I like to think the gods put forth a weak effort when creating me. In the cauldron, they probably wasted just a teaspoon of beauty, a pint of intelligence, and half a jar of vision. But I wouldn’t give myself enough credit if I failed to appreciate seeing people’s faces instead of darkness… even if they are painted in black-and-white. Achromatopsia is a fancy word for total color blindness. I merely see shapes and shadows, sometimes only blurs. People tell me that blue is calming, pink is romantic, and yellow is buoyant. I haven’t experienced any of those emotions in my life, so my imperception shouldn’t matter. Yet it does. 

Considering my familial relations have been practically non-existent since I began earning minimum wage at fourteen, it’s only fitting that my job for the last five years entails the celebration of death. At the Dead Roses Funeral Home, I’m a mortician and secretary to the infamous Bloodscale Mistress. The first time we met, I approached her doorstep in a babydoll dress and Mary Janes. These days, I’m lucky if I see people roaming the streets without a cigarette and miscellaneous stains on their coats. Good thing I’m unable to tell what they are. Their crappy wardrobe could simply be due to the utter cold and shadow of Full Moon Quarter. In Trira, every district is defined by lunar and sun phases. I’ve only been to Afternoon, Sunset, Waxing Gibbous, First, and Third Quarter. But most environments are the same: perpetually dark and quiet. And even those districts that are drowned in buttery light are filled to the brim with people who hold darkness in their hearts. 

Anyway, on that day, Bloodscale pulled me inside, and despite my ineptitude, never kicked me to the curb. I even got an attic room from her pity. I’m grateful—to an extent. She’s not kind or motherly or an improvement over what my parents provided me. But I don’t exactly 

loathe her like I used to, which I know is a better sentiment than however she regards me. 

“Child! Where are you?” she calls to me now. Exhibit A: I’m nineteen, and she still manages to lack the courtesy of learning my name: Blair. 

“I’m here, Mistress. How can I help you?” I say flatly. No decorum, no reverence. Even if I spent hours coating my words with honey and chocolate, they’d always be stuffed with bitterness. Earnestness is the only way of my negligible dignity. Every day is equivalent, and I haven’t really aged since fourteen. It is a wormhole of eternity. 

 “Come unload these violets and peonies for me. Read the labels, of course,” she orders, shoving the box into my arms. 

“How many died yesterday?” I ask, gently placing the flowerpots on the wooden table. 

“Seventy-four. But fifty-six of them can’t afford funerals and request a simple cremation. Newly widowed Lydia Ducks wants these sent to the Loimaa Church for tomorrow's service.” The ceramic nearly slips from my fingers. 

“Lydia Ducks? You mean Cullen Ducks is dead?” 

“Yes. Mental breakdown. Poor thing,” she answers nonchalantly and marches into her office. I’m relieved at her vague response. Two years ago, when Trira was knee-deep in an economic crisis, I found employment as a stocker at Cullen’s architectural firm in the Sunset Quarter. He was strict and certain, but when I peered at him closely, I could discern he was actually human, unlike Bloodscale. By that point, I had been dabbling in macabre for several years, and somehow my hands remained clean. Working for him, I saw my own blood for once and felt my bones cry. It was fulfilling. And the way he looked at me sometimes, I felt as though he could somehow peer past my hideous face into my soul. 

Despite myself, I often reminisce about the time I fell off the ladder and smashed my leg to a gruesome shade of gray. Cullen took me aside and wrapped my knee with a gentleness I didn’t know existed. 

“It’s just a little bruise. It’ll heal in time.” 

“If I get another one every other day, they’ll eventually stop healing,” I retorted, avoiding his gaze. 

“Look, Blair, that Bloodscale may encourage the self-pity, but the next time you put yourself down in my presence, you’re fired.” 

“Why does it matter?” I didn’t think anyone cared about the words that came from my wan lips and crooked teeth, especially not someone superior to me in practically every way. 

“Because if you proceed with the negativity, you’ll never be happy.” 

“How could I possibly be happy with my life?” 

“You have two steady jobs, a foster mother—” 

“Bullshit. I have an attic full of trows and a patronizing viper that controls me. What I don’t have is friends, even though I try to be nice and respectful—” 

“Blair, please. In your hands now, you have the potential for love.” I scoffed at his cliché response, albeit his next words crossed my spine like a mallet on a xylophone. “Contrary to what you believe, love is not derived from color. It makes life more diverse, sure. But the greatest gift is being able to look at someone completely in darkness. That is how love is found.” 

“I suspect Mrs. Ducks taught you this priceless life lesson, Mr. Ducks?” 

“No.” He searched my face. “I learned it from my friendship with you.” 

In that moment, not only did I feel understood, but also accepted. He was the kindest man I'd ever met, and I was convinced goodwill fulfilled him. So, what could have driven him to such a state of mind? Especially when he had a wife, a business empire, and three estates across the kingdom. He had everything. 

“Have you any idea why he did it?” I try to be subtle, but I might as well be a glass wall taunting a sledgehammer. 

“It’s no concern of ours, girl. We simply cut, collect, burn, and bury. But obviously, you’re young and it’s your nature to be curious. So here you go.” Bloodscale corners me and lowers her voice to a volume only moths could hear. 

