MARKS - Chapter 16

 Chapter Sixteen

Mason’s hair sticks out like Ward’s does. And, Saints bless him, his ears stick out just as far. Something I pray he grows into. Since he’s only seven, I’m sure he will. He stares out through the forest, a shock of blond hair falling over his left eye.

“Is your basket full?” I ask him, careful to keep my voice light.

Mason casts a guilty look at me as red leaps to his cheeks. “Not yet.”

“Mine neither,” I tell him.

He shoots me a grin, one that makes the freckles on his face seem even bigger. He’s as adorable as his sister when he’s not mad. Which he is, almost as often as I am. So far, out of the three weeks I’ve been here, there have only been two days when Mason hasn’t been in trouble for something. Today his punishment is to help me.

We crouch in the forest under a grove of walnut trees. The leaves are gone, but walnuts lay in abundance on the forest floor. Two of our baskets sit full not far from me. It takes a lot of walnut shell to make a little dye. But at least some of the men are helping me crack the shells. I hammered away on them so much the first day I could feel the vibrations in my shoulder as I laid down that night.

But the fabric is coming along well, morphing from the light brown of fawn’s hide to the rich dark brown of soil before spring planting. When our baskets are full, I lead us back, careful to keep Mason close to me. I take in everything as we walk; the sound of the river close by, the bluffs above us, the patches of blue sky I can see through the trees. We’re not far from the city, and farms surround us. It’s amazing the group has managed to remain hidden for so long.

Mason and Reid both get conscripted to help me crack the walnut shells. I give them a break after a couple of hours, and they whoop and holler as they scamper up the tunnel into the main room.

I’ve grown to love the boys’ company, but I relish the silence as I continue my work. Nolan has a fire for me back here; a small one since there aren’t many places for the smoke to escape. I get the dye boiling hot before throwing in the wool Nolan left with me yesterday. I still don’t know what they’re doing, but I know it’s something the King would kill them for, which means I wholeheartedly support it.

Steam and smoke fill the room, the air hanging sticky and damp. I resist the urge to push my sleeves up and instead twist my hair into a knot on top of my head. I wipe sweat from my brow as I wait for the last pot. While it finishes, I throw the latest batch of dyed fabric, still wet and dripping, over the line.

An itch attacks my face, and I crinkle my nose. Blasted itch, I have no clean finger to scratch you with. I twitch my nose like crazy, and a shiver of unscratched fervor takes over, making my whole body tremble.

“Are you having a fit?”

I spin, and Ward ambles into the room, his brows raised. I hold up my fingers and wiggle them. “I don’t want a brown nose.”

"I thought maybe you were trying to out a demon.”

“Just an itchy one.”

He grins and fingers the dark brown material hanging on the line. “Need any help?”

I nod toward the pot. “I’ve just got the one batch left. Should be done in a few minutes.”

He walks past the rows of brown to the single swatch of pink fabric hanging on the end. He turns to me, his brow arched in unspoken question.

"It’s for Liddy,” I tell him. “She said her favorite color was pink, and I found drakeroot along the river on my way back yesterday.”

My face warms, and I feel like a child standing before her father. As though Ward will pass judgment on my taking time for such frivolousness.

He smiles, though. “She’ll love it.” He turns to face me. “Were your parents dyers?”

I shake my head, ignoring the rise of nausea in my stomach. “No.”

“What made you want to do it?”

I can’t tell him the real reason, so I trace my finger along the pink fabric and tell him the closest thing I can. “I love colors. I love how there are a million different shades of each one. The pink of a sunset is different from the pink at sunrise. Which is different from the color of a baby’s cheek or the underbelly of a fish. It’s like you have a whole world of choice in just one color.”

He doesn’t answer. No surprise, as I have prattled on like an idiot.

“What’s your favorite color?” he asks.

“Blue.”

“No, what kind of blue?”

“What do you mean?”

“All the shades, like you said. What color blue is your favorite?”

