Issue #95 • May 17, 2012

“The Governess and the Lobster,” by Margaret Ronald

“Shades of Amber,” by Marie Croke

For more stories and Audio Fiction Podcasts, visit

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THE GOVERNESS AND THE LOBSTER

by Margaret Ronald

Dear Matron Jenkins,

        For the record, I want you to know that the mechanical lobster is not my fault. I had only the best intentions when I asked the Cromwell children to deliver my initial report to the mail depot, and I did not learn about their addition to my package until recently.

        I am sending this note by express post in hopes that it reaches you in time—though at this point, I’m not sure what would qualify as “in time.” Before the regular post arrives? Before the lobster winds down? Before we had ever received M. Eutropius's  misleading request? I do not know, and I fear that I will go mad long before I can make a guess.

        But for the record, the mechanical lobster is not my doing. I owe you much, but at the moment that is all I can give you.

Yours,

—Rosalie Syme

* * *

Rosalie:

        Your note arrived well in advance of the regular post, and as a result I’m still in the dark. I’ve heard nothing of a lobster, nor is there any news of a disaster there in Harkuma. As a result I must conclude that you are overreacting. Pull your stockings up and remember that I chose you for a reason.

        And frankly, the only thing you owe me is the starter money for the school. The current state of affairs between Imperial interests and the Hundred Cities is tenuous at best, and I will not have an opportunity to found a branch of the JenkinsSchool squandered. If you have come to the conclusion that such a school is impossible, then send the money under separate cover, registered mail. I shouldn’t have to tell you this.

—E. Jenkins (Matron)

* * *

Dear Matron Jenkins,

        I apologize for my earlier note, as well as for the panicky tone of my initial report. I would assume that by now you have received it, save for the fact that the Cromwell children have taken some delight in demonstrating just how destructive their toys can be when fully wound.

        I’m afraid my first impression of Harkuma lived up to the worst assertions of the yellow broadsheets back home. The Hundred Cities as a whole may be quite civilized, but Harkuma is not technically one of them, and its inferior status is made worse by the constant dust storms. (I am given to understand that Harkuma’s elder sister city, Akkuma, is similarly plagued, but the automata of that city have safeguards in place against damage from the storms.) The mark of Imperial commerce is quite present, though, as the architecture of Cromwell House proves,  as does my presence, I suppose, since Cromwell and Eutropius  

        I’m sorry. I get ahead of myself, and my circumstances are not conducive to concentration.

        What is markedly odd is that despite all this, Harkuma reminds me of my home in the warehouse district. (I do beg your pardon, Matron, for reminding you of this fact.) The constant chaos is not so far off from what the Staves dealt with, although there is a different flavor to it that I cannot yet put into words.

        Of the human population, I cannot begin to find a commonality. In the five minutes I paused at the train station, I saw four LowerKingdom officials in state dress, two Terranoctan soldiers (or so I assume from their scythes), a Svete-Kulap clanmerchant suffering a bad case of sunburn, and a Lucan noblewoman with her interpreter. To complicate matters, the automata of Akkuma travel freely within this satellite city, and their clattering speech rings out at all hours.

        Unfortunately, the cavalier attitude of the Hundred Cities to the association of automaton and human borders on the reckless. After the officials had carefully evicted the human passengers and inspected the train so that it might pass on to Akkuma, I saw a young man of shifty appearance helping a woman who could not have been younger than ninety onto the last car. The Akkuma train runs at such infrequent intervals that human visitors must bring twice their own weight in water, Matron, and yet this young man packed her onto the train with nothing more than a bag. I cannot

        I have taken a moment to collect myself and remove the canister of spiders that the eldest Cromwell child, Natalya, has placed on my bedside table.

        As you recall—and as I wish to stress, given that my assignment has proven so radically different—I was to undertake the education of the Cromwell children. Mr. Cromwell was somewhat lax in hiring a governess after their mother’s passing several years ago, but his business partner M. Eutropius, currently the children’s legal guardian, contacted the JenkinsSchool immediately following Mr. Cromwell’s last illness. While all of this is technically true, the omissions are crippling enough to question whether our contract is even valid.

        The problems began nearly as soon as I arrived at Cromwell House. The house was built in both the Harkuma style and that of a northern manor-house, keeping the worst features of each. The lower floors are open and high-ceilinged, but the upper reaches are quite dark and cramped, giving one a choice of agoraphobia or claustrophobia. It did not help that when I first arrived I had to search for a good fifteen minutes before finding anyone, and the housemaid who answered seemed to not know her way around at all, having been here only one week. As I write this, she has already left, hired off to a financier bound for Bis-Nocta. Her successor has also given notice.

        The next problem to present itself was the matter of the children themselves. Though Eutropius's  letter seemed to indicate that they were already on a course of education, it seems that their father let them run amok. Natalya, at eleven years, has some authority over the other three but chooses to exercise it only to prevent interfamilial fights. Irra (nine) is as elusive as a swamplight and as omnipresent, at least until she is noticed, and her brother Serge (six) seems to delight in loudly pointing her out and causing her to flee. The youngest, Sulla (five), would much rather communicate in gestures and what I believe is a poor approximation of automaton-speech.

        Matron, these are not students, even by the standards of the warehouse district scholarship initiative (and believe me, I am well aware of the irony in my saying this). They are a project.

        I did not see my employer until that evening, having spent much of my time in an attempt to introduce myself to the children (and, as I’ve mentioned, sending out my initial report plus lobster). Natalya was the one who found me trying to coax Irra out of hiding. “Uncle wants to see you,” she told me, and handed me the first of the many canisters of spiders. I consider it a small victory that I did not scream and fling the lot away.

        The lower halls of Cromwell House—the high arches, the red clay walls, the tracings in the floor meant for those automata guests who run on wheels—are particularly uncanny in shadow. (If you remember the Gymnasium Specter incident at the School, I believe you will understand why.) The lamps were unlit, and only the glow of fires outside illuminated the hall. I made my way to the foot of the stairs, clinging to the wall for guidance. “Mr. Eutropius?” I called, expecting at any moment Irra and Serge to jump out at me. “Sir?”

        “I am here,” said a cultured bass voice from somewhere to my right. It was the sort of voice to rattle pebbles in dust, and I confess I shivered at the sound of it.

        You have trained me well, though, and mindful of your constant admonitions, I pulled myself upright. “I am Rosalie Syme, of the JenkinsSchool. You engaged me to educate the Cromwell children.”

        “So I did.” A clank and drag sounded from the darkness, followed by a brief flare: werglass, glowing as thaumic power moved through it. “Come to me if you have need of anything. I have been quite busy in the wake of poor Edgar’s death, but I can certainly spare time for the children.”

        “That’s kind of you, sir,” I said. “Sir—how will I know you, if I need to find you?”

        At this there was a creak and a dull thrum, as of an engine catching somewhere in the house. “My apologies. I forgot you do not see as I do. In Edgar’s absence, I forget myself.”

        A dial spun close to my elbow. At the far end of the hall, the lamps flickered and caught, one by one, illuminating the great shape standing far too close, the inlay of gold on steel, the eight long segmented legs unfolding as he approached, the central spire of a body and the werglass ring of eyes.

        Eutropius is an automaton.

        You have hired me to an automaton.

        Matron Jenkins, please call me home.

Yours,

—Rosalie Syme

* * *

Rosalie:

        I will do no such thing. While I admit Eutropius's  nature is startling, that does not in any way change our contract. Remember: I would not have sent you if I did not believe you fully capable, and certainly more so than our non-scholarship students. Now wipe your nose and get back in the fray before I relegate you to that list of fainting nellies.

        And why would I mind your comments regarding the warehouse district? Do you think me ignorant of my students’ backgrounds?

        As a side note, the lobster has arrived, along with the remnants of the post. I currently have it caged on my desk. How long does it take to wind down?

—E. Jenkins (Matron)

* * *

Dear Matron Jenkins,

        Yes, of course you’re right. My apologies.

