{"id":140387,"date":"2025-08-04T21:48:31","date_gmt":"2025-08-04T21:48:31","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/?p=140387"},"modified":"2025-01-12T21:51:00","modified_gmt":"2025-01-12T21:51:00","slug":"the-eyes-of-a-boy-king","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/?p=140387","title":{"rendered":"The Eyes of A Boy King"},"content":{"rendered":"

\nWe have an hour to do our work, starting before the sun is too fierce. The gates are closed. The stairs cordoned off. We scamper up them. Our buckets slosh. Our brushes rattle. We carry a tall ladder between the three of us. After four years of working together, we\u2019ve worked out a sturdy routine. Bilal sweeps the stairs and the ground around the plinth, pocketing any coins or jewellery he finds, like a fat and tenacious magpie. His back is ruined from scrubbing the stairs and buffing the hand railings until they gleam like the sun beating down on us. Ef, unusually tall for a girl her age, passes her suds-soaked cloth over the statue\u2019s legs, his lowered hands, and his waist. A less serious girl might crack a joke about her constant proximity to the royal crotch. But Ef does not crack jokes. She barely speaks. I clamber up the ladder, a bucket cradled to my hip like a chubby baby, and clean his chest, his shoulders, and his head, which bears a plain circlet. Grime and bird shit collect in his ears and on his protruding throat stone. I whistle a listless tune while I scrub, returning the statue to its usual hearty beige. He is a boy king. Maybe fourteen. Construction on him began when I was four. I have now seen twenty-three Summers. The boy cannot still be a boy unless their<\/em> years truly are as long as I\u2019ve heard, time warping so much he remains eternally young. I get an amazing view of the city from up here. I never grow tired of it, even when my vision is blurred by rivulets of sweat. I can see the bazaar, and the tiny men thronging it, the hanging gardens, and the towers of the Monastery reflecting the sun.\n<\/p>\n

\nI\u2019m coming to the end of my work when I notice movement below and distant voices. A small clump of men have gathered at the rope blocking the stairs. One of them, who looks to be their guide, is pointing at the statue, gesticulating enthusiastically. Slightly removed from them is a woman, sheltering from the heat with a paper umbrella. She catches sight of me watching her, and although I cannot see her eyes, they are covered by tinted spectacles that flash in the sun, I know she is watching me closely. She seems to shimmer in the heat haze, like a mirage.\n<\/p>\n

\nSammy! <\/em>Bilal barks up at me. What are you doing? Get on with it!<\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nMuttering under my breath I return to the boy king\u2019s hairless chin. I climb down and fold up the ladder alone, the others have finished before me. The tour guide’s voice, an unctuous thing, echoes over the stone. He and his companions are making their leisurely way up the now-open stairs. I hoist the ladder under one arm, throw the cloth into the cool, filthy water, and race down the steps. The men in the group ignore my passing, but the woman follows my steps with open curiosity. She twirls the umbrella with each step and smiles at me.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Do you speak Estran?” she asks with no embarrassment.\n<\/p>\n

\nShe can\u2019t be much older than thirty, but her voice carries a resignation and a depth that prickles my skin. I take in the details that I missed at a distance. She is from one of the outer planets judging by her fair complexion. I would guess Estra, she\u2019s not wearing the sweltering fur I\u2019ve seen Uzinian women in. A flaccid straw hat covers her boyish hair which is the color of anaemic caramel. Her dress is shapeless, although not unflattering, and I notice with a flush that has nothing to do with the heat, that it is slightly sheer. The blurred outline of her narrow body looms intriguingly.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Yes, Ma\u2019am,” I say.\n<\/p>\n

\nI learned Estran in school and I\u2019ve picked up a great deal through this job. I still speak in my mother tongue when I\u2019m alone with my uncle. He tells me it is important. I\u2019ve always found it strange that there seems to be only one language on their vast planet. I wonder if it was always that way. My muscles strain under the weight of my load, but I don\u2019t move. She nears me and I get a waft of her perfume, sweet and a little cloying like an apple core that has been left to rot under a bed.\n<\/p>\n

\n“What do you think of him?” she asks, gesturing to the statue.\n<\/p>\n

\nI\u2019m caught off guard by the question. I\u2019m so used to him by now. He\u2019s familiar, almost comfortable, like an old friend, or a benign and ancient cat. I wonder if her question is some kind of test. Her mouth curves knowingly, as though she has some inkling of my dilemma.\n<\/p>\n

\n“He\u2019s impressive,” I say simply.\n<\/p>\n

\nShe makes a decidedly unimpressed noise. “I thought\u2026he would be bigger.”\n<\/p>\n

