Spark

by Alice Broadway

  “You think that, if we persuade them of the truth, they will come back – and be marked?”

  “I can only hope, Leora. I can only pray.” She sat down again. “You can’t believe that we glory in their ignorance: they may be walking in darkness, but their lost souls are souls all the same.” Those were risky words, and Mayor Longsight stood then, clearing his throat, interrupting Mel’s flow.

  He moved in front of Mel, breaking our eye contact, bringing my focus back to his elegantly marked body and his earnest face.

  “We believe that if you go seeking refuge, they will accept you. No one else could do this. This is the only way for us to discover their secrets and protect our people.”

  His voice was caramel smooth.

  “We’ve never seen war, you and I.” Longsight stalked round the room. “We are lucky. We read about these things – death and destruction – as though they are stories. We become immune to the horror because we see it only in the pages of a book. We are so used to peace that we can’t imagine anything shaking our way of life. But mark my words: conflict is coming. If we leave things as they are – leave the blanks as they are – we are inviting our own destruction. Leora, we protect the people of Saintstone from the worst of it. We don’t want them to live in fear. How many of our children must go missing, how many of our livestock killed or crops razed to the ground, before we take a stand against them? They love the sport of killing and they grow bolder.”

  The cautionary tales of my childhood come to life.

  “We know – of course we do – that there are some in our midst who are offering them help and support. We have an idea of who some of those people might be.” I looked away, thinking of Dad, of Connor Drew, of Obel. Of Oscar.

  “They are misguided, but” – he glanced at Mel – “some of us believe they are not past redemption. They do not have to be punished, not if you can help us.”

  “What if I want to stay here?” I asked.

  “Staying here is not an option right now, Leora.” Mayor Longsight straightened the paper on his desk and shifted his pen a millimetre to make it perfectly in line. “You turned your back on us that night. Don’t look so shocked – what else were you doing, that night at the naming ceremony? Well – how about you do something that will actually help those you claim to love? Go to Featherstone and wait until my messenger contacts you. Tell them all that you know. It’s a simple task.”

  “You are sending me away from everything I know. I don’t even know where Featherstone is.” My voice cracked like a child about to cry, and I swallowed. “I have sacrificed so much.”

  “Ah.” His gaze was compassionate as he looked at me. “But not yet everything.”

  Making my way through the forest, I almost expect to see the little cottage – the one from the story of the sisters. They lived there so happily – until their kind father died. Of course our sister – the good one, Moriah – went on to become a princess. Beautiful marks grew on her skin, proving the purity of her soul. It was the other sister, the blank – the White Witch – who was banished to the forest.

  I can feel eyes following my footsteps, but when I turn, no one is there.

  I found Obel in his studio after the meeting with Longsight.

  “So, you made it out alive,” he said lightly, and his eyes raked over me. Those grey-blue eyes that can terrify an apprentice, and yet look at a customer with such kindness. He ran a hand over his brown hair, which he had allowed to grow a little since I first met him. “And unmarked. Did you have to prostrate yourself?”

  I didn’t know what to tell him.

  “Mel was there. They said I should try and … embrace what I am.”

  “Right.” Those eyes on mine gave nothing away. “And?”

  “And that I should try and work with them.”

  “Work with them to do what?”

  I looked away. “He thinks I should go to Featherstone.”

  “Ah,” Obel said. “And what would you do there?” When I said nothing, he sighed. “Leora. You’re not the person I saw this morning who was angry, and so sure she wouldn’t let them win.”

  I just shrugged.

  “You don’t have to listen to me. You owe me nothing. But believe one thing. I have spent my whole life listening to different versions of the same story. I have spent my whole life, like you, being told what to believe. And I know this. These people are good at telling a story. Did you tell them yours? Did you tell them that your marks appeared by themselves?” He watched as I slowly shook my head. “If they don’t know, then they suspect. I think they know how powerful you are and they want to keep you weak. People in power don’t get there by being frighteningly bad, they get there by being frighteningly good – good at convincing everyone, good at twisting words and making people agree with them even if they disagree.”

  “All right!” I cried, and the snap in my voice surprised us both. “What would you like me to do? I can’t stay here…” My voice trailed off into a tired sob. “What do you suggest?”

  There was a pause, and then Obel pushed his chair back.

  “Tea,” he said quietly. “Tea is what I suggest.”

  I rubbed my forehead tiredly as he made tea. He put a steaming cup in front of me and took a sip from his own. “Then don’t stay,” he said finally. “Longsight is right; someone needs to go to Featherstone.”

  I laughed. This has to be funny, because if it isn’t funny then it’s desperate. “You think I should go to Featherstone?”

  “Yes, I do.” He stopped and looked at me, really looked at me. “I don’t believe Longsight can make you do anything you don’t want to do. You’re no spy, girl. But I think you need to see where you came from. You’ve told me how you wonder about your birth mother.” I looked away. I think about her every day. Obel went on. “I think you need to see that, despite everything you’ve grown up believing – and for all their flaws, the blanks are not the monsters of legend. They are your people, and you need them – and they need you now. Someone has to warn them of the threat from Saintstone. And by appearing to do what Longsight asks, you will be safe – for now. There is a war coming, and you will be vital in it. It is very important that you are kept safe.”