        I’ve since acclimated a little, although it is difficult to look out on the low flat roofs of the city and not be reminded of the warehouse district. I confess I did not expect my childhood to find me here of all places. (Though I would like to stress again that my days in the Staves are well behind me, and in any case the rooftops here are too unfamiliar for me to consider similar activities. I think I’ve lost the knack, anyway.)

        Harkuma is a very strange place. Its entire business revolves around what is not present: Akkuma and the gems mined there, as well as the various homes of the trade delegations who make those gems their business. Few of the automata here even treat it as home; Eutropius is Transit-born and considers himself a native of the Glasswalk, and many of those I see during the day return to Akkuma regularly.

        It’s perhaps no surprise that the Cromwell children are so distracted. I’ve abandoned the classroom setting and have adopted a peripatetic method of teaching, which has improved their attitude toward me somewhat. Natalya, in particular, has begun to warm to me so long as I assist her in the kitchen, the position of cook being another that has high turnover. She has even taught me several of the recipes for the dinners the children usually share when no cook is engaged. (Sweet pudding is, unfortunately, at the top of the list. Fresh greens will no doubt be difficult to introduce.)

        Far be it from me to speak ill of the dead, but it seems that the late Edgar Cromwell was one of those people who, after amassing a family, don’t really seem to know what to do with it. Under his wife’s supervision, all was well, but judging by some remarks from Natalya and Eutropius, his attitude was always one of benign neglect. Neglect remains neglect, though.

        Eutropius does deeply care about the children, and it is quite something to see them swarm over their “uncle.” Irra in particular reliably comes out of hiding only in his presence, and Serge cannot be quieted. Apparently he has also taught them some small practical skills; the mechanical lobster, as well as several of their other toys, is the children’s own work, built under his tutelage. (According to him, the lobster should wind down in a matter of weeks, depending on how much it has consumed. I’ve enclosed a key, should you care to deploy it in faculty meetings.) Eutropius, though, is aware that his skill in childrearing is limited, and so it seems that he engaged help well before Cromwell even fell ill, though I must confess I was startled at his other employees.

        Specifically, the same shifty-looking young man who I saw sending the poor old woman off on the Akkuma train is in Eutropius's  employ. He arrived as I was in the midst of showing Natalya how to scrub out the cookpots. Sulla, who had been hanging onto my skirt for the last half hour, was the first to notice him. “Pietro,” she said, giving me an emphatic tug.

        “Pietro?” I stood to see the young man lounging in the doorway as if he belonged there. “Who—”

        Sulla, however, did not hesitate. “Pietro, this is Rosie,” she said, for the first time lacking the stutter that she carries from attempting to imitate automata.

        “Rosie?” He tipped his cap to me—a gesture straight off the streets of the Capitol, and one extraordinarily strange coming from a man dressed in the heavily-embroidered jacket and bands of the Hundred Cities, not to mention his short beard and shaven head. “A pleasure, miss,” he went on, his Imperial only barely accented.

        “Likewise,” I said, attempting to regain what dignity I could while up to my elbows in filthy suds.

        Pietro smiled, exposing one canine tooth that had been replaced with steel. Before he could say more, Serge practically jumped onto him, demanding to know if “Grandma Lyle” was back. The most I could gather from the ensuing chaos was that Pietro was a frequent visitor to the house and often advised Eutropius on how best to take care of the children (including my hiring), and that this was part of his profession.

        What that profession might be, I would hesitate to explain had you not explicitly stated that you are unconcerned with my history. Pietro is what the many travelers through Harkuma refer to as a facilis or, commonly, “greaser.” He makes his living by arranging contact between the various human merchants and the automata of Akkuma. If a person wishes to visit Akkuma, he must do so in the company of one of these faciles who will vouch for him, undertake the shipment of water, even make business connections, as well as monitor the entrepreneur’s movements within the city and make certain that he adheres to all standards of conduct.

        To maintain their positions, these faciles must keep credibility with both sides. A human client who attempted to suborn an automaton or hide in the city would be as damaging to a facilis's  credibility as an attempt on that same human’s life by one of the more militant automata sects.

        The practice of trading on such an ephemeral thing as reputation seemed at first incomprehensible, until I remembered how the Staves used to deal with the other “confraternities,” as you have always referred to them. We did not have the faciles, but we did have our own go-betweens, particularly in regards to selling goods of questionable ownership. In fact, I played a similar role between the Staves and the Redfingers (who ran on the Gestenwerke side of the district) up to the point where I was handed over to the JenkinsSchool.

        Regarding the satellite school, I have made some minor inquiries, but the first officials I contacted had been reassigned by the time I made a follow-up visit. I will make another attempt, but at the moment I have enough on my hands with the Cromwell children. Sulla has taken to creeping into my room and falling asleep on my bed—in fact, she is there now, and once this letter is complete I will put another blanket over her. Sadly, the frequency of spider canisters has increased (and now diversified into centipedes) even as Natalya and I seem to have connected in our mutual scullionship.

        Courteous as my employer is with the children, his nighttime pursuits are distressing to say the least. Every few nights, a din emerges from the lower reaches, a noise that I can only compare to the clatter of tram cars paired with the whine of a malfunctioning drill. It is a pity, as the city is not lacking in charms, even if I am still shaking the dust out of my skirts every five minutes and cleaning it from every crevice before I sleep. Even when I have a full night’s sleep, every day feels as if I am walking on an uneven surface. But you are right, Matron, and I have some experience walking unsteady paths.

Yours,

—Rosalie Syme

* * *

R:

        That’s my girl.

        I’ve attached a list of names of former JenkinsSchool contacts; if your first endeavors are withering, perhaps this will spur a second round. Don’t fuss so about a little noise; our new dormitory faces the forge district, and I can’t imagine it’s any worse than that.

—E. J. (M.)

* * *

Dear Matron Jenkins,

        Sadly, not one of the people you name remains in Harkuma. It is as I said; this is a transient town, and few people stay for long. Even the automata do not linger.

        I had some proof of that the other day, when I was taking Natalya and the children back from market again (Serge shows an aptitude for misdirection, which resulted in our first return trip to the market and a very grudging apology from him). I am not sure if I can adequately describe the scene we found on our return. The roads of Harkuma, though just as busy as Admiral Street or any other thoroughfare, are broad enough for automata to pass easily. One may pass by most altercations without even flicking one’s skirt aside, regardless of their violence.

        However, this particular altercation had blocked the entirety of the street. Two automata and a LowerKingdom official, possibly one of those I saw on my arrival, were in heated disagreement. Of the automata, one had a very Imperial look to its construction—possibly a tram-car before its awakening—and as such, it was roughly the size of two dormitory rooms. The other was, I believe, City-born, one of the automata created and awakened among its fellows, and thus both smaller and less practically designed, perching on three delicate legs and shaking a fourth at the official and the tram-car. My knowledge of the LowerKingdom dialects is flawed (you remember I had trouble with the inflections), but I was able to gather that some temporary business agreement had soured.

        My first impulse was to shoo the children away, but you can guess how successful that was. My second was to move the five of us into the shelter of a nearby fruit-seller’s stall and wait it out. I had no sooner done so than the shouting gave way to ominous silence, and Sulla caught her breath. “What is it?” I asked, picking her up.

        “The big one called the little a—” and here she made a stuttering noise, an automata word that I am glad I do not know, judging by Natalya’s hiss. “And the little one called the big one a man-scraper.”

        Just then the LowerKingdom official declared that both automata were “unworthy of their metal.” The automata turned to face him, and I covered Sulla’s eyes. I saw plenty of tram accidents when I was in the Staves, and they are not healthy viewing for a five-year-old.

        Before the man could be crushed, however, a tiny old woman made her way through the crowd. It took me a moment to recognize her as the same woman Pietro had put on the train to Akkuma, and by that point she had reached the side of the larger automaton. I could not hear what she said, but the tram-car settled back on its treads and the smaller automaton lowered its leg. Either one of them could easily have crushed her or even just set her aside, yet they remained still. The official attempted to interrupt her several times, but she raised one frail hand and he stopped as if confronted by a pikeman.

