by Dawn Metcalf
“I understand that you now serve our associate, Master Ink.”
Joy kept her eyes on the monster and her hands on the wallet, feeling the strange things shift inside. She could almost hear Ink whispering, “Respect him.”
“Yes,” she replied.
“Very good,” their host approved. “I am Graus Claude, Bailiwick of the Twixt, comptroller of the edge between worlds.” He introduced himself with one clawed hand as another lay flat on the desk, while the two remaining hands poured a swan-necked carafe and filled lowball glasses with ice. Joy was mesmerized by the horrific ballet of limbs.
“The Twixt comprises all the places where magic still exists—the fringe of what remains after the post–Industrial Age. Your home, the Glen, is part of the Twixt, and perhaps is the reason for your extraordinary Sight.” He adjusted himself in his seat. “We are ruled by the Council, which has decreed that one amongst us must assume the role of intercessor between humanity and ourselves. I hold that honor and distinction. There is no need for you to know my history or that of my title, only that I am an associate of the Scribe, Master Ink,” Graus Claude said politely. “An intermediary, if you will, between his many clients and himself. Requests and claims for his services filter through me.”
Joy tried to catch Ink’s eye, which turned out to be harder than she’d expected. It was impossible to tell where he was looking except obviously not at her. She glanced back to Graus Claude, who placed two glasses of amber liquid on their side of the desk while simultaneously pouring himself a third. Ink did not move to accept, so she refrained, recalling the grapes. Graus Claude pretended not to notice.
“When it came to my attention that certain parties had been circumventing the normal order of our established protocols, I felt pressed to investigate.” He inclined his stout head. “Apologies for any impropriety, but in the case of humans, it fares best to be discreet.” Graus Claude sighed mightily through the slits of his nose. “Without the due courtesy of a formal introduction, I thought it important that we meet to have a little chat...” Graus Claude sipped at his drink, which looked impossibly tiny perched at the end of his wide lips “...in the hope that we might come to some satisfactory arrangement.”
Joy was afraid if she started nodding, she wouldn’t be able to stop. The palsy quiver of the Bailiwick’s head was making her more nervous than the sight of his teeth. Ink gave no hint or clue of what to do. She’d have to wing it.
“Of course,” Joy said. That seemed to please Graus Claude.
The monstrous gentleman grumbled deep in his chest and drummed sharp claws in two sets against the polished wooden surface. “I am sorry to have learned that some have attempted to curry favor while others have treated you, shall we say, less than favorably?”
Joy thought of the clover, the kitchen window, the old man’s shell and the aether sprite’s hand on her neck. She touched her throat. “You might say that.”
Graus Claude grinned. It wasn’t pretty.
“Yes, I thought I might,” he agreed, enunciating the Ts. The throne groaned richly as he shifted his bulk. “I wanted you to know that I do understand. Being the one who most often deals with such persons, it is no easy task.” He said it sincerely as he gestured to his mahogany office. “Once upon a time, we each ruled a domain and would claim those who fell under our auspice by placing our sigils upon them, forging bonds and alliances for generations in good faith. And while some continue to do so, it is considered somewhat improper nowadays. It is why I attempted to organize a system that ensured a level of decorum. The Scribes have willingly shouldered this burden of distributing others’ marks and perform the task admirably. Our Master Indelible is truly one of a kind, and Miss Invisible is a class unto herself. Their services are of the essence, their delivery, impeccable.” Graus Claude set his tumbler down. “This recent ripple notwithstanding.”
Joy inhaled. She was a “ripple”? That didn’t sound good. She squashed the temptation to defend herself; this didn’t seem like the time for back talk. Joy shifted in her seat and kept silent as the Bailiwick’s gaze swept over her and paused to settle on Ink.
“We require a flawless record so that we may maintain order,” he said.
Ink barely nodded. Joy barely breathed.