\nAnd with that, she moves off, to follow her male companions.\n<\/p>\n

\n

\n

\nAfter the cleaning job, I go to the taverna, where I work every other night. It\u2019s a sweaty place in the old city owned by a friend of my uncle. They “specialize” in huge skewers of meat, grilled over open coals then hacked off onto customer’s plates. I don\u2019t think it\u2019s particularly good (I\u2019ve sampled enough leftovers to judge) but it does well with tourists and if that keeps me in a job, I can\u2019t complain. I wash plates and scrape away the burnt edges of meat that grip stubbornly to the metal skewers. It\u2019s tough, greasy work that leaves singes and scrapes on my forearms. The chefs chatter behind me in their harsh, guttural Underlands tongue. I understand enough to grasp that they are sharing a joke about a customer\u2019s ridiculous hat. I try not to get in their way, and they don\u2019t seem to resent me, not openly at least.\n<\/p>\n

\nWhen I return home my uncle has left a candle burning on the kitchen table for me. Beside it is a plate of homemade bread and a brown paste, which I discover, when I dip my finger into it and take a taste, is made with pungent garlic and aubergine from our garden. I inhale it so quickly it\u2019s gone by the time I reach my bedroom. My uncle, who sleeps opposite, is still awake. He\u2019s at his drawing desk, one bare foot crossed over the other. He used to be a cartographer before the Estrans came. Now he works as a laborer at the Monastery, but still keeps the flame alive in the evenings. I look over his shoulder. It\u2019s a map of a dense city I don\u2019t recognize, with a lake at its centre. I begin to hiccup deeply, the dense bread getting to me.\n<\/p>\n

\nYou should eat slower, my girl, <\/em>my uncle says.\n<\/p>\n

\nI was hungry. It was nice.\n<\/p>\n

\nIs that a thank you? <\/em>he asks, turning to face me. He\u2019s entirely bald, his beard almost all grey. There\u2019s a solidity to his wide and stocky frame that I\u2019ve always found comforting.\n<\/p>\n

\nThank you, <\/em>I say, belatedly.\n<\/p>\n

\nYou\u2019re welcome. <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe smiles then, his grey eyes twinkling. He\u2019s tired, but not being cruel. He spent all his cruelty a long time ago. I point to his drawing.\n<\/p>\n

\nWhat is this?<\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nWhat do you think it is?<\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nA city you made up. <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nHis smile grows wistful. No. Look closer. <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nI do. Familiar street names catch my eye, and landmarks from the old city. Maker\u2019s Well, the Meeting House, nestled beside temples and academies that don\u2019t exist.\n<\/p>\n

\nThe old city. Or how you imagine it? <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nYes and no. I\u2019m using the records we keep at the Meeting House, trying to piece things back together. <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt had a lake?<\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nThat\u2019s an embellishment, but parts of the Last Day book suggest one did exist, although not one this large.<\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nBut\u2026where did it go? <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe points down at the floor, scattered with lead fillings. Beneath our feet. Nothing ever dies my girl, remember that. <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nI roll my eyes.\n<\/p>\n

\n“So you say. I need to sleep. Goodnight.”\n<\/p>\n

\nHe gives me the sharp, reproachful look he always does when I speak Estran in his house. I correct myself. Goodnight. <\/em>His expression softens.\n<\/p>\n

\nGoodnight. <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt occurs to me as I slough off my clothes and climb into bed that my sister has not written to me for months. I wonder how far into the depths of the system she made it. A familiar cold ache roils inside me. I should not have burned her previous letters. Sleep comes gently. My last conscious thought is of the beautiful Estran woman at the statue today. And her rotten, sickly scent.\n<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

\n

\n

\nThe great Monastery bell rings until midday. It is a day of rest for them, <\/em>but not for us. The sky is swollen and grey, pressing down on us, promising rain. It doesn\u2019t begin until we\u2019re packing up, sizzling our skin and wiping the sweat from our necks. Despite the torrent, Bilal lingers, showing Ef something glittering in his palm. It\u2019s a pure silver lighter in the shape of an Estran woman. She wears a cloak embroidered with a coiled serpent. The garment is slipping off her, with a plunging neckline that reveals ample cleavage. Her head pops to the side and flame blooms from her neck.\n<\/p>\n

\nBeautiful, <\/em>Bilal purrs, tracing her breasts lewdly.\n<\/p>\n

\nEf scoffs and marches off. I follow, shouting through the rain back at him.\n<\/p>\n

\nYou\u2019re a dirty old man, Bilal! <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe chuckles and jerks his thumb back at our royal friend.\n<\/p>\n

\nSay that again when I\u2019m living like him. <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nI take the ladder back to the cleaning cupboard tucked behind the ticket booth. Opposite the statue is a shop selling trinkets and souvenirs for tourists. There\u2019s an arch next to it and I shelter under it, watching puddles form with alarming speed. A black cat comes under the shelter, weaving between the legs of the person next to me. They flinch and I look up at them. It\u2019s the woman from yesterday. She\u2019s not with her group and she looks dishevelled. Her hair is clotted with rain, hanging in damp strands, her umbrella wet through. Her dress, a blue version of yesterday, is more sheer than before. She looks not unlike the drowned cat beside us. I pick him up, the feral cats of this city and I are good friends. He purrs against my chest, and I scratch his ears. The woman is watching me, recognition slowly dawning on her. The ghost of a smile brightens her gloom.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Hello again,” she says.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Hello.”\n<\/p>\n

