I look down at the stew in my hands. My appetite is gone, but I force myself to eat anyway, mechanically spooning the foodinto my mouth. I need to keep my strength up. I have to stop these negative thoughts.
It’s going to be fine.
I know what I’m doing.
2
Sebastian
I run my fingers along the last of the raised marks on the heavy parchment, double-checking my work. The quota records for this week are complete. Every detail is precise, every number verified.
I’ve developed a system over several seasons using a combination of textured inks, raised stamps, and notches cut into the edges of each page.
Now comes the final step. I pull the brass writing frame toward me. The frame has parallel grooves that guide my pen in perfectly straight lines, with small notches along the side to mark proper spacing. An old, now-retired scribe helped me design it many summers ago. His replacement helped me perfect it. I’ve used this tool for so long that writing has become second nature to me, even though I am completely blind.
I sigh, wishing I could do something else. It’s not that I don’t enjoy figures; I do. It’s just…
For a moment, I feel a horse beneath me and a sword in my hand. I feel exhilaration. Then I sigh. I have such a vividimagination. I’ve been blind since the day I was born. I can’t ride a horse or wield a sword.
I have a good life.
Plenty coin, a big, airy home.
Why do I feel this need for change? I always have this restlessness swirling inside me.
“Are you alright, Baldwin?” Master Veyron asks from across the room.
“Yes. I’m fine,” I tell him, shoving my thoughts aside.
I might dislike working for the queen, but this is my job. I make excellent wages and am well respected. I’m lucky, given my circumstances. I need to get over myself and get on with it. Almost everyone in this realm works for her…it is how it is.
I dip my pen in the inkwell and continue to transcribe the figures onto a clean parchment, my left hand following the brass guide while my right hand forms each character. The letters may not be as elegant as those produced by sighted clerks, but they’re legible and accurate. That’s what matters.
I put my quill down.
“Perfect, as always, Baldwin.” Master Veyron’s voice comes from somewhere to my left. There is a rustle of his clothes as he moves closer, and I pick up the faint scent of pipe smoke that always clings to him. “I don’t know how you do it. These records are more accurate than what most of my sighted clerks produce, and your writing is remarkably neat for someone who’s never even seen a letter.”
I allow myself a small smile as I blot the wet ink. “Perfect, you say, when you haven’t even checked them yet.”
“I don’t have to.” I hear the smile in his voice. “Apparently, the queen herself commented on the accuracy of last month’s reports.” He pauses, and I can almost feel his gaze on me. “She needs to keep track of all her subjects. Who’s making quota and who,” he sighs, “is not.”
My smile fades at the mention of Queen Snow.
I get an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever she is mentioned. The dislike I feel is almost personal, which is absurd since I’ve never even met her.
“Thank you, Master.” I stand, reaching for my cane where it leans against the desk.
“You’re finished for the day, then?” Veyron asks.
“I am. Unless there’s something else you need?”
“No, no. You’ve done more than enough. Enjoy your evening.”
“Thank you. I wish you the same.” I incline my head in his direction and make my way toward the door.
The records chamber is familiar territory that I could navigate in my sleep. The stone floor changes texture just outside the entrance, rougher limestone giving way to smooth marble.
I’m so focused on my route that I almost miss the sound of hurried footsteps approaching.
