Chapter 3
Maeve returned her train ticket and used a portion of the money to purchase a sturdy new skirt and blouse from a secondhand store, then a smart writing case made of oiled cowhide that she filled with expired inks and used quills from Mr.Braithwaite’s waste bin. The morning of the examination, she dressed by candlelight. She folded the love letter into the anonymous letter and tucked them both down the pocket of her new skirt, then grabbed her suitcase and shut the door of her flat, sealing away yet another chapter of her life she would never return to.
The nearest testing location was an hour’s walk north up Gloam’s narrow, twisting streets. Her heart pumped inside her chest as university buildings loomed overhead—buildings hewn centuries ago, just after the Written Doors were created and the University of Gloam was founded, spanning all three known worlds.
The Barrow campus used to house only natural and applied sciences, whereas Leyland used to be the hub of all language arts.
When the Written Doors burned, the Leyland campus scrambled to add in all the missing disciplines so it could function independently as a full university, but Maeve could still feel the history of language arts everywhere she looked. It had shaped this city, from the grubby, handwritten store signs that read like novellas to the inksmithies that stood on every street corner. Even the buildings themselves were shades of black and white and parchment. They leaned haphazardly against one another as if built as an afterthought by someone who passed their days with their nose buried in a well-worn book.
Gloam in Inverly had felt entirely different. It was where all the other humanities were once taught, with neighborhoods that bled together like watercolors, awash with painting and poetry and music—all long gone now.
Maeve rubbed away a stray tear, frustrated by thinking of Inverly when she had a writing test to take. She picked up her pace. A thick fog rolled in by the time she reached Galbraith Hall. The southernmost testing location was an imposing cathedral-like building situated in the university’s College of Rhetoric. A dozen black carriages perched along the gravel drive, all marked with the Post’s pigeon, likely here to take all the apprentices who made the cut to their new home.
Maeve wove around the first few carriages then halted at a commotion.
Protesters gathered near the building’s entrance. Men and women in plain winter coats and homespun skirts and trousers carried banners emblazoned with bold slogans calling for more apprenticeship opportunities, for reformation in the writing programs. Three constabulary officers in stark gray jackets guarded the main door.
Maeve searched, but there was no other way inside. Her fingers touched the letters in her pocket, and she forced a deep breath through her nose.
Holding her writing kit tight to her waist, she made her way to the nearest officer, a large man with a patch of razor burn spilling from behind his decorated coat collar.
He turned to her, and she felt eleven years old again, at the Sacrifict Orphanage while Headmistress Castlemaine’s ruler cracked down on her left hand. Never tell anyone who you are again, you foolish girl! And stay far away from the constabulary.
“If you’re here to test, I’ll need to see your official paperwork,” the officer said. When Maeve failed to move her lips, his chin tilted. “Are you well, miss?”
She was far from it, but she pulled out Isla Craig’s identification along with the completion certificate she’d painstakingly forged from looking at Mr.Braithwaite’s. It appeared perfectly legitimate, and yet her heart thrummed behind her ribs while the officer glanced over everything.
Taking his time.
“I need to get through as well,” someone said. An older woman in a ragged tweed coat shoved Maeve aside, waving a leather ledger at the officer. “My paperwork, sir.”
The officer took the woman’s ledger, flipping through it. “Are these tenement agreements?”
“Yes,” she said, lifting her pale chin. “All by yours truly. Written as well as anyone from an official program. Let me have a chance to test,” the woman begged.
“You’ll have to step back,” said the officer.
“But my mother and sister are in Barrow. Please .”
The officer gave an exasperated sigh, then handed Maeve her paperwork. “You can go,” he said, and nudged her around him, then turned to face the woman. “You, on the other hand—”
Maeve rushed inside before she could hear the rest of his sentence.
As soon as the doors shut behind her, she fell against them and dabbed at perspiration with the back of her gloved hand, staring wide-eyed at a grand entrance hall. Young men in oilskin hats and finely tailored jackets chattered away with women in fitted blouses and bustled skirts. So many people, and nearly all of them carried suitcases and small personal effects.
Maeve did some quick calculations. There were several other testing locations. Most here would never make it to the Post. Those who didn’t were likely fated to become barristers or academics, or perhaps do nothing at all; their family fortunes meant they would never have to lift a finger for anything if they didn’t wish to.
That woman with her tenement agreements should have been given a chance.
A few groups on the fringes wore similar attire to the protesters out front, probably from a city-funded writing program.
A girl in a peach-colored bonnet stood by herself. She looked pleasant enough.
“Are we all supposed to wait out here before we take the writing test?” Maeve asked her.
“Oh, yes. I think they’ll call another group soon,” she said, pointing to double doors at the back with a banner above them that read: Examination Room . She fanned herself with a stack of papers with some official-looking seals that bore little resemblance to Maeve’s forged completion certificate.