\nThe cat struggles from my grip, obviously realizing I have no food. He sprints away from us, to find prey and a warm, dry place to sleep. She watches him with interest.\n<\/p>\n

\n“I was led to believe that it never rained here.”\n<\/p>\n

\nI chuckle. “Not often. But when it rains, it rains\u2026<\/em>You\u2019re alone today?”\n<\/p>\n

\n“Yes” she says, tightly.\n<\/p>\n

\n“If I may say, it is dangerous here for a woman alone.”\n<\/p>\n

\nShe sniffs. “Yes. I\u2019m learning that. But I\u2019d rather be alone than with them. <\/em>Utter bores. They were going to the Monastery today. I didn\u2019t much fancy it.”\n<\/p>\n

\n“It is <\/em>beautiful.”\n<\/p>\n

\n“I\u2019m sure. I was just hoping for a\u2026more authentic view of the city. Everything we\u2019ve been shown is from the old country. I could see it all in Carmellia City.”\n<\/p>\n

\nI\u2019ve heard tales of their Northern city-state, the jewel in the crown of Estra.\n<\/p>\n

\n“You\u2019re from there?” I ask.\n<\/p>\n

\n“I am. Have you had the pleasure?”\n<\/p>\n

\nAs though I could afford to travel off the planet.\n<\/p>\n

\n“No. I\u2019ve never left the city.”\n<\/p>\n

\nShe regards the statue absently, her expression one of surprise.\n<\/p>\n

\n“So you know it well?”\n<\/p>\n

\nI shrug and think of my uncle’s maps.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Not as well as some.”\n<\/p>\n

\nShe looks back at me and the force of her interest takes me aback.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Would you show me it? How you <\/em>see it. How the people of this place live.”\n<\/p>\n

\nDifferent from one another. No two streets are the same, they never have been. Impossible to encompass it all. Even if I wanted to spend my afternoon playing tour guide. “I\u2019ll pay you,” she declares, with the sharpness of a whip crack.\n<\/p>\n

\nNow there\u2019s <\/em>an opportunity. She bleeds wealth. And if I play my cards right, I can fill my cup today. Maybe enough to pay off my gambling debts. Or get off planet for a week or two. Or, my mind spinning out into wilder possibilities, let my uncle retire in peace, rent my own place. I reign myself in, taking a steadying breath.\n<\/p>\n

\n“How much?”\n<\/p>\n

\nShe smiles, with all her teeth, like a predator baring its assets.\n<\/p>\n

\n“How much do you want?”\n<\/p>\n

\n“Six hundred marks.”\n<\/p>\n

\nIt\u2019s a ridiculous, brazen amount as starting offers go. Half of my yearly wages. But there\u2019s something about her that emboldens me. Her eyes narrow, and I panic, thinking I\u2019ve judged her affluence poorly. But she doesn\u2019t scoff or walk away.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Four hundred,” she purrs.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Five hundred.”\n<\/p>\n

\nI feel myself flush. I somehow hold my nerve, meeting her sharply amused gaze. When she speaks her voice is slow and tart, like marmalade dripping down the edge of a jar.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Fine.<\/em>”\n<\/p>\n

\nI try to hide my giddy relief, but it must cross my face. She looks satisfied, far too satisfied for a woman just talked out of five hundred marks. “I want to eat.” Her accent turns want <\/em>and eat <\/em>into staccato slashes. It rings with authority. I don\u2019t need any more convincing.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Come on then,” I say, guiding her to the tram station.\n<\/p>\n

\n

\n

\nThe tram rattles a path through the city, rain hammering so hard on the windows they look as though they might break. But still, it keeps going. It always has. Not stopping for the rain. Or drought. Or war. Or rust. An unholy marriage of wood and steel, long and narrow, the benches so hard they jar bones. I opt to stand as always. She sits and looks like she instantly regrets it. She\u2019s bewildered, that much I can tell. By the tram\u2019s speed, the darkness of the tunnels it thunders through, the flash of tiered houses mere inches from us, and by the bodies spilling on and off, their smells and heft and hue. Others seem similarly bewildered. Her people. One Estran couple stands with a local man, younger than me. He\u2019s holding so many bags he looks like a pack horse. We catch eyes and he looks away, something like shame on the slope of his shoulders. I return my gaze to my companion. Beneath her primal panic is a slow realization. She\u2019s taking in the chip of the wood, the warp of the metal. This beast is older than two decades. Her people didn\u2019t build it, as she\u2019d first assumed.\n<\/p>\n

