MARKS - Chapter 6

Chapter Six

I grab a crust of bread left over from yesterday’s dinner and am out the door just as dawn cracks open the sky. Pale November sunlight trickles down through the cold morning air. I stuff my hands inside my cloak as I walk. This is my second morning out before dawn this week. Mera is going to start asking questions, and I have no idea what I’ll do if she forbids me to go out. She would be right to tell me not to do it. But I’m too excited to stop myself.

From what I’ve been able to find out, there are about seven printing shops still running in the city. They’re not outlawed yet, but the King’s hatred of Lyrans and his distrust of words make the shops likely targets for suspicion and bullying from the guards. So far I’ve found three of them. Today I head to the fourth, which is on the other side of the city. I stare straight ahead as I walk. A bent head means you’re up to something. And if anyone asks, I’m out for a walk, moving my limbs before work. That’s a good enough excuse, right?

Fogelman’s shop is so small and nondescript I almost walk past it. From what I’ve heard, his paper covers the east end of the city, reporting normal things. Weather forecasts. Arrests. Job postings. Houses vacant for mysterious reasons are listed, the reasons for the absences of the previous occupants conveniently not included. The King is always watching. Always listening.

Always reading, blast his wicked heart.

I push open the door to Fogelman’s. A lone clerk stands in the middle of the room, stoking the fire in the stove. He’s a wiry old man, and small. The stacks of paper behind him could crush him in an instant if they fell. He bends over the stove, either ignoring me or oblivious to the fact his door was open and I walked right in. I clear my throat and he jumps.

 "We’re not open until eight,” he tells me. “If you’ve got a posting, you’ll have to come back then.”

 I give him a shy smile. “I was actually wondering if you had any work available.”

 He pushes his glasses up on his nose and looks me as if he doubts I’m looking for work. I step forward. “I have a job during the day, but my Mama is expecting again and we could use any extra we can get. I can do odd jobs.”

He studies me as my lies swirl around the room. I peer over his head and beside him, noting where papers are. Where windows are if I need to break in. Which would be stupid, of course, but I might as well take note of everything while I’m here.

“I can sweep floors or clean up after hours,” I tell him. “Or take the old stacks down to the docks.” His gaze narrows so I quickly continue. “My Papa is a fisherman and his boss uses old papers to wrap the fish.”

The wiry clerk shuts the door to the stove. “Fishermen come pick up ours before the shift starts, so we’ve no need for someone to run them down.”

I make myself frown despite the elation bubbling inside me. Fishermen start in the evening. Which means I can come here after work and stuff my words in the stacks before they’re picked up. Perfect.

The clerk ushers me out the door. “Sorry, lass. Try Dorrelen’s on the south side.”

“Thank you.” I dip my head and leave. Bless the man’s heart. He gave me more than I bargained for.

####

Two days later, I’ve discovered that all the printing shops have stacks of papers behind them. Used for starting fires or wiping butts or wrapping fish.

Or hiding treason.

Dorrelen’s is on the other side of town, and I’ve worked up a sweat by the time I get there. His pickup is early, just after dawn. I left the house when the first beam of daylight tripped over the rooftops. One glance down the alley tells me it’s empty. Because of course, people who are up to no good are never up early to do it. Dorrelen’s stacks are disheveled, a small tower of leaning papers, some intact but most ruined from tears and cuts. Many have jagged edges, pieces ripped or partially shredded. Perfect.

I rip off some of the newspaper’s edges and add my latest paper of words, then wad it all up and stuff it between the sheets. Then I tuck myself behind some old crates in an alley across the street. The cold creeps into my toes, and I flex my feet, willing my blood to flow extra warm today. It shouldn’t be too much longer, dear toes.

Sure enough, not minutes after I’ve stuffed my words in the stacks of paper, a man appears and totes them away. I trail after him, my footsteps small and silent as I follow him all the way to the docks. He heaves the stacks onto a vendor stall, where soon they will be wrapped in fish and oil and carried all over the city. Thank you, Mr. Dorrelen.

Giddiness works its way inside me, and I bounce in my shoes as I walk to work. The streets closest to the castle are clogged with people. The King’s festival is two days away. All the guests have arrived by now. The gates looking into the King’s gardens and courtyards have been crammed with people wanting to peek at the visiting nobles and royalty.

