The Hand Collector

by Marian Gray

  Edward’s eyes flashed with interest. “You’re Zeineb’s daughter,” he whispered as though he were speaking to himself. But he quickly recovered from the shell shock, regaining his professional composure. “And who is her father?”

  Uncle Hank shrugged his shoulders. “There are only four people in this world that know. Zeineb, who refuses to speak on the matter. The father, who has yet to come forth. And the doctor and nurse who first cared for Zeineb early in her pregnancy, both of whom are dead.”

  “In other words, her father could be a commoner for all we know,” Aunt Margot said.

  “Ah. In that case, best of luck, my dear.”

  “Thank you,” I mumbled. “You’d think if my father was a commoner, he’d be sprinting his way over to claim me.”

  The three of them paused for a moment, ceasing their perusal of trinkets and oddities.

  “You know, that’s a very good point,” Uncle Hank said, glancing to Margot.

  “A very good point, indeed.” Aunt Margot bit her lip as her mind chewed on the idea.

  “So, it may not be too far of a stretch to believe that she has some sort of ability then,” Edward commented. “Her father being highborn does explain his absence.”

  “Still.” I shook my head. “Why wouldn’t he want to at least see me or get to know me?” Heaven knows I had spent more nights than I cared to admit imagining what he looked like and how our first encounter would carry on. I daydreamed about our budding relationship. I told myself that was highly unlikely to be the case, but I couldn’t kill the hope in me.

  “Because marrying and having children with a flup is a stain on his character. If he’s highborn, he already has money and a name, what can the Ebenmores offer him that his family can’t?” Aunt Margot asked.

  “A daughter,” I answered.

  Aunt Margot deflated. “Oh, Zuri, dear. I am so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that at all.”

  “It’s ok.” I lied.

  Edward cleared his throat in an attempt to sweep the dark mood under the rug. “Shall we continue down the list?”

  Uncle Hank placed a tag upon the leaded crystalline distillation set, marking his intention to buy. “Yes, let’s continue.”

  Next were a pair of hand creams: Capsaicin Balm No. 9 and Oil of Neem. Aunt Margot also selected several salves and moisturizers for herself. As Uncle Hank perused the trinkets and charms displayed, Aunt Margot and I moved onto clothing. One formal outfit was required as well as daily classroom attire. There were no color restrictions, but Aunt Margot and Edward insisted that wearing anything other than black would be considered inappropriate and tasteless. I was highborn. I was expected to wear my colors.

  Soon after, small sandwiches, tea, and biscuits arrived. Being the only one that hadn’t worked up an appetite, the pair turned me loose in the massive block of conjoined rooms with a small piece of paper in hand. While they ate I agreed to hunt down my books. Edward did all he could to follow on my heels and assist me, but I refused. I wanted to get lost in the mystique.

  And so I set out with my book list, passing through domed room after domed room that had been filled with tables and shelves. The amount of items one could purchase was unfathomable.

  Eventually the procession of rooms ended, and I stopped by a burgundy red curtain. Curious, I split the heavy fabric open and peered passed its velvety blockade. A hallway stretched perpendicular before me with an entrance to another room directly across from me. Despite its relatively dim lighting, I spotted piles upon piles of books and tables stacked high with all different shapes and sizes of bound paper.

  Without another thought, I entered the room. Instead of a dome overhead, the ceiling cut high in a diagonal, leading the eyes to a far wall comprised of tilted windows. I peeked down into a well lit cave of sorts, watching as hundreds of small bodies flitted from shop to shop. I felt as though I were invading their privacy by peering at them from above without their knowledge. At the same time, I couldn’t peel my eyes away. This had to be the Mandarin Market, and all the hands below were commoners.

  When the novelty of it all wore away, I turned and sauntered to the first stack of books, glancing at the list in my hand.

  My fingers slid along the edge of the mahogany table that had been polished into a seamless gleam while my eyes hopped from cover to cover. There was a wild assortment ranging from fiction about a whitehand knight; a self-help for those living in a mixed neighborhood; a history on relations between hands and undermen; and a deeper study into the lunar year. There was one title that gave me pause: The Degradation and Reformation of Magic by Dr. Maxwell Raby.