\nWe get off in the old city. It\u2019s a short walk to my favorite lunch spot. A cafe infested with feral cats and elderly men. Both greet me, the men expelling thick plumes of hashish that wrinkle her nose. They stay for hours here, making epics of their meals and their conversations. We take a booth in the back, the stone warm and cracked from days of baking in the sun. I order for both of us, at her request. Cold tea to drink, infused with mint and native sellis root. And several small plates: fresh and grilled vegetables, balls of deep-fried split peas, potatoes roasted and basted in spiced tomato, slow-cooked lamb, strips of dried ox. I try to explain each dish, but they arrive at such a relentless pace it becomes impossible. At first, she eats with the fork our waiter provides but when she sees me eating with my hands she follows suit. She gorges herself like a woman long denied and never sated. Juices, hot oil and blood coagulate and drip down her cheeks and forearms. She licks them from her fingers with enough relish that I look away, embarrassed. She finally speaks. I am too drowsy and swollen to do anything but listen. She tells me about her home in Carmella City (which she simply calls The Capital). Her father is a famed wine producer, and her family owns vineyards that stretch for miles. I feel a twinge of panic at this. She\u2019s not just a wealthy tourist but an heiress. <\/em>Perhaps it\u2019s unwise to embroil myself with her, to deal with the consequences of her coming to any harm. But the promise of five hundred marks bats that fear away. She talks of the city\u2019s mountains, the Monasteries twice as large as the one here, the theatres and galleries. After post-graduate study, she was going to join “The Order”.\n<\/p>\n

\n“I nearly had my veil,” she says with obvious pride.\n<\/p>\n

\nI\u2019ve seen red-veiled women near the monastery. They wear the same smell as her. “I would have been a missionary, but\u2026” she trails off, biting her flushed lower lip. “I had a\u2026crisis of faith.” This sentence catches on my mind, there\u2019s a rehearsed quality to it. “So, I stepped away from it and I\u2019ve been travelling for a year. I\u2019ve seen all the provinces of the Continent, the Archipelago. Uzin, for a brief period. And now here. I\u2019m taking a caravan to the desert tomorrow.”\n<\/p>\n

\n“What do you make of it so far?”\n<\/p>\n

\nShe cleans the dirt from beneath her lacquered nails.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Once you get away from our <\/em>fingerprints. It\u2019s striking. Alien. A little dangerous. In need of some taming if it\u2019s to become a respectable <\/em>place. But I\u2019d rather see it unvarnished.”\n<\/p>\n

\nMy jaw twitches at this. She pays for our meal, tipping our waiter a blanching amount. He pockets it before she can change her mind or realize her mistake. She dabs her mouth with a napkin. “Where next?”\n<\/p>\n

\n

\n

\nThe rain stops miraculously, and the sun emerges from behind pale clouds. We walk along the city walls, her a little ahead of me. The back of her long, pale neck bears the ugly redness of sunburn. She looks out on the hazy desert dunes.\n<\/p>\n

\n“What\u2019s beyond it?” she asks, with childlike innocence.\n<\/p>\n

\n“More desert. Miles and miles of it.”\n<\/p>\n

\n“And beyond that?”\n<\/p>\n

\n“The foothills. And the city of Manin. What\u2019s left of it.”\n<\/p>\n

\nHer slim brows knit together. “My guide pamphlet mentioned settlements. Surely nothing lives out there?”\n<\/p>\n

\n“Yes. Many settlements. Ancient travelling communities. Underlanders.”\n<\/p>\n

\nShe\u2019s sceptical, that much is obvious, but she doesn\u2019t push the matter. We descend the stairs into the oldest part of the city. I take her to Maker\u2019s Well. It\u2019s the width of two tall men. A metal grate covers it now, after the incident last Summer. Gatherers throw coins and prayer sheets into it. Teens walk across the grate, giggling at their own brazenness. Old women sit on the lip of it, chatting seriously. She reads the sign next to it, written in Estran, and contemplates the void for a long time. It\u2019s so deep that voices echo back to the surface and no light can pierce it. She frowns again.\n<\/p>\n

\n“So, your gods live beneath the earth, not in the stars?”\n<\/p>\n

\n“Yes. That\u2019s the belief. He gives us water and all the food we need. But He is one God. And He is not mine.”\n<\/p>\n

\n“You don\u2019t believe?”\n<\/p>\n

\n“No” I say, curtly. And we leave it at that.\n<\/p>\n

\nShe tells me that she\u2019s hungry again. Impressed by her insatiable appetite I take her to a dessert seller. A hunched woman and her daughter sit on stools outside their house, manning a sizzling flat iron and a bubbling pot of oil. They cook a pancake on one side, fill it with sweet cheese and deep fry it in the oil before dipping it in a simple syrup and dusting it with ground nuts. She moans with pleasure at the first bite. Warmth fills my belly, that has nothing to do with the fried treat. It is chased quickly away by decency, but she must notice a change in my expression and the redness of my cheeks. She smiles slyly. I grow hotter and look away. I can feel her eyes on me.\n<\/p>\n