        Around us, the commotion in the street returned to its usual state, and Sulla pushed away, wanting to be let down. Unfortunately, her buckles had become caught on my bodice, and by the time we’d untangled ourselves, the old woman had dismissed both the smaller automaton and the official and stayed to speak with the tram-car, one hand on its treads. (I should mention that many Transit-born automata do not like to be touched; it is, I believe, a reminder of their history as machines before awakening.) After a moment, they parted ways, and the little old woman turned back towards us.

        “Grandma Lyle!” Serge shouted, echoed by Irra, and the two of them practically knocked her over. Natalya, Sulla, and I followed more slowly.

        If I did not know better—and I am not yet certain that I do—I would say that Grandma Lyle has some Imperial ancestry, as despite her age and dress she does not resemble either the disparate humans of the Hundred Cities or the Terranoctans. She smiled at me as I reached Serge and Irra. “Rosie, I take it?”

        “Yes,” I managed, around Sulla’s chatter. “Forgive me for asking, but are you a facilis?”

        Her eyes crinkled up at the corners, and she nodded. “One of the first. As are most of my family.” She gestured after the tram-car, which had trundled most of the way to the alarm tower by now. “Poor #41 doesn’t like being left out of the loop, and she’s returning to Akkuma tomorrow, so she saw this as the last chance to clear matters up.”

        Sulla asked her something that I could not catch, as the last few words were automaton-speech, and though Lyle responded in Imperial, I did not understand one word in five. Terms such as “sand-ogre,” “Rimarri banner,” and “fourpoint” must have meant something to the children, who listened avidly and nodded along. “So it was a business disagreement?” I tried.

        “No,” Irra said, and immediately tried to hide behind her brother.

        “Of a sort,” Lyle corrected. “Business covers a number of matters for City-born, and more for Transit-born. And of course the Lower Kingdoms like to think they know all about automata, so it’s hard to convince them otherwise.”

        Do you remember when I gave my first presentation in class, on the political structure of the warehouse district, and got an entire classroom full of glazed looks? I now understand what it’s like from the other side. “This happens often?”

        “This is Harkuma.” Ruffling Irra’s hair, she smiled at me. “Pietro tells me you are doing well.”

        “I—yes.” I have seen quite a bit more of Pietro since our introduction, though I must question his business acumen, since he’s missed appointments more than once due to his habit of hanging around Cromwell House.

        “Good. I’ll send some books along with him.” She bowed again, in the formal LowerKingdom style. “I have work at the far end of the city, but I hope to see you again. And Serge, you should return those plums.”

        True to her words, Serge had taken another handful from the fruit stall while we were watching the conflict, and this meant another unwilling apology and a long talk all the way back to Cromwell House.

        Despite such setbacks, the children are starting to learn, although their knowledge of geography is absolutely terrible. I asked Irra to point to Svete-Kulap, and she ignored the map entirely and pointed east, which is nearly one hundred and twenty degrees off. Once they finally made the connection between map and directions, they took to it with alacrity, even if Sulla still cannot quite pronounce the names properly. Pietro brought us a copy of Atlas of the Clockwork Cities—the new edition, by C. and S. Vallom—and Serge can barely be parted from it for a moment.

        Incidentally, Natalya has quite surprised me. She is as quick and intelligent as  any of the Staves’ thiefmasters  any JenkinsSchool valedictorian, and teaching her is an enjoyable challenge. It turns out the spiders were her way of welcome; the girl has a passion for studying arthropods, and I suspect the mechanical lobster was mainly her work. I would like to recommend her for the Royal Society when she’s of age, since if she’s not given enough of a challenge she is likely to make one of her own.

Yours,

—Rosalie

* * *

R:

        I’d rather not lose more of our students to the Society, but as it’s unlikely we could bring Natalya here without causing more trouble for the Cromwell children, I’ll consider it.

        I can’t help noticing that your letters still say nothing concrete about the potential for a JenkinsSchool. Is there a chance of founding one or not? This is not a difficult question.

—E.J. (M.)

* * *

Dear Matron Jenkins,

        It might not be a difficult question in a place like the warehouse district, where despite the many “confraternities” we all knew where we’d go at the end of the day. But Harkuma is not an Imperial city, and its shifting population makes the question much more troubling.

        I have, however, sought out more information on the subject. At my request, Pietro took us to visit his grandmother yesterday. The children pounced on her as soon as we reached the door, which she bore with better grace than many of my classmates would have demonstrated, and I was left to help Pietro with the dust shutters (the storm season has begun in earnest, leaving me wondering what life was like before grit accumulated in every part of my wardrobe).

        Grandma Lyle’s house is unusual even for the mishmash of architecture that makes up Harkuma. It is old—so old the red brick has faded to rose. Few structures in Harkuma have been in place for more than a decade, but I found myself marveling at the tiles set into the clay that showed the tarnish of time. “So old,” I said as we entered, mostly to myself.

        “Rosie!” Pietro said reprovingly, and I looked up, remembering a little too late that I really should inform him of my preferred address.

        “She means the house, Pietro, not me.” Grandma Lyle closed another of the dust shutters. “It was built when Harkuma wasn’t much more than a well and a rail depot.” She turned to her grandson and nodded to the next room, where the children were arguing over some many-jointed toy. Obediently, he joined them, I assumed to keep them from tearing the toy apart. “Come,” she said to me. “Sit.”

        “Thank you,” I said. “I hope we’re not imposing on your hospitality.”

        “Not in the least.” She smiled and settled into a worn chair in front of what I belatedly recognized as a writing-desk. A long case of oversized books stood beside it, as well as tools I’d last seen in our advanced mathematics classes. “As it is, your timing is good; I’ve only just returned from Akkuma.”

        “Akkuma? But—” Of course; as a facilis, she would travel between the two, which would explain why she had been the lone human passenger on that train. “It must be a difficult journey.”

        “I have an old friend there,” she said, still smiling. “We share an interest in cartography. These days, I split my time between the two cities. Sit, please.”

        I did so, pulling a stool to the high table. Through the door, Natalya had begun to inspect the little toy with, I suspected, an eye toward copying it, while Serge had dragged out the Atlas and was flipping through it to show Pietro something.

        “Pietro tells me,” she went on, “that you wish to build a school here. Do you understand what that would mean?” She raised one hand to the wall behind her desk, where a metal disc had been set into the clay like a talisman.

        I did have the whole speech prepared, Matron, I promise you that. But the words seemed to slide away from me. “I’m not sure,” I told her. “I know what it meant for me, when I lived in the warehouse district.” Lyle raised one white brow, but did not speak. “For me it was a step up, a hand helping me off an unsteady walkway—but there are so few children in Harkuma, and so many of them are only here for months at a time. What good would a school be for them?”

        “You might be surprised. And the children are not the only ones here.” She touched the disc again, and in the slanting light I could make out the design that had once been stamped there: a rodent of some kind, turning back to regard its stump of a tail. “There have always been people who shuttled between worlds.”

        I thought of the friends I had left in the Staves when I was given to the JenkinsSchool—and yet I have never regretted the change.

        Lyle gestured to her desk. “I traveled for quite some time, as did my friend in Akkuma. As did my husband, before we met. Harkuma was very small in those days, but even then, we kept returning here.” She rose to her feet again. “Come. I’ll show you some of our work.”

        I’m afraid all thoughts of the JenkinsSchool fled while we examined her work. Serge eventually joined us to examine the number of maps Lyle and her family had created over the years. It was quite possibly the most peaceful afternoon I’ve had since stepping off of the train.

        So there is one opinion on the viability of a JenkinsSchool in Harkuma: open to the possibility, if not entirely wholehearted. Though I suspect her position as facilis gives Lyle a perspective that few share. I can’t help but think the faciles would be instrumental for the foundation of  any school  a JenkinsSchool.