  My chest tightened. That was the man Uncle Hank had reached out to.

  I lifted the emerald hardcover from the neat stack and thumbed though the pages. The book groaned as though it were being awakened from a very deep sleep. The spine stretched wide, releasing the aroma of fresh glue and young binding. My eyes ran down the page to meet a familiar illustration. It was a simple glass jar filled to the brim with a pale flaxen substance. A drop spilled down the glass’s edge, giving the image an artistic styling. The words Mugwort of the Fourth Essence was printed center below the picture along with the year 1956. The page to its right harbored the bolding heading Treatment for the Magically Inclined.

  The adulteration of magic has long been studied by blackhands and whitehands alike throughout the ages, but only recently has medicine recognized its existence as a treatable condition rather than a permanent state of being. While the cause of this disorder is still largely debated amongst the leading brains of the industry, all research and experts seem to agree the case almost exclusively appears in children with magical abilities born to flups. The majority of these cases find that precursor symptoms appear in late adolescence and if left untreated, lead to regression and/or stifling of abilities.

  “Interesting topic, no?” A warm, enticing masculine voice asked.

  My breath caught. My eyes rose from the pages and met with a man that seemed more fiction than reality. He stood tall with cool green eyes, olive skin, and pale blonde hair that had been neatly tied back into a bun.

  “Sorry,” he began, “that may have come off a bit politically inclined given flups and snuffed hands are mentioned by the party every other week.”

  I urged my tongue to move but instead I stared with blank eyes, caught in between shock and terror. His hands weren’t like mine, even in the dim light I could see that. There were intricate designs engraved along the skin, but where black ink should have been, white rested. I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to interact with him, and the attraction clouded my mind. He was gorgeous. The sound of his voice, the allure in his gaze, his robust physique—his presence overwhelmed me.

  He continued despite my lack of reply, “I was skeptical when I saw Maxwell Raby’s name on it, but I gave it a try anyway. If you’re interested, I definitely recommend it. Raby has a way of not only educating but shifting your viewpoint from one of disgust to some form of empathy.”

  “Maxwell Raby?” My tongue was in knots. It was all I could get out.

  “Yes, the author.”

  “Yes.” I nodded as embarrassment heated me from head to toe. Raby’s name was printed on the front cover, larger than the title. “How obtuse of me.” My entire being buzzed with nerves. “Do flups and their offspring interest you?” I cringed as soon as the question had left my mouth.

  He rubbed his lips. White ink shimmered across his knuckles. “Yes, I guess they do. It may be controversial for me to admit, but I don’t think they would be thrown out and demonized by society. If Raby’s theory is correct, those with snuffed powers can be rehabilitated. What do you think of it all?”

  “Never thought about them until today.” I lied.

  A small smile slid across his lips as his eyes held on my face. There was a moment’s pause as I felt him study every line and angle, soaking in my image. “What’s your name?”

  I placed the book back on the table. “Zuri. And yours?�
��

  “Hmm… Zuri.” He thought aloud. His voice slid into a warm, smoldering octave. “I can’t think of any highborn blackhand family with a Zuri. It’s such a unique but purposeful name.” I didn’t interrupt him but allowed him to continue his line of thinking. “Not to mention, the noblesse rarely drift from family naming conventions. Who does Zs or I endings?” His eyes shined and grin widened. “I know of a Zara and a Zeineb and now, a Zuri. Ebenmore. You’re an Ebenmore. By the black and the white… how the hell?…”

  I swallowed hard. My legs went numb. I needed to sway the topic away from me. “You still haven’t told me your name. And by the way you speak, you’re a commoner.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “Idris Young.” His tone held an air of surprise.

  Idris Young? Where did I know that name? I couldn’t place it, but by the he reacted, it was apparent I should know exactly who he was. “Sorry.”

