MARKS - Chapter 1

Chapter One

 

I can think of a thousand words that would cause as much damage as the fire consuming the building across the street.

Tugging my cloak tighter around me, I ease closer to the flames. My heels clack against the worn cobblestones and my skirts swish as hatred flares to life inside me. Normally the square is filled with smells of roasting meat and the raw, earthy scent of the tannery. Not today.

Smoke pools in the air, the thick November clouds blocking its ascent. Those closest to the fire cough and push their noses under sleeves and cloaks. Burning papers flutter above the street, and the tangy scent of smoldering metal assaults my nose. A printing shop. Of course. That’s the third one this month. Ash rains down, and I wonder how many words have just been destroyed, and how many I could write to take their place and last forever. Words that would not burn.

People cling together in front of the crumbling shop, mumbling out of earshot of the Royal Guards surrounding it. Not that it matters. The King has a way of hearing things that haven’t even been spoken.

I creep close to the perimeter, the heat from the flames prickling my skin as I eye the guard closest to me. His hair, slick with grease, glistens in the afternoon light. My blood simmers, my fingers itching for a pen. Stop it, Gretta. No place for an outburst here. I turn my attention to the others clogging the street. People point and whisper to each other. Facial features tighten as the weight of the King’s grip on the city is evidenced yet again. But no one is crying or screaming. If the owner of the shop is here, he’s maintaining a lot of self-control.

Something I don’t seem to have the knack for.

Some of the guards stand silent, their stoic faces reflecting nothing but duty and disinterest. A few chat and laugh as though at a party. The greasy-haired guard stares into the fire and sneers, as if the owner of this shop did something to break the law and is now paying for it. As if truth and justice reside here in Dracon among her impoverished people.

But neither does.

Hot flames lick the air and a beam inside the shop collapses, bringing the roof down with it. Anger burns in me, hot as the fire raging inside the charred remains of the store. Printing isn’t illegal - yet. But this shop owner’s livelihood is being destroyed because the King has been besieged by fear and responds with a temper tantrum. His Majesty is scared of words.

As well he should be. Especially from people like me.

I take a step closer to the fire, the guard’s presence looming before me. I haven’t been this close to the guards in ages. A fresh blast of smoke blows past my face, and as I cough, my anger tumbles loose, and I remember who and where I am. I shouldn’t be here. I put my weight on my back foot, and before I turn glare once more at the guard in front of me.

His dark eyes stare right back.

They are piercing, like a sharpened blade or a truth you don’t wish to hear. I hesitate the tiniest of moments, but it’s too late. My feet are anchored in the stones, too weighed down to move as his eyes stab mine. Move, my heart screams.

I tear my eyes from the guard, but it’s too late. He’s seen me. Blast it, Gretta. Head low, I spin and weave through the crowd, moving away from the fire and the guards. My heart drums a staccato rhythm. The crowd thins out the further I get from the fire, and I head to the alley some twenty paces away.

Don’t turn around, don’t turn around. Fifteen paces now. Twelve. Ten paces, when a strong hand clamps down on my shoulder.

“Oh!” I spin and the hand squeezes again, tighter.

Greasy-hair leers in front of me. He maintains his grasp and drags me down the alley, then digs his fingers into the pockets of my dress. Thank the skies I don’t have anything on me.

When his search reveals nothing, he stares at me with his beady black eyes. “What were you doing around the fire?”

I breathe and count the scars on his face. “Nothing.”

He sneers, then jerks an arm forward and grasps my wrist. He examines my fingertips, which are covered in color. His beady eyes narrow. “What have we here?”

The urge to wrench my arm free bubbles up, an impulse I can’t control but must. “I’m a dyer,” I tell him. “Houghman’s Guild.”

 

He studies my hand as if trying to process what I’ve told him. Houghman’s is the most well-known dyer’s guild in the kingdom. He should know it. And great skies, the color staining my fingers should attest to the truth of my claim. Still, he stares at my hand as though trying to comprehend something from it. Though his ability for understanding anything probably rivals his personal hygiene skills, which seem to be quite lacking and perhaps nonexistent. I could use the grease from his hair to start a bonfire.

Finally, he scoffs. “A Blue Nail.”

I dip my head as though ashamed of his jibe. Dye coats my hands, while the blood of innocent people no doubt mars his. And yet he insults me. My heart still hammers, and I wait, expecting him to shove me away, disgraceful peasant that I am. When he doesn’t, I stare up at him again.

He’s not studying my hand.

Instead, his gaze has zeroed in on my chest. Is he kidding me? I take a peek at what so earnestly holds his attention. Fear blossoms deep inside me, while I can’t help thinking how ironic it is that my small chest couldn’t get any of the local boys to notice me before while this idiot seems entranced.

The guard notices I’ve followed his gaze. His upper lip curls into a smirk. “Bet your charms aren’t stained with blue.”

I jerk my arm, but he holds it firm. Panic floods my veins, and my heart ricochets inside my chest. No way have I managed to elude the Royal Guards for this long and then have this happen. I’d rather die than have any part of the King on me, even if it’s just the hand of one of his henchmen.

