MARKS - Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Morning sunlight tickles the back of my eyelids. A new day, same as the last. I wonder if the sun ever gets tired of rising, or if it’s so intent on doing its job it pays no matter to the monotony of it.

I pull my arms from the covers and stretch, the cold dancing through my sleeves, a flirting my skin does not welcome. My thin nightgown is a poor chaperone to the advances of the November chill. December will be even worse.

It would be nice to stay nestled underneath the warm quilts, but my mind comes alive in the stillness, probing into closets I’d rather leave locked. I swing my feet over the bed, the cold seeping up through the floor to my bare feet. I shove stockings on and dress quickly before pulling back the curtain and peering out at the empty street.

I’m always up at dawn. A leftover habit from the war, I think. Mama would have us awake and running at the slightest noise or sign of guards. The sun this morning is soft and quiet, as if tiptoeing over the city. Mama loved this time of day. Sunrises were her favorite, and it always make me think of her. So does my hair, brown and thick like hers. I used to run my fingers through it, fascinated by its thick waves, which I thought were beautiful. I finger a length of my own brown hair. If Mama were alive, would she think I was pretty? I turned seventeen this summer, the age Mama was when she and my father got married. Seven years I’ve been without them. My throat tightens, and I let the curtain drop back in place.

I trace the black lines on my left forearm, my fingers skimming over the marks there, so harsh and dark against my fair skin. Three on my left. None on my right. The imbalance of those numbers leaves me teetering in more ways than one. Most days I feel as though my left side is heavier, weighted, and tipping me down.

Mama always told my brothers their choices were just as important as mine. She treated us the same, even though I’m so different.

No matter now. The first two years after they all died I wanted only to survive. Now I want to live in peace. Hard to do in a Kingdom ravished by war and led by a half-mad King desperate for power. Already King Dracon has conquered most of the kingdoms around us. But that’s not enough.

King Dracon. That’s not his name. He wants to be known for his kingdom and not his own name. The stench of arrogance in his insistence on titles makes me want to vomit. Nothing is ever enough. And with his taking over everything, I can’t exactly find refuge in any other place. The King’s City will do for now.

I pull my sleeves down and button them, my marks covered but never forgotten. At least that’s one good thing about winter: no one asks about my long sleeves. For at least a few months I’ll get a reprieve from trying to dodge attention and unwanted questions. My body reels from the memories, and my blood races hot as fire. I’m always one or the other: cold or hot. Remembering or forgetting.

Mera is already up when I come downstairs, bustling around the kitchen. I swear, the woman never sleeps. We barely speak as I eat breakfast. Part of me wants to know Mera’s story. Part of me thinks she’d hate me for asking. The less she knows of me, the better, so maybe she wants the favor returned? Who knows. Her face is always one of steely determination. Against what, I have no idea. The King? Life itself?

I study her face as she eats her breakfast. Her grey hair hangs in wisps around her face, the pieces too errant to stay in the bun at the back of her neck. She stares down her oats as she eats them, as if she’s calling them horrible names and daring them to do anything about it. 

“Thank you for breakfast,” I tell her. She doesn’t respond, which is typical. I grab my cloak and am out the front door so I don’t have to think of anything else to say.

My job at Houghman’s is only a few blocks away. The shop hasn’t opened yet, but the back workroom is already unlocked. I tie on my apron and wrap a kerchief around my hair.

Today it’s yellows. Piles of buckthorn berries already line the tables. I’ll likely be sore from the time we’ll spend crushing them, forcing them to surrender the juice we make yellow from. Scarlett stands over the massive stove, stirring pots. She’s been here at Houghman’s longer than I, evidenced by the rainbow of colors staining her fingertips and the perpetual scowl she sends my direction.

“Morning, Scarlett.” I stretch my smile so wide my lips hurt.

Scarlett lets out a sound that can only be described as masculine and unpleasant, then glares at me. Most days she doesn’t even grace me with a glance, so the fact she has paused long enough to frown in my direction near makes me giddy. Triumphant, I get to my workplace and pick up the berries.

I love getting lost in my work. When I started, I wanted only a way to make money in a job that would cover the ink that sometimes mars my fingertips. The guard’s words bounce around my brain. Blue Nail. He meant it as an insult. Most everyone who calls me that does. Not an outcast entirely, but definitely not welcome in good society with my dirty hands. I wiggle my fingers and smile. My tainted hands and lowly job hide my secret well. No way anyone could find pen ink amidst the colors coating my fingertips.

