Alizarin Crimson

by Erica Millard

  Leslie smiled. “Eat up. You’ll need your strength. Hopefully coming here will make it less confusing.”

  “Does everyone make things explode like I do?” I asked.

  “No, but just because you’ve only made things explode so far, doesn’t mean that’s your Talent.”

  “I guess I don’t understand what my Talent is. My dad’s letter said people had a hard time resisting his words, or something.”

  Leslie grabbed an apple out of the wooden bowl on the table and fiddled with the stem. “Your father was a Speaker. His Talent was more internal, with words and feelings, and, yes, he could pretty much convince anyone of anything. But you are something else entirely.”

  “So each of the Talents has a specific name?” I asked.

  Leslie nodded.

  Dune had called me something, but I didn’t know if it was right. “What . . .What am I?” Wow, asking if I was an alien would’ve been easier.

  “From what you’ve seen, what do you think?”

  Red called to me and seeped into my body. Even as a small child, I’d slept with crayons instead of teddy bears. And what had Dune called me?

  “Color,” I said.

  Leslie nodded. “A Colorist.”

  I ate my waffle in silence while Leslie spun the apple on the lacquered-wood tabletop.

  “Is there any way I can turn it off?” I asked.

  Leslie looked as though she were choosing her words carefully. “I’m sorry, there isn’t. I know it’s overwhelming. But soon you’ll learn to control your Talent, and it’ll get easier.”

  “Is there anyone else who controls color here? I really need to talk to them.”

  “We’ve never had a Colorist here. They’re extremely rare, even by Aolian standards. The last known Colorist lived over a hundred years ago.” She stared at the table, avoiding my gaze.

  I gaped. A hundred years?

  “This afternoon at two o’clock is an Intro to Aolians class that we recommend for all new Aolians,” Leslie said, “especially if they don’t have Aolian family members. We talk about the history and nature of Aolians and Talents. It is in the Catalily, the brick building out front and to the right. Also, tomorrow night is the Dechrua-induction ceremony. If your father were alive, no doubt he would have made a big deal out of it. When Aolians come into their Talent, they are introduced to a few members of the Aolian Council in a big ceremony. Is there anyone you’d like to invite?”

  I fingered the Dechrua bracelet beneath my sleeve, feeling each of the symbols in relief on its surface.

  “No, I don’t think so,” I said. Even if my mom could get a flight, I didn’t think she knew anything about Aolians, and Aunt Jessie didn’t act like she wanted to know.

  “Even so, I understand some of the girls are going shopping tomorrow morning to prepare for it, if you want to join them.”

  “Okay.” It might be nice to make some friends.

  “Now, do you have any other questions? With the Dechrua ceremony tomorrow, I have some things I need to attend to this morning.”

  Of course I had a million questions, specifics about my abilities and what other Talents could do, but I figured I’d get those answers in class. “Is there another room I can sleep in? Those red walls are too much for me.”

  “Sure, we can find something else. I’ll send Samantha in to show you to a different room. I’m sure you’d like a shower.”

  “You must be Ayami,” Samantha said as I finished the last of my breakfast. She was middle aged with short brown hair and rosy skin, and she wore a blue button-up shirt that looked like a uniform without being too obvious. “Let me show you to a new space, and you can get cleaned up.”

  I followed her back to the polished stairs and up to the second floor. Off to my right was the room I had woken in. Inside, the red walls seemed to pulse, and I was glad I wasn’t staying there again. Laughter echoed from one of the closed doors as we passed by.

  “That’s Kendra’s room,” Samantha said with a jerk of her head toward the sound. “Everyone adores that girl.”

  Next to each room was a mini whiteboard with the name of the student staying there written on it. Kendra’s was surrounded with pink stars.

  Further down the hall, behind a plain wood door rose another set of stairs, smaller and less elaborate than the ones below, leading to the third level. Unlike the second floor with its oppressive, dark paneling and rich curtains, the third had bright yellow walls the color of aspen leaves in the fall.

