by Dawn Metcalf
“Trust me—I’m an expert here,” Joy said. “Things never stay the same.”
Monica slipped off her shoes and dipped her toes in the water. “I know.”
“So what’s the other reason?” Joy prompted. Monica tried to look like “what?” but they both knew there was a “what” so why bother saying “what?” They knew each other well enough to not go down the path of play-pretend-friend.
“The other reason,” Monica said, “is stupid.”
Joy sipped her water. “And our motto is?”
“No Stupid.”
“Right,” Joy said. “So spill.” Monica evaded her eyes. There was another long, sunlit pause. Monica stomped on a soap bubble, killing it. Joy leaned closer and nudged her friend’s shoulder. “You know you can tell me.”
“Anything?”
“Anything,” Joy said, feeling the first flutter of serious worry in her stomach. Monica’s face was pinched and drawn. Something was really, really wrong. Joy nudged her again. “Really. Honest.”
Monica grimaced and leaned back on her fists. “Okay. If I bring Gordon home, then the first guy I’ll be introducing to my mom and dad will be white.”
Joy waited for the punch line. It didn’t come.
“So?”
“So?” Monica said. “I thought we just said, No Stupid.”
“I’m not being stupid,” Joy said. “I just don’t get what’s the big deal.” She gestured with the bottle. “Your folks are cool. They don’t care about that stuff. I mean, they like me, and I’m white.” But as soon as she said it, Joy suddenly wondered. Was that true? Did the Reids not like her? Did they not like her because she was white? Had she somehow never noticed during almost ten years of friendship? A catalog of imagined faults and worries flipped through Joy’s mind. She suddenly felt small and slightly ill. “We’re okay, right?”
“Yes, of course,” Monica said peevishly. “But I’m not dating you. And it’s not a question about whether my parents are cool with white folks or not—they aren’t racists or anything. It’s just...They’ve never actually said, ‘Don’t date a white guy,’ but after what my dad went through growing up in Arkansas, it was kind of implied.” She rubbed her arms as if she was cold.
“Really?” Joy said doubtfully, scraping her shoes through the puddle.
“Yes, really,” Monica said, sounding annoyed. “Ask Stef how many times people asked him whether he had a girlfriend or if he thought some girl was hot or if he planned on having a wife and kids someday?” Monica flicked her fingertips like she was banishing the world. “Not many people will come out and say, ‘Don’t be gay,’ but the way they talk means that everyone expects boys to bring home girls—or blacks to bring home blacks or Jews to bring home Jews—parents expect their kids to be basically like themselves. That’s not racist or sexist on purpose, but it’s still there all the same.”
Joy sat quietly, knowing that she’d made a lot of those same mistakes with Stef. It was uncomfortable realizing that she’d fallen into the same trap as “everybody else.” How had her brother felt every time she’d asked him about having a girlfriend? Or teased him about some girl on TV? She’d never meant to be mean. She’d never meant to be insensitive or uncaring, either; she’d just been...stupid.
“My dad grew up with people spitting on him while he stood in line at the grocery store and while he waited for the bus,” Monica said. “He and Mom didn’t want me to ever feel different that way—that’s why we moved to Glendale.” She carefully stared at the sun glinting off her toe ring. “And it worked. I was never told that I couldn’t do something or that I wasn’t good enough being a person of color. I got good grades, got early admission into a good college, I have my own car and I know I’m pretty privileged. I get that. But I’m not so privileged as to be blind to the world or think it’s not out there waiting to judge me.” She spread her arms as if to encompass everything out there. “So when you say ‘So?’ like it’s no big deal, it pisses me off because, let me tell you, it is most certainly a very big deal!”
Joy felt a push button of panic. “Why are you getting mad at me?”