“One rumor claims bankruptcy. Others chalk it up to a quarter-life crisis. He was 

twenty-eight, after all. But I personally believe it was a matter of ‘unhappy wife, unhappy life,’” she says, tapping her long nails on the desk. 

“I think I understand,” I respond slowly. Better to change the subject than dwell. “What about classified cases? Are there any?” She adjusts a brooch on her blouse collar, signaling her frustration with me. 

“Even if there were, you don’t need to know. You’re not ready to handle them.” 

“But I’ve worked here five years, Mistress. I’ve read all the books—” 

“Three days ago, you tripped and spilled Madame Tabitha’s ashes all over the curb.” 

“That sidewalk was uneven—”  

“The point is possession of book-smarts does not compensate for lack of street-smarts. My personal tasks require nimble fingers and steady feet.” 

“Well, you could at least allow me to witness them firsthand. What do the cases even consist of? Why are they considered strange?” 

“Enough. I’ve hesitated to fire you before, but I won’t if you continue to overstep your place with these questions. Am I clear?” 

“As windows in the rain,” I snap. “It’s only because I’m colorblind, isn’t it?” 

Her eyes boil, and her lip barely curls. 

“One day you’ll be properly enlightened. Right now, to you, enlightenment means adjustment to your weaknesses.” Quickly regaining her composure, she sticks a key in my hand. 

“Regardless, you’re going to work at Loimaa Church today. Ms. Ducks will be there as well to supervise.” She begins to distance herself, then adds over her shoulder, “In other words, don’t be that bungling nuisance you always are.” 

I gather the violets and peonies and arrive at the church, ironically located in Waxing Crescent Quarter, late morning. It’s my first visit, and I’m already startled by the countless fairy lanterns lining the streets, stirring my train of thought. Rather than towering ivory buildings, every home is about my height or smaller and made of baking ingredients, such as bread and cheese. The streets are made of raw dough yet exert a scent of iced donuts—the only breakfast pastry Bloodscale has shared with me. It’s odd Lydia Ducks chose Loimaa—a quaint structure enveloped in powdered sugar—to host the funeral when her home in downtown Sunset Quarter suited her tastes perfectly. Every mass shop is there, along with radiant clubs and castles. Here it is modest, pushing me to wonder if Bloodscale was correct when speculating bankruptcy. 

A coach is nearby with a large Clydesdale bound to it. I place a pot at his feet that he 

could possibly call breakfast and step into the church, my dreamcatcher charm gleaming in the morning light. It was the first thing I bought with my first paycheck, and it never left my wrist. When I first ventured into that pawn shop, the convoluted maze obscured my senses. I 

can’t imagine what it would have looked like colorful. I searched for a few minutes for something affordable and the woman behind the counter made a noise every time I passed something over my budget. I stupidly cracked a joke about her sex life, and she ordered me to leave. But right over the door frame was the dreamcatcher charm, fluorescing and managing to stand out in a cove of treasures. I threw my five black diamonds at her face and smiled the eight blocks home. It was the best day of my life, and I still can’t describe why. 

  “Blair Nighbury? Is that you good and grown?” Lydia cries and wraps me in an embrace. She’s wearing a long-sleeved mermaid gown I assume is black. Her hair—which I remember her calling boysenberry—is coiled on top of her head. Jewels are line dancing across her fingers. She is unfortunately quite attractive. 

“I was grown when you met me, Ms. Ducks.” I stifle my discomfort at her polished touch, again recalling what Bloodscale alleged. She took advantage of her position, incessantly demanding many modish garments. “I only have eight blue gowns, darling. It’s imbalanced with the rest,” she argued once. Meanwhile, I own a modest two dresses that Bloodscale declared were teal and plum. Perhaps Cullen’s death was indeed every reason that she stated before. 

“Well, you do have that lovely baby face to grow into.” She smiles as I accept her backhanded compliment, though I must decline her ability to grin beautifully after her husband’s demise. 

  “You must feel awful about Cullen. I’m so sorry for your loss.” 

  “Oh… yes.” She plants a hoarse cough into her handkerchief. She actually seems startled that I mentioned him, in spite of our meeting being because of him. 

“He was my best friend, Blair. I don’t know what to do anymore.” Her eyes become a 

maelstrom, but I don’t comment, and thankfully, she takes that into account. 

“But I know what you can do. Here is a list of what I’d like done for the service. Arrange the bows, flowers, pastries and chairs, please. I’ll be back at six. You’ll receive your pay then.” She squeezes my hand and, as I examine the list, the last of her heels clacking signals her departure. I’m finally alone, albeit it’s by no means convenient. Nothing is labeled by color. There is sound and taste and touch and smell perfectly intact, but no color. I hadn’t tasted enough cakes to identify any variation; I hadn’t browsed enough shops to know oak from mahogany. Ribbons and flowers were identical, but they were supposed to be different. Judgment is a skill; vision is innate. I had neither; I was deprived of both. As the hours passed, my dread of her return overwhelmed me. And when she eventually did, she thought it best to pinpoint my death, too. 

“What the hell, Nighbury? This is a scattered mess! Can’t you read a list? It was typed and detailed, not difficult to obey.” 

