Even though all the apprentices from the Hall of Hue scoured the buildings and cloister that night, they still found bits of color swirling around the next day, low to the ground. As Ishmael bent down to nudge a stubborn streak of yellow into a vial, Phoebe walked through the arch into the workroom and disappeared into Color Master’s office.
“You cannot be serious!” Color Master’s voice rang through the door. There was a bit of mumbling, and Phoebe exited, wearing the smock of the Hall of Hue. Her face was pale, and her unnatural silence made Ishmael wonder if the sound waves that stitched her together had unraveled. He also noticed that the pitch pipe encircling her wrist was gone.
Moments after Phoebe left the workroom, Color Master came out of her office, her hand on the doorjamb.
“May I have your attention, please?” Her eyes were deeply shadowed and creased with worry. Her red robes were wrinkled and smudged with color.
Color Master waited until all prisms were set down, all hands paused, all eyes on her. “The Sound novice, Phoebe, is to join us temporarily. Though she opened our jars innocently enough, the fact remains that we’ve lost the better part of our supplies and the majority of a year’s work of distilling. There will be further investigation as to why this happened. In the meantime, Sound Master has released her from her duties there temporarily.”
“But what will she do since she can’t even see the colors? She’s not going to sing, is she?” Jacob asked. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Whose bread I eat, his song I sing,” Thomas muttered.
“She will scrub the hall, do the dusting and cleaning, and take over novices’ chores. That will free you to begin higher tasks, for everyone is desperately needed.” Her gaze searched the room. “Is Luc here?”
Luc raised his hand from a corner of the room.
“Despite present circumstances, Luc, I’m glad you’re still with us. We must attempt to replace our stores as best we can in time for our role in the Jubilee.”
Ishmael looked closer at Luc. Something—Color Master’s confidence or the sense of renewed purpose—seemed to breathe new life into him. His eyes had brightened, and he no longer looked hollow. Perhaps he would talk to Ishmael now, or at the very least, let Ishmael apologize.
Color Master turned to the novices. “The color we use for creation is taken from a yearly gift of light given to us from the astronomae at the House of Light. I have applied to them for an increase in our supply, but it will take some time before we receive a replacement.”
“And the light here isn’t strong enough to use?” Lilith asked.
“Not for posticum work. We can only use this light for making processed color.”
“So what are we going to do?” The words flew from Rebekah’s mouth with a hint of panic.
“We’ll separate and distill color from the supply of light that we saved. That will guarantee the least amount of waste. This color is what we will use for the Jubilee posticum.”
“We won’t be using the prism-direct method of coloring?” an older apprentice said.
Color Master shook her head. “We can’t. We simply don’t have enough light, and we won’t be able to get the quantity we need in time.”
“You mean …?”
“Yes, we’ll have to use the older methods.”
The apprentice’s jaw dropped. “But that will take too long!”
“What choice do we have? The increase of light from the astronomae won’t come in time for the Jubilee posticum.”
“Can’t we get more light from somewhere else?” Lilith asked.
“Yes, we have received permission to seek out additional light from the posticums with an open portal to the Commons, but the strength of light from any source other than the astronomae could be questionable.
“The light that is released at the opening of a posticum is like a seed. It grows into its own fully developed source of brightness. The light in the posticums is newer and stronger than the light we have here, and the astronomae tell me that small quantities of this light can be siphoned off with little effect to the inhabitants of the posticums. The problem is that most of the posticums with an open portal to the Commons are very old as well.”
Their faces turned glum.
“You see the seriousness of the situation. The majority of us will undergo light-gathering expeditions in these posticums with the hope of getting a large enough quantity of usable light to supply us until the astronomae can get us more.”
“How long will that take?” Luc asked.
Color Master shook her head. “I can’t answer that. It might take some time. There is some urgency for this expedition, because we have no control over the opening or the closing of the Jubilee posticum, and thus, we need as much light as we can get as soon as possible. We will begin our preparations and leave tomorrow. Are there any other questions?”
Lilith raised her hand. “What happens to the color we didn’t capture?”
“The colors will break down in time. Distilled color is only permanent when it is used in the design phase of creation. If it is used on something else, it eventually decays. That’s one of the reasons we need Phoebe here now. The workroom will be a very dirty place for the next couple of weeks until all the color has broken down.”
That must be why the color on his boot crumbled off, Ishmael thought. A second later, he realized the colors inside the barn at home would have decayed by now, too. It would look much the same as it always had—only dirtier, if that was possible. He could never have color at home, because any color he produced would only be temporary.
