“Take a seat, Mr Minnow. I’ll just go and get Obel for you. Can I get you a drink?” My voice is too shrill – he will be able to tell how nervous I am.
Jack Minnow closes his eyes and shakes his head. When he opens them he’s smirking a little. “Just Mr Whitworth will be fine.”
I go to leave the room, but then Obel is walking into the studio, drying his hands on a rag. He puts one hand out to greet Minnow who takes it and frowns with disdain at its dampness.
“Well, shall we get started then, Mr Whitworth?” He wipes his hand on his trousers, looking at Obel with open hostility. “Someone’s been naughty, have they? Unauthorized marks, I believe?” He gives an indulgent chuckle. “I understand the young man involved was ambitious. I must say, that’s a trait I admire.”
Obel tells me to do some drawing practice in the back room, but Minnow stops him.
“I’d like to talk with you both. Sit down, Miss Flint.”
He makes us tell him what happened, asking me to go first. I talk with half my attention on Jack Minnow and half on Obel. I’m worried about saying the wrong thing and getting Obel in trouble. Is this visit just about Karl?
All the time Minnow makes notes and asks little clarifying questions. He is being perfectly polite, but I feel like he’s waiting for me to trip. His marks are glaring and vivid and I can hardly think straight. He asks Obel the same questions, grilling him about why he left us alone and pressing him for details on what he said to Karl when he fired him. He writes in silence for a few minutes and then passes the piece of paper to me.
“Just check this through and if you agree with my summary please sign it.” Reading it again feels like living it again and absently I rub my head.
“It all looks fine,” I say, sliding the paper back across the table to him.
“Fine or correct, Miss Flint? There’s a difference.” He says it with a smile, but it’s the kind of smile I imagine belongs to a demon.
“It’s correct, yes. It’s what I told you and it’s true.” He passes me a pen and I sign, glancing briefly at Obel to check I’m doing the right thing.
“Thank you.” He passes it to Obel, who signs above my signature and then Minnow places our statement in his bag and looks around. He leans back in his chair and stretches a little. “So, how are you finding it here, Miss Flint? All going well so far?”
“It’s brilliant. Well, apart from that.” I nod towards his bag and the papers. “I’m really enjoying it.”
“And Mr Whitworth” – he looks at Obel – “you’re happy with him? He’s training you well?”
It feels strange to be asked this with Obel right here, but I try not to look surprised. “He’s been excellent. I’m very happy here.” I’m not going to say any more.
“Glad to hear it. Well, maybe you could show me out, Mr Whitworth?” He picks up his bag and they walk through to the reception area, talking all the time. I leave them to it and am about to head to the back room when Minnow’s voice grows louder, and I look up to see him returning, undoing the top button of his waistcoat as he walks towards where Obel works. Minnow relaxes into the chair as though he owns it, puts his bag on the ground and looks my way.
“Seeing as neither of you are busy right now, your tutor has agreed to begin a mark for me. Isn’t that right, Whitworth?” I see Obel stiffen. It’s clearly not a question. Button by button, Jack Minnow removes his waistcoat and short-sleeved undershirt. As he takes off his clothes, I’ve never felt so battered by reading someone. The onslaught of violence and rage in his marks is overwhelming. I want to run. I want to cry. I want to tell him I can see through him. But I stay silent, watching this strange dance between him and Obel.
Obel breaks the silence. “We wouldn’t normally, sir. Usually we would ask you to come back after a consultation. But of course, considering it’s you, it would be an honour.” He looks at me. “Leora, Mr Minnow would like … an owl, wasn’t it?”
Minnow nods brusquely and his shoulders square. “A Great Horned Owl,” he confirms. I know the type he means; Obel’s had me drawing so many creatures.
Obel begins his usual patter of questions, apparently as calm as ever. I go to get the equipment ready. When I return with a tray full of instruments I hear the end of Obel and the man’s conversation.
