Chapter 2
Sebastian
I run my fingers along the last of the raised marks on the heavy parchment, double-checking my work. The quota records for this week are complete. Every detail is precise, every number verified.
I’ve developed a system over several seasons using a combination of textured inks, raised stamps, and notches cut into the edges of each page.
Now comes the final step. I pull the brass writing frame toward me.
The frame has parallel grooves that guide my pen in perfectly straight lines, with small notches along the side to mark proper spacing.
An old, now-retired scribe helped me design it many summers ago.
His replacement helped me perfect it. I’ve used this tool for so long that writing has become second nature to me, even though I am completely blind.
I sigh, wishing I could do something else. It’s not that I don’t enjoy figures; I do. It’s just…
For a moment, I feel a horse beneath me and a sword in my hand. I feel exhilaration. Then I sigh. I have such a vivid imagination. I’ve been blind since the day I was born. I can’t ride a horse or wield a sword.
I have a good life.
Plenty coin, a big, airy home.
Why do I feel this need for change? I always have this restlessness swirling inside me.
“Are you alright, Baldwin?” Master Veyron asks from across the room.
“Yes. I’m fine,” I tell him, shoving my thoughts aside.
I might dislike working for the queen, but this is my job. I make excellent wages and am well respected. I’m lucky, given my circumstances. I need to get over myself and get on with it. Almost everyone in this realm works for her…it is how it is.
I dip my pen in the inkwell and continue to transcribe the figures onto a clean parchment, my left hand following the brass guide while my right hand forms each character. The letters may not be as elegant as those produced by sighted clerks, but they’re legible and accurate. That’s what matters.
I put my quill down.
“Perfect, as always, Baldwin.” Master Veyron’s voice comes from somewhere to my left.
There is a rustle of his clothes as he moves closer, and I pick up the faint scent of pipe smoke that always clings to him.
“I don’t know how you do it. These records are more accurate than what most of my sighted clerks produce, and your writing is remarkably neat for someone who’s never even seen a letter. ”
I allow myself a small smile as I blot the wet ink. “Perfect, you say, when you haven’t even checked them yet.”
“I don’t have to.” I hear the smile in his voice. “Apparently, the queen herself commented on the accuracy of last month’s reports.” He pauses, and I can almost feel his gaze on me. “She needs to keep track of all her subjects. Who’s making quota and who,” he sighs, “is not.”
My smile fades at the mention of Queen Snow.
I get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever she is mentioned. The dislike I feel is almost personal, which is absurd since I’ve never even met her.
“Thank you, Master.” I stand, reaching for my cane where it leans against the desk.
“You’re finished for the day, then?” Veyron asks.
“I am. Unless there’s something else you need?”
“No, no. You’ve done more than enough. Enjoy your evening.”
“Thank you. I wish you the same.” I incline my head in his direction and make my way toward the door.
The records chamber is familiar territory that I could navigate in my sleep. The stone floor changes texture just outside the entrance, rougher limestone giving way to smooth marble.
I’m so focused on my route that I almost miss the sound of hurried footsteps approaching.
“Baldwin! Wait up!”
I stop and turn toward the voice. “Ferris?”
“The very same.” His footsteps slow as he reaches me. He is huffing from the exertion. “Gods’ bones, you walk fast for a blind man.”
I chuckle. “It’s because I know exactly where I’m going. You’re the one who’s always getting lost.”
“Fair point.” He laughs too as he falls into step next to me.
Ferris works in the kitchens, cooking, as well as managing the food stores and inventory.
We’ve been friends for a while now, ever since I helped him reorganize his storage system.
“What are your plans this evening? Hefting full buckets of water up and down the courtyard? Punching your straw bag? Some other torture you designed for yourself?”
I laugh. “It’s hardly torture. I sit around all day. I have to move my body when I’m in my free time. I just have this need.” I shrug.
“Well, it is working for you. I heard the chambermaids talking about you the other day. They think you have a fine physique.”
“I do?” I laugh.
He laughs as well. “You most certainly do, my friend. Perhaps I should join you one of these days.”
“You would be most welcome,” I tell him. “And as to where I’m headed, it’s the performance tent. I want to get there early enough to find a good seat and some decent food.”
There’s a pause. “You’re going to the performance? Why? I mean, no offense, but you can’t exactly…watch it.”