  His tone – the assumption that I want this role, that I will sacrifice myself for a cause I do not understand – made my hackles rise. “They’re your people, not mine. You grew up there: you go.” My jaw was tight and my words sounded clipped. He sighed.

  “The blanks are as stubborn and slow to change as the people of Saintstone. They will not listen to me.”

  Obel has never told me why he left his home. I was opening my mouth to ask when there was a sound in the alley outside.

  Obel looked up. “Strange – there are no appointments this afternoon.” We both stood, and that’s when we heard the crack on the door, loud enough to make us both jump.

  He put a finger to his lips.

  “Who is it?” Obel called calmly.

  “Whitworth! It’s your lucky day.” Our eyes met, Obel’s wide with surprise and – was that fear? We knew that voice.

  Jack Minnow.

  “Go, Leora,” Obel whispered. “The store cupboard – quick. Whatever happens, stay in there, OK? Whatever happens.”

  I closed the storeroom door behind me and sat on the floor, my knees to my chest.

  Jack Minnow. I remembered inking an owl on his shoulder. I remembered his marks screaming at me. I remembered the fear like it was all I would ever feel. I could drown in this feeling; suffocate under its crushing, pouring weight.

  The sound of my breath was like thunder in my ears. I calmed myself.

  I heard Obel undoing the locks, and the creak of the door, and then Minnow’s booted feet crossing the floor.

  “Jack Minnow.” Obel’s tone was clipped. “Did we have an appointment?”

  “No, we did not, Whitworth.” Minnow’s voice was bland, friendly. “But I came to see your apprentice, Leora. I know she had a meeting with the mayor this
morning and I wanted a little follow-up chat. I have no need for a mark at the moment. The work Leora did on me is excellent, of course. But then, she had a great teacher.”

  “You’re too generous,” Obel said quietly. “I’m afraid I don’t know when Leora will be back.”

  “You’re quite the expert at birds, aren’t you, Mr Whitworth?”

  There was silence.

  I felt his footsteps more than heard them. I held my breath. He was next to the door, on the other side. I could feel him.

  The door resonated with sound, then. Not a knock or a rap, but the jagged flick of a knuckle and the slow scrape of a fingernail across the width of the wooden door. A scratch, a slice, an eerie warning.

  He couldn’t know I was here, could he? But I got the clear sense that he did. He wanted me to know he knew; he wanted me to hear and to listen.

  “You inked a young, impressionable girl with an incendiary mark. What would be the punishment for that, do you think?”

  “It wasn’t an official mark,” Obel interrupted. “That would be on the scalp. There are no rules about choosing a crow for anywhere else on the body.”

  “Ah, the letter of the law. I didn’t have you down as such a pedant, Obel. Of course, it was her choice to make, I suppose.”

  A pause.

  “She did choose it, didn’t she?” Minnow continued. “She wasn’t … persuaded? She looks up to you, Whitworth. Maybe even idolizes you. She would take your lead on something like this…”

  I wanted to burst through the door and tell him it was my decision, my body’s choice, but I didn’t. I did as Obel told me, and crouched shivering on the floor. All my senses heightened, like a small creature hiding from a predator.

  “You can blame me if you like,” Obel said softly. “I’m training her. I do have influence, you’re right. But it was her idea – entirely her free will.”

  I heard ceramic crashing on the floor and the splash of liquid – one of our mugs.

  “Leave it.” Minnow spoke with a creeping snarl that chilled me.

  “It’s a funny thing, Obel. I look at your ink and it tells me how noble you are, how good. Ink never lies. But I know that, with you, it does. I know there is truth under your skin, and I am going to find out what it is.”

  “Read me then, Minnow.” Obel’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Search me, examine my heart. See if there is anything impure in me.” He gave a bitter laugh. “I have nothing to hide.”

  There was a crunch as Minnow stepped on the pieces of mug, shards grinding against the slate, stone on stone.

  “Another time, perhaps.” He paused. “Well, I should be going, Whitworth. It doesn’t look like Leora is coming back today.” I was sure his voice was louder now, aimed at the cupboard and me. “Perhaps you could pass along a message, though?”

  “Of course.”

  “Persuasive as our mayor is, I wonder if he is sometimes a little naïve.” I leaned closer to the door, surprised that he would speak this way about Longsight. “The Mayor believes in his own power – he thinks that obedience to his rule is something that comes automatically. But I know that rebels require something … more to compel them to submit to his command. Tell Leora that she must show allegiance, and we cannot wait any longer. I – we expect fealty.” His tone was steely. “Tell her – and tell her clearly – that if you are not for us, you are against us. She will go to Featherstone, and she will do what she is told, or her friends here will suffer. Her contact will be in touch once she is there.” He paused. “Finished your drink?” Minnow asked softly, and I heard the smooth sound of a mug being picked up, Obel’s mug. And then.

  A dull thud. A snap. And a cry of pain – no, agony – from Obel.

  And then quiet, broken only by a low groan. “Pass on the message, Whitworth. For your own good.”

