her—monks from all four regions of Domengrad—”

  “Damn it all!” The bigger one shook the table again. “We should hand her over before they track her down.”

  The smaller guy made a face at the bigger one. “You want to hand her over… to the monks? You’re not serious?”

  “It would be smarter than keeping her here!”

  I slapped the table. “Go ahead, then!”

  Both froze, their eyes widening and brows furrowing. With them in the light now, staring at me, I realized they were much younger than I originally thought. They weren’t men at all; they were two boys about my age.

  “Go to the monks! You can tell them they can find me here.” I grabbed a piece of paper off the table and held it up. “They can find me surrounded in my father’s fortune, holding these papers you inked with my family’s blood.”

  Both boys just stared, unmoving.

  I shook the paper. “But if you could tell me this meaning first: your house, our home. I’d be much obliged if you told me what that meant. If I must suffer a life of punishment and be turned over to the monks, I would appreciate knowing what crime I was turned into an iconoclast for before I meet my torturous death.”

  They remained silent, the smaller one gaping, the larger one glaring.

  I set the page down when they still didn’t answer. “I think one answer is a small favor to ask in exchange for the ruination I’ve suffered for a room full of ink.” Exhaustion swept through me so complete and strong that I staggered and needed to catch myself on the table.

  They said nothing for a second more, and then the smaller of the two said, “Are you injured, lady?”

  I looked into his face, and for the first time, I noticed how similar his features were to those of the stable boy, Dylan. They both resembled Dylan in their coloring and faces.

  I moved my injured hand behind my back. “Today has been a bit… trying, but it’s nothing a good night’s rest cannot remedy. If you could be so kind as to offer me a room while you deliberate on whether to turn me over to my death, I would be much obliged to you.”

  The bigger one sucked on a tooth and stood from the table. “We can’t have you upstairs; there are windows up there.”

  Needing to be at eye level with them both, I pushed to my feet, forcing my body upright. “In the months since my parents’ deaths, five people have seen or remembered me. Dylan, Sophie, you two, and one other servant—all others just look right past me.”

  The smaller man looked over at the larger. “It’s Dylan’s mess; why don’t we let her have his bed while we…” he glanced back to the bigger man, “…while we talk this over?”

  “Not upstairs,” the massive boy gritted out, his gaze still studying my face. “Wait down here.”

  The smaller one rocked forward on his feet. “So… are you hungry? You look hungry.”

  I nodded. “I am, but more than hungry, I am very thirsty. If you have any water, I would appreciate it.”

  “We don’t have manor food here,” said the other one as if I’d ordered a feast.

  “To be honest, I expected nothing at all.” I gestured down to my dress, and a laugh escaped me. I couldn’t help it. Though he wore what I presumed was peasant nightclothes, darned and patched in several places, he might as well have been a lord attending a ball compared to me in my rags.

  He nodded to my candle mess on the table. “Light your candle; we can’t waste any more fuel. As you might have guessed, we have no money coming in without a patron, and this workshop has no natural light.”

  “Of course.” I reached for the candle. The greasy, goopy feel of the tallow had somewhat solidified in the time the candle lay unlit. I crossed to the lamp and the bigger man moved with me. When he lifted the glass, I ignited my candle. The moment I pulled my lit candle away, the man extinguished the flame with a metal cup.

  “Stay down here—but don’t touch anything.” He snapped the second part. After a second, he added, “There’s acid baths and carving tools everywhere. It’s not a safe place for a lady.”

  I had a feeling he added the last part of his speech
out of grudging courtesy, and he truly just didn’t want me going through his tools. I wanted to tell him how ridiculous I found his assertion that I’d so easily injure myself, but I neither had the energy nor did I think it wise to provoke him. Without another word, he walked out of my candle’s light and headed into the shadows.

  I thought for a second that the other man had followed, but a second later, his voice came from the darkness. “I’m John.”

  Holding the candle out, I tried to see him. “John?”

  The floorboards creaked once more, and he wandered into my light. “Yes, and that’s Joseph—don’t mind him, that’s him in a good mood.”