“You didn’t label anything,” I murmur. 

“Yes, I did. All you had to do was look, which you obviously didn’t. Do you not care? Or was this spite? That I was his wife, and not you?” 

“No! Are you serious? That’s your first accusation?” It wasn’t true. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t true. But I couldn’t tell her why I failed. It would only prompt more ridicule and a ticket to the blacklist. 

“Then what could it be? We ought to be celebrating his life, not resorting to juvenile games.” 

  “Are you a bloody psycho, Lydia? This should not be a happy, glamorous party. Cullen killed himself, for goodness’ sake! And the day after you’re planning his funeral as something for you instead of mourning for hours in silence like you’re supposed to. Don’t you wonder why he did it? How can you even think about anything else? How can you even reprimand me with a straight face?” 

“Don’t lecture me about emotions. I remember you being indifferent to everybody, with your pride and your guard up constantly. How diffident. Besides, we all cope differently. I cried before and left because you insisted my help was unnecessary.” 

  “Now, wait—“ 

  “And he didn’t kill himself. His hands were cut off and he bled out.” Her voice breaks as she rips out her handkerchief again, sputtering a bit of blood on the edge. My features grow numb. Not because of her obviously; because of Cullen. In every murder I’ve studied, that has never occurred. It’s an arrow or an illness. It’s a knife or a sword. Maybe an antique watch of life that happened to break due to Father Time’s unawareness. Unless… 

I burst through the doors, a frigid cloudburst discerning my horror. I tread through the crystalline forest, my poise forgone and my ability to breathe on the precipice of vanishment. I selfishly forget about Cullen for a moment and plunge into an existential crisis. Indifferent, she called me. How in the world did she garner that impression? Your pride and your guard up constantly. I confess I’ve always been an introvert, yet it’s never been derived from arrogance. I’m not heartless or averse to society; if anything, my motivation for years has been to conform. Conform in spite of my ugliness, incompetence, fucking color blindness. The opposing attributes come naturally to everyone else, and they always will. I’m not trying to be diffident. But I guess people will see what they wish. 

Then, I see it. In place of rain, my mind glimpses a dark substance dancing on the 

rooftops of Trira, in a dimly lit place I had never been. It was worse than gray or black or white—it was a color I couldn’t name. But I could hear a choir of screams in its presence. Have I gone mad? 

Somehow, I find myself back at Dead Roses. Bloodscale is sulking on a couch, a cigarette’s song filling the air.   

“Explain to me now, Mistress. Have those classified cases been victims of amputation?” 

“Most definitely. You are not that clever, so I suspect Lydia told you?” 

“Yes. You have dealt with at least ninety of such victims in the five years I’ve been your assistant. How come it’s never in the papers? They must be targeted!” 

“Hundreds more, in fact. For centuries. But you overestimate your place, child. You are not a detective. You could be a conspiracy theorist, though I sincerely doubt it’s better pay. Besides, I thought you only wanted me to know you’re crazy. You’re hardly qualified to work for me, so heed step four and bury that curiosity before you become a target.” She cuts her gaze to the armoire behind me. 

“Which reminds me. . .” the ancient hollow creaks as she unlocks a drawer and pulls out a pair of gloves. They meet my hands and I realize they’re the same material as my “teal” dress. 

“Velvet,” I observe. “This fabric is expensive. Why are you giving me these?” 

  “Because you need them for protection.” 

  “From what? I imagine Cullen Ducks wore similar gloves in his last days and they drew 

him unfavorable attention.” Bloodscale’s eyes are cold when they assess me, as though it was the first time I had conveyed a sense of intellect. 

“You never saw him wear gloves, did you?” she sneers. Admittedly, I didn’t. 

  “But that was years ago—” 

“The matter is, you’re in more danger if you don’t wear them. Just try them on and see.” She gestures to the gloves impatiently, and following a few additional moments of reluctance, I oblige. 

Heaven. Dreams. Escape. The fog clears from my eyes and illuminates the parlor. The light is subdued, yet vibrant all the same with a thousand hues staring at me, waiting. I look to the plush carpet first. 

“What is this?” 

“Burgundy. But you can call it red.” Satisfaction forms on Bloodscale’s lips… also burgundy. 

“Let’s start with R.O.Y.G.B.I.V,” she suggests, handing me an encyclopedia of color swatches. It takes an hour for me to consume every food in the feast. Her curtains are green, and she generalizes the miles beyond Trira to correspond. Her gown and fountain pen are blue, the walls an apparent subgenre called periwinkle. My hair is strawberry blonde. My eyes are brown. Cinnamon coats my face and arms with a chocolate chip beneath my right eye. Though when I see my complete reflection in the silver abyss, I decide teal is my favorite as I observe the identical gloves and dress hugging me, like they’re my first friends. Aside from Cullen, maybe. I then notice a picture of Bloodscale at a picnic in the Sheamky Forest dated thirty-eight years ago. She was quite lovely, and somehow retained the same onyx locks and cruel honeyed stare; she was thinner now than then and her skin had a fainter glow. I revert my eyes to the entirety of this rainbow cave. I had never found anything beautiful before, because how could I? But am I really led to believe that something as universally trivial as color can cure a lifetime of depression and 

boredom? 

