Chapter 1
Grandfather has drilled fear of the Calligromancers into me from as young as I can remember. Don’t look at them. Don’t talk to them. Don’t associate with them. But my curiosity is stronger than his second-hand fear, so I venture into the streets of Rakestaad hoping to catch a glimpse.
The rows of crooked buildings stretch high overhead, their chimneys sending up plumes of smoke, blocking out the sun and whatever little warmth might be in it. On a day as numbing as this, I would normally stay in our loft and quietly dust and clean and cook and take care of other little chores that needed doing. I want everything to be perfect for when Grandfather returns, but I’m missing one ingredient from his favorite meal, providing me a convenient excuse to head out.
The streets are more crowded than usual, nosey neighbors out and about, trading gossip about the supernatural visitor. I veer intentionally close in order to catch their words, hoping for clues.
A few extra seconds won’t hurt. Grandfather won’t be home for hours, I tell myself as I shoulder through the biting cold. I still have plenty of time to pick up the lyhme and get it in the pot to simmer before Grandfather returns—from wherever it is he goes.
“He was only supposed to go as far as Vochek,” says Mr. Monterosso, the mustachioed tanner who lives in a loft across the street. He stands nearly smack in the middle of the road, bundled in a jet black puffy fur coat. His pointy face is mere inches from Mr. Cromley, a cigar merchant who’s smoked more than he’s sold. The two men huddle close to conserve heat, and ensure their words travel no further than they intend.
Cromley nods along. “Those damn things do whatever they please. Probably here to stick up his nose at us. I’m surprised his feet didn’t catch fire the moment he stepped foot on our streets.”
“Or perhaps bring us tighter into the realm,” Mr. Monterosso suggests, his chest puffing a little. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful? Rakestaad, more integrated into Sanctum. It can only be good.”
“It can only be trouble,” Cromley says, wrinkling his nose. “I prefer things the way they are. Do as we please without some pesky government sniffing around.”
It’s impossibly rare for the government to send a representative here, lest our sinful air fill their lungs. Careful not to linger too long, I continue along the gravel road, slipping between passing horses and carriages. I push my pace, not able to stand the cold much longer, and burst into the shop. The small bell above the door jingles.
“Afternoon, Duke,” says Rita from behind the counter. Her graying hair is stacked on her head like a poorly built bird’s nest. She scurries to greet me. “Can I get ya something?”
I cup my hands around my mouth, blowing to thaw them. “Just need some lyhme.”
The woman’s eyebrow perks. “That all?”
“Yes, please.”
She pushes her mouth to one side, studying me. I avert my gaze, feeling increasingly self-conscious in the hanging silence. Why can’t she just make the sale and let me carry on with my day?
Rita rolls her eyes, turning to a shelf and palming a small packet of green powder. She tosses it silently on the counter. “That’ll be two daal.”
I place the coin in her hand and take the packet, not much larger than the coin itself.
“You be careful,” she says as I head to the door. Her eyes are narrow and dark, as if sending me a warning. As if she knows exactly why I ventured out today.
I bolt from the store, nearly bumping into Mr. Monterosso, who is still slugging gossip back and forth with Cromley.
“You’re in a hurry,” Monterosso says, inspecting himself for damage.
“What you got there?” Cromley says, a hint of accusation in his tone. He gestures towards my hands stuffed in my pocket.
I pull out the packet, holding it up to show them. Surely, these busybodies won’t ask to see a receipt. Nobody would go through the hassle of stealing seasoning.
Mr. Monterosso frowns, accentuated by his crescent mustache. “Odd to come all the way down here for a tiny pack of lyhme.”
I grit my teeth, my muscles tensing with irritation. “It’s all I need,” I say, trying to speed along what should’ve been a brief excursion.
Cromley’s eyes light up, as if he’d suddenly had a thought. “Don’t suppose this has to do with a certain visitor roaming the Rake today?”
I shrug. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“A young man like you got no business lurking around those creatures.” Cromley’s stare is hard. “Poke your nose places it shouldn't be, there’s no telling what might bite you.”
I say nothing.
“The Lords only know what would become of a promising fella corrupted by a Calligromancer,” Mr. Monterosso says.
My skin prickles at the word.
Calligromancer.
Years of legends and horror stories and curiosity bubbles beneath my surface. The god-like elites who run our realm feel more like characters from a fairytale than real, living, breathing men and women. Yet one is here, right here in my town, close enough to see.
“I was raised better than to associate with them.” This part is true. Grandfather had done little more than indoctrinate me with a holy fear of the Calligromancers and the evil magic that they wield. Despite his best intentions, all the stories have done nothing but fascinate me, though I’d never dare admit that to him.
Cromley watches me closely for a painfully long moment before releasing a huff of air. “He’s gone now, anyway. Was just passing through, they say.”