I don’t take offense because it’s a reasonable question.
“There’s a singer performing tonight,” I explain, tapping my cane against the floor as we walk. “I’ve heard she’s excellent at her craft.”
“A singer?” Ferris sounds skeptical. “You’re going all the way to the performance tent just to hear someone sing?”
“Music is more than just sound to me, Ferris.” I pause, trying to find the right words to explain something I’ve never fully understood myself. “When I hear truly exceptional music, especially when it’s a particularly good voice, it’s as if…as if I can almost see.”
“See?” Now he sounds confused, choking out a laugh.
“I know it sounds like nonsense, but yes, it’s like I can see, even though I’ve never seen color or light or any of the things you take for granted.
But when I’m captivated by a performance, something happens.
It’s like the music paints pictures in my mind.
Colors I shouldn’t know. Images of things I’ve never witnessed.
” I shake my head, feeling foolish. “For those moments, I’m transported to a place of vibrancy.
It’s the closest I’ll ever come to seeing the world. ”
There’s a long silence. Then Ferris claps me on the shoulder. “That’s wonderful, Baldwin. I can understand how that would draw you in. I hope this singer lives up to your expectations and that you see vivid colors tonight, even if only in your mind’s eye.”
“As do I. I take it you’re not going?”
“What?” He snorts. “I don’t have the coin. I’m just a lowly cook.”
“You are welcome to come along. I will buy you a ticket.”
“Thank you for the kind offer, but I am… I’m meeting a lady. You must enjoy yourself, my friend. You’ve earned it after another week of dealing with those damned reports. I don’t know how you do it.”
“It’s a job.”
“We are lucky to have work,” he says. “I will see you tomorrow.”
“Most certainly,” I tell him.
We part ways at the next intersection. Ferris heads toward the servants’ quarters while I continue on, following the route I memorized days ago.
The main courtyard is busier than usual, filled with the excited chatter of fae and humans alike.
The performance is a rare treat, a break from the monotony and oppression that defines life at the Shadow Court.
I make my way toward the performance tent, guided by the sounds and smells. Like the tent master’s booming voice as he directs workers and the scent of roasted meat and sweet pastries. My stomach growls in anticipation.
The entrance to the tent grounds is easy to find, since the crowd funnels toward it. I join the queue, waiting for my turn to pay for entry.
“That’ll be five coppers,” a gruff voice says when I reach the front.
I fish the coins from my pouch, sure to feel the size and weight, and then hand them over.
The man grunts. “Go on through.”
As I step past the entrance, the smell of food grows stronger. My stomach growls again, reminding me that I skipped lunch to finish the reports on time. I follow my nose to what must be the food stalls.
“What can I get you, love?” A woman’s voice, warm and friendly.
“What do you have?”
“Roasted chicken legs, meat pies, sweet rolls, and candied nuts.”
“A meat pie, please. And one of those sweet rolls.”
I hear the rustle of paper as she wraps my food, then the clink of coins as I pay. The pie is warm. I take a bite as I navigate toward the seating area; the pastry is flaky.
“Need some help finding a seat?” a lady asks, touching the side of my arm.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I say in the general direction of the voice.
My cane taps against the wooden planks of the raised seating as I climb.
I sit on the bench, finishing my pie and then starting on the sweet roll.
Around me, the tent fills with people. There is the shuffling of feet, the creaking of wood, as well as the excited murmur of conversation and children laughing.
The air smells of canvas and sawdust. It’s exhilarating. I truly hope that the performance is excellent this evening. Not every singer is able to evoke the right emotions to help me “see.”
I sit there a while, taking it all in as excitement builds.
Then a drum beats once, loud and commanding. When the crowd doesn’t quieten, it happens again, and this time it works.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the tent master’s voice booms through the space. “Fae and humans alike! Welcome to an evening of wonder and delight!”
The crowd cheers. I join in, clapping along with everyone else.
The first act is introduced. It’s a group of acrobats. They tumble across the stage, their bodies hitting the ground with controlled thuds. The crowd gasps and applauds.
Someone near me whispers, “Did you see that flip? Impossible!”
Next comes a strongman. There are grunts of effort, followed by the crash of heavy weights hitting the ground. More cheers and applause. The strongman ends his part of the performance by lifting a couple of maidens into the air above his head.
The crowd goes wild.