“I’m not mad,” Monica snapped, her eyes flashing at Joy. “Okay, I am mad, but I’m not mad at you—no, wait. I’m mad at you, but not at you, personally, just what you are doing, being you.” She shook her head angrily. “That’s not coming out right.” She took a deep breath and set her hands on her thighs. “You’re my friend, and I know that. That’s what makes this hard, okay? But I trust you to hear me out and think about what I’m saying before you write me off as a horrible person.” She took another deep breath, eyes fluttering. “Right. Here’s the deal—I’m angry that you are in the position to think that this is a big deal or not because to you, it may not be a big deal. But given how you got all wound up about your brother coming out and you still haven’t introduced your own boy to me, let alone to your parents, I think maybe these kinds of things are a bigger deal than you let on, even to yourself. But see, you get to call it.” Her words came out in a rush. “You’re the majority, the default, the Pretty Young White Thing. Maybe it wouldn’t be a big deal if you brought home a brother or a Muslim or a Jewish Puerto Rican butch chick with piercings and introduced her to your family at dinner. It’s not like they could throw stones. But this stuff is all—” she grasped for the right words, shaking her hands in the air “—messy and rude and ugly and stupid, and I don’t like it, but that’s the truth. I don’t know how my folks would feel about it.” Monica sighed and picked up her lemon water; beads of condensation dripped down the sides. “I know they want the best for me and if the best is Gordon, then everybody wins, but if it’s not...” Monica unscrewed the top off her bottle. “I just don’t want anybody getting hurt.”
Joy watched a thin trail of suds slip down the storm drain. “I think it’s too late for that,” she said. Monica shrugged and wiped her nose.
“But are you getting what I’m saying?” Monica asked.
“A little, maybe,” Joy said. “I guess I don’t know.” Joy leaned sideways, touching elbows with her best friend. The honesty didn’t hurt as much as she thought it would. It felt better to be trusted to share an ugly, rude truth. And Monica was right—Joy ought to understand, and, truthfully, in some ways, she did...and, more truthfully, in many ways, she couldn’t. She felt guilty about it and, also, not.
She and Monica were many things, but they were also best friends.
Joy picked at her nails. “So how long do you think he’ll wait around?”
Monica stared at her toes. “Oh, I’ll call him eventually,” she said. “I’m just waiting for the perfect moment.”
Joy shook her head and drank some more water. “There are no ‘perfect moments,’” she said. “There are only ‘moments.’ And then they’re gone.” She poked her friend with her elbow. “What about you? What do you want?”
Monica stepped half-heartedly on the sponge. It squished.
“I don’t want to have to choose.”
Monica dropped her head against Joy’s shoulder. Joy rested her ear on Monica’s hair. Their knees touched: dark brown and pink-peach, both scuffed and speckled with soap and grass. They splashed their toes in the water. Joy let out a sigh.
“Amen, sister.”
SIX
I am intrigued. Will send the car for you at 5pm EST at the corner of Wilkes and North Main. Please be prompt. -GC
JOY LOGGED OFF her account and checked the time. She really wanted to stay and coax Monica out of her funk, but this was important.
Stef had gone grocery shopping, leaving Joy to wash the dishes. Pizza and gelato had been shelved in the wake of the Monica–Gordon drama. Joy left a note—“Out. Be back soon!”—and gave herself five minutes’ lead time before she locked up the house, jogged down the stairs, crossed the courtyard and shut the gate behind her, fully aware that she was
going beyond the protection of Ink’s wards. She ran her thumb over the futhark pendant at her neck as she crossed Wilkes Road.
She stood on the corner and checked her phone again. If Graus Claude said he wanted her on the corner at five, she wasn’t going to risk being late. She glanced around, gripping her purse strap, wondering just how long three minutes could possibly take. She kept glancing at the screen out of habit, twisting it awkwardly in her hand. This was probably the reason that old people wore watches.
A classic Bentley whirred up to the corner. Joy recognized its long, clean lines of chocolate-brown and caramel-gold with white-rimmed tires that looked like they’d never known dirt. Joy opened the back door and eased into the buttery seats, her feet sinking into thick carpet. The air smelled faintly of mint.
“Miss Malone?” the driver spoke over his shoulder without turning around. “Please make yourself comfortable.”