\n“You said it was dangerous for a woman alone here,” she says at length.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Is it not on every world?”\n<\/p>\n

\n“I suppose so. But you <\/em>were alone this afternoon.”\n<\/p>\n

\n“I know where to go and where is less\u2026”\n<\/p>\n

\nI am at a loss for their word for it. The places you don\u2019t stray at night, or the places you only <\/em>stray at night.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Safe?” she offers.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Yes.”\n<\/p>\n

\nShe leans forward. Eager. Hungry.\n<\/p>\n

\n“I don\u2019t want safe<\/em>.” There\u2019s a daring to her voice. Lust and violence mingling too easily.\n<\/p>\n

\n“What are you saying?”\n<\/p>\n

\n“When I visited the city of L\u00faxame they had a district where women\u2026sold themselves. I found it fascinating. You must have something like that here?”\n<\/p>\n

\nWe do. I visit it most paydays. But it\u2019s a rowdy place.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Yes, but Ma\u2019am if anything happens to you while you\u2019re in my company-”\n<\/p>\n

\n“-I assure you, no one from home knows where I am.”\n<\/p>\n

\nI have but a moment to consider that admission, and what it could mean, before she gives me a stare that steals any rebuttal right out of my mouth. It\u2019s flinty. Frightening.\n<\/p>\n

\n“I\u2019ll pay you double. A thousand marks. Consider it insurance.”\n<\/p>\n

\n“You\u2019re serious?”\n<\/p>\n

\n“Absolutely.”\n<\/p>\n

\nI gulp. Audibly.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Alright.”\n<\/p>\n

\n

\n

\nThe fragrance of raw meat is high in the air. Low wooden tables line the street. Women shear glistening flesh from bones. Sweat and sweet fruit thrust themselves into our noses. It\u2019s heady, even for me. The hawkers, not used to female tourists in this area, find her quickly. I turn my back for a second and find a bent elderly woman touching her milk-white skin, pouring sickly compliments in her ear. She offers bracelets that I know we could get for half the price a handful of streets away. I take her arm and lead her away. I don\u2019t let go until we have crossed the street. Her skin is so <\/em>soft. I finally release her, but I stay close.\n<\/p>\n

\nWe reach a street where red lanterns sway in the evening breeze. Drunk men reel past us, shouting, jostling, their staggering steps picking up flurries of dust. Women languish and pose in the wide windows. One bawdy house is particularly gaudy, the women luscious and dark, smokey-eyed, wrapped in scarves despite the heat. An overblown interpretation of desert travellers, so \u2018exotic\u2019 it\u2019s comical. But she is transfixed, staring up at them, matching their challenging looks. One woman is called away and emerges at the house\u2019s entrance, where a flock of Estran men wait. She wraps them in her scarves and guides them upstairs. I wonder, not for the first time, who is the carrion and who is the vulture. Stuffed on the sight of pleasure and rich flesh we reach the relative calm of the Meeting House. I peer in the window. To my relief, Raban isn\u2019t working the bar tonight. I owe him fifty marks for a disastrous game of Court Intrigue. Yet I still hesitate for a moment on the threshold. She\u2019s watching me curiously and I see in the bold interior glow that one of her eyes is brown, the other blue, the irises ringed with purple. Her cheeks are rosy like she\u2019s been drinking. Her mouth curves in a now familiar knowing smile. She is fiercely beautiful. I return her smile and open the door. Music greets us. The place is packed, chairs laid out in the centre, facing the stage where a lone woman plays a zither. We squeeze into the back, pressed against the wall, our bare shoulders brushing. I lean in to ask her if she wants a drink and nearly swoon at the strength of her perfume. She shakes her head, busy enjoying the performance. We watch the rest of the set, which is sharp and keening. I\u2019m glad when it\u2019s over. In the applause and the bustle of chairs that follow, I move to the bar. The bartender tonight is a woman I know by sight. Her hair is cropped, and she has a hollowness that is intimidating. I gesture to a door to the right of the bar. The bartender looks between the two of us.<\/p>\n

\nAsher says it\u2019s okay? <\/em>she asks.\n<\/p>\n

\nI nod, my voice will betray me. She bites the inside of her cheeks, making them more gaunt. Fine. But she behaves. You understand? <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nI nod again and we head through the door. The floor slopes down and we emerge into the high-ceilinged meeting hall. It is empty. The smoking room is to the left. Men\u2019s voices, the clack of tiles, and acrid fumes leak from beneath the closed door. I press a finger to my lips and she nods. We steal across the room to the far door. The library is dark. The lanterns sputter into life with a stiff turn. She blinks, taking in the austere rows of books, glass cases with yellowed maps and broadsheets, and the paintings lining the walls. It has that distinctive musty smell of ancient pages. We wander through the stacks, and I explain in a whisper that these are books, diaries, records, and narratives that have been saved from fire and rubble. Generations of art, history, food, culture, language. An archive of us. Her eyes burn with fascination. She admires each painting possessively.\n<\/p>\n