Color Master’s face hung heavy, aging her. She surveyed the room. The novices gathered at the door to the supply room. The under-apprentices stood in the light storage area, still holding stone jars and stoppers in their hands. The older apprentices were at their workbenches with vials of half-collected colors and nearly empty jars of light. “There is much to be done.” She nodded toward the workroom again. “As you were.”
Ishmael worked doggedly all that morning. His eyes were gritty, his fingers ached from being clamped around his prism, and his arms were tired, even though it was still early in the day. But he couldn’t stop. He had to show Luc that he was on his side.
Ishmael had almost finished with one vial when the enormous bell in the tower bonged. The bell bonged again. Then once more. The summons to Wright Hall for the announcement of the contest winners. One by one, the apprentices in the workroom turned to stare at Luc. He capped the jar of light he had been using. When he saw their stares, Luc glanced at Ishmael, but before Ishmael could open his mouth to speak, Luc quickly turned to leave the workroom.
Ishmael set his prism down on his worktable. Luc’s coldness troubled him. He stoppered the vials of light and color, then set them in their holders with a small clink. The sound was echoed at the other worktables as the rest of the novices and apprentices did the same.
Rebekah waited for Ishmael to finish. “I never thought I’d be glad not to be in the running for this contest. I almost pity Luc.”
“He didn’t look worried,” Ishmael said.
Thomas overheard their words as he followed them out of the workroom. “The hidden heart still bleeds.”
Together, the three walked through the courtyard to Wright Hall and took their seats by the other Hall of Hue novices.
Head Master appeared unsettled, his large eyes shifting from person to person, then door to bench, then ceiling to floor. While apprentices all over Wright Hall fidgeted, anxious to hear the winners of the contest, Luc sat still, painfully still, with an unnatural smile etched on his face.
When everyone was seated, Head Master rose. “I wanted to postpone announcing the winners of the Jubilee contest,” he said, his voice carrying to the edges of the great room, “because of the unfortunate accident in the Hall of Hue, but I cannot.” His expression was solemn. “The posticum has opened.”
Several people gasped.
“We had hoped for a longer season of preparation, but work must begin immediately. Each Hall master received an abundance of fine entries, which were judged blindly so as to prohibit a show of favoritism. We have full faith in those who have been chosen.”
The benches creaked as apprentices shifted their weight. Feet shuffled. Someone coughed.
“Without further ado, let me announce the winners. Representing the Hall of Shape: Dora, daughter of Joseph and Camilla.”
A girl sitting in the Shape section looked shocked as people around her patted her shoulder in congratulations. Ishmael recognized her from the order and chaos challenge. She had drawn the simple shape that Michael had then complicated.
“From the Hall of Manufactory: Ethan, son of Jude and Elizabeth.”
Cheers from the Manufactory section of Wright Hall rang out. Ethan’s broad grin was visible from across the room.
“From the Hall of Motion: Thaddeus, son of Stephen and Orpah.” The Motion apprentices threw their arms up in the air, as if their shouts emerged from their fingertips.
The names washed over Ishmael until Head Master said, “Hall of Hue.”
An eternity passed before Head Master spoke again.
“Ishmael, son of James and Talia.”
SCENT
When the Scent apprentice had first arrived, Wright Hall was awash with the smell of anticipation, of hope, of excitement. It was a warm smell, one Keturah was familiar with from many occasions. But as soon as Head Master announced the name of the Hue artisan, the scent of fear diffused through the hall. Bubbling along the edges of that was the sour scent of disbelief and the rank smell of ill will.
She had no time to ponder that before Head Master announced, “From the Hall of Scent: Keturah, daughter of Aaron and Mehitabel.”
Hearing her own name was a surprise. Keturah wanted to be happy. She wanted to be excited, but she couldn’t get past an overwhelming sense of uneasiness. Though the ceilings were high in Wright Hall, the air seemed stuffy now. The noses on the carved faces above her seemed pinched, as if they sensed it, too. She turned her head away, wanting to recapture the scent of hope and excitement, but there was not a trace of it anywhere. Keturah sat stiffly, wishing she could escape, while the Scent apprentices surrounding her tried to cheer, but they, too, were caught in the unpleasant scent of fear.
Head Master continued, “From the Hall of Sound: Aaron, son of Mark and Abish. And finally, the Hall of Gustation: Gabriel, son of Jonas and Basha.” The Sound and Gustation apprentices cheered loudly, completely unaware that anything was wrong.
When the announcements were over, Keturah stood up and rushed to the doors.