“… phenomenal hunters, yes. Sight and hearing like nothing else. The prey think they’ve run fast enough, far enough, hidden themselves perfectly out of sight and then – swoop. Before they’ve even heard him the owl has got them. Unstoppable. Formidable.”
Obel swallows and turns to me. “Thanks, Leora, I’ll take it from here.”
I turn to leave, then Minnow says, “Actually, why don’t we use this as a training opportunity? I’d like Leora here to make this mark.”
My shock obviously shows.
“You’ve done a mark before though, haven’t you?” I nod weakly. “Well then, this shouldn’t be a problem, and Mr Whitworth is here to assist. I’d like it here, up high on my shoulder. It can watch over my family.”
With shaking hands I wipe down my workspace with disinfectant, covering it carefully and arranging everything in an order that works for me. I show him that all the equipment I’m using is new and clean, and I ask some questions about how he wants the owl to look, showing him some sketches I’ve done before, feeling grateful that Obel has made me draw and practise so much. I clean his skin and shave the wispy black hairs. With each touch of his skin his marks roar at me. It’s nothing like the pleasant electric shock that I felt when I inked the woman; it’s like a murderous crowd screaming for blood. I don’t know if I can bear it for a moment more, let alone for the hours it will take to complete his mark. I stall for time by showing him the image as I create a transfer and making sure I’ve really understood what he wants. I let my eyes flick to Obel who is, for once, looking worried. But when he sees me looking he smiles his reassurance.
“You’ve got this, girl. You’re a natural, remember?” he murmurs quietly.
I place my drawing on his skin, letting the guidelines leave their clear marks and bracing myself each time we connect, trying to block out the violence that ebbs through his ink. I show him the lines in a mirror and he nods.
As I begin marking him I feel the familiar buzz of the machine and allow it to take over. Each time I find myself slipping into this safe feeling, Minnow speaks. It’s like being wrenched out of bed when you’re on the edge of sleep, and, each time I feel the jolting sense of being disturbed. It makes it hard to concentrate on his words and construct my replies.
“So, what was the first mark you did, Leora?” he asks.
“It was a leaf,” I answer distractedly.
“A leaf? Where was it?” I am inking the owl’s talons and think of that broken-hearted woman. I answer without thinking. “It was at the base of her family tree. Her baby died.”
I notice his muscles tense at that and it’s enough to wake me up a little and put me on my guard. “Oh. And she wanted a mark for the baby?”
I remember her words as if she was speaking them right now. I know I’m meant to forget them when they die before they’re marked… He was only two days old. And I remember Obel’s warning. I can’t let him down. I need to stop Jack Minnow’s questions.
Allowing myself a moment to breathe, I drag the needle a little raggedly over a patch of skin that is already raw. I hear him gasp.
“Oh, sorry!” I say, “I think maybe I need to concentrate a bit more – you know, I’m still learning. I’ve obviously not quite grasped the skill of chatting and inking at the same time.”
I catch Obel’s eye and he smiles briefly out of the eyeline of Minnow. From then on, the only sound is the machine, Minnow’s breath as he inhales the pain, and the uncensored bawl of his marks screaming their secrets to me.
Eventually, with the outline complete, his skin is too sore and swollen for me to be able to carry on.
“I think we’ll have to let this heal a bit before we do stage two Mr Minnow,�
� I say, cleaning away the blood and dressing the beautiful, fearsome wound I’ve imprinted on his shoulder. I am desperate for him to leave. “It’s looking good though,” I say as I peel off my gloves. “It looks just like the owl’s about to swoop down and catch his prey.” I do my best to sound casual. “I wonder what horned owls hunt.”
“Oh, almost any small, insignificant creature, I think,” says Minnow. “But there’s one thing they hunt which I think is rather remarkable – it shows how brave and strong the owl is.”
“Oh yes?” I ask brightly, “What’s that?”
My hands are busy breaking down my workstation and removing the plastic covering from the chair.
“Crows. Horned owls hunt crows. Late at night, when the crows roost, just when they feel completely safe, the owl comes for them.”