\n“There\u2019s so much here,” she breathes, carefully turning the pages of a book on The Maker I\u2019ve handed her.\n<\/p>\n

\n“So much more was lost.”\n<\/p>\n

\nHer eyes flick up to me and then back to the book. The corners of her mouth flex. There\u2019s a scuff of footsteps behind us. We both start at this new sound invading the hushed space. I crouch, instinctively making myself as small as possible, and peer through the shelves. There\u2019s a figure in the threshold. A man. He steps into the room, calling out as he does.\n<\/p>\n

\nHello? <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nIt\u2019s Asher\u2019s baritone. He\u2019s a friend of my uncle and the unofficial librarian of this place. A wiry, jumpy man, like a feral dog. He will not be happy to see her kind here. I curse my stupidity and take her hand, leading her down the row of shelves. I hope we can flank him and slip out without him seeing us. We are making good progress when her foot catches on the shaded edge of a display case and she stubs her toe. The book she\u2019s holding falls to the floor with a heavy smack. Asher whips around. He\u2019s distorted through the glass, but he sees us. He dashes towards us, his feet slapping on the stones. His confusion curdles into anger at the sight of me. And her.\n<\/p>\n

\nWhat is this? <\/em>he demands. He points at her. Sammy, what is this?\n<\/p>\n

\nI\u2019m showing her the city, <\/em>I explain, my voice trembling.\n<\/p>\n

\nHe scoffs and gathers up the book she dropped. Then show her their temple on the hill, the monuments to their generals! <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nI scrabble for excuses. I thought she might find the library interesting. <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe turns to her, switching to accented Estran. His voice is calm but there\u2019s an edge of danger that makes my heart pound.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Have you found our fair city interesting <\/em>my lady?”\n<\/p>\n

\nHer gaze darts from me to him. I nod, giving frightened permission.\n<\/p>\n

\n“I have. This\u2026archive in particular.” She points an imperious finger at the book in Asher\u2019s hand. “I was actually hoping to take part of it home with me.”\n<\/p>\n

\nMy heart sinks. Asher\u2019s nostrils flare. When he finally speaks, I can feel the heat of his anger, insistently pressing against each word.\n<\/p>\n

\n“They do not leave this place.”\n<\/p>\n

\n“No?” she asks. “Not even for a sizeable donation?”\n<\/p>\n

\nHe smiles. It is a horrible thing.\n<\/p>\n

\n“No.” He steps towards the door, his free hand guiding us to it. “I must ask you to leave.”\n<\/p>\n

\n“Come.” I say, taking her elbow, trying to impart in one word the mistake we\u2019ve both made. She moves with me, but to my dismay, she continues speaking to Asher.\n<\/p>\n

\n“I\u2019m sure it would be beneficial to many scholars in The Capital. They would compensate you extremely-”\n<\/p>\n

\nAsher snarls over his shoulder. –Sammy make this bitch of yours stop. I beg you.\n<\/p>\n

\nDon\u2019t call her that! <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\n“What did he say?” she asks in a whisper.\n<\/p>\n

\nI ignore her, squeezing her elbow and quickening my step until we are abreast of Asher. We are out of the library now, back into the meeting hall.\n<\/p>\n

\nAsher, <\/em>I plead. I\u2019m sorry. I know we\u2019ve offended. But she insisted. She wanted to see the “real” city. <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe stops, his entire body rigid. His face is half-hidden in ancient, reeking shadows.\n<\/p>\n

\nReal? <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe moves then, cobra fast, grabbing her arm and wrenching her from my grasp. “I\u2019ll show you real.” She cries out in pain but cannot battle his strength. He drags her towards the corridor.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Get your hands off <\/em>me!” she shouts.\n<\/p>\n

\nHer voice reverberates but goes unheeded. I scramble after them, in my panic I trip on a cracked stone, hitting the floor, winded and coughing on dust. By the time I scramble to my feet and catch up, they are at the end of the sloping corridor. Asher bangs his way into the bar. The patrons turn at the commotion. The music stops.\n<\/p>\n