“How is this possible? Have you cursed me?” I say. 

“These are going to help you. You can’t keep living in ignorance and vulnerability.” 

“You’ve had these the entire time, and you never gave them to me before?” 

“You weren’t ready for them. Your gifts weren’t perceptible.” My frustration settled on the term “gifts.” I was under the impression she recognized me as amateur royalty. 

“Gifts? Clumsiness, you mean? Or that I have the luxury of being left alone because I’m plain?” She rolls her eyes, but I don’t falter. 

“Only seers can have visions like yours. The gloves will keep you out of trouble. So be off to the Spirus Ruins for the Pearle service. Now that you can finally see clearly.” She prods me out the door mere seconds after, plopping a bucket of paint in my grip, as I continue registering her insouciance. Seer? The people who use tarot cards and crystals to tell prophecies. If they behold the future, then could my supposed hallucination actually be real? And how was Bloodscale aware of it? 

The Spirus Ruins are located in Sunrise Quarter, and I am amazed at how breathtaking it is. It presses early morning, despite being nine in the evening. Pastel flowers enclose every cottage, emanating a cozier feeling when compared to the grim Full Moon Quarter. Purples and pinks and oranges are holding each other above me, gripping cotton candy handkerchiefs, and dyed with a substance almost saccharine. I strut toward the ruins, slightly relieved I’m able to on a grass carpet instead of trekking the raw dough ground at Loimaa. Here it’s a jungle, with close to twenty different species of fragrant flowers. I detect the variation of them all; some petals reflect those from outside, while others are bright and exotic. 

The Pearles’ summon me then, disrupting my fantasy. Their adolescent daughter was hit by a carriage three days ago. She was pretty enough, with long red hair and gray eyes. Tears and bubbles are in her parents’ midst when they address me, and I try to be as gentle with them as possible. She adored soft pink; therefore, I’m to paint the columns so. The atmosphere is simultaneously rich and dismal, with me desperate to avoid the family’s chagrin at my newfound smile, my newfound sensibility. The paint is exquisite, an uncanny color to the cakes lined against the wall. Cakes I haven’t tried but must. It’s unfathomably delicious. Irresistible, even. I wonder… 

Hours later, I awake wrapped in cool sheets to the smell of jasmine candles and Darjeeling tea. At my side is an infant fire anxious to bloom. At my other is a personable young man in a white cotton cloak. Turquoise eyes and caramel skin, one eyebrow raised. 

“Well, Ms. Nighbury, you are one of the strangest patients I’ve ever had. May I ask what could have driven you to eat half a can of paint?” he asks, with little to no attempt at concealing his amusement. 

“I-I don’t know.” I really didn’t. “Impulse.” I shouldn’t have said that, for his expression immediately flips to apprehension. 

“Impulse? Like life wasn’t treating you well and you had to take control?” 

“No, sir.” I subconsciously lean forward. “I’m just a common fool who thought it was edible.” It was a coy maneuver, but I was a fool… in every sense of the word. I foolishly expected a frivolous breakthrough of sight to transform me from ugly duckling into… everything above. And yet… I couldn’t deny its powerful charm. It was subjective; it was meaningful to me. And I would continue to appreciate it until it’s undoubtedly stripped away like everything else I’ve become attached to. The healer chuckles and writes something in his journal. 

“Am I to believe you’re nineteen and haven’t used paint before? Most children stop eating it by age eight.” 

“You can believe whatever you want, but that doesn’t mean you know anything.”  

He’s apparently taken aback, for he shrugs and says, “You don’t have lead poisoning. Not in your stomach, at least. Those gloves absorbed it all.” I look down at my hands. 

“How?” 

“I’m supposed to know, shouldn’t I? But I prefer to stray from books regarding magical artifacts, and I suggest you do as well.” His eyes become serious once more. 

“They help me, sir. I can’t part with them.” Much like my dreamcatcher charm, which I hadn’t realized I was habitually fiddling with.     

“Aside from this matter, how do they help you? Can you even take them off?” He reaches for them, and I recoil. 

  “This isn’t an interrogation, sir. But I thank you for checking up on me.” I quickly get to my feet, acquiring a brief headrush. He steadies me with two hands beneath my shoulders. Flustered, I gather my belongings and head home. It is half past two in the morning. I’m in Waning Gibbous Quarter, where there are less beacons of light. Still, this place doesn’t feel magical like Sunset, snuggly like Sunrise, or peaceful like Waxing Crescent; it feels mysterious and unwelcome. I practically sprint down the cobblestone streets, avoiding the indigo and fuchsia buildings that fill this paradisiacal chessboard. Harrowing statues leak from the brick walls, resembling creatures of myth. In order to distract myself, I force myself to notice how 

aesthetically appealing the shops are painted. There are blends of flamingo pink with cerulean, pumpkin orange with watermelon red. Things I couldn’t imagine to be possible were. But as I turn the corner, I see something foreign, an outsider that belongs in the Sheamky Forest: a black swan. 

  It looks suspended in time. Then I realize it’s not a creature but a person crouching low, watching me like I am the most wretched thing in existence. Considering that, I shouldn’t engage. Yet I just had to know who. What. Why. 