  Footsteps crossed the room. The door opened easily and slammed shut.

  A minute’s hush, and then Obel called out.

  “He’s gone.”

  I emerged from the store cupboard, dizzy and shaking. It was worse than my imagination had created. Obel was clutching his right hand in his left. A deep purple bruise had already formed around a bleeding laceration; his fingers were limp and seemed to fall at strange and awkward angles.

  “He broke it,” Obel said, his voice bewildered and, for the first time, afraid. “My hand. It’s broken.” I reached out to touch it. He tried to move his fingers, and I felt the shards grinding against each other. Bone on bone.

  An inker is nothing without his hand.

  Sweat, or tears, dripped from Obel’s face as he looked dead at me.

  “It’s time, Leora.”

  Chapter Three

  My feet are cold and wet, my socks sodden. I have walked for two days, and this is the third. All I have is my bag, my steps, the wood and the mist.

  I left home at dusk: Mum was charged with telling Longsight I’d accepted his offer and Obel gave me a letter of introduction, plus verbal instructions for how to find my way – “up to a point”, he said. He tucked the key to the studio into my hand and enveloped me in an unexpected hug. “You will know the right thing to do when the moment comes,” he told me. “I promise.” He held me briefly at arm’s length. “Good luck in Featherstone, Leora. They are a good people, but better at looking inward than out at the world.” He gave a sad sigh. “Maybe that’s why they need you.”

  I don’t want to remember Mum’s tears. Her frightened, white face. She wanted me to go though; she even packed my bag. “Just do what you have to do to stay safe,” she whispered into my hair.

  The forest has been dark since I arrived, a brighter gloom when the sun rises, though still all shade and shadow. But now the mist is turning to murk and I know that night is coming again: and with it deep, cold darkness. This realization chills my heart and I scramble on. I can’t be here a third night, I think, panic rising in my chest. Last night was dreadful, worse than the first; I was exhausted, yet spent it sitting upright, hugging my knees and jumping at every sound. I am so starved of sleep that I feel like I could be dreaming right now.

  Stopping in a small clearing, I look around for anything that might tell me the way. I’ve crossed the river – the symbol of entering blank territory. No marked should come here; if they did, the truce would be broken. I can only hope Obel’s letter of introduction is enough to keep me safe. There is an odd comfort in being lost; if I stop here I can avoid it all – what’s behind me and what’s ahead.

  I listen and listen. The leaves, the ground, the mud, the wind. The beating of my heart and the rough sound of my breath in the air.

  And there is another sound. A bird. My forehead furrows and I shake my head to dislodge the cry, but the noise continues: it’s nearby, and I lower my body into a crouch, scanning the forest around me.

  There it is again, and this time I am sure it is real. I hear a fluttering in a tangled bush of branches and thorns, and step quietly towards the sound. I tread carefully on the edge of the path, where large, moss-covered stones keep wanderers away from a drop and a slippery-looking verge.

  The bird squawks: a panicked sound and I see the bead of an eye as the animal twists frantically in the undergrowth. It’s stuck and scared.

  “I know how you feel, little bird,” I whisper. It got into the undergrowth but it can’t get out. In the dulling light, I try to see the best way to release it from its woody cage. I reach out, and the bird must hear or sense me, because it flaps wildly. I whisper, “It’s OK. I’m going to set you free.”

  And as I grasp the briars in my hands, wincing against the thorns that scrape my fingers and arms, the bird stills. I worry that I’ve scared it to death, but when I tear the branches apart and clear a way to offer it a route to freedom, the magpie – for now I see that’s what it is – peers up, eyes me knowingly and bursts out with a thrum of wings that shocks and frightens me. I step back, stumble; there isn’t time to reach for a branch or to ease my fall, and I land on my back, wind forced out of me.
The magpie flaps heavily above, trying to gain as much height and distance as possible.

  I lie there, too tired to move. Down from the leaves of the tree above me, something falls: a white-and-black feather drifts slowly down on to my chest, and I catch it and call up, like a fool, “Wait! Don’t leave this behind.” The magpie lands on a branch above me and inclines its head.

  I laugh. I am too tired and miserable to do anything else. “I’m lost. Shall I just follow you?” I ask.

  The bird flies off again, but not far; I hear it clack and scraw from a tree a little way off. I climb to my feet, wearily, and walk after it. Each time I get close, the bird inclines its head, shakes its feathers and flies on to the next tree. I don’t know how long I walk, how far, but I know that if it wasn’t for the white plumage of the magpie, I would have lost it in the darkness ages ago.

  Sometimes I see more big stones, incongruous in their size, as though some giant dropped them here many years ago. Some crumble into the path, some are stacked, creating a low hurdle that I must clamber over from time to time. Keeping up with the bird becomes more of a trial, but each time I catch a glimmer of white in the trees ahead I stumble on, sure that the magpie is calling to me as much as I call to it. I hold the feather in my hand and imagine handing it back to the magpie, who will rustle it under its wing and bow with thanks. I think I hear water, I think the mist gets thicker, and the smell of smoke haunts me like guilt. I walk on, following my black-and-white guide. Longing for the comfort of a nest and a feather bed.