My shoulders sag. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I missed it. Though objectively safer this way, a repressed part of me feels disappointed. In all my eighteen years of life, a Calligromancer had come to town exactly one time. And unless I managed to escape this town—which nobody does—only the Lords know how long it’ll be until a Calligromancer comes again.
The thought crosses my mind that if I can get back to our loft, I might glimpse the Calligromancer through the window before he disappears over the hill on his way out of town.
***
I race up the stairs to our loft. When I burst through our door, my heart freezes.
Grandfather.
He paces our loft apartment, his black coat still hanging off his shoulders. His bowler hat is speckled with snow, melting now that he’s come in from the biting cold. The curtains are all pulled shut. I wince, knowing I can’t look out the window without explaining myself.
“Thank the Lords.” He spins toward me, his whole body sagging with relief as he takes me in.
“Grandfather,” I say, almost tripping over the word as I struggle to hide my surprise. I was supposed to have a few more hours.
His eyes are wide, and he reaches out trembling hands to me. “Where were you? Were you outside?”
“I ran to the store.”
“The store?” He buries his face in his hands, muttering something I can’t quite hear. “Duke, do you know how dangerous that was?”
I cock an eyebrow. “I’ve been to the store many times.”
“This is serious. A Calligromancer was here. In Rakestaad.”
I glance at the pulled curtains, feeling the excitement drain from my veins. “Yes, but I heard he left. So I thought it was safe to—”
“Did anyone say why he came?” Grandfather asks.
“He was just passing through.”
The excuse is weak, but I don’t want to cause Grandfather any further worry. Nobody passes through Rakestaad—we’re the end of the world. The dark, forgotten corner where dirt gathers.
Grandfather shakes his head. “Everything they do is on purpose. You didn’t go see him, did you?”
“Of course not.” This may be true, despite part of me longing to see the Calligromancer. From a safe distance, of course. Something tingles inside when I think about a person wielding the power of a god, the ability to create or kill with the simple stroke of a pen. It must be both terrifying and brilliant to watch them, like standing too close to a firework.
He lets out his breath. “Good. You’ll bring a curse on us.” His gaze scans me brim to bottom, as if inspecting a vase for cracks. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asks. Really, all he’s saying is that I’m fragile.
The words cause me to straighten my back. I know he means them out of care, but my entire life I’ve been trying to prove to Grandfather that I’m not fragile. That I can handle it. That he doesn’t need to protect me anymore. Everything about him is a mystery—his past, our family, even his employment. But I’m not a kid. I could handle it if he gave me a chance.
“I was too busy to leave the apartment,” I assure him, hoping he’ll notice how clean the place is. It’s admittedly a weak offering, but one I hope will convince him of my maturity. I don’t particularly care why he tells me his secrets, as long as I get them. I tiptoe into the conversation, seeing if I can glean the smallest morsel of truth from him. “How was your trip?”
He finally appears to relax, wrinkling his nose at my question. “Work is work. Pays the bills.”
A standard non-answer. Exactly what I’ve grown accustomed to.
He moves closer to the hearth. A smile spreads across my face, waiting for him to realize I’ve shoveled out the old ash and scrubbed the brickwork to an immaculate clean.
He holds his hands to the fire, letting the heat sink into his skin. Rubbing his hands, he breathes into them twice. “Cold enough outside to freeze your asshole shut,” he mutters.
“Yes,” I say. “I figured you’d be cold, so I put the fire on for you.” I cringe at myself. It’s one thing to be praised for hard work, and something else entirely to beg for it. Instead, I slink back, feeling the lingering silence rub on me like a rock in my shoe.
I wish I didn’t let it bother me—but it does. A man should know about his own past. When Grandfather clams up, it’s not only his secrets that he’s withholding. There are things about my past, my parents, my history—none of which I know the first thing about. But anytime I broached the subject, I was always met with the same response: someday. Today will be different.
“Supper’s nearly ready.” I remember the lyhme and move to the cast-iron pot of vegetables and meat simmering over the flames. I dump in the packet and stir it with a ladle.
Grandfather pats his stomach twice. “I’m full as an egg,” he says. “I ate not too long ago. But you go ahead.”
My mouth hangs open, ladle weighing in my hand. But I cooked this for you, I want to say. I won’t dare say. I take a few slow breaths to rein in my mounting frustration.
“Are you sure? I can give you just a small serving.”
“Really, it’s fine,” he says. He groans as he lowers into his armchair. “I just want to rest. It’s been…tiring.”
Forget tiptoeing in. Grandfather won’t give me an inch, so I’ll just take it. I chew my lip and I summon my courage, willing myself to broach the forbidden subject.
“Work?” I ask.
He lets his eyes close and gives a slow nod.
A flight of butterflies rises in my stomach as I dare pry a little more. At first my breath hitches, and no words come out. I swallow hard and try again. “When will you tell me what you do for a living?”
He doesn’t even open his eyes. “It wouldn’t interest you.”
I pick at my fingers as I watch him rest. My mind spirals with all the things I’ve done, all the things I’ve tried, all the things I’ve said in hopes of him letting me in.