Scarlett and I work well together, despite her unfriendliness. She hates chatting with me, and I abhor small talk. So I dye, getting lost in colors. Bright daffodil yellow, like sunshine on a spring morning. Deep golden, like sunflowers in summer. Yellow the color of ripened wheat. Yellow like the hair of my little brother Thomas.

The morning flies by, the minutes logged in shades of gold. No singing or humming echo through the workroom the way they do at home when Mera busies herself over the stove. Just the steady snap of fabric as I fling open long cuts of it, the clank of Scarlett’s tongs over the stove as she lifts out dyed pieces, and the drip, drip, drip of colored water falling to the floor. So many sounds marking the transition of rebirth as I turn plain fabric into something new. Something with purpose and a color that reflects it.

By the time Scarlett lets me break for lunch, my fingers are chapped and my stomach is rumbling. I grab the two apples I stashed in my pocket this morning and head outside. The crisp air is a shock to my body, which has grown warm inside the shop with its stove and my constant movement. I bite into the first apple and lean against the stone wall.

People bustle in and out of shops along our busy avenue. The clanging hammer of the blacksmith a few doors away echoes down the street. A man with a pushcart sells vegetables to those too dumb to realize most of what he sells is rubbish. He catches me staring, and I scowl at him, letting him know I haven’t forgotten the worms I found in my apples the last two times I bought from him.

The baker next door is always busy, selling crusty loaves of hot bread and the most divine pastries. Each time his door opens, the smell of yeast and dough wafts into the street. My stomach rumbles again, discontent with my small lunch, as I chomp into the second apple.

Ours isn’t the most crowded section of town - that would be Low Street - but it’s a busy neighborhood. Good to get lost in. Or people-watch to my heart’s content. Children scamper around their mothers’ skirts, pushing them aside as if they were dense curtains of foliage in a forest. The face of one small lad is dotted with freckles, and his smile seems a constant fixture, even when his mama grabs him tight by the collar and pushes him down the street to their next errand. What must it be like to smile so easily all the time? Poor boy - life will not let him keep that smile for long.

A woman pushes past me and enters the baker’s shop, her dark red gown trailing behind her like a whirl of autumn leaves. Most everyone on this block wears fabrics dyed right here in Houghman’s shop. Amazing that so many people wear things I have touched. That what I do affects them.

Which reminds me of the guard. The paper is still in my pocket. Blast. I need to get rid of it.            

I toss my last apple core down the alleyway and return to work. Early, and still Scarlett scowls. More yellows wait for us this afternoon. The rule is we don’t change colors in the middle of the day, one of Master Houghman’s many mandates, and one I actually cherish. I love a whole day spent in one color. I help Scarlett dip and dye and stretch the fabrics out to dry on the lines crisscrossing the back of our workspace. The first few weeks I worked here I’d go home in tears because my arms and shoulders ached so badly. Now my body has grown used to it, and I can lose myself in the colors. Yellow is a good one. It’s like working with sunlight.

I’m thinking about platters stacked high with golden cheese when a familiar voice bounces through the opening to the front shop and down the stairs to me. Sam Broyles. It’s a rare occurrence that I pay attention to who comes in the front shop. But I know Sam’s voice like I know my own.

I lift my eyes from the fabric in front of me. Sam’s eyes lock onto mine. His stare is pleading, and my heart flutters. I tilt my head to the alley. He nods. A quick glance behind me tells me Scarlett saw nothing.

Thirty minutes later, I hang my apron on its hook and leave with Scarlett. Everett, the front clerk, always locks up, so I exit onto the street. Scarlett heads one way. And I another, enough to keep her from asking questions should she look back and see me. Then I circle around to the alley where Sam is waiting. Between the narrow walls and piles of old crates and garbage, he is pacing. Not good.

“Hey, Sam.”

He stops and smiles. “Gretta.” He reaches his long arms out and hugs me. His clothes hold the scent of metal, his work in the foundry tiring his muscles and tainting the fabric of his coat.

I indulge his embrace for but a moment then step back. “How is everyone?”

His face tightens. “Meggie’s entered her confinement.”

About time, too. Last time I saw her she was already showing, and that was months ago.

Sam lowers his head. “I’ve come to ask you for a favor, Gretta.”

Yes, I know. Sam was my father’s dearest friend. He and his wife Meggie have five children. All boys. All bound for the King’s guard when they reach fifteen. His Majesty’s royal draft has been in effect since the Lyran Wars began. It used to be people prayed for sons. For workmen and protection. Now they want daughters. A child to keep, and not give to the King.

This is what Sam has come for.

“I would not ask you if I didn’t think it necessary.” His gaze skims the stones on the street before his eyes meet mine again. “But my Meggie, she aches so. Linton will be fourteen this spring.”