“Thank you,” Joy said as she placed her purse beside her on the seat. She missed having Ink next to her, but she had to do this alone. She squirmed nervously against the leather, trying to get comfortable. She’d only formally met with the Bailiwick once or twice before, and he intimidated the heck out of her. Still, it was better this way. She had to protect herself...and Ink.
The car slid from the curb as her eyes slid slowly closed.
* * *
Joy woke to the car drawing level with the brownstone’s front steps, surprised in that half instant to be somewhere outside Boston. It took her mind a moment to catch up to the present: ghost image on her shoulder. Graus Claude. Bentley. Driving. Brownstone. Kurt. Ink. She shook her head to clear it. She must have been more tired than she’d thought, but Joy didn’t remember feeling tired in the first place. It was disconcerting and surreal.
The driver held her door open as she awkwardly stepped out onto the sidewalk; a brisk wind made the world feel more real by the moment. She took a few cautious steps, and, satisfied, the driver returned to his post. He tipped the brim of his cap as he got into the luxury vehicle, which slowly rolled away in a hush of ghostly wheels.
Joy touched the handrail, the cool grit under her fingers convincing her that she really was awake and in front of the Bailiwick’s house and was climbing the steps at this very moment of her own free will. It was strange to be there without Ink or Inq; she’d never come there alone before and the steps were unreasonably wide for one person. Remembering how Ink had hurried her through the breach, Joy ran quickly up the steps, knocked the knocker and hopped inside as Kurt opened the door.
The emptiness of the foyer was welcoming, and Joy was grateful for the silence as Kurt led her down the hall and knocked a quick double rap upon Graus Claude’s office doors. Joy blinked the sleep from her eyes and wiped her palms on her pants.
“Come in, Miss Malone,” the Bailiwick’s voice thrummed, in no way muffled by the heavy ironwood. Kurt opened the doors, and Joy stepped through. The room was once again nestled in comfortable shadow, its heavy curtains drawn and the emerald lampshade aglow. The great toad looked up from his paperwork and sat back in his throne-like chair. “I hope your journey here was pleasant?”
“Very,” Joy said, slipping into a chair. “I slept all the way here.”
“Of course,” Graus Claude said almost glibly as he motioned Kurt to pour some water with two of his hands while the other two shuffled a stack of papers into a neat pile. “The Bentley has a soporific effect when transporting passengers across large distances. Cuts down on the unnecessary strains upon the mental facilities when dealing with transdimensional shifts. I would think you might have noticed given how often you’ve been driven to and from my address during our brief association.”
Joy sat down slowly, uncomfortable with the knowledge that she’d been put to sleep on more than one occasion without her prior knowledge or consent. She listened to the gurgle as Kurt poured water from a crystal carafe. Maybe she shouldn’t drink the water? Maybe Inq was right to be wary?
Kurt set a silver tray with small china plates on the desk. Each had slivered vegetables and two tiny bowls of green-and-white sauce swirled in delicate yin-yang designs. Joy accepted a plate and glass of water, but she waited for the Bailiwick to take the first sip.
Graus Claude motioned for Kurt to be dismissed. Joy didn’t look at him as he left, professionally slipping the doors closed in his wake. The Bailiwick settled back in his chair, one of his hands dipping a slice of jicama in sauce. “I discovered that the elemental blade belonged to Jaiveer Sungte, a mercenary from the Old Wars. He had long been retired from active service and was known to occupy the cliffs of Varkala,” he said. “No reason at all could be found for his desire to attack your person. If I had to guess, I would surmise monies or a long-overdue favor was involved.”
“Ink thought the same thing,” Joy said.
“Then let us consider the case closed and say no more about it. As I understand it, Master Ink would prefer it that way.” Joy squirmed and tried not to think about the look on Ink’s face if he knew why she was here. “In any event, you came to address a different concern.” Joy nodded and the Bailiwick leaned over the desk, his eyes like sparkling sapphires. “Show me.”
Joy removed her jacket, exposing the back of her spaghetti-strap tank, turning around in her chair to show the gleaming smear between her shoulders. The air was cold and stippled her spine.