\nAsher! <\/em>I cry. Please, stop! We\u2019ll leave! <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe is deaf to me and her objections. He forces her bodily out of the Meeting House and into the night. He turns down the narrow alleyway to the left and I realize with stabbing dread where he is taking her. Behind the Meeting House is a small cemetery, surrounded by a low fence. The cats nesting there scatter as he hurls her to the ground. She lands sprawled, soil smattering the front of her dress. There are thirty graves here, but the space only allows for half as many. No fine headstones, just lopsided sticks and rocks to mark each stifled grave. Most are plain, some are hung with beads and flowers. The ground is bloated and bubbling from the afternoon\u2019s deluge.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Look at it!” Asher screams. He is incensed. Wild. “Look! My daughters are here. My wife.” He points at me, spittle flying through the air. “Her parents! Killed by your <\/em>people. How dare <\/em>you make a spectacle of our misery. You\u2019ve taken ENOUGH!” <\/em>He spits at her and barges past me, his shoulder colliding with me. Don\u2019t ever come back here Sammy! <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nShe pants into the dirt and reaches up slowly to clean the globule of spit from her cheek. Her eyes flick to me and back to the ground, I am too naked to look upon.\n<\/p>\n

\n“I\u2019m sorry.” I stammer. “It was a mistake-I-I shouldn\u2019t have-”\n<\/p>\n

\n“No-” she says darkly. “I did ask.” She rises with surprising dignity, making a valiant effort to wipe away the wet earth. “I\u2019ve seen my fill. I want to go back now.”\n<\/p>\n

\n

\n

\nWe sit side by side on the tram. It\u2019s thick with the evening crowds. No one bats an eye at her soiled dress. We are silent, adrenaline coiling between us. Asher\u2019s grip has left a red mark on her bicep. I\u2019m jolted from a heavy reverie by her hand on my upper thigh. Her fingers splay, and she strokes the thin fabric of my trousers. It\u2019s deliberate, tender. Possessive. Blood pounds in my ears. Between my thighs. I look up at her. She meets my gaze with smouldering intensity. And open pity. She doesn\u2019t move her hand for the rest of the journey.\n<\/p>\n

\nWe get off where we began and, without exchanging a word, I follow her to her hotel. It is somehow more lavish than I imagined, with a chandelier presiding over the foyer. I stare in awe as we wait for the lift, a golden, caged affair. It is manned by a local who looks so much like my father I do a double take. He smiles at me. I have to stare at my murky reflection on the floor to gain control of myself. Her room is vast and inky dark. She struggles to light the oil lamps; her hands are shaking so badly. I help, in my clumsy way. When the job is done, she turns to face me. She looks tired. And tense. She takes a step towards me.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Open your mouth.” she commands dispassionately.\n<\/p>\n

\nI do, unthinkingly. There\u2019s no room for thinking in the face of a thousand marks. She pulls my lips back, widens my jaw, and inspects my teeth. Satisfied, she closes my mouth with a sharp click. “You\u2019re clean?” I know what she means, what she wants. I\u2019ve known since her hand claimed my thigh on the tram. But some distant part of me is still surprised. The Estrans I\u2019ve encountered before are prudish about sex between women. I\u2019ve heard it\u2019s forbidden in some parts.\n<\/p>\n

\n“I am.”\n<\/p>\n

\nHer cold hand finds my throat with lazy resignation. You\u2019ll do, <\/em>it seems to say. She squeezes, not tightly, but with enough pressure that I can feel my rapid pulse against her palm. She pulls me to her, and our lips meet. She tastes like the city, and rot. With practiced ease, she pushes me against the wall, slipping her free hand into my trousers. Her palm muffles my groans. It stinks of dirt and new coins. She strips out of her ruined dress, her naked body ghostly in the gloom. We move to the bed. I am slow, my lips finding the hollow of her throat, where her pulse jumps. Her eyes shine in the dark, her cheeks wet with tears. I can\u2019t ignore them. I kiss them away and put my hand between her legs. She gasps. I watch her come apart, feeling powerful and spent.\n<\/p>\n

\nWe slip beneath the lilac-scented covers and sleep for a time, waking to fresh rain rattling the broad window. She is curved against me, her hand resting on my belly. She stirs and kisses my shoulder. I turn to face her, letting her free me of my clothes. Her mouth forges a stolid path down my body, and I laugh into the plush pillows.\n<\/p>\n

\nWe wake again with the sun, and like the morning, she is suddenly gloomy and cold, staring at the pristine ceiling with a pinched brow. I ponder this as I dress wordlessly in her beautiful, empty room. Is it regret? Shame? Or maybe she makes a habit of this, in every city and port. I\u2019m just one of many. And whatever intrigue I held has quickly faded. I gather my sandals where they have fallen beneath the bed. She rises, moving stiffly, like she is carrying pain. Her white skin absorbs the morning light, which reveals mottled bruises, left by me and Asher, and some that look older. She pulls her hair away from her face and regards the ruined dress, one hand on her hip, the other tracing her collarbone. She sighs and dresses. Her window looks out on a sheltered courtyard, tiny brown birds flitting from the branches of an olive tree. I don\u2019t remember the last time I saw an olive tree. I feel awkward, as though awaiting instruction. She returns from the bathroom, with a sullen set to her jaw.\n<\/p>\n