Sweet Linton. Our mothers used to lay us down for naps together. And now he’ll be turned into a killer, threatened by the King with terrible things so he’ll obey any order he’s given without question. I exhale sharply. “Come on, then.”

“You mean you’ll do it?”

“Yes, but on one condition.”

“Anything.”

I reach into my pocket for the piece of paper and press it into Sam’s hand. “Get rid of this for me. Soon.”

Sam nods. He knows me well enough not to ask questions or look at the paper. Instead, he shoves it into his back pocket and takes my hand. “Let’s go.”

Sam and Meggie live on the other side of the square on Dunway Street, in a two-room space above a tailor’s shop. How they cram all their children in there is beyond me. The boys are growing fast, all limbs and elbows. I swear, some of them must sleep on the roof at night. Only three are home when Sam and I arrive. They rush at me, arms outstretched and grins even wider.

“Gwetta!” Asher throws his arms around me. He’s warm and sticky, like a life-size cinnamon bun. I kiss his cheek. He’s four, the same age my brother Lucas was when he died. I open my memories a crack and squeeze Asher tighter before I put him down.

Meggie looks as though she swallowed a watermelon. Even this far along, she’s beautiful, her face radiant and triumphant, though where she sees victory in life I have no idea. She rests a hand on her burgeoning belly and by the glare she’s directing at Sam, I bet she didn't know I was coming.

But she knows what I’m here to do.

"Hi, Meggie.” I cross and give her a hug, awkward with her size.

 Meggie presses me close to her. “Hi, Love.” She lets me go and runs a finger along the side of my face, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “You look more like your mother each time I see you.”

I smile, her comment radiating warmth through the coldest places inside me. I’d love to be like my mother in every possible way. “Can I see you for a moment in the back, Meggie?”

She doesn't answer, but takes my hand and leads me away from the children and their prying eyes. They don't know about my power, nor understand the dangers of using it. Meggie shuts the bedroom door and rifles through a basket filled with clean cloth diapers, all ready for the newest family member. She extracts a stack of paper and a pen.

All the blood leaves my face. “Meggie, you shouldn't.” Pen and paper are illegal for citizens to have in their homes. They’re allowed in businesses, but even that isn’t safe, as the ashes of the printing shop can attest to.

"They'll not think to look for it there, especially once the baby comes.” Her dark eyes pierce mine. “You never know when we may need it, Gretta.”

 Nausea floods my stomach. I can't handle thinking about what happened, much less talking about it. It’s been years. I need to move on. I wish I could acknowledge the past like Meggie has. Grieve for those who are gone and build a new life. A life well lived would honor my mother's death.

 So would using my power for good.

 I cross the room and take the pen and paper from Meggie. Without asking, I press my hand to her stomach. New life grows there, thriving just under the surface of her skin. Amazing. And so tiny. All good things start small, my mother would say, each time a new sibling came. Meggie clasps her hand over mine for a moment. Yes, this would make my mother proud.

I sit on the bed and write the seven words that will change Meggie and Sam’s family. Meggie’s new baby will be a girl. I sign my name, forever marking me as the one who did this. Who granted a family a girl, and who defied her King with her words and her power. Gretta Marks.

Meggie reads the paper. She smiles and kisses my cheek. Then I crumple the paper and shove it in my pocket. I’ll have to get rid of it on the other side of town. If it’s discovered, I can’t have it getting back to Meggie and Sam.

When Meggie and I return to the front room, the boys pounce on me again. I kiss their heads and make promises to come visit again. Sam begs me to stay for dinner, but I know he understands why I don’t. I’m as dangerous to them as a lit match in a paper factory. Just the tiniest spark and I’ll ignite their lives, leaving nothing but ash in my wake.

Dusk melts into night as I make my way home, taking my time. The streets are near empty, everyone inside their homes either eating or trying to forget how hungry they are. People living and dying and dying to live. The city’s buildings seem to grow taller and tighter as I walk, choking out my breath, loneliness sneaking up on me again. Most people from my childhood live in the city. But most are suspected of being Lyran sympathizers. So I dare not visit. Dare not risk their lives by being seen with them. The King would throw them in his dungeon or just as likely kill them if they’re seen with me.

When I see someone I know in town, I keep walking. I buy things from a vendor who’s known me since infancy as though he were no more than a stranger. A shared past forgotten. Memories ignored as though they did not exist. Just another thing the King has taken from me.

The castle looms into view, tall and a grey so dark it seems almost black. Its towers pierce through the sky as if trying to taunt God himself to come down and do battle. I stare at my fingers, dyed from the day’s work, and guilty of treason with what I’ve just written. I peer back up at the castle and smile.

