MARKS - Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

I wake up Friday to the splattering of pouring rain against the window.

A grin erupts on my face. I could die for what I wrote, but for now I bask in the satisfaction of knowing I made rain fall on the King’s party. He probably has his servants standing over his gaudy statues with towels to catch the rain. I peel back the covers and hum a tune while I dress.

After a quick breakfast I push open the door to the rain, my hood pulled over my head. Rivers of water carve themselves along the cobblestones, and by the time I get to work, the bottom of my dress is soaked. I’ll be wet and cold all day. But I don’t care. So will the King and all his guests.

Scarlett’s scowl is per usual this morning, as steady a part of my day as getting dressed or eating breakfast. Today our color is grey, my least favorite because it is the color of wet days, dirty cobblestones, and dying people.

Who would want to wear grey? Granted, I have a grey dress, but only because grey fabric is cheap, and I’m not exactly buying wine and gold-plated corsets from working at Houghman’s. I throw an armful of newly dyed grey wool over the line, my back screaming in protest as I do. The King’s order for blue linen had Scarlett and me working through lunch and a little over time yesterday. Now we’re behind on normal orders, and our frenzied pace means I’m sweating through my kerchief. I have a headache, the stoves never stop, and it’s hot enough to be the backside of hell in here.

Scarlett, amazingly enough, can’t stop talking about the King’s festival. “They say even the prince of Faraday is here.”

She casts a long look at me, as if wondering if I even know where Faraday is. I make my eyes go wide. “A real prince? Here in the city?” I contort my face into an expression of what I hope is doe-eyed dreams of finding true love with a prince. I’m not really sure what that looks like, but I give it my best shot, and clutch my hands to my chest for effect. “How exciting,” I say dreamily.

Scarlett looks up from where she’s stirring a pot of dye and narrows her brows. “Don’t know why you’re so excited. You’d only glimpse him from the courtyard gates, if you saw him at all. Rumor is he’s here to negotiate an alliance.”

My fake smile melts into a scorn. An alliance? Faraday has never fought Dracon, but the threat of war has been simmering for years. Tensions are high and often the two kingdoms – alike in size and power - do nothing more than tolerate each other, coming together for forced civility only when the occasion calls for it. Why would Faraday make an alliance now? And why would the King even want it? He doesn’t want alliances. He wants victory.

What does the prince of Faraday want with Dracon? The thought nibbles at my brain all day. And I detest thinking about the King. The bread and cheese I brought for lunch does little to suppress my appetite or my terrible mood.

Not that it matters. It’s back to greys after lunch. Scarlett props the door open, and barely a snippet of air makes its way to the tables where I work. Sweat beads up at the nape of my neck, and every other minute I fight the urge to scratch it. My fingers leave traces of dye everywhere. A lesson I learned in earnest the first time I scratched my nose after dyeing greens and sported the stain across my face for days afterward.

The grey fabric hangs from the lines, like clouds weighed down with rain and clogging the sky. I suppose there could be good in greys. Grey like a warm, wool dress; a cocoon against cold days. Light grey like winter before it gives way to pale sunlight and the smell of fresh grass. Steel grey like the stones Papa and I used to throw into the lake when I was a little girl.

I stop and roll my shoulders to loosen the kinks in my neck. The smell of cinnamon buns wafts through the open door, and it is all I can do not to tie Scarlett up with cotton so I can run next door and get one. My mouth waters so much it’s a wonder I haven’t passed out from dehydration. The two coins in my pocket call to me. Mera and I need all we earn for taxes and rent and food. But as the smell of gooey sweetness continues to roll through the room, I know - I know - I’ll buy a cinnamon bun today.

I can’t untie my apron fast enough when we’re done. Scarlett hasn’t even hung hers on the wall by the time I dart through the door. A bell above the bakery door rings as I walk in, and sugared air hits my nose. Stacks of pastries line the counter, and I fight the impulse to grab two and stuff them in my mouth as I walk to the end. Oh, sweet warm goodness! How I’ve longed for you! I inhale a huge breath of sticky air and smile.

Then immediately wish I’d never come in.

 

Two guards burst through the door. Not just guards. Blackfeet. Their black tunics are slick with rain water and one runs a hand through his hair, sending a wave of water off the tips and onto the floor. The insignia on his tunic comes alive and dances in my vision. My mouth goes dry and the air in the room is too heavy. Too sweet and too hot and my stomach churns. I step back on my heel and eye the door behind them.

One of them looks up and sees me. Walking out would seem suspicious. Oh Saints, what if they’re here for me?

Oh, stop being ridiculous, Gretta. They didn’t know you would be here. You didn’t even know you were coming.