—Rosalie

* * *

R:

        Let me be perfectly clear about this: I am not asking for everyone else’s opinion of a JenkinsSchool in Harkuma, regardless of how old their houses are. I am asking for your opinion. I would hate to think that I had made the wrong choice in selecting you for this work.

—E.J. (M.)

* * *

dere Matron Jankins,

        if YOU tak our ROSIE away we will send Fiftene LOBTSTERS to your mailbox and they willEAT ALL YOUR MAIL. Do NOT tak ROSIE back we liek her here and she lieks it here TO.

        also send one  hundrud  THOUSND gold Bulls to this Adress or maybee we will send the lobtsters ENNIWAY.

sinserely yours,

—YOULL NEVER CATCH US

* * *

To the Cromwell Children:

        I have enclosed your “ransom note” with corrections made in red. You will make those corrections, copy out the result ten times apiece, and return the copies to Miss Syme. In future, if you intend to threaten anyone, you have no excuse for doing so ungrammatically.

        Also, your lobster is currently on my desk. I rather like it. Miss Syme tells me this is your work; if so, well done.

—Emma Jenkins

* * *

R:

        What in the world is going on out there? And why haven’t you gotten to basic spelling and grammar with these children?

—E. J (M.)

* * *

Dear Matron Jenkins,

        I do apologize for the note, as well as for their spelling. Irra has apparently decided that poor spelling is intimidating, and I have yet to convince her otherwise. I believe Natalya allowed the letter to be written solely to comfort Serge and Sulla, for which I cannot really blame her.

         Their concern springs from a failure on my part, and one I am ashamed to relate. Several nights ago, Eutropius held yet another social for his business contacts. I would have simply put the pillow over my head and endured the noise had it not been that we have entered the storm season, and for the past two nights the rattle of sand against my shutters had kept me awake. I left Sulla curled up on my bed and descended to the lower reaches of the house.

        I am not certain what I expected to find—although my classmates would probably have whispered about some form of mechanical debauchery, I doubt they would know such if it were presented on a platter. The werglass fixtures of the house were lit, as were several of the lamps, and by their weak light I found my way to the same great chamber where I had first met Eutropius.

        Five automata, ranging from a lacy creature very like a transplanted sea animal to a hulking thing created from barrels and treads, stood in a semicircle in the center of the room. Eutropius's  scorpionlike angularity perched in the middle, and he seemed to be the one in charge: though each continued in either screech or drone or arrhythmic clank, he was the one who gestured to each in time, much as a conductor does before an orchestra.

        “Fascinating, yes?” I turned to see Pietro, who had been standing just at the edge of the lamplight. “I don’t quite have the ear for it, but it’s still amazing to hear them practice.”

        “Practice?” I shivered, looking from him to Eutropius and back. “This is practice for something?”

        “Of course.” He shed his jacket and draped it around my shoulders. “Automata music. Although it’s not so much practice as a friendly concert, say. Like singing with one’s family.”

        As I watched, a pattern seemed to accrete around Eutropius's  movements: percussive, devoid of melody, and yet with a strangely harmonious result, like a mathematical formula drawn in calligraphy. I shook my head, too weary to either make sense of the sound or reject his loan of the jacket. “But this isn’t music. This is noise.”

        Abruptly Eutropius's  gears clattered to a halt, and the noise stopped, leaving only a deafening echo. “Noise, is it?” he said without turning. His voice, so close to human, seemed all the more artificial now. “And what would you have to say about noise?”

        Pietro started to shake his head, but I let my exhaustion speak for me. “I—had hoped to ask you to quiet it. The house is so loud, and following the storms—”

        “You ask me to quiet my friends?” Eutropius's  central body rotated so that he faced me, and his legs unfolded from underneath. “In my house?”

        Some time before I was given to the JenkinsSchool, I had the unfortunate experience of walking a roofline in winter and finding that several shingles retained a glaze of ice. I have never forgotten that sudden shock of my footing falling away. And yet then and now I had the same reaction: reach out for the first handhold and hope. “It was your partner’s house as well,” I said.

        Eutropius went still, even the lights of his eyes going out, and I briefly thought he’d lost power, that his own life had stopped at the mention of his partner’s. Instead he made a horribly discordant noise, and the other automata began to move, gliding or thumping their way to the door. I started to speak, but Pietro put his hand on my shoulder and shook his head.

        For a moment the hall was silent—I would have said blessedly so only a few minutes earlier, but now it carried a hollowness that shivered through me.

        Eutropius turned away. “Edgar,” he said finally, “hated our music. He could not stand it, and so I only played on nights when he was in Akkuma, or trading in the Capitol. It—makes me miss him less, to play now. I can imagine he is only temporarily absent.”

        I caught my breath, stung by the pain in his automaton voice even as I knew it for a mechanical response. And yet there are Society doctors who claim that human pain is a mechanical response as well. “I’m sorry,” I said.

        “I should hope so,” Eutropius said with a grinding noise almost like a laugh. “And I should threaten you with termination, for interrupting our music. Or if not for that, then for your little side project.”

        A chill ran down my spine, freezing me in place. “Project?” I said, as innocently as possible.

        Not innocent enough. “Do you think I don’t know that your matron sent you to found one of her staid, straitlaced schools here? At the very least this constitutes a foolish endeavor; at the worst, I’d consider it a strike against the HundredCities and all free automata. We have no need of a foothold of Imperial culture here.”

        “It’s certainly not meant as such,” I tried, but he would not hear me.

        “In any other of the Hundred Cities, you would be scorned, but here you only look a fool. This is Harkuma, Miss Syme. No one is here because they want to be. No one belongs here. Edgar didn’t, I don’t, and the best we can do is continue.” He shivered, or maybe that was the automaton way of shrugging. “Or perhaps I will simply inform the JenkinsSchool that you have proved unsuitable.”

        “I—” I would have defended myself, but the last few weeks have taken their toll. I have been a tolerable governess for the Cromwell children—but a governess is not a school, and Harkuma is larger than one house. I have failed in the task you set me, Matron, and taxed your patience in doing so.

        “You are correct,” I said.

        “Am I, now? You finally think so?” He turned to regard me, werglass eyes flaring. “Take your silence and go.”

        Pietro shepherded me out of the hall, to the foot of the stairs. To my horror, the children were already there, even Sulla. Tears welled in my eyes as I saw them. “Thank you,” I managed, shrugging Pietro’s jacket away. “I am sorry.”

        “He won’t write to her,” he said. “Don’t worry.”

        “Write, don’t write, what does it matter?” I pressed both hands over my eyes. “Matron Jenkins—she has every right to call me home—” I caught myself before I could sound any more idiotic and hurried up the steps, Natalya and Irra parting before me.

        It was an ill-chosen remark, and one I regretted once I had slept, but I believe it is what triggered the children’s assumption that you were planning to take me away.

Yours,

—Rosalie

* * *

R:

        No letter as yet from Eutropius.

—E.J. (M.)

* * *

Dear Matron Jenkins,

        I have begun this letter twice over, and failed each time. It is perhaps emblematic of my greater failure: I cannot found a JenkinsSchool here.

        Since you asked me outright for my opinion, I have been trying to decide what that opinion is. Finally, some nights ago, I’m afraid I reverted to old habit and crept out on my own. It turns out I have not lost the knack, and the rooftops of Harkuma are just as navigable as the warehouse district. You’ll remember that I was given to doing this in my early days at the School; I believe it is how I first made your direct acquaintance. And it was what convinced me that I should remain at the JenkinsSchool, which is why I believed it would clarify my thoughts on this matter.

        On the stormless nights—those without automata concerts, that is—Harkuma is quiet, and one can see almost as far as Akkuma’s gleam across the desert. Each building is different, in the style of each owner’s homeland, and yet I was able to keep my footing. Finally I found a spot on the roof of one of the shelters by the market, looking not toward the desert but back toward the city itself. It is a large city, for all that it pretends to be small and scattered.