“Good evening. Cold night to be out, isn’t it?” I say this, though remain frozen. I have the gloves, but color can’t protect me from monsters. They only feed the fear, heighten the experience. 

“Your dreamcatcher charm is lovely. Must be a rare treasure,” she hisses in return. The serrated edges in the girl’s tone startle me because she is obviously young. 

  “No. Old and tacky,” I lie, hesitantly. 

“Then why wear it knowing it’ll only cause unwanted attention?” She gets to her feet, disclosing a collection of samurai swords structuring the wings of her costume. Her boots are clawed, and her stare is brutal. 

“I suppose I just like to punish myself—” With the last breath, I sprint in the opposite direction. She follows me instantly. I must have been at the edge of Waning Gibbous because I’m crossing over into Third Quarter, where half a moon reigns the sky. Even so, the lamp posts are blinding solar eclipses, a gang of thieves trying to steal my blessed sight. But I have to keep running. Fuck, I’ve never run in my life and somehow, I’m still a contorted edifice of bones. Bones that are screaming and begging me to stop. 

I whirl at the swan ten feet up my ass, who is angling her sword to launch. It misses my head and slices the lamp post, which falls toward me. My lungs sing a melancholy ballad as I leap over it. Rain batters my face, a drop caressing my lips like a broken melody. It’s burgundy; it has a salty odor; it tastes bitter. Blood rain. In my horror, she strikes me down. Her hands are placed on both sides of my head, which is centimeters from the pavement decorated in pleasant children’s drawings—they would see tomorrow—not me. 

“Guess your lucky charm failed, Blair,” the swan coos, her soft pink mouth tinted a deep red. 

“I figured. But the least you can do is grant me my death wish and explain why you want to kill me!” Fear. I couldn’t be afraid anymore, even in the face of death. 

Suddenly, a midnight carriage skids to a halt a few feet away, drenching the two of us even more. An arrow strikes the girl in the shoulder. She recoils into the shadows, leaving me on the sodden ground. 

“Damsel in distress, your ride is here. Now get the hell in!” a familiar voice cries. Bloodscale. I clumsily accept her arm. Another sword lands near my leg, spurring the Shire horse to dart forward before I’m inside. My feet are planted on the peddle of the door and I lunge before another sword shatters the window. Bloodscale shuts the door, churlishly shouting back to the wounded girl, “You bitch, this carriage is expensive! Next time try to invest in arrows and target practice before you attempt murder!” She closes the curtain with a huff and her amber eyes flick to me at her feet. 

“Don’t give her any ideas. I’ve had a lifetime of trauma packed into one day,” I retort and position myself on the seafoam green cushion. 

“Are you alright?” she asks, pushing an ebony strand behind her ear. I ignore her. 

“How did you know where to find me, Mistress?” 

“The Pearles came by and explained that my poor little idiot ate paint today. I assumed you’d be fine and discharged from the healers, but when you didn’t come home, I thought I’d look for you. And I just loved the theatrics of it all. You making a daring escape through the plaza, on the verge of being murdered in a storm, no less. They should make an opera about it.” 

  “You saw me running? Then how come you didn’t stop before?” 

“Because then it wouldn’t have been as exciting, and you wouldn’t be as gracious.” 

“Well, I thank you for reaching your sentiment capacity on poor little idiot me.” I glance at her silver pocket watch; it’s three in the morning. Moreover, the watch looks about fifty years old—twenty years older than what Bloodscale expects me to believe. 

“May I ask when you got that watch?” I say, and a bell bobs down her neck. 

“About a decade ago. I rarely clean the thing, that’s why it looks so run-down.” 

“I saw that picture of you in Sheamky Forest and you look the same.” She feigns offense. 

“Dear, have you the audacity to question my age? I know you’re friendless and bland, but that’s truly the lowest of lows.” 

  “I wasn’t asking that question. I just—can’t believe you haven’t aged. And why your things are so ancient.” I know I’m making it worse, but I can construe some hidden meaning behind her face. Pain. She whips her head to the window. 

“If I were you, I’d be wondering about the identity of your secret admirer. And no, I’m not giving you a raise to pay for your inevitable therapy bill. Because damn, I’d have to mortgage the home to support your baggage, sweetheart.” 

I scowl at her cruelty. Though I suppose I slightly deserve it. It is three in the morning. I need proper sleep, albeit Bloodscale has obviously scribbled more vacuous jobs on my list. 

  “I know about your insomnia, so what’s another sleepless night? We’re performing an autopsy on Cullen Ducks.” She steps out of the carriage, not even bothering to lend me a hand. 

  “Five minutes ago, I was almost murdered, and you want me to get right back to work?” She narrows her eyes at me. 

“I thought you knew I reached my sentiment capacity.” Soon enough, I’m hauled into her office, where I nearly strike Cullen’s corpse. His eyes are tinted rose, his skin an oily yellow. And the hands… they are truly gone. 

“What’s the point of this, Mistress? We know he bled to death,” I snap. 

“We’re removing his organs for the medics to collect.” She unveils a myriad of jars from a duffel. Next, a wave of knives in varying conditions. 

  “Does Lydia approve of this?” 