There are a dozen shades of blue I love. Blue like Mama’s eyes. Like the dress I used to wear, so worn in and comfortable it felt like second skin. “Blue like the summer sky,” I tell him, “just when evening settles and it stretches end to end.”

He leans against the table in front of us. “Why’s that your favorite?”

I finger the cloth then look at him. His eyes are intense. Serious. “Because it makes me think of freedom.”

He stares at me for a moment then stands over the fire. I stir the pot and hook the corner of the fabric with my wooden spoon. “That’s good enough,”

Ward reaches for the fabric.

I put my hands. “No, no let me. My hands are already covered.”

He bends forward again. “It’s all right.”

“No, Ward, the stain lasts for weeks.” I push his hands away. “Someone will wonder why you have it.”

He snatches his hand back. How many times does that happen? Where he comes too close to doing something that will blow his cover? More often than me, probably. I stretch the fabric across the clothes line. “You can tell Nolan everything should be ready in about two days.”

Ward nods. “Blair’s sewing them into capes. So people can’t see us when we go into the city at night.”

I nod, as if I knew this already. “And what are they getting again?”

“A big load of supplies.” He looks up at me. “We’re not stealing,” he says quickly. “It’s just to help hide us when we come back here.”

“Of course. How do you make money?”

“Some of the men fish or trade pelts. And I have my guard salary.”

Which isn’t much, but he’s sweet to give it up. I glance down at his pants, worn in and not sturdy enough for winter. I bet Ward doesn’t steal cinnamon buns either.

"I could help,” I tell him. “I could work as a dyer at a different guild.”

 

Ward shakes his head. “Absolutely not. You’re not going back.”

Not going back. But not helping here, either. Not really. I wonder whose dress I’m wearing. These people don’t have much to spare. No toys. No furniture. “I’ll stay on the other side of town, or even away from the dyers. But I could get a job. It would help.”

Ward smiles. “That’s a fine offer, but we’re all right with what we have, Sparks.” He settles down on the stool by the worktable.

All these years I thought those who survived the King’s wrath were the lucky ones. But even those who are still alive are not really living. Everyone is too busy surviving to actually live. People without a life - that’s what this Kingdom is. Ward’s family and the others here have been cooped up for years. Always hiding. Always ready to run. Hiding isn’t so different from all the running we did when I was a girl. We would chase and chase freedom, and never catch it.

I press my hands over the brown linen stretched across the table. “Ward, let me help.”

"No, Gretta.”

 

"Then at least let me be go with you for supplies.” I can spare a man from pulling double duty. I don’t have a child to watch.

He shakes his head. “You’re not going back to the city. For anything.”

“Let me help!”

“You were being watched by the King’s men, Gretta.” Ward crosses his arms over his chest. “Do you know what happens to people guards find suspicious? They get taken to the dungeons, and their bodies get carted off soon after. The King doesn’t prosecute and punish criminals. He hurts people he thinks might be against him.”

I ball up the fabric in my hands. “I’m not afraid of the King.”

“Well you should be! He’s not a spoiled prince or a dimwit. He’s greedy and moody, and has all the power in the Kingdom to go along with his temper tantrums.”

Blast the King. I step around Ward and start crushing walnut shells again. He comes and stands beside me, and I bite my lip to keep whatever is inside of me from coming out. Anger. Rage. A million unshed tears and so much hatred I could very well die from it. I imagine the walnut is the King’s castle and slam the rock down. My aim is off, and the edge of the rock slices my finger.

I gasp and see the blood pool up on my finger before I even feel the pain. Ward snatches my hand in his. His hands are warm, like lake water on a hot day or a pile of blankets on a cold night. A cocoon of skin. He presses down slightly on the cut, stopping my blood with his own hand. I look up at him.

His eyes aren’t on my finger. They’re on my face. “He’ll hurt you, Gretta. I can’t let him.”

Sweet boy. He doesn’t know the past, and that it still hurts. And nothing can stop it.