I shut my eyes and remain rooted in place. One of the Blackfeet steps forward and yells to the man on the other side of the counter. The other one stands at the front window and shakes his tunic, sending more water to the floor. It collects in rivers and puddles under his feet. His boots are caked with mud, and he looks out the window as though picking his next target. His next victim.

And perhaps he is. Blackfeet are above the law and any civility. The Chancellor has been in charge of them since the King created the special group years ago. Now the Chancellor sends them to bully and terrify. And to murder.

The Blackfeet at the counter leans over it, water dripping from his sleeve onto the clean wood. The man behind the counter eyes the muddy water but doesn’t say anything. Instead he wraps four cinnamon buns and hands it across the counter to the Blackfeet, who offers no payment. The stony faced baker says nothing.

The Blackfeet strides to the front of the bakery, a trail of mud and who knows what else marking his visit here. He tears into the bag, and he and the other fellow stuff cinnamon buns in their mouths, not even pausing to enjoy the sweetness. Why would they? They can get whatever they want. Guards are supposed to pay, but of course they don’t. Especially for small things they can get away with taking. How many people in the Kingdom never get to experience the little luxuries the King’s men steal and enjoy whenever they want?

The Blackfeet each prop a foot on the window ledge. Nothing more to do on a rainy day than take what isn’t theirs and escape the rain, the ninnies. As if they’re made of sugar and would melt if they got wet. A sentence of seven words pops into mind, but I shake my head and turn to the baker. “One cinnamon bun, please.”

I plunk my coin on the counter as he wraps it up. He passes it to me and I smile and thank him. Finally, I can get out of here. The bell above the door jingles again, and a girl about my age enters. Her blue dress is worn and thin, and she has no cloak, though it’s cold out. Her blonde hair is tied back with a ribbon, and I wonder if that bow is the only prettiness and luxury she knows. She walks to the counter and speaks to the clerk in a voice so soft it makes me think she must be made of cotton. The clerk turns and heads to the kitchen, and the girl settles back on her heels and waits.

I sink my teeth into my pastry and lick a bit of sugar from my lips. Oh, it’s so good. If I were rich, I’d eat cinnamon buns for every meal. The clerk returns and hands a package to the girl, and I can see the end of a loaf of bread peeking out from its paper wrapping. Yesterday’s bread no doubt, a loaf now dry and going stale, but one he sells to her for a cheap price. Probably the only bread her family can afford. I lick my finger and feel in my pocket for the other coin I have, enough payment for another cinnamon bun.

The girl turns but doesn’t move toward the door. Instead her eyes widen and she ducks her head, but not before a pink flush settles into her cheeks and her eyes dart left. I dip my head that direction. The two Blackfeet are staring right at her. Staring and grinning. One elbows the other and says something in a low voice that drips with crassness and evil. The girl keeps her head down and pushes open the door.

The Blackfeet follow after her.

Two steps later, I’m right behind them.

Rain falls steadily, but still the streets heave with people running to the market or on their way home after a hard day’s work. The Blackfeet walk down the center of the street, and the crowd seems to part around them, like water flowing over rocks. I haven’t been this close to a Blackfeet in years. A shiver tiptoes up my spine. It’s as if the air itself is heavy with evil just because these two men are here.

They amble up the street. Maybe they’re not following her? Perhaps not everyone is out to get everyone else as I often think. But then, in an opening between their shoulders, I see the girl from the bakery. The two Blackfeet stride down the street, their steps purposeful now. The girl turns right, and so do they.

The sugared bun I just ate feels like dead weight in my stomach. They are after her. A girl they saw only because she happened to be in the bakery the same time they were. A bakery they were in only to escape the rain. Rain I wrote.

I thrust my hands into my pockets and follow after them. When I make the turn onto the street, I can see the girl’s blonde head bobbing as she rushes down it. The Blackfeet have picked up their pace, too, and I nearly have to run to keep up. I fix my eye on the girl, hoping she’ll turn fast and lose them. But if she’s not from this neighborhood there’s no way she’ll risk it. Too many of the alleys crisscrossing through the city dead end. Unless you know the right ones to take, you could get trapped.

We’re heading away from my house, so I couldn’t help the girl evade these two even if I wanted to. I keep my pace, and within two blocks the Blackfeet are only a few feet from her. She looks over her shoulder and breaks into a run.

Two steps; that’s all it takes before one of the men has her by the arm. Others around them scatter, their faces white and eyes wide. I glance around the street, wondering what I could do to make a commotion and get the Blackfeets’ attention.

But that won’t work. Their attention is completely on her.

