by Marian Gray
“That’s true, but I doubt Zeineb would have selected a whitehand suitor.” Chancellor Day defended my mother.
Rosemary’s eyes were the size of moons. “She was a flup my dear Luella. Being an ink-traitor is not outside the realm of possibilities.” Rosemary wiggled her hand at a man who stood nearby. “Nicholas, come over here and inspect her and tell me what you think.”
The man turned around with an eyebrow cocked. He was tall with a pair of square shoulders and looked to be around the same age as my mother. “Inspect who?”
“The Ebenmore girl. We don’t know who her father is, and I was just telling Luella that red hair runs primarily in whitehand families. I think her father is a whitehand. What do you think Nicholas?”
He took a few careful steps forward, almost as though he were afraid to approach. His eyes were locked on me. “I think you’ve lost your mind Rosemary,” he said. “I have red hair. Are you going to start spreading rumors that me and my family are secretly whitehands?”
“Don’t be silly Nicholas. You have red hair because of your Scottish lineage.”
The man held out his hand to me. “It’s nice to meet you Lady Ebenmore. My name is Nicholas Adder. I’m on the Board of Trustees with Lady Hawthorne’s husband.”
I took his hand despite the intense discomfort I felt. I hated how they talked about me as though I weren’t standing right in front of them. “A pleasure, Lord Adder.”
“Apologies, but I never caught your first name.” There was an unusual look in his eyes that I couldn’t place. It was like a mix of fascination and… Something else.
“Zuri.”
Lord Adder nodded. “It’s quite lovely and it fits wonderfully with the family tradition. You should be proud of that name.”
“Sorry to cut in, but I couldn’t help but overhear.” A man strode over from the side. He was dressed in an all-black suit with black hair oiled and combed back. “My name is Dr. Maxwell Raby. I’ve been looking forward to making your acquaintance, Lady Ebenmore.”
I nearly choked on my own spit. “Dr. Raby.” I tried not to sound too excited. “My uncle has spoken very highly of you. It’s such an honor to finally be able to put a face to the name.”
He wasn’t what I had expected. Tall and lanky, almost sickly looking even. I guess when I imagined what a researcher would look like, I saw somebody pale, pimply, and with glasses. He was more pensive and somber.
Dr. Raby held out his hand, and I took it. I felt a weird surge of energy tickle my palm. He winked at me as we pulled away.
“Oh, Anouk, dear. Is your father here?” Lady Rosemary Hawthorne asked. “I’ve been meaning to talk to him about the next fundraiser.”
“I think I spotted him over in the east end,” Chancellor Day answered her.
And with that, the entire flock flew away, taking Anouk with them. Once they were out of sight, I turned my hand over in order to examine what Raby had done. There, in plain black letters, read:
First session — Thursday at 6pm
I couldn’t believe it. The stars had aligned and fortune had landed in my lap. For once, something was going right in my life.
When I looked up again, I spotted a familiar face in the crowd. His hair had been pulled back in his signature bun, and he donned a simple black suit sans tie. I couldn’t help the smile that crept across my face as I watched him. I shouldn’t have been that elated to see him but I couldn’t help it.
Idris warmed me with a fuzzy glow. Butterflies erupted in my stomach from the mere thought go talking to him. I longed for our meaningless banter and lobbed insults.
From the moment we parted, I had hoped that I would run into him again. But with the school being so vast and our lives so different, I never saw him. At times I even wondered if it had been purposely planned that way. After all, it would be in the school’s best interests for us not to run into each other.
But my little joy was quickly quashed when I spotted a girl hanging on his arm. She was lovely, glimmering in a gold gown with matching glitter dusted in her white blonde hair.
My entire body went cold. I had to move or I feared would freeze to the spot. I turned with an unusual abruptness and found the first tray of drinks I could, taking one bubbly drink for myself and another for the road.