I walk by without so much as a glance inside. Who cares what dress a rich woman is wearing? The only thing I want to see is the whole place burn to the ground, or a new king inside. Our King is unwed and without an heir, so I have no idea who would come to power after he’s gone. Maybe beyond writing against an assassination, a Lyran has gone so far as to have written the King’s immortality.

But no, that’s impossible. Our powers are confined to what could logically happen. No sprouting wings or pink skin or anything. But someone has written something about the King. Lots of Lyrans probably have. I wonder where those papers are hidden, if they even are. The King may have them framed and lining his chambers for all I know. Words that testify to his power and probably still sport the blood of those who died after writing them.

A shiver runs up my spine, and it has nothing to do with the cool morning. Actually, the weather has been quite fine the past few days. Unseasonably warm. I’ve left work to afternoons doused in sunshine. Has the King had Lyrans writing good weather for him? That can’t be, though. He’d just as soon kill every one he finds, and most of us devote our energy to evading capture. From rumors circulating around town, the King hasn’t found a Lyran in a couple of years. As evidenced by the battles and wars he keeps losing. He doesn’t have anyone to write his success.

I scurry past the castle gates and away from the square. My movements are so rushed I beat Scarlett to work. I’m wrist-deep in reds by the time she walks in. My lips spread into the widest grin this side of heaven, and I wiggle my fingers at her in hello. She stops still, because evidently the energy needed to scowl in so fierce a way as she does exceeds that needed to scowl and walk at the same time.

Scarlett is delightful. If she were a color, she’d be sickly yellow like a bruise or the putrid green of vomit. I return to my reds and let Scarlett fume. She’ll probably beat me here tomorrow by a full half hour. Which is fine. I’d rather be sleeping. I’ve snuck out each day and hidden my papers. Some at Dorrelen’s in the morning before they’re picked up. Some at Lidden’s after work. Some at John Mavery’s, where I went after work, only to find them still open. Not to be deterred, I crumpled my papers into tiny balls. Then I flirted with the young clerk on duty, who was too entranced by me, Saints help him, to notice the balls of paper I flicked under the counter to the four corners of the room.

It’s not large things I’m writing. No wars or famines or plagues. Our neighbor had a cough, and he’s the only one to bring home money and food for his wife and three young children. So I wrote him well. Our clerk, Everett, told us his wife is expecting and though he didn’t ask, I found myself writing my second baby girl this month. Everett, the big softy, will no doubt spoil her rotten and indulge her as much as he can. And he won’t lose her to the King like he would a son.

I wish I could write for Ashtin. I see her in everything today. The color of her lips in the light red linen I stretch tight over the drying line. The deep red wool I help Scarlett with reminds me of the oak leaves and how red they were the autumn Mama told me I would have a new baby brother or sister. Memories flood my mind. I try to focus on my work - on the scratchy wool under my fingers or the glare Scarlett sends me when I nearly dump the pot of dye over. But I can’t. Everything is tainted with Ashtin.

I’m so worked up the last hour of orders seems to take forever. Finally, we’re through and I unwrap my kerchief and run my fingers through my hair. The tension in my head won’t leave. I grab my cloak, and instead of turning right to go home, I turn left.

In minutes I swing down the street Ashtin lives on. I do this sometimes, when I think I can bear it. I’m nearly to the house she lives in when I see her. She’s on the street playing with two other little girls. They’re twirling.

Ashtin’s blue dress flies through the air as she spins. The muted blue of the fabric speaks to its age and how worn it is. But it’s clean. And she looks well fed. A healthy pink glow colors her cheeks. Her brown hair - the exact shade of mine and Mama’s - lies in two braids that fly out from her head. She stops spinning and topples to the side and giggles.

A rush of pain tears through me as I hear my baby sister laugh. She is laughing. Laughing and living life. A meager one, but she is here. Safe and well, for now. Her powers may not exist, and even if she is Lyran, she may never know it. For how would she? She thinks her adopted parents are her real ones. Her secret is hidden away with her new life.

I should stay hidden, too. But I can’t.

I need to do more. To write more. But there’s nothing I can do.