I throw the plastic away and wipe my hands. I try to smile politely as I hand Minnow his shirt and help him put it on over his bandage. He’s a hunter.
He catches my hand as I help him and frowns at the wound, still healing. “Cut yourself? You should be more careful, Miss Flint.”
I don’t speak as he drops my hand. He doesn’t book another session but says he’ll be back sometime. Just as he’s about to leave he stops and turns to me, pulling something out of his pocket as though he’s just remembered. He holds it out to me.
“Ever seen anything like this before?” I take in the smudged paper and swallow as I recognize a picture of a feather, just like the one that the woman gave to Obel when she came out of hours. I shake my head.
“No, means nothing to me,” I say lightly, willing my face not to flush. He gazes at me silently as he puts the paper back in his pocket. I see him out of the door, and feel a moment of satisfaction when he forgets about his tattoo and puts the strap of his bag over his painful shoulder, wincing as he does so. He walks away without turning back.
When he’s completely out of sight I shut the door and lock it. I go into the back room and scrub my hands over and over again, until they’re red and stinging. Obel puts his hand on my shoulder and I let him turn the tap off. I dry my shaking hands.
“I’m scared, Obel.”
And the worst bit is when Obel says, “Me too, Leora. Me too.”
Chapter Thirty
Later that afternoon, when Obel is with a customer and I’m working quietly, there’s an insistent banging on the back door of the studio. I open it to find Verity, breathless. Her eyes are wide with fear. I step outside into the street.
“They’ve found it,” she whispers. “All the evidence that Connor Drew was hiding – it was located in a hidden space in one of his workshops. I can’t be gone long; I’m only on my break. But, Leora” – she stops to catch her breath – “they’ve confiscated it all. Everything is in the department ready to be itemized, starting tomorrow. You’ve not got long; you’ve got to find your dad’s skin before they do.” I nod. She passes me a folded piece of paper and a key. “This should help. You need to do it tonight.” Her eyes are wide and frightened. “Please be careful, Leora. There’s too much riding on this.”
And she leaves before I can say goodbye or thank her.
I pray that Oscar got my message. I pray that he will come. I’d suggested the museum as our meeting place. It’s warm and doesn’t cost money, plus it’s busy and public enough that no one would suspect us of doing anything untoward. I didn’t expect us to be planning a break-in, but this is as good a place to talk as any.
When I see that he’s waiting for me in the reception area, I nearly cry with relief. Composing myself, and without speaking, we walk through the atrium, which houses the books of our old leaders. We stop now and then to look at a piece of artwork or an archaeological find, but mostly we walk.
As we walk, I pass him the paper Verity gave me; it is a plan of the building and instructions for where we can find the confiscated evidence. I murmur to him the news that Verity gave me. He nods gravely, looking less shocked than I thought he would – he must have been expecting this moment to come, or at least preparing himself for the possibility. He slips the paper into his jacket pocket and we’re silent for a while as we gaze through the glass. Then he turns to me and gently, so gently, brushes my hair out of my eyes to reveal the bruise on my forehead. He frowns when he sees the red and blue marks.
“Are you all right?” he asks, his voice low. “Every time I see you, you have some new injury.” He takes my hand and examines the healed cut. I’m suddenly aware of how warm and strong his hands are; I can feel rough skin on his fingertips as he runs them over my age marks. “Do you think you might need a bodyguard?”
I laugh and pull my hand away. “Are you offering?”
“Well, us bookbinders are renowned for our intimidating physique.” He laughs too and I’m just grinning at him.
“What do you want to be remembered for, Leora?” he asks suddenly. “What are you going to make sure gets inked on to your skin?”
I frown a little. The question catches me off guard; it seems odd, a little morbid. But when I look up into his face I can see he’s serious. I close my eyes and think. What will it be, this first mark? What do I want my children to read on my skin? What do I want to be known for ever for? What will matter enough to be there for eternity?
And I can’t come up with a single thing.