I fight to restrain my words, letting a few seconds pass, hoping the irritation boiling in my core simmers out before I say something I’ll regret. Summoning all my calm, I speak. “It interests me. That’s why I asked.”
He stretches his arms over his head, the old bones and ligaments popping. “It’s dull. You really wouldn’t understand it, anyway. It’s nothing that—”
“I’m not a child.” The words escape my mouth before I realize I’m saying them. “I’m sorry,” I say, even faster.
“Of course, you’re not a child, Duke. I know that.” His voice has all the warmth and sweetness of a fresh loaf of molasses bread.
But this time, his placation won’t go down easy. It sticks in my throat, souring with the rest of his empty words.
“Then why don’t you tell me anything? About your job, or anything else for that matter. Maybe it’s dull. Maybe it’s not. Maybe I’d just like to better understand the man who’s been raising me for the past eighteen years.” I can’t stop myself. Horrified, I listen to myself ramble, as if I’ve dropped an armload of pots over a flight of stairs and can do nothing but wait for the clanging to stop. “And you won’t even tell me why you’ve been raising me. What is it about me that’s so horrible that my own parents didn’t want me? Why am I so worthless that they dumped an infant on you, and you can’t even bring yourself to explain it to me?”
His mouth falls open. He stands from his chair.
I’m finally able to snap my words off. A torrent of blood rushes to my face, part anger and part embarrassment. Damn, damn, damn, I think. Whatever goodwill I built up has surely flamed out in that one moment of uncontrolled fury. I feel myself shrink inwards, wanting to vanish, wishing I hadn’t said anything. Maybe it’s not too late. The silence lingers for what must be a thousand years, so I clear my throat and try to right the ship. “What I mean to say, Grandfather, is that I’m an adult. And I think I’m able to handle more information than you give me credit for. Sir.”
Grandfather frowns. He still says nothing, but takes a couple of steps towards me. With his arms extended, he wraps me in a hug. My nose fills with the spicy softness of his scent. He pulls me tight. He’s stronger than he looks for his age.
“I know, Duke,” he says. His breath is against my ear. “You are capable of more than either of us realizes.” He pushes me out, gripping me by the shoulders at arm’s length. He stares at me a moment, his eyes glimmering. “Someday.”
The word stings my ears, burning through right into my brain. Someday. My fist tightens, quivering as I struggle to hold it all in. Someday. How many times had I heard that? I was five years old when I first realized that Grandfather didn’t tell me things. His secret work, his mysterious business trips, the fact that I didn’t have a mom or dad like most kids my age. It didn’t bother me at first, assuming that adults didn’t trust kids with secrets. But as I got older, it seemed like the secrets only became bigger. Whenever I asked, I got the same answer. Someday, someday, someday. It grated on me. Wore me down. I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t trust me with any of his secrets. I still don’t understand it. Eventually, I gave up waiting to age into his circle of trust, and tried earning my way in. So far, nothing has worked. I won’t wait for someday anymore.
My anger surges forward, like a dog slipping its leash, and takes control.
I roar with frustration, spinning around and grabbing the first thing I can find. It’s a small bronze music box and I hurl it across the room. The thing slams into the brickwork of the exterior wall and clangs with the sound of crunching metal and dying music. The pings and jingles of the musical pins coming apart echoes a chaotic noise into the loft.
Grandfather’s eyes go wide. He reaches out a weary hand, trembling in vain to pick up the broken box. I hear his ragged breath draw in sharply, and then slowly release. He looks at me.
I expect anger.
But he just looks sad. The ruddy bags under his eyes more pronounced, as if he’s trying to hold back tears. His pale blue eyes look through me, but no words leave his lips.
As quickly as the anger boiled over me, it evaporates away, leaving only the heavy muck of regret. I look into my grandfather’s sad face, and then to the mess of bronze littering the floor. Reason returns to me, and I’m horrified by what I’ve done. This wasn’t just a meaningless trinket—the music box was an antique that played a lullaby that had been my favorite as a child. Grandfather must have played the song a thousand times for me over the years, singing me to sleep when I was young, or calming me when I was scared. And now I’d destroyed it. My pulse drums in my neck and my legs go weak.
“I’ll fix it,” I say without knowing whether it can even be fixed.
Grandfather presses his lips together, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s fine, Duke. You were angry. Maybe rightly so.”
“I’ll fix it,” I say again, dropping to my knees to retrieve the box and scoop up the screws and gears that fell out. “I’m sorry.”
Grandfather lowers himself back into the chair, not looking at me, not talking to me. He closes his eyes. Somehow, acting like the incident doesn’t affect him makes it worse. When he doesn’t tell me what he’s thinking, my mind is generous in supplying an endless stream of the worst possible scenarios.
It feels like the walls are closing in around me, like suddenly the apartment has become very, very small.
“Excuse me,” I say, leaving him to rest in his chair. “I need to go for a walk.”