The guard jerks me forward and presses against me. An icy feeling floods my body, freezing every muscle, every bone, snuffing out fires inside me and silencing the scream for help I can’t seem to let loose. Goose bumps flare to life along my arms.

A throat clears from down the alley. “Got a pickpocket there, do you?”

The guard snaps his head to the man who spoke. A tall figure, cloaked in the imposing uniform of the King’s guards, stands at the alley entrance. Saints in heaven help me. I’ll have no chance against two of them.

The second guard ambles toward us. “Caught her stealing then?”

Beady Eyes scowls at this intruder. “She was lingering around the fire. Took off running, which means she had reason to.”

I risk a glance at the guard who’s joined us. He’s young, about my age or maybe even in his twenties. He’s big, too. The tunic marking him as a guard does its best to cover him but barely covers his large frame. He’s so big I think he could swallow me whole. His eyes flicker over me, and I bite my lip to keep from screaming. This cannot happen. It cannot.

The new guard steps toward me, his tunic strained by the flesh of his middle. My body stills, and my mind sees the moment from outside myself. Fluffer Butt and Beady Eyes are going to have their way with me. I’m no one, nothing but a canvas for the colors of the King’s evil to drip onto. I peer down the alley. No one’s there. No one to intervene. The King’s evil silences everyone.

Fluffer Butt tilts his head to Beady. “What reason did she give you for being around the fire?”

“Didn’t give one.”

Fluffer Butt takes another step toward me. “The printing shop of interest to you?”

I shake my head. “No. I just saw the smoke and was curious.”

“And where are you off to now?”

“Home.”

“Your parents expecting you back?”

“My parents are dead.” I swallow down the nausea that always erupts when I speak those words. “I live with my aunt.”

He turns to Beady Eyes. “See there, Breck, she’s just a curious girl.”

Beady Eyes - Breck - doesn’t drop my hand. My lungs tighten, my breath trapped in my body and dying to get out. Everything is building inside me. Anger. Fear. Words.

The grip on my arm tightens, and Breck turns to the other guard. “Why don’t you just beat it?”

Without thinking, I lift my eyes to the other guard. Begging him with my eyes: Not this. Anything but this.

But he doesn’t look at me. “You’re in enough hot water with the captain as it is, mate.” He nods his head at me. “She’s just a dirty girl who can’t help but stick her nose in other people’s business. Don’t risk your position for the likes of her.”

The tightness in my face relaxes, fear turning to outrage. Dirty girl? And here they’re discussing my body as though it were a dessert worth savoring or skipping. Beady Eyes slaps my wrist away, then shoves me against the wall.

I gasp and brace myself against the rough wood. Oh heavens. Please no, please no, please no.

He takes a step back. “Don’t let me catch you again, Blue Nail. Might not be able to stop myself.” With that, he walks up the alley, disappearing around the corner.

My body dissolves and I sink against the wall, casting my gaze on the other guard, who still stands in front of me. He’s smiling. Not a sneer or a smirk. A real smile that speaks of kindness. Before I think to wonder if he’s gone mad or I have, he turns and leaves. I watch him for two heartbeats before my senses return and I sprint the other direction.

Five minutes later, I’m out of breath but home, if you can call it that. I open the door and Mera turns from the stove. She looks at my face, her brow furrowed at my panting, then at my hands. “Did you forget the eggs?”

Blast. I had. “I’ll go out and get them. Just have to do something first.”

The wooden stairs creak under my weight as I take them two at a time. I drop to the floor in the room I’ve occupied since coming to live with Mera nine months ago. She’s a quirky old bird, and I barely know her. Evidenced by the knife I keep hidden under my mattress. She’s no relation to me, but she’s a sympathizer. And she’s kept me safe. From everything but my own choices.

I fling open the trunk in the corner of the room and rifle through dresses and underthings until I find the paper I have hidden there. My fingers tremble so much I can barely grip the pen. He touched me. Touched me and wanted to do more simply because he could. Because he is the King’s and therefore untouchable. Our Kingdom has been torn to shreds because of men like him. He is an evil, greedy man.

And a blasted fool.

Because I know his name.

I wipe my fingers on my skirt, the grease from the guard’s hands still coating my skin. A shiver overwhelms me. The desire I have to take a bath and scrub my skin raw is an indulgence I probably will give in to before day’s end. But first, I have to do this. It may be a dumb decision. The ones I make out of anger or fear usually are. I arrange the sentence of seven words in my head, then grasp the pen tighter and scrawl out the words.            

The guard Breck will never have me. I sign my name in a flourish. Gretta Marks.

I tear the writing from the rest of the parchment, wad it up, and stuff it in my pocket. I’ll need to get rid of it at some point. Having it here is a risk to Mera. And to me.

I stand and brush my hands on my dress, then head to the door. The idea of going back out is almost enough for me to beg Mera to get the eggs herself. But that’s ridiculous. I have nothing to fear. I’ve written Breck’s fate, so far as it concerns me.

No need to fear that he’ll have me. Because of what I wrote, I know he can’t.