  “Oh.” As I blinked, another wash of exhaustion rushed through me. I fought my eyelids open. Swallowing, I said, “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, John. My name is Annabelle Klein.”

  “I know, lady,” he said. “I’ve met you. I took your horse to the public stables several times. Before, I mean—when you were different—ordinary.”

  “Oh.” I nodded. “Well, then I apologize for my poor memory.”

  “Why would you remember me?” he asked with a smile, teasing lacing his words. “There’s a lot more of us to remember than there are of you.”

  “Well, no one remembers me now.” My body swayed forward, but I caught my balance.

  His hands went to either side of my shoulders, but he didn’t touch me. “Are you sure you’re not injured?”

  “Thank you, but I am fine—” My eyes slammed shut as my legs gave out. My thoughts extinguished, and the world fell away.

  9

  The Pride of the Kleins

  Dylan

  The moon was directly overhead by the time my grandmother found me running across the Hutchings Bridge. The gas lamps had long since guttered by the time I sprinted along the river. I needed little light to run; it was more than sufficient that the moonlight cast the city in a ghostly gray.

  The stench from the river never lessened with time spent near its banks, instead the rotted stink bred. I’d checked every other sector of the city, leaving the winding slums that gathered around the river’s banks. After combing the south bank, I’d run from the packed dirt path onto the wide stones of the bridge that connected to the north bank. Halfway over the bridge’s length, a large figure stepped into my path.

  I didn’t need the illumination from the moonlight reflecting off the river to know her; I’d recognize my grandmother in pitch blackness. From my first memory of her until now, not one detail had changed.

  Even though I wanted to keep running, I slowed as I approached her. If Grandmother wanted to tell me something, there was nothing I could do short of jumping off the bridge to prevent it. I wasn’t even sure jumping would help.

  The moment I stopped before her, my hands went to my knees and sweat rained down around me. An itchy film of sweat and dirt coated my skin in all the places that my work clothes hadn’t rubbed raw.

  “Grandmother,” I panted.

  She towered over me. “I’ve found your lady.”

  Her words hit me with a jolt of fear. I wanted to yell at her, ‘How do you know about her?’ and ‘What did you do to her?’ But I knew better than to ask such stupid questions.

  “Come on now, I’ll take you to her.” With that, she turned and headed down the other end of the stone bridge.

  Panting and holding my side, I followed the woman I’d always called my grandmother, even though I knew she was not. She walked purposefully, and within three turns, I was almost sure we were heading home. Yet, the idea that Grandmother let Lady Annabelle into our house was by far the strangest thought I had on this impossible day. Three days after our parents were taken into the Congregation, Grandmother let my brothers and me into her house. Before and since that day, I’d never seen another be allowed to enter her door.

  As we weaved deeper into the slums and I became convinced of our destination, more and more dread trickled into me.

  Grandmother started whistling several streets up from our house, a low quiet tune that warned our neighbors not to come out until she passed. The sound did nothing to soothe my fear. An eerie glow cast over our small house as we made our final approach. Grandmother opened the door and gestured for me to enter before her, as she always did.

  A low murmur of voices met me as I stepped inside. The light from a single candle broke the darkness. My brothers’ faces turned as we entered the kitchen, their faces half-cast in the flickering light.

  John leaned onto the back legs of his chair as Joseph leaned toward me.

  “You stink like the Hutchings,” Joseph muttered.

  I approached the pair. “I couldn’t sleep, went out for a run along the river.”

  “Steal any horses while you were out there?” John asked as he crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I had enough of that for one day.” I wanted to reach down, grab John, and shake him, demand to know Lady Annabelle’s location, but I didn’t. There was a small part of me that held on to the hope that my grandmother had hidden the girl and my brothers knew nothing of her.

  That hope died when Joseph said, “She’s not much to look at; I would have taken the bag of gold.”

  I gripped the kitchen chair. “Where is she?”

