“Oh, he did. It’s just a variation on the work Sound Master did years ago.”

  Ishmael listened. He heard a branch rubbing against another and in the distance, the sound of the waves churning in the sea. It sounded sort of … blue. He looked at Lilith. She shrugged her shoulders. Thomas shook his head. Jacob frowned, while Matthew wore a look of intense concentration, trying hard to hear music in the wind. Michael was still perplexed by what had just happened and tapped one of the tree trunks, as if hoping to figure out what exactly Phoebe had done.

  Phoebe opened her eyes and hummed a few notes. “I don’t know if he’ll allow the others to come or not. He’s a bit … temperamental.”

  “How could he not?” Ishmael picked up a stone and tossed it in the air, catching it.

  “Yeah,” Michael said. “How could he not?”

  CHAPTER

  45

  “Absolutely not,” Sound Master boomed.

  Ishmael and Phoebe had come right over and explained the situation to him.

  “I can’t see how this would benefit the Hall of Sound,” Sound Master continued. Everything about him dwarfed Ishmael—his voice, his girth, his whiskers. “We sing, your color moves? It appears to me that it benefits the Hall of Hue, as it allows the Hall of Sound to do your work, correct?”

  This was not going well.

  “It’s not just moving one thing to another place,” Ishmael said.

  Phoebe took over. “This could benefit everyone at the Commons, and it would just be for the next two days.”

  “My answer is still no.”

  “But, Sound Master—”

  He sliced through the air with his hand. “No arguments, Phoebe. You have been released from your duties here because of a debt you owe to the Hall of Hue. The other novices have their own work to do. As it is, you are far behind your fellow novices, and I don’t know how you are going to catch up. I will not jeopardize the progress of the others to solve problems,” he said with a sideways glance at Ishmael, “for this color novice.”

  “But—” she said.

  “Are you a novice in the Hall of Sound or the Hall of Hue?” the Sound Master thundered.

  Phoebe seemed to shrink. “The Hall of Sound, sir,” she whispered.

  “Remember that,” he said. He nodded, then dismissed them, motioning toward the door.

  They shuffled out, and the latch clicked with a sound of finality as the door shut. From the other side came the echo of Sound Master’s footsteps as he walked in the opposite direction.

  The ensuing silence dropped on them like a wet blanket, heavy and cold.

  “I’ll never be able to color all the trees in time now.” Ishmael dreaded the thought of the thousands of trees awaiting attention.

  “Is that so bad?”

  “Yes! Color keepers are supposed to honor each color. All posticums are supposed to have a minimum of the three primary colors. If Luc has his way, only one of those colors will be represented, and there won’t be balance. This is the worst thing a color keeper could do. There won’t be diversity. There will just be monotony everywhere.”

  The two apprentices left the Hall of Sound and walked through the courtyard.

  “Thank you for trying, Phoebe.” Ishmael hung his head. “Do you think …” Ishmael paused. “No, never mind. It’s too ridiculous.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  “I wondered if you thought maybe … I could do those vocal exercises? You could teach me, and maybe I could move the color?”

  She looked uncertain. “Ishmael, I can’t even see color. If I am blind to the most basic element of your art, what makes you think you’d be open to the most basic elements of mine?”

  He didn’t want to tell her about how he saw colors when he ate, and how none of the other Hue apprentices did. “It was just an idea.”

  She clucked her tongue. “Fine. Open your mouth, like this.” She relaxed her face, letting her jaw open slightly.

  It felt ridiculous, but he did as she said.

  “Now, take a deep breath, here in your gut, and let it out.” A lovely high tone burst forth from her core.

  Ishmael took a deep breath and let it out with a croak. “So much for that idea.” He started walking back toward the posticum. “I’d better go. I have about a million trees to color.”

  “Oh, never mind that.” Phoebe grabbed his arm. “I’m coming, too. I’ll try to get just the leaves this time.”

  “What? You heard Sound Master. You can’t help.”

  “He never said I couldn’t help. He only said he wouldn’t release other novices from their duties to help.”

  Ishmael thought back over what he had said. She was right. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Positive.”

  Ishmael smiled. “Let’s go, then.”

  They hurried back to the posticum. After a few trials, Phoebe figured it out: aim high and let the color drape over the jagged edges and soft curves of the leaves.

  Ishmael let Lilith hold the vials while Phoebe sang. Thomas and Michael had gone off to a different section and the others had returned to their areas, so Ishmael gathered several vials of green and a couple of swabs and headed toward a section of trees that hadn’t been colored yet, all the while listening to Phoebe sing.

  Phoebe’s exhibition opened up so many questions. How did the sound of her voice carry the color? How did it have the power to do so? Ishmael could imagine the wind in the heavens and the waves of the water carrying color, the currents of water and air pushing it along by the force of their strength. But song? He didn’t understand even the most rudimentary parts of it. How could it move the particles of color?

  The breeze brushed against him, and he closed his eyes, trying to understand. With his sight darkened, he no longer saw color through his eyes. It was still there in his head, but the colors were dimmed, and he found that by dimming the colors, he could sense other things around him. The breeze. The ground underneath him, heavy, dependable. The light falling softly down. The stones of the wall. The far-off roll of the waves. The silence. There was much about the world that Ishmael did not understand, but he felt the beauty of it all.