“What are those papers?” Maeve asked.
“You mean my transcripts? We’re supposed to have them out and ready to present.”
“Transcripts?”
“To prove your upper school writing scores,” the woman said, her smile faltering at Maeve’s expression. “But don’t worry a bit. I’ve heard they take all sorts of scores into account. It’s the writing test that matters the most.”
As soon as the woman finished, Maeve muttered an excuse and darted to the nearest lavatory, locking herself inside. Bracing one hand on the sink, she peeled off her gloves and splashed water on her face.
Why hadn’t she thought of transcripts?
“You’re woefully out of your league,” she said to her reflection, feeling quite the uneducated fool.
She had sold her train ticket and walked all this way. This couldn’t be it. Surely there was another way inside one of those carriages waiting along the drive.
Determined to find it, Maeve left the lavatory and wandered past the entrance hall, into a bustling student lounge flanked by blazing hearths and scattered with leather chairs. Several people held black folios on their laps, stamped with that bead-eyed pigeon.
“Pardon me,” Maeve said to one young man who sat hunched over a folio. He squinted up at her with a sour expression. She gestured to the folio. “What is that for?”
“It’s what you’re given when you pass. To keep your transcripts together with your admittance letter and any paperwork you might have brought.”
He tucked the folio away, then took out a journal and a well of pale blue ink.
Maeve knew the shade. It was named Raven’s Tears, imported from a forested island off the southern coast called Gol. A bottle cost twenty-eight shills; Mr.Braithwaite swore to have her head if she broke one.
“That’s a fine color,” she said.
His thin eyebrows furrowed to a line. “Not really, but I ran out of lampblack, and it was the only bottle I could find. It’s difficult to see against parchment.”
Because you dried Raven’s Tears in sunlight to deepen the color to true sapphire.
He scribbled some words, then shook pounce powder over them, which would only lighten the ink. Heavens, he had no clue what he was doing.
Scriptomancy demands an expert knowledge of writing tools. You have to become an encyclopedia of ink and pigment , her father had told her more times than she could count.
Turning in a slow circle, Maeve surveyed all the people her age—young men and women with horribly expensive educations. But she probably knew more about ink than many of them and had certainly written as much.
A young woman walked by with a curtain of auburn hair bobbing against birdlike shoulders. She sidled into a chaise, fiddling nervously with the black folio in her lap. At first glance, it would be easy to mistake her for Maeve, given their similar coloring. The woman even had a mole near her upper lip. Maeve shut her eyes and imagined herself sitting in the woman’s place, with the black folio filled with transcripts on her lap.
She turned the dark thought over in her mind. If she were able to switch places with this woman, she would have everything she needed.
But no. Maeve knew how much this apprenticeship meant to all the applicants here—especially to those who had family trapped in Barrow, on the other side of the now-burnt Written Doors. She couldn’t take away someone’s chance to see long-lost family again. The thought was appalling. She didn’t even know how she would attempt such a thing.
As soon as she gave it a moment’s thought, however, ideas rushed forth on exactly how to accomplish it. A plan formed in her mind that would even give her a chance to speak with the woman, ask her some questions, before making any regrettable decisions.
Maeve chewed on her lip, considering.
If she left now, it would be weeks before she might have enough saved for another train ticket. Mr.Braithwaite would ask too many questions if she suddenly begged for her job back. She didn’t want to go back, anyhow. The thought felt like a sliver in her thumb.
Moving swiftly to an empty hall, Maeve popped open her old suitcase. Her cowhide writing kit sat snugly beside a change of clothes.
She took off her coat and pushed it inside, then pulled out her journal and ran her fingers over the leather. Leaving her suitcase beneath a sideboard, Maeve held her journal in front of her and walked to where the redhead sat, while her stomach churned.
The woman, it turned out, wasn’t much younger than Maeve, with stockings the color of summer sunflowers peeking from an ankle-length crepe skirt. She tugged her earlobe, pulling at a lustrous pearl earring that must have cost a handsome sum.
Her black folio rested against the floor.
“I beg your pardon.” Maeve tapped her journal, then ran a gloved finger to a spot on the blank page. “Are you the incoming apprentice Neve Baird?”
She spoke the name slowly, as if reading it for the first time.
The woman dragged in a sigh. “I’m afraid I’m not. I’m Eilidh Hill.” She spoke in an elegant albeit dismissive voice.
Nodding, Maeve tapped a spot toward the bottom of the page. Hard. “Yes. Miss Eilidh Hill. Here you are.” She snapped the journal shut and smiled. “You must bring your things and come with me.”
“This instant?”
“Yes, of course,” Maeve said, not giving her a moment to argue. It worked. Eilidh followed her until they were alone beside the sideboard where Maeve had left her things.
“What is the purpose of this?” Eilidh asked.
“I’m Miss Erskine, an understudy steward at the Otherwhere Post.” Maeve raised her chin, summoning a hint of Headmistress Castlemaine’s disdainful demeanor.