The Bailiwick sat back in his chair. “I realize this is not your doing, my dear. You have been enveloped by a much larger world because of your charms.” The four-armed toad sighed. “I empathize with what can only be described as a complete upheaval of your former life and for that, I apologize. Had I but known...” Graus Claude cast his white-blue stare at Ink. “The young sometimes forget their obligations when the heart’s folly blinds them.”
Joy remembered then that she and Ink were supposed to be lovers. She felt a heat flush her face and quickly placed a hand on Ink’s sleeve. He glanced at it curiously as if wondering why it was there. Joy tapped his chair leg with her toe and prayed he’d get a clue. He placed a hand over hers. The Bailiwick’s eyes flicked between them.
Joy stammered to take the lead. “I’m...”
“The fault was mine,” Ink said swiftly.
Wood creaked as Graus Claude leaned forward and laughed—a bellowing laugh that echoed in his cavernous maw. Joy could see halfway down his crimson throat.
“Ah,” the Bailiwick said, sighing. “Delightful!” Graus Claude simultaneously opened a drawer, dipped a fountain pen, smoothed a bit of paper and reached inside the drawer. “You had to but mention her to me and I would have vouchsafed her family and her dwelling sooner.” Graus Claude wagged the fountain pen like a finger at Ink. “I will bring it to the Council, and no more need be said. She will be under the Edict’s protection while you attend to your duties. Mind you, remember that you have obligations that lie outside your lady’s eyes.” The Bailiwick shook his head and chuckled to himself as he wrote.
“Here.” Graus Claude directed his words to Joy. “This is a number where you can leave a message,” he said, scattering a pinch of ash to set the ink. “Should you have any further disturbance, do not hesitate to make it known to me and I will do my utmost to intervene on your behalf.” He handed the crisp cardstock forward, but withdrew it momentarily.
“And I would appreciate it if you could remind any of those who attempt to contact you personally to go through proper channels. In other words—me,” he said, his voice thrumming low. “Are we understood?”
“Definitely. And gladly,” Joy said with real warmth. Her family would be safe. These people would stop bothering her. She was happily willing to let the well-dressed toad deal with all the crazy as long as she wouldn’t have to worry about that anymore.
“You are most kind,” Ink added.
The Bailiwick shut the drawer. “Kindness may oft be considered a business expense and, thus, a wise investment,” Graus Claude added as he wrote himself a note in a leather-bound ledger. “In this case, it is also an honor and a pleasure.” He scattered more ash upon the page and blew the script dry before heaving himself to his feet. Graus Claude bowed with his neck and eyelids.
“Do treat the young lady kindly, Master Ink. She is both your business and your pleasure. Others will take note of it.”
Joy tightened her hold on Ink’s arm and tried a smile.
The butler swung open the doors behind them. It was a polite but clear dismissal.
Ink bowed. “Yes, Graus Claude. Bailiwick. I shall.”
“Of course you shall,” Graus Claude said. His eyes flicked to Joy. “A pleasure to meet you, Joy Malone.” He offered one of his hands and she gently took it. His skin was thick and pliant, the claws filed smooth, and his lips—when they touched her skin—were surprisingly gentle.
“Thank you, Graus Claude,” Joy said formally.
He gave her the tiniest squeeze and a fatherly word. “You do not have cause to thank me yet,” he said. “Pray you never do.”
As the butler escorted them out of the foyer, Ink held his hand out between them.
“My belongings,” Ink whispered, voice tight. “Please.”
Joy reluctantly handed him the wallet. It had been the only thing keeping her fingers from shaking, and her hands felt strangely empty without it.
* * *
Joy walked up the condominium stairs, followed by something between a boyfriend and a ghost. Ink’s feet didn’t make a sound and there was no telltale swish of denim or the soft shush of arms brushing back and forth as he walked. In fact, Joy didn’t even hear the rattle of the chain she knew hung at his side as they made their way down the hall.
It was eerie and cool.
She gagged the alarm with her four-digit code. Dropping her keys and her backpack, she walked into the kitchen.
“Want some water?” she asked. “Do you drink water?”
Ink watched her. “Do you?”