  By the end of the day, he and the other novices had each colored almost two dozen trees, scaling the trunks, blowing the color off the swabs, and descending. Thomas and Michael had colored double that with Michael’s device. But Phoebe and Lilith had colored acres of leaves as far as her sound could travel.

  But still the dark color moved up the tree trunks, threatening to bring Luc’s plan to fruition. Time was running out.

  CHAPTER

  46

  In utter exhaustion, Ishmael went to the workroom that night to gather more vials of green for the next day. Before he had taken three steps into the room, Color Master’s door opened, revealing Color Master herself.

  She looked older, more tired, and the red of her tunic had dimmed and darkened. Even her sharply arched eyebrows seemed subdued.

  Color Master motioned toward her office. “Come, sit.”

  Though his legs didn’t want to move, Ishmael found his way to the office and sat across from her.

  “I looked for you at the posticum as soon as I arrived so I could tell you the outcome of our expedition.” Color Master folded her hands in her lap. “I must admit, I was somewhat surprised by what I saw there. Would you like to tell me what happened in my absence?”

  Ishmael’s throat was so dry, dry as the dark dust that covered the foundation, but he needed to lay down the shame and the fear and the worry he had carried for far too long. “I wanted to do something better at the posticum, something that Luc could be happy with, since it’s meant to be his.”

  “Something better than your plan?”

  “Yes.” He told her about dappling the tower room wall with Luc, and Michael’s wish to work together, and Thaddeus’s wind moving the blue. He told her about the novices’ hesitation with dappling, and Michael’s machine, and the glory of the dappling on the foundation. “I covered the foundation, speckling it with all the colors. The variety made the foundation look alive, almost. It was so beautiful. But when I went to the posticum later that night, the colors mixed somehow.”

  Color Master nodded her head. “Yes, yes. Adding more than one color at a time on a newly created structure in a posticum can be done, but it must be done slowly to give the colors a chance to set. That is why your colors mixed. Did Luc not tell you that would happen?”

  “No.”

  Color Master pursed her lips. “And what about the trees?”

  “When we found the colors mixed, Luc told me that I should cover the foundation in trees and plants so you wouldn’t know. I was afraid of getting in trouble, so that’s what I did. Manufactory made even more plants, but as soon as they were delivered and installed, I realized what a mistake I had made.” Ishmael looked down at his shirt.

  Color Master gave him a look of compassion. “Ishmael, there is no right or wrong way in creation. Each Hall in the Commons relies on the ingenuity of its apprentices for progress. We make what might be considered mistakes, but we learn from them, and we move on.”

  “I doubt anyone has ever made as big a mistake as this,” Ishmael continued.

  “I doubt anyone has ever had as big a posticum as this,” she replied with a chuckle.

  “When we went back the next morning to add color, we saw that the dark color had begun seeping up into the trees. And when Luc saw it, he said that’s how he wanted it all along.”

  “Did I hear my name?” Luc had silently approached and now leaned against the doorjamb, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Ishmael wheeled around so quickly that his seat shifted.

  Color Master made a small sound. “You have much to account for.”

  Luc pushed himself off the doorjamb and stood up straight. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Color Master rose, her large frame matching Luc inch for inch. “You’ve also done little right. Your presence is requested at a tribunal council tomorrow.”

  “For what? For making helpful suggestions?”

  “For sabotaging the work of the Jubilee posticum. For deceit. For vandalism.”

  Luc raised his eyebrows. “Judged and found wanting, no doubt.” He shrugged, then pivoted and walked away.

  Color Master turned around to face the wall. Several seconds passed before she said, “Your presence is requested at the tribunal as well.” Color Master spoke quietly, but Ishmael could tell what effort it took to control her voice. She faced Ishmael again.

  “Am I to be sent home?”

  Color Master’s voice loosened. “No. The posticum must be finished.”

  “But why? Won’t the color from the foundation just continue to spread?”

  Above Color Master hung a mobile of color circles the Halls of Shape, Manufactory, and Motion had given to Color Master when she became Hall master. She gently tapped the mobile, sending it spinning.

  “The light you used, though condensed, is not strong enough to maintain its color, let alone cover all the trees in the posticum adequately. It will fade, and those structures that do not receive more color would cease to exist.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Each of the seven Halls brings some vital thing to creation. Without Shape and Manufactory, the structures would not be formed. Without Motion, they would not move. Together with Sound and Scent and Gustation, we bring these structures the four elements of beauty. If one element is missing—for example, color—the components of these posticums become unbalanced. They need the presence of all four elements to push against each other, to bear each other up. If all four aren’t present, the structures will fall. Although the color from the foundation is soaking up into the trees, it’s not a large enough quantity to completely cover the flora. The color will eventually stop, and what isn’t covered will be left in ruins.”

  Ishmael wove his fingers together, a small and powerless web made of inept fibers, speckled with flecks of green. “Can one of the older apprentices finish the posticum? Someone with more experience?”