When I turned back around to spy on my white hand adversary, he was gone. The group of individuals he had been talking to were all still there, but he was missing from the picture. I craned my neck, searching for him. He couldn’t have simply disappeared.
“Looking for me?” The words were whispered in my ear.
“You?” I startled, choking on the champagne. “Why would I be looking for you, Idris?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I thought that you might miss me by now.”
I took a few steps away. “Well, you’re wrong.”
“How is it that we go to the same school yet I haven’t seen you once since we arrived? Do you think they planned it that way? Do you think they purposely wrote our schedules the way that they did in order to ensure that we never ran into each other?”
“What an absurd thing to think.” I rolled my eyes. “You aren’t that important.”
“Oh, I beg to differ. I think they’re just trying to protect you.”
Across the room, I spotted Nicholas Adder, watching me. “As much as I would love to try and beat down your inflated ego, I think it best we split now.” I took a few steps away, putting some distance between us.
“Why?” His hand reached out for my arm to draw me back to him but stopped just as his fingers grazed my skin. It fell to his side with a dead weight.
“Because people are watching us, and I can’t be seen talking to you.”
He shrugged. “It’s all a part of the show. Sure, they’ll gossip behind closed doors. But in reality, they’re all loving this. They all probably think this is the first time we are meeting one another. Can you imagine how grand the spectacle must be? The blackhand beauty and the whitehand hero coming together before their very eyes. A clash of factions. It’s this moment that they’ll look back on in a few years and say they witnessed the beginning of the war. They were there when blackhands and whitehands quit hiding the inevitable split.”
“You think they’re really holding their breath awaiting the violence?”
“You have to admit, it would make quite a wonderful story to run and tell your friends all about.”
He made it sound as though it were all theatrics, but after my conversation with Anouk, we were dealing with something much more insidious. My side was mobilizing. “And what if instead of fighting, you kissed me? What do you think they would do then?”
The question stopped him in his tracks. For a split second, his charismatic persona shattered. “Is that what you want? You want me to kiss you?”
More than he could ever know. “Well, the best stories subvert the viewer’s expectations.”
He regarded me for a few seconds in silence before he whispered, “I saw you soon as he walked in the room.” His low voice forced me to close the distance between us. “In fact, I would wager most men did. White is a beautiful color on you.”
I hadn’t considered the implications of the color of my dress. In my eyes, it was just a color. But to them, black and white were statement pieces. “I’m flattered that you think so. But I bet your girlfriend didn’t appreciate you staring.”
He cocked his head, confused. “My girlfriend?” And then it hit him. “Ah, Lady Mercedes Montcroix. She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Date then?” I shouldn’t of been digging, but a pang of desperation demanded to know what his relationship with her was.
“No, not my date either. She’s highborn. We would have to be courting before I could take her out.” A little smirk appeared on his lips. “She has been spending an awful lot of time around me since we came back from break though. I haven’t been able to figure out if she wants a relationship or simply to climb in my bed for a night or two.”
/> The idea of him sleeping with a woman curdled my stomach. No, he didn’t belong to me—we were nothing, only mere archenemies—I had no claim over him, but I couldn’t ignore the sour feeling. “Are you interested in her?”
“If you tell me why you want to know, I’ll give you an honest answer.”
I couldn’t tell him why, because I myself didn’t know. It was just this annoying, screaming curiosity in me that had to find out. “How about you give me a dishonest answer, and I’ll deduce from there?”
“Idris Young,” a man dressed in a pearly tux with hands so full of ink they appeared white. “I was hoping to run into you tonight.”
“Lord Quinn, what an honor,” Idris smiled at the man. “How are you doing this evening?”
Lord Quinn was a rotund man with a ruddy complexion and a pair of bright pink lips hid beneath a bushy white mustache. He regarded me with a weepy eye. “I’m doing well.”
Idris must have noticed Lord Quinn’s interest. “This is Lady Zuri Ebenmore.”