\n“I must pack and go to breakfast,” she says with a notable edge of annoyance.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Can I join you?”\n<\/p>\n

\n“No. I don\u2019t think that would be a good idea.”\n<\/p>\n

\nI feel suddenly sick and cold. Like a chastized child. She rummages in her engorged purse and pulls out two crisp notes. A thousand marks. More money than I\u2019ve ever seen in my life. An image of the boy king graces them. He looks less like a boy, his cheeks more solid. He and she share the same full lips. I swallow my hurt and pocket the notes, feeling an acute kinship with the women on the red lantern street. “Thank you,” she says, formally. “It was\u2026educational.”\n<\/p>\n

\n“You\u2019re welcome.”\n<\/p>\n

\nShe opens the door for me. “The language you were speaking with him, what was it?”\n<\/p>\n

\n“My language,” I say simply. I\u2019m tired of explaining.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Say goodbye to me in it,” she commands.\n<\/p>\n

\nI smirk at this last indignity.\n<\/p>\n

\nFuck you. <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nAnd without a second glance, I stalk from her room.\n<\/p>\n

\n

\n

\nI worked my arms too hard at the taverna last night. Scrubbing so violently that the pans quaked in fear. I feel it in how they tremble when I lift the bucket and the heaviness of my legs as I climb down the ladder.\n<\/p>\n

\nHave you been getting some action Sammy? <\/em>Bilal asks with a wink.\n<\/p>\n

\nShut up Bilal. <\/em>Ef snaps.\n<\/p>\n

\nWe are both startled by the sound of her voice. I muster a grateful smile.\n<\/p>\n

\nNo. <\/em>I say to Bilal. Just tired. <\/em>\n<\/p>\n

\nHe looks immediately guilty and claps me on the back.\n<\/p>\n

\nWell, look after yourself. See you tomorrow.\n<\/p>\n

\nYep. <\/em>I say.\n<\/p>\n

\nThe cat is under the arch again, cleaning himself. I consider him, and the shop beside him. Despite working near it for years I\u2019ve never been inside. A bitter kind of curiosity grips me, a desire to see how we sell ourselves to her <\/em>kind, what level we\u2019ll stoop to.\n<\/p>\n

\nThe cat watches me impassively as I walk into the trinket shop. It’s uncomfortably narrow and labyrinthine. Tacky baubles are hung in thick tangles. Every shelf is packed. Replicas of Estran uniforms, bullets, and flintlocks. In an alcove, I find dozens of wooden miniatures of the king\u2019s statue. A near-perfect replica. I trace the line of his ear, feeling an unexpected fondness and a need to possess him, as he does all my people. Perhaps I\u2019ll keep him on my bedside table, to remind me of my time with her. The decadence and the humiliation of it. The painful, delicious tussle for power between us, and all the things it taught me. I carry him to the counter in the back and set him down. The shopkeeper turns to me.\n<\/p>\n

\n“Hello,” he says.\n<\/p>\n

\nHis smile falters. I recognize him. He was in my elocution class during my last year of school. He could never get the Estran vowels right. I remember the burst vein on the back of his hand, pumping blood. It dripped down his arm and sullied the floor. One of the sisters had smacked him with a meter ruler. I see from his baleful look that he remembers me too. He picks up the statue, his still scarred hand moving mechanically to a bag on his right. He stops, opening a drawer beside the bags. With slow, affectionate movements he gift-wraps the bust and packages it into a neat box. I set one of her crisp notes on the counter. They\u2019ve been burning a hole in my pocket since she gave them to me. It\u2019s reckless of me, but I\u2019ve not known what to do with them. He doesn\u2019t flinch at the amount, only shakes his head.\n<\/p>\n

\nKeep it, <\/em>he says.\n<\/p>\n

\nHe\u2019s so sober I don\u2019t argue, just nod, pocketing the bust and the money. They nestle comfortably together, like a long-married couple. As I leave the shop with my spoils I brush against the thickets of densely packed mementos. They rattle like prayer beads. And grasp like ghosts.\n<\/p>\n

Frances Gribben works at a public library in Oxford, England and loves writing queer-centric stories. When she’s not writing she can be found swimming, playing Dungeons and Dragons, and bothering the local cats.
\n You can find more of her work on Instagram @francesmgribben.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

We have an hour to do our work, starting before the sun is too fierce. The gates are closed. The stairs cordoned off. We scamper up them. Our buckets slosh. Our brushes rattle. We carry a tall ladder between the three of us. After four years of working together, we\u2019ve worked out a sturdy routine. …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":107978,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,20140],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-140387","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-53-autumn-2024","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140387","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/107978"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=140387"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140387\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":140389,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140387\/revisions\/140389"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=140387"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=140387"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=140387"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}