“Damn to hell what she thinks. This is for the greater good.” There’s a venomous bite in her voice, and I remain quiet until she gives me further instruction.  

I fasten a Liston knife around my waist, while she angles the Valentin knife. As she makes the first incision, I’m forced to bite my tongue. A strawberry red heart, a raspberry pink brain, chocolate brown eyes. Even stained-glass windows can be found beautiful when shattered. He didn’t deserve this. No one did. But I can’t think of any potential culprit besides Lydia, though she’d have to be an immortal or a cult member if she was responsible for the hundreds of other undisclosed murders that somehow aren’t legend. Bloodscale says the Pegasus Patrol haven’t bothered instituting investigations for these victims in years; such instances are too peculiar for the papers and blamed on the monsters of Trira. When I asked why seers were illegal, she bluntly said that people would go to any measure to avoid being told the truth or things they don’t understand. That it’s deemed far safer to thrive in a bubble of candy and jewels than black licorice and rocks. 

Then, I see it. My dreamcatcher charm tangled in the claws of a raven… who flies and flies to an unknown destiny… then finally perches on a prism illuminating a rainbow… 

“Blair! Blair, stop!” I hear the command and glance at Cullen. His face is lacerated, the six… seven… eight gashes expanding so that his face is no more than a pool of blood. Did I—how could I— 

A single eyeball pops out of the socket and rolls on the floor. 

“What is the matter with me?! Why is everything going wrong?” Tears swell up in my eyes, untamed and unprecedented. 

“I need sleep!” With that, I hurry up the stairway, little trips nicking my knees and ankles. A mangy little trow is snooping through my belongings, his black wool sock hat obscuring his eyes. These elf-like creatures lack the largesse and skill to bless the people of Trira; they prefer to be burdens that steal bijou and black diamonds. I shoo him out the hole in the wall and sink on the mucky mattress, emitting a cloud of feathers and soot in my wake. 

  Everything is madness. I’m disturbed; I’m useless; I’m alone. I bury my face in my palms. What did I do that would make that swan girl want to kill me? The dreamcatcher charm is a kitsch trinket. I should’ve just offered it to her and maybe she would have spared me. Now I can’t even leave Dead Roses, right after I was given the ability to go anywhere and enjoy it. Still… 

In hindsight, conformity didn’t help or change anything. Regardless, I spent the day as 

every other—in my mind’s chamber of spiderwebs and naïveté. Seeing and feeling and hoping can be done without rose-colored glasses. Without these damn gloves. Yet to no surprise, they’re molded to my skin. As is the dreamcatcher charm. 

“I warned you. They’re dangerous.” The doctor smirks when I visit a second time in less than six hours, with purple smudges now dancing beneath my eyes. 

“Yeah, yeah. Just get them off me,” I growl. 

“Oh, sorry. As I said before, that’s not my expertise. I’ll refer you to another physician.” My eyes widen. 

  “What do you mean? Don’t you have an antidote or--or a solvent or something to pry them off here?” But he neglects my questions and stalks toward his office. I unwillingly shadow him. 

He puts chicken scratch on a marigold parchment and concludes it with a bronze seal. And then gives it to his… raven. In Trira, the postal service consists of birds with the upper-class exploiting doves and the middle-class exploiting sparrows. Low-lifes always had ravens. I can’t imagine a healer with a respectable salary living such a life. 

“What’s your raven’s name?” I ask. It was not the least bit nonchalant. 

  “Nelluc,” he mutters. Cullen. Bloodscale always vowed a soul is released from a medium at a funeral. Cullen’s funeral hasn’t occurred yet. What if… no, it’s impossible. 

“Interesting name. Did you get him at Dalo’s Pet Emporium on Vinca Boulevard?” 

“No, I got him from a friend.” The man replies through clenched teeth. He stares at me intensely, as if he can hear my thoughts like clockwork. 

“It’s not good to have the animals locked up all day. My mother once said if an animal is 

meant to be yours, they’ll always come back after you give them freedom for a bit.” The words were gibberish on my tongue, albeit they’re getting him to listen. 

  “Your mother didn’t love you, so of course she would tell you lies.” I instinctively flinch, ceasing my trek to the cage. 

“How did you know that?” My voice is nothing but a whisper. 

“A patient’s records are very detailed.” He comes closer, his frown deepening. I maneuver around him and flick the lock on the cage. Nelluc flies out the window into the golden sky. Cullen is free. I turn around. 

“How did you get his soul in there?” 

“Whose soul? I daresay, you’re delusional and you’ve cost me a pet. Just go wait in your room for the Pegasus Patrol escort to come. It’ll take you to get proper treatment.” No. No more waiting. I have to get out of here on my own. 

“You know what? Never mind all this fuss. I’ll just find another away—” But the bloodthirsty bludgeon feeding at my head says otherwise. 

Hours later, I awake wrapped in cool metal. The gloves still asphyxiate my metacarpus, depriving them of feeling. A cruel white light is daring me to move, and apparently works as an accompaniment to the girl adorned in a pristine silk fit suit before me, frosted with crystals. A metallic swan mask is plastered over their face, revealing only a pair of parted soft pink lips. It was her. 