        For a long while I sat there, arms locked around my knees like Irra hearing a new story and hoping no one will notice her presence before the story ends, until a man’s voice spoke. “Grandma told me I might find you here.”

        I turned to see Pietro carefully climbing across the next roof over. He smiled, a little nervously, and slid down beside me, nearly dislodging a tile as he did so. “Did she truly?” I asked.

        “You’d be surprised at what Grandma Lyle can guess. Ask her sometime about her childhood.” He joined me in silence for a moment, watching the slow gold line of the late-night train departing. “Did you believe him?” he asked finally. “About Harkuma?”

        “Eutropius?” Pietro nodded. “I don’t know. Nobody does seem to belong here, to be honest.”

        “And yet he stays,” he said thoughtfully, “with his music and his business.”

        And his grief, I thought.

        After a moment, Pietro sighed and draped his jacket over my shoulders in much the same way as before. “Well, it’s not as though I can argue. I wasn’t born here, but my mother was, and my aunt—they’re both faciles in the other cities, maybe you’ll meet them on their circuits—but I came back here. We do keep coming back.”

        “So Lyle said.”

        “She was the first, you know. She and her friend in Akkuma. The first faciles.” He glanced at me, then away. “There aren’t nearly enough of us. It’s in the family, but there are only so many of us, and we’re needed all over—” He shrugged. “Could always use more in the family.”

        I think my silence may have dampened whatever point he was trying to make. But his words had sparked a new line of thought for me and I was too busy following that to discern his motives. “You’re right,” I said at last, rising to my feet. “You’re quite right.”

        “Am I?” He attempted to get up, slid, and settled for sitting upright.

        “Oh, yes. But this will be complicated.” I smiled at him, and he smiled back—despite the steel tooth, he has a perfectly nice smile when he’s not trying to be charming. “I must return to Cromwell House at once.”

        I believe he would have walked me home, save that he is much less adept at the roofwalk than I, even given my years away from it. I still have his jacket, though, and have yet to return it with proper thanks.

        Since then, I have come to an inescapable and unfortunate conclusion. Because of this, I am returning your investment. I have enclosed your initial startup funds for the JenkinsSchool under separate, registered cover. You may strike my name from the rolls of graduates if you like, or place me on the list of “nellies” you so often scorned.

        My reason is thus: if I am to start a school here, then it cannot simply be a JenkinsSchool. It must be a Harkuma school, for all of those who shuttle between worlds or might hope to do so; a facilis for the faciles, and it must be more than I alone can create.

        This is a risky endeavor, to say the least, and I know the JenkinsSchool’s reputation would suffer from a satellite’s failure, but whether this school succeeds cannot be dependent on the Jenkins name or even the Imperial tongue. I hope that this makes up in some way for what must be an unexpected betrayal.

        I’ve contacted a number of potential teachers—linguists among the translation corps of automata, the Lucan noblewomen and their attendants, some of the Kulap exercise masters. (I have also asked Eutropius if he would consider teaching the specifics of automata music. I believe he was so startled by the question that he did not immediately consider the ramifications of his assent.)

        So thank you, Matron, for sending me, and please know that I am more than grateful for all the JenkinsSchool has done for me. I hope I have not disappointed you.

—Rosalie Syme, of Harkuma

* * *

My dear Rosalie:

        I regret to inform you that the children’s mechanical lobster has devoured the registered cover for the funds you sent. As a result, there is no way I can officially return them to our books, and so I’ve written them off completely. I have no choice but to send the funds back to you, with my blessing.

        Incidentally, I assume you can withstand a visit or two. I’ll be along in the spring.

—Emma Jenkins (Matron)

Copyright © 2012  Margaret Ronald

Read Comments on this Story on the BCS Website

Margaret Ronald’s fiction has appeared in such venues as Fantasy Magazine, Strange Horizons, Realms of Fantasy, and Clarkesworld Magazine. She is the author of “Dragon’s-Eyes” in BCS #9 and BCS Audio Fiction Podcast #7, and “A Serpent in the Gears” in BCS #34, set in the same world as “Salvage,” “Recapitulation in Steam,” and “Letters of Fire.”  Soul Hunt, the third novel in her urban fantasy series and the sequel to Spiral Hunt, and Wild Hunt, was released by Eos Books in 2011. Originally from rural Indiana, she now lives outside Boston. Visit her website at http://mronald.wordpress.com/.

Read more Beneath Ceaseless Skies

SHADES OF AMBER

by Marie Croke

        Vibrant. Like no one else Amm had ever seen. Her brother’s colors swirled with strong cries of fear and confusion across his tiny wet body. He glowed in shades of cyan and cerulean. Of bright sea and cloudless skies. He shone through the dullness that surrounded him so strongly that Amm flinched away, breathless at his beauty.

        Surely here was proof that the tribe was not falling so fast into darkness. Surely he would stand against the worry they held, telling them they wouldn’t descend into muteness, so far away from the cities where people shaded in extraordinary spectrums Amm could only imagine.

        She only wished he did not have a sister so limited in range, voice always muddied and blurred.

* * *

        They presented him to the Black Veil two months after his birth—not the norm, but Amm’s parents wished to wait to be sure that his voice would not fade. Amm watched as Mother described the birth in shades of dried blood and fresh wine, her deep reddish tones conveying far more intricacies than either Father or Amm could ever hope to accomplish.

        The Black Veil watched patiently, her eyes hidden behind the dark drapery that hung down her body. When Mother finished her story and looked down once more at her son cradled in her arms, the Black Veil made no response for a long time.

        Then she lifted one dark hand and let them see a dull speckling of color. To Amm it looked as if the Black Veil was attempting to mimic her brother’s vibrancy, but without the power. Instead, the Black Veil’s voice came across cracked and mottled, the color she intended obvious but horrifyingly far from the hue it should have been.

        “Cerrune,” shaded the Black Veil. At least Amm thought that was what the Black Veil shaded.

        Mother and Father bowed, their tones deepening in respect and streaking with delight. Amm followed them out, then averted her gaze as she realized Mother was admonishing her lack of respect for the Black Veil. When her Father rapped her upon the back of her head, she responded, “Why is someone so dark, who can barely form words that make sense, considered better than everyone else in the tribe?”

        “She has become such because of the pressures of leading us, helping us to survive,” shaded Mother. “It wasn’t always so. She was once the most vibrant of us all. No one else could match her then, just as no one now can match Cerrune.”

        “Did you ever see her when she was as vibrant as... Cerrune?” asked Amm.

        Mother became mottled in astonishment at the question. “No, of course not. I was too young. The Black Veil has been leading us since before I was born.” Then the astonishment dissipated, leaving in its wake a wistful pinkish blotch. “And in the future, mayhaps your grandchildren will speak to the fact that their once vibrant leader had been born in their line.”

        Amm sulked, though neither of her parents noticed, or if they did they didn’t care. They had a son named by the Black Veil herself, with a color range so expansive, with tinting so bright he outshone them all. They looked for all the world as if they were the happiest parents in the world.

* * *

        Amm couldn’t be upset with Cerrune. Not when he shaded things he shouldn’t. Not when he garnered more attention with their parents. Not ever. He was simply too bright. Too cheerful. Too loving.

        She often brought him to the river with her, let him wade while she washed their clothes. He nodded to her when she shaded a warning to not let the water rise past his thighs. Saw her, though he often pretended not to see Mother’s coral shades telling him no, telling him he couldn’t play with the others because he had a destiny that didn’t include them.

        When Amm finished, she would hike up her dress, let him see the dark happy amber of her legs, and chase him until he crawled onto the shore with tired arms and curled up in the basket, waiting for her to heft it and carry him home.

        He’d sleep peacefully. Colors swirling lazily. Trusting her because she never hinted of destiny. Because she never shaded to him he had a path set out already.

        Her own sleep was never so peaceful. She’d dream of having the colors Cerrune had. Of seeing the voices of the world. Of being able to step beyond the tribe for herself.