“Harlot of the Black,” Lord Quinn cut in. “I am well-acquainted with who she is.” A growing fire burned beneath his breath. “She isn’t someone you should be seen in public with, my dear boy. It’s filthy and inappropriate. I understand it thought and don’t hold it against you. Every man wants a quick lie down with the dogs when he’s young and fertile, but you need to keep your eyes on the future. Find yourself a nice whitehand woman, preferably a highborn in order to cement your power and posterity—like my grand niece.” He nodded toward Mercedes Montcroix.
My jaw slammed into the ground. I couldn’t believe a single word this Lord had just spewed out of his filthy mouth.
“I assure you, Lord Quinn, Lady Ebenmore is none of those things,” Idris told him.
“Nonsense.” He took Idris by the shoulder and steered him way by the shoulder.
I was left standing there feeling more alone than I had ever before despite being in a sea of people.
Chapter Fifteen
The old dutch townhome stood in front of the main canal with a tall, wide willow on its corner. The sweeping green branches dipped in to the deep blue waters, allowing the small fish to nibble and tug at its branches. The evening was settling upon the lake and at exactly six, the bridge and building lights bloomed to life.
These last four days had been my most difficult at Blacksaw. On Monday we performed our first pull in History. It utilized the first and second essence—two essences that we had already practiced extensively in Biology and Chemistry—yet I still struggled. The pull was supposed to be easier for blackhands given the organic material was simple in structure when compared to the inorganic material whitehands used that was slightly more complex.
Fortunately, I seemed to be on-level with Ancient Philology, Chirology, and Metaphysics & Ousiology given those three classes were based around the mechanisms of pushing and pulling essences. But on-level for a highborn was lower than average.
Chemistry was perhaps my favorite class thanks to Professor Godkin. Given that blackhands couldn’t pull inorganic material, we mainly studied alongside our whitehand peers and got firsthand view of what was and wasn’t difficult for them. As Godkin had said at the beginning of the year, this was a look behind enemy lines.
Lastly, there was Biology. It should have been my favorite class, the one I soared through, but it was quickly becoming my downfall. I had been able to skate through since I was always the last one Professor Robben observed, but my house of cards would crumble next week. We had an evaluation scheduled for week five where we would stand alone before Professor Robben and push and pull the first five essences. I was less than enthused.
I wasn’t certain how long it would take any of Dr. Raby’s proposed treatments to work but I needed a quick fix to get through next week’s assessment.
My fist rapped on the door once, and it was promptly answered by Dr. Raby himself. “Zuri, please come in.” He stood aside and allowed me to pass.
“I’m sorry I’m a bit late.”
His home was somewhat of a nineteenth century time capsule. Thick, burdensome wood beams framed the room, standing upon scuffed and scratched wood floors. The ruby velvet upholstery had been worn away in places upon the couch, and the arms were practically bald. On one wall was a blackened hearth that stared at a coffee table covered in books and media.
“It’s no problem,” He replied, sinking a hand in his over-sized cardigan pocket. “I was reasonably confident that you would show up. Fifth week assessments are quickly approaching, and the letter that Lord Ebenmore wrote to me made it seem as though your case is quite grave.”
“He’s not wrong. I’m already having more trouble than my peers, and it’s becoming near impossible to hide.” The only other student I knew who was struggling like me was Spacey.
He nodded his head like a proper medical physician would, listening and analyzing. “Why don’t we proceed to my study. I’ll be able to better treat you there.” Dr. Raby lead me to a set of stairs that were quickly joined by a cast iron spiral staircase. “How would you describe the sensation in your hands when you pull essences?”
“Well, it depends on the essence and how many I’m pulling at one time. They don’t come that easily to me. I liken it to having a less than optimal magnet in my hand while everyone has a normal, functioning one. The attraction just isn’t there.”
It was a load off my shoulders to be able to speak open and frank with someone about my situation. I had had to tuck it away and pretend it didn’t exist everyday for nearly a month, and it was becoming cumbersome. Especially when I all desperately wanted was help, but mentioning my condition to the wrong person could land me out on the streets and in the hands of the Sightless Sons.