  “I take it you’re not really going to take these gloves off me.” She exhales softly and dives into an acidic laugh. 

“I’m here for other business.” She unsheathes the sword, daring me to face my reflection. 

“How petty. I wasn’t the one who shot you,” I say flatly. Time. I needed time. 

“You are the reason I am this creature!” 

“How? Your costume has a zipper. I didn’t do anything to you, so you should just let me go. Please.” 

“Not a chance. At least you’ll be free of this shameful life. It’s not like you had much to lose anyway.” Who could she be? Why is she working with the healer? 

“You want my dreamcatcher charm? Just take it. It doesn’t matter to me.” 

“It’s too late. The power has settled into your veins.” 

“So you’re gonna kill me because I’m a seer? I don’t even know how to control it, so how can I be a threat?” 

“Precisely that you don’t know how to control it!” 

“I know you killed Cullen. Please tell me why.” 

"Everything has a price, Blair. You know that.” In a split-second, she slices a perfect line and effortlessly divides flesh from bone… My right hand is slain. I can’t feel anything else. Not the tears and sweat coalescing on my skin. Not my hands and feet insensate by the chill’s touch. I only see light: a prism. Clinging to the ceiling, refracting brilliant violets and blues and reds. I reach out, mesmerized, and offer up the scraps of whatever soul and mind and heart I had left. The violet observes this and splits from the wave. A ballerina twirling toward the stump until it’s cocooned in a gossamer ribbon. I get to my feet, the swan’s sword inclined at me with terrible form. I don’t care what she’ll do; I can’t care. And for once, perhaps the universe has done my bidding, for when I hit her shoulder with my unscathed bloody palm, she goes paralyzed and falls. Akin to the ending of that popular ballet from several years ago. I swiftly grab her sword 

and position it in my hilt next to the Liston knife. 

Her mask goes undone and it is her. The girl who was killed by the carriage. The girl with long red hair and gray eyes who loved soft pink. The Pearles’ daughter. The black swan. I realize the light is still watching me. Extending passage through a gate. I glance down at my wound, the blood seeping fiercely through the violet tourniquet. 

  “I need something stronger,” I whisper, craving control. A thread. Stitches. A thread. The blue heeds my call and needles in and out, patching up the skin until it’s a stump incapable of growth. But I don’t obey the encouragement to travel somewhere I can’t be discovered. Nor Dead Roses or Loimaa Church or Spirus Ruins where I should be. 

  I approach Cullen’s business headquarters and turn the damn place upside down. It’s vacant, save for widows and roaches crawling about. Being here again… the bittersweet scene is sickening. The muddled shelves that gave me splinters. The metal beams where I sometimes banged my forehead. The dusty window that I used to plaster my handprints over just to get a better taste of the bright purples and oranges of Trira at sunset. And Cullen… Cullen was in every memory. I have to know the reasoning behind his fate. 

The basement is the first place I seek—the most predictable place for answers. And it’s 

evident why Cullen got murdered by the black swan and her friends. Countless blueprints and sketches of safe houses beneath the kingdom lay here. Miles of land for seers to be themselves. There’s a model of a lock with a dreamcatcher key. My charm fits perfectly. 

The healer possessed a raven in a cage and referred me to the Pearles’ daughter. They’re accomplices, albeit to what purpose? She couldn’t have been over sixteen, and he twenty-five. So, against my better judgment, I return to Dead Roses. To Bloodscale. 

“Blair, where have you been?! What the hell happened to your hand?” She wraps a towel around me, giving me the perfect opportunity to slam her against the wall. My sword at her chest and my knife at her throat. 

  “You know much more than you’re letting on. You know everything.” I say, catching my breath. I wait for her denial; it never arrives. 

“I’m trying to help—” she utters. 

“To help yourself. You’ve never aged, and you have all this knowledge of things nobody else does and you’re a mistress who works in the celebration of death!” 

“Celebration of life, Blair! Why do you think I take my job so seriously? Because I want to honor good people who lived good lives. I’ll show you what I’ve been doing.” I don’t ease my weapons at her throat, only gesture for her to lead the way.  

We descend into the basement. My fool’s blood actually believed her when she once informed me that anyone who entered would catch Pomes Plague and die within hours. Instead, it’s a chamber with a massive symbol in the center of the floor. A dreamcatcher. Every organ she’s ever collected creates the design and miscellaneous prisms substitute for beads. 

“What is this for?” 

“It activates a portal to different worlds. Heaven, hell, the subconscious mind, the unconscious mind, etc. When you’re out running errands, I often visit hell and try to help the lost souls get closure. They’ve made mistakes and upheld ill philosophies, but they’re not inherently evil. I try to teach them lessons and make it a better home. You’re right when you insist my job is partly a celebration of death. I just don't think anyone should stop learning and growing in the afterlife.” She points to the edge of the room for further corroboration. A legion of ciphers 

graffiti the wall. But I can’t stop watching her and the tear that stains her cheek. It is the first time I have understood her. 

“The healer and that teenage girl who was supposedly killed in the street were working together. She died for real when she touched my blood,” I explain. 