        But she’d always wake with pounding heart, her colors churning in fear. For the dreams turned to nightmares the moment she stepped beyond the tribe’s protection where her range couldn’t scare off even the smallest of beasts.

* * *

        When Cerrune turned ten, the Black Veil called the family to her side once more and appraised him. He shaded no fear, making Amm’s heart swell with pride. She’d been the one to teach him to stand up for himself, after all. Her parents had always enforced the opposite, trying to enforce blind obedience.

        As if someone as vibrant as Cerrune could be contained.

        “I am old,” started the Black Veil, her voice even more cracked and dull than it’d been ten years before, leaving Amm to wonder why the old woman bothered announcing her age at all.

        Amm must not have kept her thoughts as private as she’d thought because the Black Veil paused and glanced her way. She quickly schooled her body to a respectful shade.

        “I am old,” repeated the Black Veil, “And thus in need of a successor. Someone who knows how to carry himself. How to shade properly in as great a spectrum as possible. I had worried for a long time that no one would appear in our tribe. That the tribe would be forced to settle for a person of less capability. But you, Cerrune, have the capability to keep trade open with the cities, to learn new ways of keeping the tribe alive and well.”

        Amm had suspected the announcement, and so too had her parents, but that didn’t mean her colors didn’t churn inside. One part jealousy, one part pride, many parts worry that her brother would lose the beautiful colors that defined him and begin to take after the Black Veil.

        But she had no say in the matter.

        Cerrune bowed, his shades perfectly practiced to give the correct amount of respect and excitement at the Black Veil’s announcement and subsequent desire to have him begin his training.

        The Black Veil and their parents were too caught up with their own emotions to notice, so it was only Amm who saw the nervous shading that threatened to streak up from Cerrune’s heels.

* * *

        She tried to visit him. At first without reason, thinking the fact that a sister wished to see what her brother had to shade about his new life would be reason enough.

        Amm thought wrong.

        The Black Veil’s shading might be difficult to discern at times, but her meaning was blatant when she was angry...and she was always angry to see Amm. As if Amm would somehow rub off on Cerrune. As if Father had told her of the things Amm used to shade to Cerrune—of the cities to the south so large it’d take a day to walk across them, or the mountains to the west that would take a month to climb. As if afraid that Cerrune might leave the tribe to follow the foolish desires of his sister.

        So Amm came up with other excuses. Carrying fresh water, bringing messages, assisting the assistants. She’d watch with rapt attention as Cerrune told her of the things the Black Veil taught him.

        “She shaded that I might be allowed to go to a city once to see what it is like. That I’d be able to survive the journey easily,” shaded Cerrune one afternoon when Amm had snuck in. The excitement overtook the rest of his coloring.

        She was startled. Not that Cerrune would be considered capable of surviving the beasts beyond their tribe, able to communicate effectively with others because of his spectrum, but because no one who’d left had ever come back.

        They were chosen, from time to time, those with color ranges that spread further than others. They were the tribe’s only hope for trade. Sometimes they sent back news, given only to the Black Veil for her to pass out. Sometimes they sent back medicines or spices that the assistants would distribute. Always there was a portion of harvests and weaved goods, along with painted messages, that were sent away to those living their lives in service far from home.

        “When?” Amm asked.

        He didn’t know and the Black Veil had not given him a season, but the excitement lingered for months, then years.

* * *

        The girls in the tribe flirted with him, and their not-as-secret talks were dominated by how beautiful this one or that looked in the bright sun reflecting a rosy complexion or pale butterfly wings.

        Cerrune leaned close once, his chest the only part of him shading as if he feared the very walls had eyes. “The one with a range from ripened oranges to evergreen needles.”

        Amm nodded, making sure her tinting didn’t tease him too much. “I know her. Ferr. Always looking like apricot skin, voice so smooth she’s singing me to sleep when she shades.”

        Cerrune nodded, not noticing the laughter in Amm’s shading. “Yes, that’s the one. She’s absolutely beautiful.”

        Amm didn’t agree, but she didn’t disagree either. And from then on, for months, she’d sneak messages between the two, glad that her brother’s admiration was returned in kind by Ferr.

        Maybe a bit jealous as well. On rare occasions she’d sneak a peek at the streaks of berry juice cutting across the messages, noting how simple they seemed in comparison to the reality of color that existed in both Ferr and Cerrune. Those moments left her even more dull than ever, wishing she had a range that could be considered desirable in another’s eyes. Wishing she might be considered worthy of having a man shade the things Cerrune said to Ferr.

        More than those though, she wished she had a range that would let her survive on her own beyond the outskirts of the village.

        The moments passed and became nonexistent when Cerrune began to sneak away from the Black Veil’s large home to have secret meetings with Ferr. Then Amm didn’t have time for self-moping, too caught up with keeping their secret safe.

* * *

        “I know what you’ve been doing,” shaded the Black Veil.

        Amm swallowed and kept her earth-toned, grey streaked body still as she focused in on the Black Veil’s dark hand, not wanting to miss a single speck of color.

        For a long moment the Black Veil was colorless. Then she shaded, “And I have no objections to Ferr. She has lovely shading, a beautiful range. Cerrune is silly to have hidden his desires. Being my successor does not mean he cannot be happy.”

        Amm felt her legs lighten and guessed that her shading must be more akin to a deep amber with how light-headed in relief she felt. Before she could collect herself to form a coherent response the Black Veil went on.

        “Of course, I had planned on sending her to a southeastern city. She has the tones and likely the ability to pick up their language quickly.”

        Amm slowed the swirling of her limited shades, unsure why the Black Veil was telling her this. Cerrune would be devastated if Ferr were to leave, but it’d be Ferr’s choice, or the Black Veil’s, not Cerrune’s. Not yet, at least.

        The Black Veil shifted behind her dark covering. “We shall see what I decide. Or rather, what Ferr decides.”

        Amm left wondering if the Black Veil knew how often Ferr visited Cerrune. Whether she’d known the whole time, or if Cerrune and Ferr had simply become indiscreet, leaving a message where one of the assistants could find it.

        She left wondering, but with no way to find out.

* * *

        Afterwards, Amm berated herself for telling Cerrune. For he told Ferr, thinking she’d choose him over the possibility of experiencing life beyond their tiny circle of a tribe.

        “You should have known better!” shaded Amm, her body streaking brighter than it usually did. If only she could keep it up beyond the anger that lanced across her now.

        “I thought she loved me,” shaded Cerrune. “I thought she’d give up that option to be with me.”

        This was heartbreak, Amm realized. She recognized the blurred patterns mottling his body. She’d felt that way once, twice before. The day he’d been born, when her parents began their slow dismissal of her. The day Cerrune had moved in with the Black Veil. Both times she’d died a little, thinking the ones she’d loved no longer wanted to be around her.

        But this was greater by far than what she’d ever felt. Stronger. More violent. Cerrune and Ferr had been together for over a year, long enough to form a bond that now gave Cerrune such pain it made even his vibrant body seem muddied.

        “You should have known better,” shaded Amm again, this time letting compassion leak in. Then she hugged him, closing her eyes so he could sob in peace.

* * *

        But Ferr never left.

        She spoke with the Black Veil and announced her decision to move southeast, away from the tribe, promising to do her best. To learn to haggle and send back treats for her favorite nephews.

        Cerrune spoke of it with bitterness, and Amm watched his eyes follow Ferr’s every move in public. She tried to speak of it with Ferr once, only to be rebuffed soundly. Not just rebuffed. Mocked. In front of half of Ferr’s family and many friends, all of whom could boast a wider spectrum than Amm.

        “Thank you,” shaded Amm, when the swirling laughter had died somewhat.

        “For?” asked Ferr, amused.

        Amm merely shook her head and turned around, caught between seething in anger and wanting to cry. But there was no one to hold her. No one to care how twisted and faded her colors churned inside of her.

        Cerrune refused to even shade of it, not wanting to see another word about Ferr as hurt as he was. So Amm left it. Spent a week in relative solitude, eyes unfocused whenever she passed another so she couldn’t see what they might be shading to her.

