Engin

  Engin could not stop staring. There was something about that backwards boy. Something about him that burned his curiosity.

  Dinner at the manor had never felt so strange. The air of unique company had everyone acting very unlike themselves.

  Boog was quiet and being surprisingly polite with his food. Little Tommy had separated himself from everyone, sitting alone near the head of the table so that no one could bother him. And Cisco... Cisco hadn’t said a word to Isa. They weren’t even sitting together, which as far as Engin could remember... never happened.

  All the boys were on one side of the table, watched over by Mr. Piggot like a hawk, who would, every so often, look up from his plate, stare at nothing in particular while he was chewing and then go back to smearing the large pile of mash on his plate back and forth with a fork.

  On the other side of the dinner table, only Merabella seemed to be making an effort to talk to the stranger boy. Engin had overheard her trying to get a name out of him or a detail or two about what had happened. But it didn’t seem to be of any use. The boy clearly did not speak or understand the sovereign tongue all too well. He seemed the most comfortable with Mabel than anyone else, tapping on her shoulder a few times to gesture for more servings of meat and gravy.

  Maybe it was in the boy’s nature to be this silent. Maybe for him this was all comforting.

  Engin found it unnerving, however. The state of him. So many cuts and wounds barely concealed behind the white of gauze.

  And to be so in the dark about what could have caused it. It was scary.

  As cruel of a thought it was to have, Engin did not feel comfortable having the boy in their home. He wanted him gone.

  Perhaps it was the timing. A night like this, of all the nights. A night of the fog.

  It just didn’t sit right.

  When he was younger, Engin was deathly afraid of the backwards. In seminary school, all the older boys would try to scare him with stories of the backwater shanties and how their shamans would hunt for sovereign children to scorch in the fires for the Wicker God.

  As he grew older and a little bit the wiser, he realized the real malice in those tales was from the ones who were spreading them. But that didn’t stop the stories from being terrifying just the same.

  ***

  “I wonder what happened to him,” whispered Perry, drying cloth in hand.

  They were washing the dishes with Krip after dinner. In the connecting room, Mr. Dooley and Madame Song had sat the rest of the orphans down for song and story by the hearth.

  Engin could see them through the doorway over his shoulder. The backwards boy was still attached to Mabel, seated legs crossed between her and Merabella on the tapestry floor.

  The terra stars had hued down to an evening orange by that time, setting the mood of a warm fire, fitting for the long night.

  Madame Dietrich was rearranging some pots in the cupboards when Mr. Dooley began to strum the strings of his lute.

  Engin listened to the chords hum over the running water; the same, calming, southern hymn that Mr. Dooley loved to perform on quiet nights like these. He had a strong voice, deep and baritone. But more importantly for Engin, he knew Mr. Dooley to be a good-hearted man.

  There was something to be said about intention and music, and how they go hand in hand. A good man’s nature will make every thoughtful rendition feel all the more real. And a bad man’s; hollow and grating.

  At least, that was how Engin saw it.

  “Are you finished with that?” asked Perry, hand outstretched.

  Engin looked down at the plate in his hands. The sink was getting full, and the water was running off a plate that he'd already rinsed many times over.

  “Oh — yes, sorry.”

  Engin turned off the tap and passed the plate over for Perry to dry.

  “Oy.” Growled Krip, placing some more utensils into Engin’s side of the sink. “Watch it. You’re getting it on my shirt.”

  Engin gazed down at the few dark stains riddled over Krip’s cotton smock. He had those knickerbockers on, the fancy ones made of hemp that Lady Elenora had gifted to all of the boys on Tiol’s Eve.

  “What if it was a hound?”

  “Huh?” Krip stared at him, confused.

  Engin turned to Perry, and then back to Krip. “Could it have been a hound?” He repeated. “What attacked him. The bastion says they come down from the highhills during the fog. I read about it in the papers.”

  Perry considered it for a moment, placing some dishes onto a rack. “Could be. But how could he have gotten away. They are normally so fast.”

  “The fog certainly helps.” Engin pointed out.

  “There is that.” Perry nodded.

  “As if it matters....” said Krip, using a sponge to soap a pot. “He shouldn’t have been here in the first place.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Perry.

  Krip rolled his eyes, putting more elbow into his scrubbing. “Think about it. Why was he here of all places? In our district. Probably looking for trouble. Probably got what he deserved, the backward.”

  “No one deserves that,” said Perry.

  “Chase the wrong storm, and a bloody tempest will form,” said Krip, pausing to roll back his falling sleeves. “That’s what Mazio says. The gods are always watching.”

  Engin hadn’t thought of it. Why the boy would have made it all this way in the first place. Most of the backwards lived in the backwater settlements assigned to them by the church. Engin would see groups of them sitting on the orchard trees, eating craw-apples behind his seminary school after the noon bells had tolled. That’s where Little Tommy would run off to all the time too. Past the orchard fences.

  But that was a ways away from their district. And no well-meaning backward would step out of their boundaries unless given good reason to.