  The colors in the mobile dipped and bobbed as they slowed. Color Master reached her finger for the circle of red. “A posticum must be finished by the artisan who began it.”

  “Me,” Ishmael said glumly. He unraveled his fingers.

  “The road we travel down is not always an easy one.” Though Color Master spoke to Ishmael, it seemed as if she needed to hear the words, too. “Tomorrow is a new day.”

  Ishmael slid forward on his chair. “I’m sorry about the color.”

  “Don’t be sorry about the color.” Color Master waved away his apology. “To be honest, it intrigues me. No, what worries me is how you are going to finish all of those trees.”

  “Were you able to gather more light?”

  “Yes, some. The other apprentices are bringing it by the end of the week. But it will take time to distill it—I’m not sure it will be done when you need it.”

  “May I use some of it straight? To color directly?”

  Color Master’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “Sometimes I forget you’re a novice. Other times, I am surprised by your aptitude. Of course you may use some of it straight, if you think that’s best.”

  The mobile above Color Master’s head rocked in the breeze from her hand. “Ah. There’s one more thing I should tell you. Hannah left earlier today for the House of Light. Head Master told me.” The circle of blue turned sideways so Ishmael couldn’t see it anymore. Red and orange and yellow and green, then nothing, then indigo and violet. The hole gaped in the spectrum. Ishmael turned away to shut out the sight. “May I go now?”

  Color Master nodded. Ishmael left the office and headed to the dormitory.

  The room was already dark when Ishmael reached it, but no one was asleep.

  “Color Master is back.”

  Thomas groaned. “The pain of the little finger is felt by the entire body. Are we all in trouble? Or just you?”

  “I don’t know.” He fell into his bed, exhausted. “There’s a tribunal tomorrow morning for Luc. I have to go. Can you three take over the work at the posticum while I’m gone?”

  “Of course,” Matthew said. “Thomas can keep working with Michael, Lilith with Phoebe, and the rest of us can climb trees.”

  “I never thought my height would be an advantage,” Thomas said into the dark room. “But, then again, When you have what someone needs in your haversack, everybody seeks your friendship. Are the other apprentices back, too? Maybe they can help.”

  “Not yet. We’re on our own for now.”

  “Not true,” Jacob said. “We’ve got Michael and Phoebe along with our spectrum, and they count double for each one of us.”

  Ishmael knew he should tell the others about Hannah, but if he said the words that might mean that they were true—that she really had left—and their spectrum was no longer complete.

  CHAPTER

  47

  The next morning before breakfast, Ishmael was summoned to see Head Master. With dread in the pit of his belly, he walked across the Great Courtyard to Head Master’s rooms and tapped at a plain wooden door.

  “Come in,” Head Master said.

  The room was simply furnished but for a curious thing on a side table: a miniature circular track mounted on a base, with pulleys, ramps, and a pendulum swinging from a column. Ishmael’s gaze followed the track around as it rose and dipped. At one point, the track stopped. Several thin slabs of stone stood upright, followed by a reservoir of gravel hanging over a small cup. A short distance from that, the track continued again, leading to a wheel mounted on a column. A small, polished ball waited in a dimple at the top of the track. Each part of the machine was colored in the most brilliant, beautiful colors, one flowing into the next in such a skillful way that Ishmael couldn’t tell where one color stopped and another began.

  “I see you are interested in my machine.” Head Master smiled.

  “What does it do?”

  Head Master rose from his seat and nudged the ball out of its resting place. It swooped and dipped along the track, gaining momentum as it sped on its way. It hit the stone slabs and knocked them over, which triggered a mechanism that drained the gravel from its reservoir. The gravel filled the cup, the weight of which tipped the ball back onto the track. The ball rose up the wheel and landed exactly where it started.

  “Fascinating, eh?”

  Ishmael marveled at it. “Yes.”

  “Although the ball ends up back where it began, the circumstances around it have changed.” He pointed to the slabs of stone knocked over, and the gravel in the cup. “It makes one think, doesn’t it? But I didn’t ask you to come here to talk about my little machine. Please sit.”

  Ishmael took a seat opposite Head Master.

  “Do you know why you’re here?”

  “Because I ruined the posticum?”

  Head Master chuckled. “No, my dear boy. You have not ruined the posticum by any means. You are here because I want you to consider a question.” He leaned forward, putting the tips of his fingers together. “It’s an important question, one which we sometimes neglect in our daily duties.”

  Ishmael waited, hands folded.

  “What is it that you want?”

  Ishmael hadn’t expected that. After a minute, he said, “I want to do the right things. I want to change all the wrong things I’ve done.”

  “All? Even the ones that have led to good?”

  Ishmael couldn’t see any good that had come of his actions. He came to bring Luc home with him, but that hadn’t happened. He tried to help Luc with his posticum, but it shut without him. He worked so Luc would win the Jubilee posticum, but instead, he himself ended up winning. As for the posticum itself, well, nothing had gone as he would have liked. “Has anything led to good?”

  “Oh, yes. You have done much, much good. But I’m not going to tell you what it is. I’m going to let you discover that for yourself.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to. I’ve failed at everything I’ve tried to do since I’ve come here.”

 

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