* * *

        When she finally tried to visit Cerrune again, no longer blocked by the Black Veil’s assistants since she’d proven she wasn’t putting thoughts of running off into his head, he seemed a shade darker than normal. No one else seemed to notice, but Amm did. Amm had held him tightly in her arms when he was a squalling, swirling river-blue babe.

        “She once shaded I’d get to visit a city or two as well,” shaded Cerrune.

        “What?” asked Amm, before realizing he meant the Black Veil and not Ferr. Then she brightened amber-like. “Perhaps you’ll get to visit Ferr then.”

        He laughed, reminding her of the laughter of others throughout her life, mocking her limited scope. But she pushed it aside. She could forgive the boy she’d tossed into the air just to see how many ways he could color ‘I love you’ unconsciously in his excitement.

        “That’s not what I meant.”

        Amm shaded confusion.

        “When I first moved here, away from you and Mother and Father, I would talk all the time about climbing mountains and wading in oceans and seeing all the different types of people coloring our world. She promised to give me hope. To keep me here. Not because she truly would send me out in the world.”

        “But—” started Amm.

        “It’s useless. Those who leave never come back. That’s the truth of the matter, Amm.”

        There was something more to his shading. Something that spoke of more than simple bitterness over a false promise from the Black Veil. But Amm couldn’t read it.

* * *

        Ferr became sick, her skin losing colors it had always used before. She was limited, streaking uncontrollably. She shook and shaded things to people, angry words full of hate. Especially for Cerrune.

        “This is your fault!” she shaded as brightly as she could one day. The day she’d been supposed to leave. “You’ve cursed me with your anger!”

        Most in the crowd averted their gaze, respectful of the pain swirling within Ferr. Amm didn’t, so she saw the snippets of thought, unchecked and confused, blowing across Ferr’s body without a hint of privacy. Blaming Cerrune over and over again. Hating him as if his love had been the sickness she suffered from.

        As for Cerrune, he stood stoically beyond her, watching as if he felt he must, never once letting his gaze leave the incredibly low range of color that Ferr now used to send him her anger.

        In his shading, Amm saw shame and horror and sorrow.

        And when she looked beside him, the Black Veil sat behind her long drapery of dark cloth with even her hands tucked in so that not a single person gathered could tell what she thought about the proceedings.

* * *

        No one ever found Ferr’s body. They determined she’d wandered off, unstable and uncontrolled, and had attracted the attention of a beast. Without the range of color she’d had before, she’d not be able to strike fear in the beast’s heart and cause it to race away.

        She’d have been the same as Amm. Unable to brighten effectively enough to save herself.

        Some in the tribe shaded in low spectrum colors that Ferr’s mind couldn’t remain stable after losing so much from her sickness. Amm asked them if they thought her unstable as well, given that even with Ferr’s loss, she’d still had a wider range than Amm. They averted their gaze as she shaded, pretending to have never seen the question.

        Cerrune stopped seeing Amm at all the day after Ferr disappeared. And when Amm passed him, she swore his body had darkened. She shaded to him, told him she was here if he needed to let out his pain, to let the healing begin.

        He shook his head, colors barely moving, and kept walking.

        She clenched her fists and thought long about Ferr. Wondered how painful it might be to lose huge sections of her voice. Feel as if she were going mute. Ferr hadn’t the experience that Amm had with limitations. She had reacted strongly, lashing out in anger and hurt, instead of pulling all of those feelings inward and bottling them, hiding them.

        No, Ferr wasn’t like Amm at all. Ferr wouldn’t settle.

* * *

        Amm took a machete, stolen from Father, and a reflective coin, stolen from Mother, and started into the forest. She kept her body as bright as possible, still a deep amber, in an attempt to keep the beasts at bay. The coin, she tucked into her hair, wedging it under a tie where it could shine and still be reachable were she to be attacked.

        Never before had she gone out alone. With Father. With large groups of field workers. With Cerrune, always so bright no animal would dare come near but the blind bats of the night who’d not bother them anyway. Never alone.

        Now she clutched at the machete and jumped at noises as the trees thickened and the fields and homes of her tribe faded quickly behind her. She traveled south, southeast, towards the city Ferr had been assigned to before she’d become sick.

        She walked for half a day. Rather, she took tiny steps, barely making any progress as the sun rose high in the sky and pierced though the leaves to heat her back. Amm felt her control over her body slipping, colors dropping murkily. Partly from the heat, partly from the ever-present worry.

        The bright cry of the carrion birds’ wings and a reflected snarling echoing off bark led Amm to Ferr’s body. More east than south, towards the lower lands that eventually led to the ocean and the blue-voiced tribes that lived there.

        The carrion birds were settled in the trees, eyeing the body below with greed and annoyance at having been interrupted. The bear shaded a growling, then it dipped his head, mouth crunching, making Amm shiver in disgust and want to tear her eyes away from rippling brown fur so she wouldn’t have to see the delight shining from its skin. She saw Ferr’s dress, now bloodied and torn, and ceased to think, knowing that if she paused for even the slightest moment her body would likely freeze in place.

        She gripped her machete and ran at the beast, catching it in its side before it’d realized she was there. Then she felt her body fly through the air, her shoulder pounding where the bear had instinctively raked at her.

        Amm rolled and looked up in time to see the bear turn towards her. Her machete dropped to the earth as the bear shaded in pain. Pieces of Ferr hung from its jaw. Then it came at her again.

        As she pulled herself to her feet, she summoned delight, thinking of warm long ago days wading with Cerrune, and spun her limited range to as bright an amber as she could muster. Her fingers closed over the coin in her hair and she pulled it to her chest, ripping her dress down so her body could scream and shout rather than simply shade gently.

        The bear reared back as the coin expanded the color and warning of Amm’s body, reflecting it sharply with help from the sun straight into the bear’s eyes. The bear surged forward again and Amm threw herself to the side, landing heavily on her injured shoulder, flinching at the pain as debris rubbed against her wounds.

        The bear kept going, then turned once more, nose sniffing as it searched for her without the help of its eyes. Amm remained still, praying that the stench of death would overpower her own scent.

        Slowly, the bear twisted around, casting for Ferr’s body again, mouth scraping the ground. Amm looked behind her, at the relative safety of the rest of the woods, and almost started to crawl away, thinking that she could inform others who could come back and retrieve Ferr’s body in order to send her colors back out into the world.

        Two things stopped her. One was shame. Having to tell the tribe once again she had less ability than them. Less range to frighten a beast off. Unable to even walk a day towards a city before having to turn around and run home.

        The second was that the bear suddenly shook its head violently, shifting Ferr’s body so Amm could see the naked line of her back clearly.

        White. Pure White.

        The color had already fled from Ferr’s body.

        That was impossible. Amm had seen death before, and always the people of her tribe had their color linger in their cold bodies until the ritual to pull it out and let it be free to color another.

        It meant Ferr had been devoid of color before she’d died. A mute. Unable to protect herself. Unable to shade, to communicate. No sickness Amm had ever known of could accomplish such a feat.

        Amm grabbed at her shoulder and squeezed the claw scrapes until her eyes watered. Then, in a fit of fury, she raced at the bear, sweeping up the dropped machete and swinging it into its throat as it started to turn.

        It staggered as it died, trying to reach her.

        Amm ignored it and knelt by Ferr’s body, trying not to retch at the sight. Of either the blood or the pale, colorless skin.

* * *

        “This is grave, indeed,” shaded the Black Veil when Amm finished giving her report.

        Her shoulder still ached and her blood had dried her dress sleeve to the wounds, making motions, however slight, pull at the scrapes. She tried her best to ignore it. Tried her best to hold her amber color steady so that she would not dissolve into a muddy, blurry mess in front of the Black Veil and Cerrune.

        Cerrune had changed as Amm spoke, his body growing stiller, his colors stopping their swirling. This close, Amm could see how he seemed to have darkened a tiny smidgeon. Not enough anyone else would notice, but she’d known him since he’d been born and could see even the slightest changes in his vibrancy.