“And I had the misfortune of finding her,” a familiar voice huffs behind us. The healer, clad in armor with five identical henchmen at his back and… Lydia Ducks trapped in his arms. She’s barefoot and dressed in a pink lemonade slip. 

“Hello. I’d like to schedule a funeral for my mother,” he says gently. Mother? 

“Lydia?” 

“‘Lydia?’” He pinches his voice an octave higher. “No, the one you just killed. Or has that paint diet taken a toll on you after all?” 

“You mean the swan girl? She was younger than you,” I retort, still glued to Lydia. She looks disturbed, not afraid. Yet knowing her, she’s probably more upset about her wrinkled garments than being held hostage. 

“Ever heard of immortality? Your boss certainly has.” I glance at Bloodscale for confirmation. She merely nods. 

“Then your mother became immortal? How?” 

“She inherited the dreamcatcher charm, then disregarded it at sixteen because she didn’t want to be a seer, a freak who destroyed lives. So, she brought herself up to a foster home and had me in secret, until the pitiful Pearles adopted her for good and it was my turn to face the orphanage. She sold the charm to a pawn shop when decades later, one little fourteen-year-old child happened to buy it. The charm called to my mother; it wouldn’t leave her alone. Don’t you 

see? It’s not a gift; it’s a curse of evil.” I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. 

“So, you killed Cullen because—” 

“He was trying to save a race that shouldn’t be saved. A real buffer.” 

“And wiping out every seer makes you above a buffer?” I say slowly. He rolls his eyes. 

“Enough of this. Slaughter them both and send them to hell.” 

“Wait a second, gentlemen. Let Lydia go, Mr…. wow, I don’t even know your name. Are you sure you’re important?” Bloodscale quips. 

  “Axel,” he answers. 

“Well, Mr. Important Axel, there’s no reason to kill her if she’s innocent.” 

“Innocent? I know the concept of blackmail is docked in murky waters, but stabbing anyone in the back is considered a crime in my book,” he snarls. Lydia flinches at this and meets my gaze. 

“You sold Cullen out,” I murmur. 

“Yes, but I had no choice! This shitbag gave me a fake celosia elixir for weeks that was supposed to help me conceive a child, when it was actually killing me. He said he would give me the antidote and the real elixir for pregnancy if I told him Cullen’s plans.” 

She pauses. 

“I just wanted something special to love. Something that wasn’t bought or earned. I wanted a family. Soon after the wedding, I realized Cullen didn’t want the same things. I didn’t mean to…” diamond tears stream down her cheeks, smudging the rouge and giving her face an ethereal sheen. They flow between her garnet lips, causing her breath to hitch. Her lilac eyes become drowned in an ink ocean, and her peach complexion morphs into a feathery beast. The 

arm around her neck eases, dropping her to the floor. Her skull cracks open, the blood submerging the remnants of her porcelain doll-esque livelihood.  

Lydia Ducks is gone. I try to think of a lovely memory of her and nothing materializes. Indifferent echoes in my head. No. She was wrong. Even with the right intentions, it wasn’t right. I couldn’t forgive her for Cullen’s death. Nor could I forgive my parents for abandoning me. But I could forgive Bloodscale for her deception. And I definitely could forgive myself. The greatest gift is being able to look at someone completely in darkness. That is how love is found. 

The men approach us now, gripping their samurai swords like they’re kitchen utensils—used frequently with absence of effort. Bloodscale and I intertwine hands. The design on the floor is not the right design to be sent to hell. We would go to the unconscious realm. Blue fire emerges atop the prisms in the circle, and our bodies become ash. Our feculent uniforms transform into glowing gowns, and our skin is dusted with starlight. 

Then, I see it. A world divided by negativity. Defined by the outside rather than our identity. My gift could revive us. I could save us no matter who I am or what I see. I can do it. 

In an explosion of color, the men are seared at our return to the conscious realm. Bloodscale rearranges the code and sends them all to hell. Her dreamcatcher charm is charred beyond recognition. 

“It was bound to happen eventually.” She shrugs. “I am old as hell.” I smile at her. 

“Then you deserve mine,” I say, clutching it. Yet, of course, it’s molded to my skin. 

“Like those damn gloves. It’s okay, you needn’t—” Too late. I take the Liston knife and slice off my remaining hand. She looks like a vignette again. It starts toward the ground, and she scoops it up. 

“Take it with you. I don’t want it.” 

“Who said I’m going anywhere? And why would I bring along your disgusting hand?” she snaps, holding my appendage away. 

“Because you believe going to hell is your purpose. You enjoy making things better there. You might as well do it permanently. It’s okay. Use my dreamcatcher charm to further your cause.”  

She sighs. “I’ve wanted it for a while. But I don’t want you to stop learning and growing either. Those gloves never defined you, Blair. It was your will, your hope for balance. You never saw things in black-and-white.” 

“You’re right. Which is why I need a favor.” I point to another glyph that I haven’t visited yet… 

… I didn’t kill myself. That would imply I was trapped and had to escape. I chose this path. As I journey toward the constellations, my vision is brighter, and my phantom limbs are restored. A raven appears at my side, then falls as a transparent figure rises from its body and takes my hand. But whatever it means, I’m focused on the stars. Dead Roses was a train station, and now I’m finally heading to where I belong: home.