One of them lifts his head and looks up the street. I pause in front of a store and put my hand on the handle. I sneak a glimpse, and he’s no longer looking at me. I turn from the door and yank my hood over my hair. My feet fly over the cobblestone streets, bringing me closer and closer to the two Blackfeet. One of them grabs the girl, and they drag her down an alley. I ease down the street and peer down the alleyway.

The Blackfeet who has the girl by the arm caresses her face with his free hand. She flinches, but he grabs the back of her neck and holds her still. “Pretty girl.” He traces his finger down her cheek.  

Even from here I can see her trembling.

The other Blackfeet turns toward me. I snap my head back and strain to listen.  The girl gasps, then a deep, rumbly voice echoes off the walls. “Watch the street, Jacks.”

“Don’t be long, Tyce. I want my turn.”

I break into a run. Away from the alley.

From the Blackfeet.

From the girl.

I push through throngs of people, flying over puddles and whispering to myself.

Jacks.

Tyce.

I construct sentences of seven words in my head, my rage fueling my feet as I race over Dunway Street.

A sentence solidifies in my mind as I race up the stairs of Meggie and Sam’s apartment. I burst through the door. Meggie looks up from her stove, but I do nothing more than glance at her before I head toward her bedroom. I rifle through diapers and find the paper and pen and write a sentence faster than I ever have before. Jacks and Tyce won’t have the girl.

Then my name. Gretta Marks.

I tear off the words and wad them up, then stuff them in my pocket. Meggie furrows her brow as I enter the main room.

"I have to go, Meggie.”

 

She nods, her hand resting on her growing belly. Bless Meggie and the fact she doesn’t ask questions. 

And for always having paper.

I return to the street and make my way back to the alley. It’s only a half a block away when the hum of voices reaches my ears. People talking. A yell reverberates off the shop door beside me, and when I turn the corner I nearly collide right into a huddle of people. A crowd has gathered around the alley. Dread explodes through me. What did I cause?

Words are powerful, Mama would say. What a Lyran writes down comes true. But we never know how. Rain was easy - how else does it rain but from the sky? How else could Meggie’s baby be a girl except by being it? But this: writing they will not have her…

The crowd has grown dense despite the rain, and I elbow my way through. I did this.

Rain.

The Blackfeet.

The girl.

I peer over the shoulder of an old man. The girl stands in the street, eyes wide and fear radiating from her face. Tears stream down her cheeks. In front of the crowd the two Blackfeet are wrestling with a boy. One my age, who is tall but whose height seems to prophesy that he will grow taller still. One Blackfeet punches the boy in the stomach and he doubles over just as the blond girl shouts a name. A name I did not write on paper. The name of the boy.

Of her boy.

Her boy - a boy who cares for her and maybe loves her - who somehow saw her or heard her screams, but who in one way or another was ushered here by the power of my words to keep the Blackfeet from having her.

Sweet mercy.

Two Blackfeet yank the boy to his feet. One of his eyes is stained purple, and blood the color of roses trickles from his nose and down his face. I squeeze the wad of paper in my hand. One of the King’s wagons rolls into view, and the Blackfeet toss the boy on it as if he were no more than a sack of dirt.

The girl rushes to him, but the boy lifts his head and screams. “No!”

The girl stops in her tracks, her feet obeying but her face stricken. They are taking him. To kill him? To beat him? I don’t know. My fingers fumble over my left sleeve. But no, I’ve already killed my three. Surely I did not write his death.

Did I?

But there are many things worse than death. They could torture him, maim him. Destroy his world because of one cruel twist of fate. One sentence written.

The King’s wagon ambles toward the castle and the crowd scatters. The girl stands still, rain mixing with her tears so I can’t tell what it is that runs down her face. I thought I’d saved her. But once again my attempt at saving has created more chaos.

The paper between my fingers grows soggy in the rain. I need to get rid of it, and fast. Blackfeet could come back. I leave the girl and walk down the street, then swing left toward Mavery’s print shop. Rain follows me inside. The clerk looks up. A fire roars in the stove behind him. Bits of paper litter the floor. Ink stains his fingertips.

“How much for a paper?” I ask him.

He names his price, and I fish out a coin. When he turns to grab a paper off the stack, I toss my wadded scrap of paper onto the floor. Then I take my newspaper and leave. When I pass the alley, the girl is no longer there. My chest tightens, wound upon itself, the grief I keep hidden there breaking apart in pieces.

My words changed her fate, and I may have saved her only to usher her into a new kind of death.

I brush my fingers over the marks on my arm. Death is a word I know, and a sentence I have written too many times before.