        She’d been jealous of his spectrum, after all, more so than any other. She had covered it with becoming the most loving sister she could, but that didn’t mean she didn’t dream of her own body swirling in colors such that Cerrune could control.

        “A beast that can steal our color away, if it were to attack...” shaded Amm, priding herself that her colors remained as steady and clear as they possibly could.

        “It could still have been the sickness,” shaded the Black Veil, voice cracking so Amm had to squint to double check the broken lines of dark color on the older woman’s hand. She wondered if this was what Cerrune had to look forward to. His color slowly becoming so dark that he could barely shade, his voice little better than a mute’s.

        That thought led to another, more dangerous. But before Amm could clearly string out the shades in her mind to make sense of it, Cerrune finally shaded.

        “You shouldn’t have gone out by yourself,” he admonished her. “You could have died out there without the proper ability to send the beasts away.” She saw real worry behind his front shades and it made her heart warm.

        “But I didn’t,” she shaded.

        She hadn’t. She had survived an attack by a beast of the woods without having a range even a fraction as great as Cerrune’s. She hadn’t just survived, she’d killed it. Why then were the rest of the tribe so worried when even the lowest of them had twice as much range as she?

        The thought she’d had earlier came crashing back as the Black Veil lifted her dark hand. Amm shuddered unconsciously, wondering how much of her thoughts had been streaking across her skin.

        “This can’t get out,” shaded the Black Veil. “It is too dangerous out there already without people worrying about a beast who can steal our spectrums.” Her fingers beckoned Amm closer. “Come, I need to whisper in your eyes.”

        For one crazy moment, Amm thought about running, then she looked at Cerrune. He wouldn’t be so calm if something were about to happen to her. She took a breath and stepped closer to the Black Veil until the woman reached out and laid dark fingers upon Amm’s arm.

        She watched as the color on her arm pulsed and began to leak upwards into the Black Veil’s fingers, turning her an even darker shade of black. Amm felt her body shriek, all the range she had streaking upwards, downwards, spotting and swirling, but though she tried to pull away, she found her body had ceased responding.

        Vaguely, she was aware of bright flashes to her right, and somewhere she translated Cerrune’s horror and weak demands. Then arms wrapped about her torso and pulled her backwards.

        But it was far, far too late. She lifted her hands in front of her face.

        White. Perfectly white.

        Mute.

        She tried to scream. She tried to sob.

        In front of her a loud conversation brightened the room. Cerrune lit the dullness like a fire in the dark of night, but he made no motion to advance upon the Black Veil.

        Amm barely saw the words he shouted. Couldn’t see the Black Veil’s response at all for the blurring in her eyes. She gave one last push, trying to glow a deep amber once more. Nothing. She dug fingernails into her skin and saw red drops form. At last some color. Mother would have known how to use it with her reddish range. Amm stood staring at it numbly.

        Finally, she looked up. Cerrune was losing the battle. His anger was dying, full of shame. Because he agreed with the stealing? Because this was part of what the Black Veil had been teaching him? To bolster his own range, an addiction to be fed?

        Amm cringed inside. Had any of the people with the brightest colors ever truly seen the cities? Had their ranges been too attractive, too desirable? The small packages of spices and reflective coin and medicines... all brought by the Black Veil’s assistants.

        She almost sank into the ground in a numb pile. Then she thought of all the berry-streaked messages that loved ones treasured in trunks. Messages from the mute and dead. As dead as Ferr, left to be carried off by the beasts of the wood. As dead as Amm would be.

        Fiery shades of orange and red lit in her mind and swirled tighter and tighter. She could not shade, but just as she’d proven out in the woods, that didn’t mean she couldn’t act.

        She spared one glance at the assistant staring at Cerrune, then calmly took one step forward, pulled Cerrune’s knife from his belt and swept it across the veil. It fell to the ground, revealing the crisp, black body of the Black Veil. Kept alive through stolen ranges to supplement her own until the colors blurred so fiercely together, so heavy she could barely shade.

        Cerrune was shading—questions for her, by the tone she caught out of the corner of her eye—but Amm refused to look. Instead, she took another step forward, slipping beyond his reach. The assistant didn’t try to stop her, searching for intentions upon her body despite her inability to shade.

        The Black Veil started to lift a hand in self-defense, but she had long ago lost most mobility, and Cerrune’s knife slashed once in Amm’s hand across her throat. Color spewed forth, rising into the air, separating and twisting apart, voices shading but so jumbled Amm couldn’t see them clearly.

        She stepped away from the whirlwind of color, barely able to discern the bright shadings of shock and horror emanating from both Cerrune and the assistant.

        Then her eyes caught on the muddy amber of her own spectrum, mixed within the others of so many that had been taken before hers. Her amber range danced and swirled with the rest, enjoying the freedom. She reached for it, and it shied away at first. She didn’t blame it. She’d always been wishing for more, not appreciating what she’d had.

        Her fingers closed over the end of the range. The dark end. The deep amber shades flexed in her hand and as she pulled it back, more came with it. A larger spectrum than hers had ever been, from sun to dancing flames to the deep reds Mother had always shaded.

        Had Amm once been this vibrant? As vibrant as even Cerrune, but with the hues of the falling leaves instead of the skies and lakes? Could this have been her original spectrum—bled from her by the Black Veil when she was no more than an infant?

        Amm felt tears threaten as the ambers seeped into her palm and spread up her arm. She grabbed for the remainder of what might have been hers, bits of sunlight and the darkest reds allowing themselves to be caught and pulled back into her. But she’d been too long unattached to such a spectrum, and most of it slipped through her fingers and fled with the rest of the voices sweeping out of the windows, lifting away and dispersing into the air.

        Amm stood, mind intoxicated as the tiny bit she’d taken swelled within her. The colors swirled up and exploded onto her skin, her voice shrieking in amazement. She put a hand to her chest as if it could slow the beating of her heart, dim the brightness of her color.

        Then her range sank to its natural range, the moment gone, her spectrum barely larger than it’d been before the Black Veil had drained it from her.

        A horrible sadness entered her and a desire to repeat that glorious feeling swept over her. For the briefest of moments.

        What was left of the Black Veil was shades of lush algae and grass reflecting the sunlight on a bright cloudless day. She would have been beautiful. Instead, she’d become horrifyingly dark on account of her incessant need for more.

        Disgust replaced desire.

        “Amm,” shaded Cerrune, fear deepening his range.

        The assistant had knelt by the Black Veil, turning the woman’s head, his own colors reflecting shock.

        Amm looked at Cerrune but didn’t let her range rise and color her skin. She stared at him mutely, not having the courage to ask about Ferr. She didn’t want to see the answer. Didn’t want to dwell on the fact that Ferr’s apricot range had not swirled into the air with the rest freed from the Black Veil.

        Then she turned and left, knife still in hand, and headed south-southeast, content with being only a dark blurry amber. Content with the vibrant ceruleans and silvers and apricots and roses and crisp green grasses being left to others.

        Hoping that one day Cerrune would follow.

Copyright © 2012  Marie Croke

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Marie Croke is a fantasy writer living in Maryland with her fiancé, son and daughter, all of whom like to scribble messages in her notebooks when she’s not looking. She won first place in the Writers of the Future Contest and has work published in Daily Science Fiction. For more information go to mariecroke.com.

Read more Beneath Ceaseless Skies

COVER ART

“Remember,” by Zsófia Tuska

Zsófia Tuska is a Hungarian graphic designer and art student, specializing in concept arts, photomanipulations, and advertisements. Her favorite themes are the legends, mythology (especially the Celtic and Norse mythology), and fantasy/science fiction. She is freelancer but is interesting in work in a studio or ad agency. View more of her artwork at DeviantArt.com.

Beneath Ceaseless Skies

ISSN: 1946-1046

Published by Firkin Press,

a 501(c)3 Non-Profit Literary Organization

Copyright © 2012 Firkin Press

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