“Can you see it?” she asked.
“A moment.” She heard him move, a scraping of nails and the groaning of wood followed by a delicate sound of thin metal clinks. “Yes,” he said. “I can see it.”
Joy swallowed. “Do you recognize it? Do you know whose it is?”
Another aching creak of wood and she could feel the damp heat of his breath on her back as he leaned closer to take a better look. Joy shuddered at the great beast literally breathing down her neck. He might look like a respectable four-armed amphibian in an immaculately tailored suit, but she’d seen him eat an attacking soldier whole.
“I do not know,” he said. She could feel his words on her skin. “I can barely make out any discernible detail.” Joy turned back around to face the giant comptroller. He wore his tiny pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched above the nostrils of his nonexistent nose. They flashed in the light of his desk lamp and reminded her, oddly, of Mr. Vinh’s multilensed contraption. Now she understood how Graus Claude could see marks without the gift of Sight.
“Normally, I would expect those of the Twixt to know the identity of those who marked them, and a mere human to be ignorant of the entire affair.” The Bailiwick drank his water and picked up two ice cubes with his tongue, crunching them in his massive jaws. “As a human with the Sight, I expect that you see what I see, which, I am guessing, is a half-formed signatura.”
“Is that normal?” Joy asked.
“It happens,” he said. “The form of a True Name can be different for everyone, a fact of which you should be well aware. Your acquisition of Master Ink’s mark was significantly different than Briarhook’s—the one, nicked with a knife, the other, burned into your flesh.” Joy winced at the memory and touched her upper arm. “However, I imagine there must be a few that develop over time. When did it appear?”
“After I did gymnastics in the grass.”
Graus Claude rumbled. “Somehow I doubt that falls under anyone’s formal purview,” he said drily. “The Folk are more interested in babies born with eleven fingers or those who can spin straw into gold.”
Joy peeked back over her shoulder. “Can people do that?”
“Hardly at all anymore,” he said sadly, then shrugged both sets of shoulders. “Should you wish to disassociate from it, you are in the unique position to do so. Why not simply remove it and be done?”
“I tried,” Joy said. “It didn’t work.”
Now Graus Claude looked surprised. Or possibly intrigued. “Really, now?” he
said. “It was my understanding that you could remove signatura from the flesh with the scalpel of Master Ink.”
“Yes, well, I thought so, too,” she said. “I don’t know who did this or where I got it, but I don’t think Ink would be too happy if he found out.” Some of the worry seeped into her voice. She pulled her arms through the jacket sleeves. “I thought you might at least be able to tell me whose it is.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Malone, that I cannot be of more service,” he said. “I do have extensive records from the Scribes’ client list, but I’m afraid, given what I see here, there isn’t much to go on.”
Joy shrugged her jacket back over her shoulders, hyperconscious of the feel of the fabric against her spine. “It’s okay. I’m just...I’m worried that I can’t seem to remove it. This hasn’t happened before, and now I’m wondering if I’ve somehow...” She didn’t know how to end the sentence without giving too much away. Graus Claude didn’t know that she had the power to remove signaturae and that it wasn’t a magical property of the scalpel itself.
“Broken it?” the Bailiwick suggested.
She swallowed back the unspoken lie. “Or something.”
“And you don’t want Ink to find out,” Graus Claude said. “How very adolescent. I’d forgotten how trivial relationship dramas can be. It’s refreshingly mundane.” He lumbered to his feet with a great shifting of things. “However, I believe that I have the good fortune to offer you an opportunity to test your theory before there are any undue histrionics. If you would be so good as to follow me?”
Joy finished a wasabi-cream carrot stick in two bites and followed the Bailiwick as he made his way down the hall, the stinging heat of the spicy mustard zinging inside her nose. Graus Claude’s great head swung methodically from his hunched spine as his wide, flat feet shuffled forward in shiny leather shoes. They made their way down the hall, passing gilt-framed portraits and highly polished mirrors, until he came to a wide, decorative archway faced in scalloped wood, layered like dragon scales from frame to floor.