  “The Rose Room was the last available on the second floor,” Samantha said. “We’ll have to move you up here.” She led me down the narrow hallway, with doors lining each wall. “The dorm outbuilding is completely full. These were the servants’ quarters, back when this house was built. They’re much smaller and more simply furnished, but I think they feel more like home instead of a museum like the tombs downstairs.”

  Tombs? Creepy.

  She threw open a door. Light streamed through the huge window on the far wall and reflected along the pale green paneling. The plain wooden desk, chest of drawers, and bed fit perfectly. Above the window the ceiling slanted up where the roof met this attic. The space was small compared to the rooms downstairs, but Samantha was right.

  “This is perfect.” I threw my bag onto the bed.

  “Several servants would have stayed in these quarters at one time,” Samantha said, glancing around at the furniture as if to make sure everything was in order. She gave a little nod. “Let me show you the powder room.”

  Who still said powder room?

  The bathroom’s black-and-white octagon floor tile looked original to the house and slid next to white walls, sheer curtains at the window, and a claw-foot tub. Across the hall another bathroom was a mirror image of this one, but the tile was emerald green and white.

  Samantha opened a cupboard near the tub and pulled out some white towels, a few travel bottles of hair stuff, and a comb. “We often have people show up randomly, so there are always plenty of toiletries around if you need them. You can pick up anything else you need while you’re shopping tomorrow. They’re leaving after breakfast.”

  “Sure, that sounds great.”

  “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Samantha closed the door behind her.

  I peeled off my shirt and gasped. The red still flitted on the surface of my skin, but was lighter. Instead of being thick as ropes, there were only ribbons, curling and delicate.

  I’d been so busy dealing with my exhaustion and hunger, I hadn’t realized the color inside me had dwindled. Anger no longer filled my every movement or burned beneath the surface like a wild animal waiting to take control. Did that mean I could not only control red, but also use what was stored inside my body? Maybe I could get rid of it all.

  But it was still there, just diminished, tingling beneath my skin.

  I waited for the water to get really hot before I climbed into the shower. A fine mist filled the room and clung to the windows and mirror. I hadn’t brushed my hair for a few days, so it took a while to work a comb and conditioner through the mass of auburn curls reaching down to the small of my back. The heat loosened my sore muscles and numbed my aching head. I scrubbed my body with a soapy washcloth, hoping the remaining crimson would disappear down the drain with the scalding water. My skin turned bright pink, but no amount of rubbing could erase the swirls of color churning there.

  The red was like braids of ink, swirling and floating through water. The color seemed so benign, fragile even, as insubstantial as smoke. Already I had used it to save and destroy. It was so much easier to destroy.

  But that was the last thing I wanted to do. I was an artist. I created. I took something empty, like paper or canvas, and gave it life. I didn’t tear things apart and hurt people.

  I turned off the water and wrapped in a towel. The normal routine of getting ready was comfortable, and I tried to forget the anger and hatred. In the cupboard I foun
d a travel-size can of mousse and worked it through my curls before brushing my teeth.

  Back in my room I plugged my phone into the wall to charge. When it powered up, I sifted through my texts.

  I had one from Liam.

  Hey, I hope you’re feeling better.

  He sent it yesterday evening, when I was passed out.

  Hey! I wrote. I’m still not feeling great. Thanks for checking up on me. And thanks again for taking me home. I was pretty out of it.

  Twelve voicemails popped up from Aunt Jessie. Oh, boy. I was about to call her when the phone rang.

  I pushed the button. “Hi, Jess.”

  “Aya?” demanded Aunt Jessie. “Why haven’t you called me back?”

  “Sorry! I just woke up.”

  “I was so worried even after I talked to Leslie,” Aunt Jessie said with an edge to her voice. “I saw what happened at Grand Central on the news, and just hoped you were gone by then. I never should’ve let you go alone. I’m so sorry. Those crazy terrorists!”