“Yes, I do.” Joy punched herself some cold water from the dispenser on the fridge. She took a large gulp and shivered as the liquid slid into her stomach. It gave her a good excuse for shaking. Joy glanced across the counter at Ink.
“You don’t drink?” she guessed.
“No, but I can.” He said it almost defensively, taking a glass from the shelf, pouring some water and sipping it smoothly through his lips. He swallowed defiantly. “I watch and learn.”
Joy crossed her arms and looked at him—really looked at him. “You and Inq study humans,” she said. “You observe them in order to look more human.”
“Yes,” he said. The admission might have made him uncomfortable, but he didn’t sip more water like a nervous person would, avoiding the need to speak. He hadn’t learned that.
“Why?” she asked.
He put down the glass. “It was something to do. Someone to be.” Ink paused. “Inq and I decided that we would fashion ourselves like this.”
“Like this?” Joy said.
“Or some close approximation.” Ink grinned. “Styles change over time.”
Joy crossed her ankles. “So what do you really look like?”
“Like this,” Ink said. “For now.”
“Well, what did you look like originally?”
“There were no mirrors.”
“Ha-ha,” Joy said. “So you look like this and act like this and talk like this all because of what you’ve observed. The field study of Homo sapiens.”
“Of what?”
“Humans,” she clarified. “Which makes you...?”
Ink cocked his head. “Observant?”
“No,” Joy said. “Other than human.”
“Of course.”
“Which would make you...?” She trailed off, growing more uncomfortable.
Ink frowned. “What?”
“I mean, what are you, exactly?” Joy asked.
He glanced at his glass. “Thirsty?”
“No.”
“Is this a riddle?”
“No,” Joy said, exasperated. “Listen—if you’re not human, what are you? What is Graus Claude? Or those guilder-whatsits? Are you a spirit? A vampire? An elf? A demon?” She didn’t mean for her voice to drop to a whisper, but it did. “A god?”
“No. None of those things. Although we’ve been called all of them before.” Ink placed his hand on the counter, having watched her do the same. She recognized the gesture. “We call ourselves ‘Folk’ much as you call yourselves ‘people’ or ‘human.’ But I am not one of them, exactly, either. Inq and I were made, not born.”
Joy shook her head slightly. “So, do you even know...?” Joy couldn’t decide whether to say what you are or who you are, and when Ink met her gaze, she wondered which was the real question. His face was open, lost, his fathomless eyes searching. There was a sudden thinness to him, as if he’d become a shadowy outline of himself, doubting his existence.
But he hadn’t seemed that way back in the Carousel. Since the first moment Joy saw him, he had been all too real. Even now, leaning against the kitchen counter, he looked exactly like any guy in a rare moment of self-reflection, contemplating big questions, asking the unanswerable whys. How long had Ink struggled wondering the same things that humans did?
“Inq has had many lehman,” he said. “She says it helps her understand, that it helps her do her job, but I do not understand how.”
“You want to understand,” Joy said. She did not specify whether she meant human beings or lehman or what or who he was, and there was a sense that it was all the same.
Ink hung his head as if ashamed.
“Yes. I want to understand,” he said softly. “I want to do good work.” He straddled a kitchen chair and leaned against its back. “I am only an idea, a requirement breathed to life—” he flipped his wallet onto the table “—an instrument. A tool.” The word fell flat and slapped like leather. “I accepted that for many years, but now I want...more.” He did not look up at Joy as he paused, but she felt his eyes nonetheless. “Inq had hoped—I had hoped—that eventually I would learn something from humans, learn to feel things, to adapt, to understand why we do what we do, and gain purpose from it. But I have never understood it.” Ink slid the heavy chain against the table. “It is an empty, hollow life.”
Ink ran his smooth hands over the wallet’s surface. Joy watched his every move. “Inq has wanted me to choose a lehman for a long time, but I ignored her,” he said. “A lehman is a distraction. It is not part of our work. How can we improve ourselves by being frivolous? And if nothing else, my sister is frivolous.” Ink straightened in his chair. “But she is also correct. She reminds me that we may be the Scribes, but we are merely a means to an end, and by no means the only means.”