  John regarded me with something that could almost be a smirk if it weren’t so reproachful. “She’s sleeping in your bed, actually.”

  Spinning, I made to walk to my bed when my grandmother snapped from behind me, “Sit, Dylan.”

  Gripping the chair even harder, I pulled it out and sat stiffly.

  “What I want to know is why do you care so much?” Joseph asked with a nod toward my bed. “You take this on by yourself for who knows how long—and for what?”

  It was a good question, one I had a tough time pinpointing the answer to. Guilt was the most likely culprit for why I’d been so insane as to stick by someone I barely knew or liked, risking my life for it. Loyalty to her parents was another possibility.

  Truth be told, there were a hundred reasons behind why I cared—most of them weren’t something Joseph would understand. So I leaned onto the table and told him one I knew he would understand, “Maybe I just don’t want to give the Congregation what they want. What did she do? I knew Lady Annabelle Klein before she turned into what she is now—not well, but well enough to know she wasn’t some mastermind who’s trying to take down the magicians. And even if she is…” I trailed off, knowing better than to even utter the words aloud. Even if she is—I’d still want to help her.

  “She could ruin everything,” Joseph spat.

  I thrust out a hand. “Everything her father built—”

  “Everything we built!” he snapped.

  “Quiet,” Grandmother said, still standing behind me.

  Absolute silence fell.

  After it had stretched on for nearly a minute, John cleared his throat. “She told us to turn her in to the Congregation—don’t think she meant it, though. Seems to think the printing press is the reason she’s—turned into what she is.”

  I slumped forward onto the table. “Isn’t it?”

  Grandmother took the fourth chair. Light flickered over her rough-hewn features as she stared into my eyes. “How could a printing press make her lose her color, boy?”

  I gestured to the stove. “She’s being punished.”

  “Punished by who?” she asked.

  “The gods,” John volunteered, sitting forward in obvious interest.

  “Quiet, John, I asked your brother,” Grandmother said.

  My shoulders came up as I considered. “I don’t know—it would have to be the gods, I suppose.”

  “And the gods punished her for what?”

  “For… our conspiring, for all the money her father funneled into our work. I’m almost convinced he and the lady were both murdered for it.”

  “And who were you conspiring against that the gods needed to kill her parents and punish a daughter so distantly connected to the project?”

 
“The Congregation,” I whispered.

  Grandmother leaned in. “If this curse was given by the gods, then why is the Congregation so afraid of her?”

  John tapped his fingers on the table, obviously too interested to do the wise thing and stay out. “The iconoclasts tried to destroy the magicians.”

  Grandmother turned a scolding expression on him, and then turned her next question to me, “Why would the gods curse the iconoclasts with the power to destroy the magicians?” she asked.

  I stared down at the coarse wood of the table, unable to come up with an answer for that one. “Then I suppose it must have been something they did on accident, a curse mishap.”

  “Perhaps.” Her eyebrows rose like she didn’t believe it. “Perhaps she was accidentally cursed to not be seen, heard, or remembered by the Congregation. Cursed with the ability to destroy them—and it was all just a godly mistake.”

  John leaned forward. “That’s what she said. She said no one can see her.”

  “Except us,” Joseph added as he twirled his finger in a circle.

  “The monks definitely can’t,” I mumbled.

  “Why do you think that is? What makes us different—why can we see her?” John didn’t direct the question at our grandmother, but our gazes drifted to her after he’d said it.

  She didn’t respond to the question, and like so many times before, her gaze drifted far away. It was as if one moment she was filling her body, filling the entire room with her presence, and then she was gone.

  “She’s injured,” John said, after a time.

  “What?” I asked, looking over behind me toward the shadows.

  “Lady Annabelle, she’s injured,” John said.

  “How is she injured?” I asked.

  John shrugged. “I’m not sure if it’s her finger or something more.”

  “It’s both,” Grandmother said.

  Our gazes snapped to our grandmother, but strangely, she was still in that faraway place in her mind.

  When Grandmother’s attention didn’t return to us, I asked, “Did she tell you what happened?”