Young Immortals

Three: Scrolls

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Silas says. "Get your drawing equipment."

I blink, reeling from the sudden shift of fate. One second I'm sure to die, and the next I'm drawing for him? He must have spared me out of pity, because what drawing could possibly atone for what I have done? 

"What kind?" I say, recovering quickly. "Ink or —"

But he's already heading out the door. I throw some paper and charcoal in a bag then scramble to keep up with his long strides. He's quiet as we leave the servant's quarters and enter a tea room. Silas twists a coat rack, and the wall twitches and slides open, revealing a hidden passageway. 

Alone in the darkness, he finally speaks. "What's your name?"

"Isobel."

"It just so happens our interests align," Silas says. 

The deeper we walk into the tunnel, the dirtier the air. It becomes smoky and thick, and a mix of voices grows louder, but they're too far away to make out any individual words, especially over the music. 

"You need my silence, and I need a scribe – a discreet scribe. Sounds fair, copper?"

I nod eagerly. Though it's an unusual demand, I'm in no position to refuse. "Thank you for this second chance, Your Highness. I am eternally grateful. And, uh, Isobel."

"What?"

"My name." So you don't have to keep calling my copper.

"Isobel," he repeats, smiling just like the chivalrous knights from the story books. 

Without meaning to, I find myself smiling back, glad Prince Silas found my sketchbook and not one of the malicious fae. Then we round the hallway, and the first thing I notice is a pair of pale blue buttocks jiggling at the ceiling, and it's far from the only one. 

A group of selkie, in various states of undress, make a brothel out of the dim tunnel. Some are carnal with their urgency; others lap wine and sweat off each others' stomachs, lazing twisting their bodies in and out of positions that no mortal could ever bend. One leans over their partner's head to wink at me, and I jerk my head away, my heart slamming against my chest.

As an artist dedicated to studying form, I would hardly blush at a little skin, but the girl who grew up in manors and ballrooms stares wide-eyed at Silas, silently urging him to pass the selkies faster to reach our real destination. Silas meets my stare, sharing none of my concern. "Draw well."

With that, he is gone, leaving me standing there like a fool, utterly dumbstruck. Once I remember how to move my limbs again, I find a quiet corner and start drawing. If feeding into Silas' strange ... procivilvites ... keeps me alive, it is a small price to pay for my life.

When sunrise comes, I trek to the gardens, half asleep. I hold back a yawn as I work on Aerwyna's coronation portrait, my attention half on the princess and half on the sparring grounds. This time, I'm not watching Devlin. 

"Oh my," I say, making a show of squinting my eyes into the distance. "Prince Silas swings at Prince Eldor rather hard..." Silas swung no harder today than any other day, but I needed an excuse to naturally bring him up.

"Silas knows where to draw the line." Aerwyna's hand wanders to her flat belly, a wistful look in her eyes. "I'd trust him to spar my own children, if I had any."

I turn back to the portrait, biting my tongue. When night fell, Silas summons me to the tunnels again, and again the next night, and again the next, until our nightly rendezvous become habit. I spend my days painting for the princess, my nights drawing for Silas, and with whatever scraps of time I have left, I sleep. 

Some times the selkies change for other species, but their activities never do. They make love to each other and themselves while I crouch in a dark, dank corner, wishing I could disappear while I immortalize every line of their bodies in charcoal and papyrus.

I thought getting a new assignment would be a relief– until Silas shows up to my room, scroll in hand, and said he wanted an exact replica by sunrise. I'm smiling as he gives me the scroll. When I unravel it, I nearly choke. 

The end hits the ground and keeps rolling until it reaches the opposite wall. Strange, foreign symbols are packed together so dense that the paper is more black than white.

"Sunrise?" I echo, my voice distant and strangled.

"Sunrise. It's crucial you're not a minute late, understand, Ivy?"

"Isobel," I correct numbly. "And this – well – it's a bit much for one night."

"It is," he agrees, void of concern. "Draw well."

So I spend the night drawing. Halfway through, I splash myself with a bowl of cold water to stay awake. When that stops working, I tie my ponytail to the door handle, so every time I nod off, a sharp tug jerks me back awake. The whole thing is hellish. 

A few minutes before sunrise, I trudge down the halls like a drunk, my arms and clothes smudged with ink. Silas has company in his study – two scholars dressed in long brown robes that sweep across the floor. His fireplace lights them in orange and red hues, crackling softly in the back of the chamber.

"Jane," Silas says, holding out his hand. "Just in the nick of time."

That was his worst guess by far, but I am so tired that I just accept that I am Jane now, and Jane is I. My eyes half shut, I mutter something unintelligible about how delightful second chances are and hand him two scrolls – the master copy and my new rendition. 

Silas holds the scrolls behind his back and shifts them from hand to hand until their order is indistinguishable. Then he splays the scrolls on his desk and addresses the scholars. "Look at the scrolls, but do not smell, taste, or touch. Can you say, from sight alone, which is the fake?"

The scholars circle the scrolls, examining them from every angle and refraction of light. After a few minutes, they reach the same conclusion.

"There's not a doubt in my mind which is the fake," the first scholar says.

"Nor mine," the second scholar agrees.

On the count of three, they point. The first scholar points to the scroll on the left, and the second scholar points to the scroll on the right. A long moment of silence passes. Then we all look at Silas – the scholars bracing for punishment, me hoping for reward. I don't care for praise, but I'd do just about anything shy of murder for a night off.

"That is all," Silas says.

For a moment, no one moves. It takes us a second to understand the dismissal, and then the scholars are scrambling for the exit. I exit last, and as the door swings shut, I glance at Silas – just in time to watch him toss both scrolls into the fireplace. 

My hand shoots out, stopping the door. "You said it was crucial!"

Silas turns from the fire, arching a brow. I freeze, realising that I have just raised my voice at a prince. 

"Yes," Silas replies. "I would have been quite cold, otherwise."