  “Terrorists?” My voice was almost a screech. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know! Grand Central was bombed.”

  I couldn’t say anything. My heart thudded like I just sprinted a mile, and I rubbed my hand over my eyes. It was me. I was a terrorist. What happened after I ran? How many people had I hurt besides Dune and her men? I was too scared to ask.

  “Aya,” Aunt Jessie said, “are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here.”

  “I’m just so glad you’re all right.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Tell me about Scarborough Mansion,” Aunt Jessie said.

  “It’s good,” I said, trying to keep my voice smooth. “But I actually have a class in a few minutes. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  “I want you to call me tomorrow to let me know how everything is going.”

  “Okay.”

  My hand shook, and I had a hard time pushing the end button on my phone. I’d been attacked at Grand Central, so I acted on instinct. I’d used the red in the room and retaliated. And now, when I was in a place where I was safe, were people safe with me? I couldn’t control the red. Instead it controlled me. But then again . . . it had saved me.

  What was I going to tell Mom? All teens were supposed to lie to their parents, but I never could. I always thought we were in this thing together. I was the only person she had left. But somehow I didn’t think my explanation would go over well if I said, “You never knew, but Dad had special powers where he could make anyone do anything. Not only that, but he passed a different, crazy power on to me, and now I can make the color red explode and seep into my body, but it makes me lose control.”

  I’d planned on staying here only a few days, but maybe that wasn’t enough. Leslie said other teens stayed here for the summer and during the school year. My art scholarship ran out at the end of the summer, so I couldn’t stay here after that.

  I let out a deep breath. So much had happened, I wouldn’t be able to process it for a month. I checked my phone. It was time to go, but I stalled—the prospect of meeting some of the others from this place was daunting. Instead I drew the book with Van Gogh’s self-portrait on the cover out of my backpack. I had never noticed it before, but his melancholy eyes seemed to follow me no matter what angle I held it. For a fleeting moment, I longed to be with him, painting lilies and peasants in a field.

  I laid the book on the desk and trudged downstairs.

  7

  Painting comes easier to me than I imagined, and perhaps the right course would be to put all my effort into it, toiling away at a brush before anything else.

  —Vincent van Gogh

  The classroom wasn’t set up with all the chairs in neat rows facing the front. Instead there were about two-dozen seats with pop-up desks on their sides arranged in a horseshoe shape with a table and whiteboard at the front. I took a seat facing the door. Fifteen or so other kids filtered in. We all seemed about the same age.

  Leslie came in promptly at two o’clock, carrying a huge stack of books and with a guy following close behind her. She sent around a black marker and a stack of Hello My Name Is stickers before taking a seat. I wanted to write something ridiculous like Wonder Woman or Gandalf, but I decided I should at least try to stay on Leslie’s good side.

  “Hey, suckas!” the guy said as he placed a folder with a gold seal in front of each of us. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, with jeans, a short beard, and a T-shirt that said, Einstein was an idiot, on the front. “Welcome to Scarborough Mansion, nickname Scar Mansion. I’m supposed to give you all the usual welcome talk so . . . I’m Danny blah, blah, blah, and we’re so happy, blah, blah, blah.”

  “Danny . . .” Leslie said in a warning voice, and she stood up. “Everyone this is Danny. I wanted to let him do our introduction because some of you will be working with him to control your Talents.”

  He waved her down, and I had the feeling he was the only one Leslie would let do that.

  “Yes, I will be working with some of you,” Danny said. “Now, this folder should tell you everything you need to know about living at Scar Mansion, so we can skip to the fun parts. Read what’s in your folder about the boring stuff like meals and workshop times. Any questions so far?” Two hands went up. “No? Good. Let’s move on.”

  “But, sir . . .” said one of the others.

  “Read the paperwork, and then if you have a question, ask, but don’t expect me to spoon feed you. I want to talk about Talents.”