  “It’s kind of nice that you have no idea who I am. It makes this first encounter less intense.”

  “First encounter? Do you anticipate more in the future?”

  “Oh, yes, Lady Ebenmore,” he said as he took several steps, maneuvering around the table and closer to me. “I don’t think we’ll have a chance to escape each other much in the coming school year.” He didn’t stop until he stood just a foot away from me.

  The urge to reach out and touch him in some small way rushed over me. I wanted to brush my hand against his, indulge in the sensation, and collect the memory for me to replay while I daydreamed my life away. Heat built to a warm blush in my cheeks as our eyes met. Could he see my thoughts swimming across my face? He was near enough for me to see the lines of blue skate through the plains of jade in his irises. “Well, if we’re going to end up becoming rather familiar with each other, I would prefer that you call me by my name, Zuri.”

  He wet his lips. “You have a bit of an accent. You’re not from Rotterpool, are you?”

  I didn’t have an accent. I spoke just like my mother did, and she was from Rotterpool. “Well, you read Dr. Raby’s book about flups and their children, you tell me.” It pained me to admit that I was raised amongst the undermen. It made me feel like a foreigner in my own country.

  “I have always wanted to see the land of the undermen. You should invite me over to your home sometime. I can be quite charming when I need to and might be able to win over your mother, doubt the same can be said for the patriarch, Lord Henry Ebenmore.” He said it all without a single air of mockery or jest. Each sentence came across as genuine, and I hated it. I still hadn’t figured out who this man was and couldn’t gauge when he was or wasn’t toying with me.

  “Unfortunately, I no longer reside amongst the undermen.” I faked a frown. “And where are you from, Idris?”

  “If I tell you, you promise to come visit soon? Sometimes I enjoy spiking my father’s blood pressure.”

  “Hmm…” I tapped my index finger along my lips, pretending as though I were seriously contemplating the matter. “You know, you may be onto something. I can’t think of anything that would have quite the same effect as me strutting through your front door.”

  “Really? I think finding you in my bedroom would be far more devastating.” I choked on my own spit, coughing as a small smile climbed onto his perfect pout. “Is that a little too fast for you? Because if so…” He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t think society is going to stand aside and allow me to properly court you. If we do this, it’ll have to be kept secret with us stealing small moments of burning passion that consumes our every thought when our bodies aren’t pressed together.”

  I felt as though I had been plucked out of Rotterpool and dropped in the hottest, steamiest part of the Amazon Rainforest. I struggled to breathe against the humidity that seemed to encapsulate only me. “Well, that would ruin the whole purpose of us getting together in the first place, no? I thought I was only wanted to send your father into cardiac arrest. How will we manage that if I’m kept a secret?”

  He nodded. “I think you’re right, and that’s rather unfortunate.”

  “It depends on how you look at it.” I shrugged. “You still haven’t told me where you’re from.”

  He held up his hand, giving me a full, unobstructed view of the white feathers that cascaded along the back of his hand, forming what appeared to be a wing. “Easternboar, of course—the whitehand stronghold.”

  I was about to open my mouth and mutter some witty remark, when the puzzle pieces fit together in my head. Idris Young of Easternboar—the whitehand hero who put an end to the blackhand slaughter. Seventeen was a high body count, but Aunt Margot had remarked several times that we were lucky it wasn’t higher.

  “Zuri, what are you doing over here?” I heard Aunt Margot’s voice call out to me. “You’re out of our private suite and in someone else’s—oh, who is that you’re speaking to?”

  I turned to her, she was only a few steps away with Uncle Hank and Edward not too far behind. “This is—“

  “Idris Young.” Her eyes flew open and jaw swung unhinged to meet her neck.

  “Yes.” The word slithered out of his mouth in a whisper as he took step away from me, placing more distance between our bodies.

  “Oh my.” She giggled. Her body almost floated off the ground. “I always thought the photographs in the papers were quite flattering, but to see you in the flesh is another experience altogether.” Her large brown eyes jogged from from me to him. “I know this is incredibly inappropriate, but it is such an honor and esteemed pleasure to meet you.” She held out her hand in an aristocratic fashion, dainty and fragile.