Ink’s fingers curled into determined fists. “So I must work flawlessly in order to preserve the Twixt and to justify our existence, both for Inq and myself. But I do not want to be merely a ‘job well done.’ I do not want to do as I have always done until the day that I fail and am deemed obsolete.” He picked up the wallet with his impossible hand. “All I have is this. And, without this, I wonder what I am.” Joy remembered how he had sounded when he’d given her the wallet and the strain in his voice when he’d asked for it back. His voice, as crisp and clear as ever, sounded distant. “I have traveled the world, and time has no meaning, but I often stop and wonder, I am ever truly here?”
Joy took her glass and sat next to him at the kitchen table. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to understand him, this weird guy with the knives—but a part of her did. That feeling of being lost, feeling not-quite-here and not-quite-whole—that she understood. She studied his face in profile as he stroked the edge of the leather.
“You think Inq’s onto something, being more human?”
Ink said nothing. His quiet was a silent shrug.
Joy turned more fully toward him, wondering why she felt like reaching out, why she was even about to suggest this. “You could learn to be human,” she said. “You could learn it from me.”
Ink’s eyes, deep and fathomless, sought hers. His voice was sharp and low. “How?”
“Well...” Joy found herself staring at his profile, and something elusive slipped into place.
“Your ears,” Joy said.
Ink frowned, confused. “My what?”
Joy leaned closer. “Your ears. They’re smooth.” She pointed. Ink’s ears, slightly hidden by long spikes of hair, were more like tiny cups with a hole, no whorls or hollows and hardly any lobe. “Like your hands,” Joy said, and lifted hers up to show him. Ink’s hands were just as doll-like as Inq’s, featureless and flawless, completely unreal.
Joy tucked her hair behind one ear and tilted her head to the side. “See?” She slid her finger along the cartilage. “Ears curve around so sound travels in. There’s a lot of
extra space for sound waves and then there’s this fatty bit here.” She pinched herself at the piercing. Ink moved to take a closer look. Joy felt more than saw his face near hers. She stared at the living room, distracting herself.
“There’s something genetic about whether the lobe attaches or not,” Joy continued, tugging on her earlobe. “Mine don’t, but Mom’s...” Joy stopped and switched topics. “Anyway, I noticed your ears look more like a rough idea of ears than real ears.”
“Does it matter? Ears?” Ink sounded confused but at the same time intrigued.
Joy laughed. “Probably not. But you talk about trying to understand humans by looking like humans when all you’ve had to go on is glimpsing people a few moments at a time. Maybe Inq’s onto something by having humans around more often. Maybe she’s learned something by studying us more.” Joy glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, holding still as he considered her. She tilted her head. “You said you wanted to know.”
“About ears?” he said with a touch of humor.
“Sure.” Joy shrugged. “Why not?”
Ink drew his chair closer. “May I?”
Joy hesitated. What was she offering?
Be indispensable.
“Sure.”
She rested her head in her hand, her elbow on the kitchen table, as Ink scraped his chair nearer, inspecting her skin. She smiled a little, self-conscious and feeling silly as the black-eyed boy inspected her ear. Eventually, she closed her eyes rather than stare at the blank wall like an idiot.
Big mistake. Joy was suddenly hyperaware of everything. With her eyes closed, her other senses ramped into high focus against her will—the tiniest breeze of his breath, the shush of his movements, the sea-smell of his skin. She’d preferred it when he’d been at a comfortable distance, silent and surreal. Having him so close made her feel shy and confused. There was nowhere to look away, nowhere to hide, nowhere to pretend that something else was going on other than his eyes intent on her.
It was only her ear, but she imagined his gaze wandering. Where would he look next? What was he looking at now? Should she open her eyes and check? Would he stop if she did? Did she want him to stop? Joy’s smile quivered and she tried not to move. She sensed that he was very close, but she couldn’t be sure of more than that.