  Leslie seemed like she was trying to relay some message to him without talking. Probably something like, Stop being a jerk.

  It didn’t work.

  “So moving on,” Danny said. “Each of you is here because you have discovered you’re an Aolian, A.K.A. Talent. Both of those are just fancy names for someone who can do special things ‘normal’ people can’t do, although normal is definitely relative.” He sauntered back and forth in the center of the horseshoe while he spoke, his hands clasped behind his back. “You’re lucky, or unlucky. A specific genetic and circumstantial combination of events led to someone, like you, realizing they’re an Aolian. Our research shows less than a tenth of a percent of the population have the genetic predisposition. But that alone doesn’t guarantee you’ll become an Aolian. That only occurs when you find the occupation or skill you’re meant to do—that you were destined to be. It’s a wonderful gift. Some people wander their whole lives not knowing what they should be or do, so they do nothing and become nothing. But you’ve found what you’re meant to be, and you’ve found it while you’re still young enough for the genetics to change you from someone who has the ability to become an Aolian into someone who is an Aolian.”

  “You have to be young to be an Aolian?” a guy labeled Preston asked.

  “No,” Danny said. “You have to be young to become an Aolian. After a certain age people are too stuck in their ways and ideas, and they can no longer become Aolian.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “We’re not sure,” Danny said. “Aolians manipulate the world around them in some way. After a certain point, we think people reject these occurrences. Most Aolians call the use of their abilities a Release. The first few Releases are exhausting, but practice your Talent and you’ll get stronger. The Releases won’t use any less energy, but you’ll be strong enough to work without tiring.”

  “It just seems like magic to me,” said a girl whose nametag read Jana. I agreed with her.

  “It might seem that way. Historical folklore is saturated with Talent abilities that could’ve been seen as magic,” Danny said. “Even our name Aolian, comes from the Greek god of wind. As far as we can tell, Aolian did exist, but he was just a man with a Talent. Many worshiped him, and others like him, as gods. But it’s really much more grounded than that. Talents seem to intuitively manipulate the outside world or the people around them in ways that we’re only starting to understand on a scientific and molecul
ar level. Each Talent is so different and affects the environment in distinct ways—we have to study each one individually.”

  “Like lab rats,” I said.

  Danny chuckled.

  Leslie stood. “Well, thank you Danny. Your introduction gets more . . . colorful every time I hear it.”

  He shrugged and left the class without a word. Leslie shook her head ever so slightly as she watched him leave.

  She turned back to us. “Hi, everyone.” She handed a thick textbook entitled Aolians and Another World to each of us. “This book contains some information that you will all find useful while learning to deal with being an Aolian. Guard this carefully, and when you leave the mansion, please return it.”

  I flipped open to the table of contents.

  Sections:

  1—What makes an Aolian?

  2—Why we stay hidden from the rest of the world

  3—Classifications of Talents

  Lifian

  Corticum

  4—Subcategories

  Intrapersonal

  Extra-Hominum

  Sapient

  Animantic

  Terraformer

  Elemental

  5—The Aolian Council

  “Danny gave an overview of chapter one,” Leslie said. “Take a minute to glance over the rest. I’ve found over the years that no matter where I try to begin, everyone is reading chapter three.” She flipped open a well-worn copy of the book. “So, let’s go ahead and start there, and then we can move on.”

  Leslie put an exact replica of the table in our book on the screen at the front of the classroom. “Aolians are divided into two separate classifications. The first is Talents who can influence anything alive: animals, humans, and insects. They are called Lifians. The second classification is called Corticum, or those who can influence nonliving things. I know the vocabulary can be tricky at first, but you’ll get it soon enough. I have an easy way to remember which word is which. The first, Lifian, is an ancient word for life, so that is easier. Corticum is a little trickier. It is an ancient word for heart. In those times, people didn’t understand what was going on in the Aolian process, so they called anyone who could manipulate a nonliving object or item as giving it a heart to animate it.”