  “I know they steal terra stars from noble houses so they can sell them off for coin,” said Krip. “They’d steal anything they can get their hands on really.”

  “How do you know this?” asked Engin.

  “Plett told me. He's seen the troopers take a few of them down for looting near his home.”

  “Plett always has a story for everything,” said Engin, dipping a bowl in and out of the water.

  Krip put down his sponge. “Are you calling Plett a liar?”

  “Actually, yes.” Engin nodded hysterically. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  Krip fostered a frown at that. He shook his head as if annoyed by the sentiment, and then went back into the sink with his sponge.

  “I’ll make sure to let him know that the next time I see him then.”

  Engin rolled his eyes. “Be my guest.”

  “I just don’t see it,” said Perry, trying to reel back the conversation. “He doesn’t seem like the kind to steal. He is so young. Maybe he was lost. Or maybe something like a hound did chase him all this way.”

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  “Believe what you want,” said Krip. “I know what they are like.”

  Krip had a certain hatred for backwards. Something that had grown worse in recent months. Engin hadn’t seen it for himself, but he’d heard from Cisco that Krip had gotten into a fight with one of them behind the seminary school over Little Tommy a few months back. He’d come home with a black eye that day. No one had ever spoken of it again.

  Be it out of disdain or not, Krip’s theory was certainly interesting.

  If there was ever a night to steal from the noble districts... this, was it.

  With the cover of the fog. He could’ve gotten in and out of the streets without ever being seen.

  But then again… was it really the best idea?

  To risk a walk through the fog. People didn’t just fear it for no reason. There were real happenings. Incidents that could not be explained. Cases of madness, missing people, crop death, and whatever else came with the unknown. The fog didn’t just hide you, it hid others from you. It hid the world from you.

  And the photograms... the photograms held their own weight.

  The idea of someone so young to be wandering in the fog for petty theft. Engin just couldn’t see it being real. Unless the boy was forced to. Unless the boy had no other choice.

  A thick hand snapped the back of Engin’s head rather suddenly.

  Burn.

  “I don’t remember placing you three here to yap away at each other the entire time.” Burn grimaced. “Enough talking.”

  Engin leaned farther into his sink and started rinsing the plates more aggressively.

  “Sorry, Mr. Piggot.”

  “I want this entire kitchen cleaned before you go off to bed, you hear?”

  “But Mr. Piggot.” Krip spoke up, putting down his sponge again. “Why won’t you tell us what is going on?”

  “What is going on?” Engin could feel Burn’s breath turn fiery behind him. “Boy, what is going on is that you are being a nosy little MUTT!”

  Burn nearly choked on his own words, looking around to the other caretakers to see if they were listening.

  “I told you this the first time,” he continued, lowering his tone. “It’s not of your concern. You understand me? It’s not any of your concern. The boy will be gone the moment the fog lets up. Until then, you keep your mouth shut and go about things as if he isn’t even here. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, Mr. Piggot.” Krip turned back towards his sink and went back to scrubbing.

  “Stay out of your heads and get to work! All of you. And boy,” he was talking to Krip again. “Scrub it all off. I want nothing left on those plates, or you’ll being doing ‘em for a week like the last time.”

  “Aye.”

  Burn stomped away into the other room. Krip kept a frown on his face for the rest of the evening, and the boys didn’t say another word to each other, unless it was regarding their chores.

  Engin made sure his part of the kitchen was spick and span. The tables and chairs were wiped and arranged as they were before, and the dirty floor was mopped and dried.

  After song and story, the other orphans had cleared from around the hearth and gone back to their rooms. Mabel came into the kitchen for the last time, asking for some water.

  She cornered Engin as he was sweeping the last of his haul into a wooden dustpan.

  “I never got to ask how you were feeling.”

  Behind the brown of her hair, the backwards boy was standing at the doorway, holding a gaze that could freeze a river.

  Mabel looked over her shoulder and then turned back to Engin with a smile. “Madame Song says I should sit with him in the remedy room. Just until she’s done changing his wrapping.”

  “He seems to like you,” said Engin.

  “Maybe. But I’m just trying to be helpful.”

  “Has he said anything?”

  “Nothing I can understand.” Mabel bit on her lip. “I asked you a question, Engin.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “What happened out there...it wasn’t your fault.”

  “I know, Mabe. I’m fine, really.”

  She put her hand on his arm, squeezing it gently. “Good. I’ll see you both tomorrow, then? We can talk in the morning.”

  Mabel pulled Engin into a hug, holding him tight, before going over to Perry and doing the same.

  Engin watched her leave, the backwards boy following her like a tail.

  ***

  “I never got to see your drawing of Mr. Piggot,” said Perry, shoulders hanging low, the weight of the day still lingering in his breath.

  Krip was striding ahead of them, his footsteps echoing along the hollow corridors.