Eilidh looked her over with a sneer. “But you’re…young.”
“Is that a problem?” Maeve squared her shoulders, managing to keep her composure.
“No. Of course not. I didn’t mean—”
“It’s quite all right. The reason we’re speaking is I’ve just received some news from our testers. Confidential news. As such, I’ll need to see your paperwork before I speak any more,” Maeve said, rather convincingly.
She was quite good at this. She didn’t know whether to feel horrible about that fact or cheer.
Eilidh riffled through her leather satchel, digging out an official Leyland identification paper.
It seemed that Eilidh Pretoria Hill was seventeen and hailed from Almsworth, a small hamlet in the far south. “Did you come here all by yourself?”
Eilidh gave a hesitant nod. “Mother took the train halfway up Leyland and would have come farther, if not for my younger brother. He’s quite the handful.” A sheen of moisture filled her eyes, and she dabbed at tears with her lace-gloved hand.
Eilidh’s family might have all the money in the worlds, but they were likely missing her as well. Perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to give them a little more time with each other.
Maeve carefully placed the identification on the sideboard, then took out her journal, along with a few papers from her own writing kit. She set them on top of Eilidh’s identification, forming a neat stack. “I’ll also need the folio with your admittance letter and transcripts.”
Eilidh gripped the folio with spindly fingers, hugging it to her stomach for a flinching moment before handing it over.
Fine silver thread wove along the edges. Maeve cracked open the black leather and scanned a letter, written by one of the stewards themselves, an Eamon Mordraig. It congratulated the admitted on successfully completing the writing examination, then went on to explain logistics, mainly how carriages would begin to leave at eleven sharp for the Post grounds just north of Blackcaster Square. Eilidh was to present this very letter and her paperwork to a driver to secure her seat. There were no other instructions.
Maeve dropped the letter on the growing stack of papers and rubbed her freezing hands together, feeling nauseated. It was time. If she was going to commit to this scheme, she had to do it now or give up.
“What is this about?” A tremor ran through Eilidh’s voice.
“It’s rather unpleasant tidings, I’m afraid. I know the journey from Almsworth must have been strenuous, which is why it is difficult to deliver the unfortunate news I’ve been tasked with relaying.”
Eilidh’s thin lips parted. “Unfortunate?”
“I’m afraid so.” Maeve gave a withering smile. “Through a testing error, we’ve accidentally passed more people than we have room for. I’ve come to break the unlucky news to a handful, and you’re the first.”
“You mean I didn’t make the apprenticeship?” Eilidh looked on the verge of tears.
Maeve’s breath caught in her throat. “Do you have any family in Barrow?”
Eilidh shook her head. “My family was lucky. They’re all in the far south.”
Thank goodness for that.
“At least you’ll be with them soon. And because of the mix-up, we want you to come and test again next fall.”
As far as Maeve knew, that wasn’t against the rules. Eilidh would have a year with her family before getting another chance, and Maeve would get inside the Post. It was a win for them both.
Maeve was about to bid her farewell when another thought struck. If Eilidh had a classmate at the Post who knew her, they’d realize Maeve was lying. “Is there anyone else here from your writing program that I might inform?” she asked.
“I’m the only one who made the trek north this year.”
“How about last year?”
“I don’t know.”
“The year before?”
“I wasn’t close with anyone from those classes.”
But would they remember you? Maeve nearly asked, but saying it aloud might come across as odd. This conversation had already taken far too long.
She fished through the papers on the table, folding one and handing it over. “Your identification.”
Eilidh tucked it down her own bag without realizing it was Isla Craig’s identification. Eilidh’s lay buried in the stack.
She reached for the folio, but Maeve stopped her hand. “I’ll need to confiscate your folio.”
“What about my transcripts?”
“I’ll make sure they’re filed away for future reference.”
Eilidh nodded, then looked to the floor for a long moment. When she finally looked up, Maeve’s heart lurched.
The girl’s bottom lip quivered. Glistening tears leaked down each of her cheeks.
“What’s the matter, dear?” Maeve took her hand.
“My mother paid for the train ticket and I—I spent the six hallions she gave me for the return trip shopping yesterday.” A blush rose to her cheeks.
“ Six hallions?” It was a despicable amount to spend on anything.
“I assumed I would get in,” Eilidh said, sniffling, and Maeve had to school the revulsion from her features. “And now I’m afraid I don’t have the means to get home. Is there someone from the Post I can speak with about contacting Mother?”
Blast it all. “Dear me, I’ve gone and forgotten! We’re awarding everyone involved with enough funds for a train ticket home.”
Maeve dug inside her suitcase, furious with herself as she pressed her small purse to Eilidh’s hand quickly, leaving no room to second-guess. All the shills to her name.
Eilidh managed a smile and walked away with the last of Maeve’s money.