“That all sounds quite normal for a snuffed hand,” he responded, completely unperturbed by the word. “How are you handling this all mentally? Sometimes our nerves have a way of making it more difficult for us even when our hands are perfectly functioning.”
“Is it that obvious that this is slowly but surely unraveling me?” I joked as we passed through a small door that led to wide open room. One large, square window stood at the front, staring out over the canal while several smaller windows on the northern side looked over the lake.
“I assure you, I didn’t notice anything was amiss at the mixer. I did observe you for some time after our introduction, and you hid it all rather well. If I hadn’t been informed by your uncle’s correspondence, I would have never known.” Instead of leading me to his desk, we sat face-to-face at a small medical table. The surface was a shiny metal, sparkling clean. Two thick legs held it sturdy despite the pair of wheels attached to their feet. “Yours hands, please.”
I laid them flat on the cool surface as he back and snatched his clipboard off of a nearby shelf. “Have you helped many snuffed hands before?”
“No,” he answered as he turned an eye to my hands. “For the last seven years I was contracted by the party to conduct research on flups. Through those studies I developed a keen interest in snuffed hands when I noticed the correlation between snuffed offspring and flup parents.” He stretched a pair of latex gloves across his hands before returning to me. His fingers were cold as they ever so gently and delicately lifted my hands and tilted it this way and that. “You have an unmistakable sheen to your hands, so you’re definitely not a flup.” He checked a box on his clipboard form. “Looks like a a mix of blue, gold, and… copper? Do you agree?”
“Yes.” I watched as he scribbled down the three colors.
“Definitely not an Ebenmore sheen.”
“Do you…” I swallowed hard. “Do you know who it could belong to?”
He paused. His deep brown eyes meeting mine. “Unfortunately, I do not. Most familial transitions are recognizable due to their uniqueness—you’re maternal line being one of those. But I understand your curiosity. This is a remnant, a clue to your father’s identity.”
“A woman, Lady Rosemary Hawthorne, remarked at the mixer t
hat the majority of red heads are whitehands. Do you think this transition could belong to a whitehand?”
He shook his head. “No. The colors are too saturated and vibrant. Whitehand ink tends to exhibit a more muted or pastel color. If your father was a whitehand, you wouldn’t see this amount of pigment in the transition.”
“Are you sure?” I had to ask. If I was going to rule out the possibility, I needed him to be certain.
“Absolutely,” he said with confidence. “You’re father’s a blackhand.” Using a cold silver instrument, he guided my hands over so that they rested palm up. “Now, I have a promising theory that your condition is reversible due to magic flow in and out of the hands being controlled by a theoretical valve. When opened wider, this valve allows for the hand to pull and push larger and more numerous essences, which in turn is exhibited through greater power. I also believe that it is within this theoretical valve that the highborn familial ability is stored.”
“So, how do we fix my hands and open the valve?”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure, but considering it will probably involve an invasive surgery, I’d rather conduct some tests and run my results by a few trusted colleagues. In the mean time, I can provide you with a short-term solution.”
“Surgery?” The idea mortified me. If anything went wrong, he could render me a flup.
“Ultimately, yes, you will require surgery if you want a permanent solution.”
“And the short-term solution?”
“Oil injections,” he answered. “But we’ll go in through the palm, here and here, in order to avoid any apparent needle marks or bruising that may occur upon the ink—the hallmark signs of illegal oil use.”
I nodded my head. That sounded like a much more reasonable first step. “How long before the oils take effect?”
“You’ll notice some change within twelve hours,” he said as he opened and closed drawers, pulling out four needles, cotton balls, and a few glass jars of translucent substances. “But the full effects won’t happen for a few more days, and after that the body will begin breaking down the oils. You’ll need to return in a month or so for a second round of injections. Other than the assessment, is there anything that worries you as far as your powers go?”