  The caretaker dens yielded to the grand and sweeping expanse of the foyer, where long shadows stretched beneath furniture crafted from chestnut lumber. Above, a resplendent mural unfurled, its once blank canvas reimagined with skyline blues and celestial greens. A chandelier, fashioned like a magpie nest, descended from the vaulted ceiling out of the center of a medallion gilded in burnished gold. The argent frames of the birds cast an almost spectral glow, lighting the chambers beneath with a dim terra star radiance.

  “Tomorrow then.” Engin promised. “I’ll show it to you tomorrow. The very first chance we get.”

  Perry drew a breath, held it and then sighed. “Tomorrow.”

  They came up on the corridor leading to their sleeping quarters. Krip had stopped in his tracks.

  “What is it?” asked Engin.

  “I forgot my flask.”

  “You can have mine for the night,” offered Perry. “I don’t get very thirsty.”

  “No. I want mine. It’s bigger and it’s been washed.”

  “But- mine is washed too-”

  “Where did you leave it?” asked Engin, speaking over Perry.

  “In the kitchen. I’ll just go get it.”

  “We’ll come with you,” offered Engin.

  “No. I can get it myself. It’s not a big deal.”

  “We're not supposed to be walking the halls alone, Krip.” Perry reminded him. “That’s the rules, remember-”

  Krip pushed himself between the boys, ignoring their concern. Engin went to follow him but was stopped at the beat of a powerful knock.

  It was coming from the front door.

  There was another. And then a third. Pounding fists. Each one louder than the last.

  The air tightened. The room moved quieter than it did before.

  Engin’s eyes could not leave the doorframe, as if time itself had stopped and the world around him was slowly fading.

  Who could it be at this hour?

  Perry’s hand brushed up his arm. “Engin…what do we do?”

  Krip moved closer, his eyes also flickering under nervous brows.

  “Mr. Piggot. Get Mr. Piggot,” Engin whispered to Krip.

  “Aye...” Krip managed to say, his voice trailing off. “I’ll go-”

  “Good evening, children.” A voice seeped through the wood of the doors. Cold as the night. “Fascinating time it is. To be out and about.”

  Engin felt his body lose its strength. A numbing fear that struck much like thunder, loud and reverberating. He couldn’t shake away the thoughts anymore. The ponderance of who or what may be waiting on the other side.

  Krip had the urge to say something back to the voice, getting out a few murmurs as Engin put a hand over his mouth.

  Quiet! Signaled Engin, a finger over his lips and an intensity in his eyes.

  Krip shoved him away but stayed mute in the process.

  “Who is that?” Perry whispered, as they backed away from the doors.

  “How should we know?” Krip panicked.

  “Go and get Mr. Piggot!” Engin hissed. “Quickly!”

  “But-”

  “Go! We’ll wait right here.”

  Krip took one last glance at the door before reluctantly sprinting out into the hallways of the manor.

  “Sit down right here,” Engin told Perry, guiding him to a lounge chair. The poor boy was shaking, his arms plagued with tiny gooseflesh.

  The door pounded again.

  Engin’s heart did the same.

  His eyes fell on the doorbell, a small, black, circular knob, attached to the frame of the wood. It was as if he knew it would go off, seconds before it really did. The trill of its vibrations rang like cicadas on a warm solstice evening, only this time, there was no sun. There was no warmth. There was only dread.

  Perry’s eyes widened, his grip on Engin’s arm growing only tighter.

  For a moment, all was quiet again.

  But Engin had had enough.

  He pulled away from Perry, marching towards the dark-wood doors. The peephole was just barely at eye level when he stood on his toes. Behind him, he could still hear Perry’s many pleads for him to stop.

  Curiosity had won over. A deeply frustrating curiosity, about what may be terrorizing them so late into a night of the Kreaman fog.

  The first thing he saw was a flash of gold. An emblem of honor, fastened above the black rimmed visor of a service cap. When the cap lifted, a man’s face appeared. One red scar, across his right cheek, like the crevice of a canyon. His eyes were green. Or were they yellow? He had on a uniform; buttoned and bronze amongst the backdrop of a dense fog. Around him, cold wisps of white and grey moved like ashy ghouls beneath what little light gave from the terra star lanterns at their doorstep.

  “A good evening to you, once more, young one.”

  The man’s smile was almost acidic, as if Engin could smell his breath right through the door. How could the man have known he was there?

  “You-you’re a trooper?” Engin asked, putting his head against the wood of the door and raising his voice.

  “Indeed I am.” The man replied. “Perhaps, I gave you and your brothers a bit of a fright this evening. Something I sincerely apologize for.”

  The man shifted at the doorstep, his eyes slowly fixating on the peephole that Engin was looking through.

  “Ahh... it seems we’ve now formally met. Allow me to introduce myself then.” The man took off his service cap, revealing a fairly long head of black hair. He gave a bow, his lips curving into a mischievous grin, as if he had been saving the pearly smile for this very moment. “Trooper Quro. Trooper Amadeus Tennoleq Quro.”