The King’s thirst for power knows no limits. If he doesn’t kill all of us in his wars, he’ll tax us to death. Already farmers aren’t leaving their fields to rest, instead sowing them over and over. Eventually the ground will give out, just as the hearts of so many people here have. Too tired to keep producing. Life stifled because the soil isn’t healthy, and nothing will grow here.

Some say famine will come soon. Others say it will be the wars that destroy us. I hold no opinion either way. The King will be behind whatever happens. But I haven’t ran, and I don’t plan to. Despite my defiant glare at the castle, a shiver of fear races up my spine. My King uses blood to fight his battles. I’ll use words to help restore life, one line at a time.

The sun disappears completely by the time I reach home. My stomach rumbles, and I hope Mera kept my dinner hot and isn't fuming mad at me. She hates it when I disappear. I push open the door to her house. “Sorry I’m late, Mer--”

Mera stands in front of me, flanked by two Royal Guards.

One I recognize: Fluffer Butt. The other, blessedly, is unfamiliar. Though his sneer is one I've seen hundreds of times before. I shut the door and look to Mera.

The sneering guard takes a step toward me. “Your aunt says you should have been home over an hour ago.”

I dip my head and look at Mera. “I’m sorry, Mera. I went for a walk.”

The guard moves closer to me and I take a step away, my back now pressed against the front door.

Mera heads for me, but the guard raises a hand, cutting her off. “We have reason to believe you’re a part of an underground printing circle.”

Well that’s news. I snap my head toward the guard. “What?”

The guard peers down his nose at me. He takes another step and - blast this wretched door -I can’t move any further from him. “I don’t know about any printing circle.” And that’s the truth. Who’s doing that?

“Where were you walking?”

“The east end.” Another truth, in case anyone saw me. Another guard could have tailed me all evening and I wouldn't have known. They could have seen me go into Sam and Meggie’s.

Meggie.

The paper in my pocket feels like it weighs a ton. I fight the twitch in my hand wanting me to snatch it and do something with it. Throw it in the fire. Swallow it. But I know those don’t work. My words last forever. The paper cannot be destroyed. And now it will mean death for me and Meggie’s whole family if it’s found.

“Just out walking, eh?”

A casual stroll will just make him suspicious. Think, Gretta. I glance from the new, unfamiliar guard to Fluffer Butt. “Today was Mama’s birthday.” I hang my head and tears flood my eyes.

Mera pushes past the guard and wraps an arm around me. “She can’t bear to talk about it.”

“The plague?” the paunchy guard asks.

“Yes,” Mera says. “Nigh a year now.”

I bury my head in Mera’s shoulder. It’s not Mama’s birthday, but it might as well be. And it wasn’t the plague that killed her.

“Are you her only family then?” the guard asks.

“Aye, took her in as soon as my sister passed.”

Silence follows, Mera’s lie hanging in the air like a fog. She’s not my aunt. And I’m not the first orphan to come live with her. I’m probably not the first to change fate with what I write under her roof, either.

Tears still stream down my cheeks, but I turn my head slightly. One guard peers down his nose at Mera. The other one – Fluffer Butt - stares at me. His hair - neither blond nor brown but something in between - sticks up a bit on the side, like he forgot to comb it this morning.

I can’t hate him. As much of a threat as he is to me, who knows his story? Few boys actually want to be guards. If you’re not working in a family business approved by the King, or if there is more than one boy in your family, you become a guard whether you want to or not. And he did save me the other day. His eyes haven’t left mine, and I bite my lip and look away.

The other guard stares back at me. He narrows his eyes. “Best stay away from the fires, girl.”

I nod, agreeing but not speaking.

Without another word the guards leave. When the door shuts, Mera holds me in her arms for a moment more. Then she steps away and puts her hands on my shoulders.

“Gretta,” she starts.

“I know.” I make myself look at her.

She frowns and the creases in her forehead deepen. How many secrets could Mera hide in the lines in her face? How many secrets does she keep for that matter, besides me?

“I don’t know what you did,” she says, “and I don’t want to know. But be careful.”

I nod. “I know. They won’t find anything.” I need to figure out a new hiding place for my pen and paper.

“They already suspect you, Gretta. You’re being watched. And they know your name now.”

Fear tiptoes up my spine, a nagging presence I can’t ignore despite my bravado. I nod and turn toward the stairs.

“Do you want your dinner?” Mera asks.

I shake my head without turning around. “I’m not hungry.”

I’m not. Hungry or tired or anything. I’m just a girl with powers that end up killing everybody.

Will they be what kills me, too?