I think of all the things I’d like to do: reach the highest grade of inker, get married, have kids. But are those things worthy of remembrance? Does it really matter that someone remembers me beyond my days, when my life is just one spark in a great fire? On skin, my life won’t look so different from anyone else’s.
And then a treacherous thought comes into my mind. Perhaps you can’t know someone by reading their book. Not really know them.
I banish it and try to concentrate on Oscar.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I haven’t given it much thought. What about you?”
Oscar laughs incredulously. “Seriously? You haven’t given it much thought? This is what we’re supposed to be living for, and you’ve not given it much thought?”
I shrug and he shakes his head in an exasperated way. We walk further round the room, taking slow paces, trying to look like ordinary visitors.
“I have one mark – it says I’ve completed my first year of bookbinding training. And the mark on my tree deleting Dad.” He shrugs. “I just want to live long enough to have more than this on my skin…” His voice peters out.
“I know,” I say.
“Maybe that’s all I want,” he says quietly. “The chance to honour Dad’s memory, to be remembered enough for the both of us.”
We look at each other and that’s when I know what I want to be remembered for. I want to be remembered for fighting for my dad. Oscar and I both have tears in our eyes. He rests his forehead on mine.
“It’s going to be OK, Leora.” My breath shivers as I look up at him.
When a curator passes us, guiding a group round the central exhibit, we break apart. The guide frowns our way so Oscar takes my hand and we hurry through the nearest door, past a guard, hiding our smiles. I stand still while my eyes grow accustomed to the gloom of this new space and Oscar takes a step back, knocking into something with a dull smack. We pause, and as my vision sharpens I see Oscar’s smile slowly fade, and we realize where we are. We have gone through the green door, and the tank where the blank man floats is rocking ever so slightly from when Oscar bumped into it, the liquid sloshing lightly while the man’s elbows squeak against the glass. We are surrounded.
On every side are pictures of blanks. These alabaster tombs of people with their blanched white skin and their secrets. Some of the images depict them with swollen stomachs as though the lies and evil they’ve hidden have filled them up and are ready to burst out. They all have eyes that see too much, know too much, hide too much.
I shudder at an illustration of a blank cutting off the hand of a marked man – taking his years, taking his marks, taking his life. The room is heavy with the
evil that seeps off the pictures and writings in this room. There are the written accounts of the horror faced by families tormented by the blanks. It’s all too easy to think that this is part of the fairy tale. But it’s real and we mustn’t forget it.
They look like skeletons – no, like ghosts. We’re only haunted by their memory now. I remind myself that they’re gone. We’re safe. But my fear feels real and their power feels all too strong.
I turn to Oscar and whisper, “I hate it here.”
He squeezes my hand and murmurs something, patting the pocket that contains Verity’s instructions. I’m not certain of what he says but it sounds like, “But we all have secrets.”
When I get home a little later Mum calls out to me.
“Leora, are you back? I’m coming down!”
She clatters down the stairs with a piece of paper in her hand. Her face is an odd mixture of fear and relief.
“The letter came today. We’ve got a date for the ceremony.”
She hands me the slip of thick, official paper and I read it. Dad’s weighing of the soul ceremony is just weeks away.
I don’t have much time.
Chapter Thirty-One
When I was seven I stole a cookie.
I stole it from the bakery – the one where Seb works now. I knew that if I asked Mum for one she would say no, because she always did. They were stacked at my eye-level, tempting me, taunting me. So, I waited until the baker’s back was turned and Mum was leaning forward asking for the bread to be sliced, and then I slipped a round, pale, sugar-dusted cookie into my coat pocket.
I hadn’t thought far enough ahead to figure out how to eat it without my parents noticing. For the rest of the day I tried to work out how to get to my coat, hung on its hook near the door, without Mum or Dad becoming suspicious. The mixture of guilt and desperate longing consumed me. The only solution was to creep downstairs in the middle of the night, shivering in the darkness. I fumbled my way to my coat and found the pocket, my heart racing with fear of being caught and excitement at being able to eat my cookie. But in my pocket there were only crumbs.
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