  He took it with a gentle grip and his lips pressed to her inked hands. “The pleasure is all mine. I have great admiration for those who respect their enemies.”

  Her eyes fluttered from his touch. “I’m Margaret Ebenmore, Zuri’s aunt.” A stupid grin split her lips before she regained herself. “And we will now be leaving you alone to enjoy your own private perusal here at the Exchange. But before we go, would you be willing to give me your autograph?”

  “Absolutely.” His demeanor remained relaxed and friendly but shook off every ounce of flirtatious allure.

  Her hands clasped together as her stare fixated on him. “Thank you.”

  “Do you have something for me to sign?”

  “Oh!” She sucked in a deep breath. A panic flew across her face. “I just have this.” It was a blank notebook that she obviously intended for me to use at Blacksaw. She handed it over with a pen.

  “Anything in particular that you want me to write?”

  Her gaze searched the grandiose rooms of the Burgundy Exchange, hoping to find some inspiration. “I have no idea. I never thought I’d meet you.” She made it sound as though he were some high caliber celebrity.

  “Mr. Young, you don’t have to—” Edward began as he and Uncle Hank reached us, but Idris held up his hand, cutting him off mid-sentence.

  He soon returned it to the page and scribbled something across the pristine white paper. His arm extended, returning the notebook back to Aunt Margot, but his eyes didn’t part from mine. “I thoroughly enjoyed meeting you both.” He nodded toward my uncle. “Lord Ebenmore.”

  “Mr. Young,” Uncle Hank practically growled.

  “Edward.” Idris turned his attention away from his. “I think I’ve finished. If you would be please let Anthony know, I’d like to head over to the Kruinhof now.”

  “Of course, Mr. Young.” Edward dipped his head in a bow. “And if you three would please follow me, I will escort you back to your private quarters.”

  Once we had returned to our designated rooms, Aunt Margot burst from the excitement of the moment. “He’s such a nice man, no? So pleasant and with manners, too. That’s not something you get to experience now with the way relations are between blackhands and whitehands.”

  “What did he write in the notebook?” My curiosity climbed out of my throat.

  She turned the page in her hand, not stopping until it was
right side up and held it a distance from her face, so her eyes could focus. “I told you where I lived. I expect you to uphold your promise, Idris Young. What do you think that means?”

  I wanted to melt into my shoes, liquifying until I were two puddles contained within the rubber soles. “No clue,” I lied.

  Uncle Hank reared on us once Edward had left to attend to Idris’s request. “What was all that about?”

  “Well, if you wouldn’t have dawdled while we were looking for her, you would know,” Aunt Margot said.

  “No.” There was a sharp edge in his tone. “Why were you speaking with Idris Young?” The question was directed to me.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “He approached me. Apparently, he’s read Maxwell Raby’s latest book and wanted to get my thoughts on it.”

  Uncle Hank shook his head. “Stay away from him, Zuri. It is incredibly improper for the two of you to be interacting, especially without a chaperone around.” His face grew an unflattering red hue. “If you want to be an Ebenmore, then you need to start acting like it. You’re a highborn woman.”

  My brow knitted together. “Stay away? What?” I thought it was rather odd he was scolding me for talking to him when Aunt Margot had practically internally combusted in his presence. “How is it improper for me to speak to him?”

  “He’s not the sort that you can mix with in public.”

  “Why? Because he’s a commoner?”

  “No, because a number of prominent whitehands have claimed him to be their champion. He’s the one that’s supposed to lead them to victory and put an end to the blackhands. He’ll be your competition within Blacksaw, the one you’ll need to prove yourself against if our community is to have any hope.”

  “Me?” I nearly choked on the word. “There aren’t any other blackhand highborns that can claim that honor?”

  “No, you’re an Ebenmore. It lands on your shoulders.”

  “Hank,” Aunt Margot said with a soft voice. “You’re being a little dramatic.”