ALICE BROADWAY

SCHOLASTIC

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 Copyright 2017 by Alice Broadway
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either
the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

ISBN: 978-1-338-19699-3

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 18 19 2 0 21 2 2
Printed in the U.S.A. 23
First American edition, January2018
Book design by Elizabeth Parisi

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 To the Inkwell.

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 chapter 1

I
was older than all my friends when I got my
first tattoo.
My mother loves to tell the story. I wish she wouldnt. At
two days old youre meant to get your birth mark, but I got sick
instead, and Mom canceled the ceremony.
Moms friends said, You need to get her marked, Sophie.
What are you going to call her?
But Mom told them she would wait u ntil I was better. I
would be named and inked then. She ignored their whispered
warnings of what happens to babies who die unmarked. And so

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 2 - ALICE BROADWAY

for twenty days I remained formless and void until one day my
mother said, Let her be Leora.
And I was Leora. The word was punched with minuscule
needles into my flesh. Tiny letters that have grown with me for
sixteen years.

We are not afraid of death. When your marks are safe in your
book, you live on after you die. The life story etched onto your
body is kept foreverif y oure worthy. When we preserve the
words, pictures, and moments imprinted on our skin, our story
survives for eternity. We are surrounded by the dead, and, for as
long as their books are still read and their names are still spoken,
they live.
Everyone has the skin books in their homes: Our shelves are
full of my ancestors. I can breathe them in, touch them, and read
their lives.
But it was only a fter my father died that I saw the book of
someone Id r eally known.

We w
ere lucky r eally, seeing death walk up from a distance. It
meant we could be prepared. We massaged his skin with oil; he
told us the stories of his ink and smiled when he showed us the
tree on his back with our names on it. He was ready when he went,
and his skin was prepared too. I watched his strong arms deflate,
leaving the skin wrinkled like an old apple. I watched his straight
back bend as though hed been hit in the stomach. He stopped
looking directly at us a fter a while; the pain was all he saw. It

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 - 3

seemed like the sickness sucked him away, just leaving his shell.
But the shell is what counts.
People had brought us flowers and food to make those final
days easier. Little love tokens for Dad when there was nothing
else they could do. We werent the only ones whose hearts were
breaking; Dad was precious to so many. The kitchen smelled of
wilting petals, stalks moldering in stale w
ater, and the casserole
we hadnt gotten around to eating. It was like death was catching.
Mom wrapped the blankets more tightly around him and wiped
sweat from her brow. Dad shivered and his breath sounded
crackly.
Yet when death came that bright day, in late autumn, I was
not ready. I could still taste the coffee Id drunk at dawn after
Mom woke me with a frantic whisper.
Sweetheart, wake up. I d
ont think he has much time left.
I hurried to his side. The gaps between his breaths grew lon-
ger. Mom and I leaned close and held his hands. I wondered
which would be the final gasp, the last silence before he woke in
the afterlife and breathed again. Suddenly, with a gasp, Dads
eyes opened and he looked straight at me. His hand gripped
mine. He eased his other hand from Moms and grasped the
pendant he always wore around his neck. It was a slender, rough-
hewn wooden leaf with a suggestion of veins e tched into it that
hung from a leather string. It was as much a part of Dad as his
ink; Id never seen him without it.
Leora. His voice was hoarse. This is for you. Leora, d
ont
forget. You w
ont forget me, w
ill you? Please, d
ont forget me.

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 4 - ALICE BROADWAY

Tears came to his eyes as he begged me. And promise me

youll watch out for the blanks. Be careful, my little light, my
Leora.
I nodded and, through sobs, whispered, I promise. I looked
at Mom, her lips tight and her face strained. She reached up and
untied the leather that circled his neck, and Dad passed the pen-
dant to me. I rubbed the smooth wood, and tears fell from my
eyes as I blinked. He turned to Mom and made certain hers was
the last face he saw. He went from the land of the living hearing
Moms I love you, I love you, I love you and feeling her kisses on
his hand.
And he left us. Just like that, he went. The sun dimmed. A
source of true goodness had gone from the world, and it was
colder and darker without him.

After he died, the embalmers came to our h

ouse. They dripped
oil over his body and rubbed spices into his skin. They wrapped
him in blue cloth and took him away. He looked like a king.
Hed always seemed that way to me. For days a fter, I would go
into the room and inhale the fragrance of his anointing. Maybe
if I could breathe him in he would burst out of my lungs, fully
formed and laughing.
But the next time I saw him, his life had become pages. He
would come home to us once the weighing of the soul ceremony
had found him worthy. For now, we had to go to the museum
if we wanted to be with him. We walked t here in the light of an
amber sunset, permitted to enter the museum after normal

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 - 5

opening hours for this intimate viewing. In a private room that

smelled of ancient wooden furniture and the perfume of who-
ever had been for a viewing before us, we w
ere presented with my
father in his new form. We placed the small casket with his skin
book inside on the table. Mom appeared at my shoulder, her eyes
wide. She had been tense and on edge ever since his deathless
sorrowful than snappish and distracted. Sometimes Id come
into a room and find her staring into space, her hands clasped so
tightly together the knuckles gleamed. I was starting to feel irri-
tated by it; I d
idnt want to have to think about her, not just now.
I wanted my Mom backmy calm, capable Mom, who always
knew the right t hing to say.
As we lifted the lid, a smell of wax and spice wafted through
the room, raising a toast to him. And t here he was. His skin taut,
smooth, and slightly shrunken. With each page we turned, we
touched him again and remembered the roughness of his fore-
arms, the smoothness of his back. E
very stiff page told his story.
Mom seemed nervous at first; her shoulders w
ere tense u
nder
my arm, but she became calmer the further we read. The cover of
his book, which was made from the skin from the back of his
shoulders, showed a picture of us and the ink from his birth
showing his nameJoel Flint. A good title. A good man. A good
introduction. We turned a page and saw the tree from his back
telling the tale of his familyme and Mom; the girls who cap-
tured his heart. I saw my name there and traced the letters with
my finger. There were marks I hadnt seen since I was a child.
They looked much fainter now, blurred with time.

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 6 - ALICE BROADWAY

We turned a page and Mom laughed and closed her eyes.

You might want to look away, Leora, she said with a blush and
pursed lips that hid a smile.
She was right, I didnt want to see it, but the flower that had
been on his buttock was intricate and delicate. Stretched into the
page of his book, it looked like any other part of him, but it was
secret. It was their marriage markadded to each year, getting
more and more beautiful as their love grew. Moms laughter
suddenly blended with tears and she put her palm across her
mouth as if stopping the sadness and reminding her of the kisses
she missed.
We turned the page.

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 chapter 2

T
he morning a
fter we open Dads book, Mom
goes back to work. She says that it is time, that we need to
go back to our normal lives, or, at least, work out what our
new normal is g oing to be. Normal is very important to Mom;
shes always been effortlessly popular, sociable and busy, com-
mitted to the community, and I think shes always been a bit
bewildered that her own daughter is such a loner. I decide to get
out of the house too, but head to the market; there is no school
today; my year are all on study leave. I know I have to engage
with all that again, with revision and final exams. I will have to

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 8 - ALICE BROADWAY

work hard to make up for the time Ive missed if I am to be an

inkerwhich is all Ive ever wanted.
I walk along the sidewalk, rippled by tree roots beneath, and
I wonder when w
ell get a date for Dads weighing of the soul
ceremony. The most time-consuming part has already happened
in this last month since Dad died: the flaying, the tanning, the
binding of his skin into a book. Now the p eople at the govern-
ment need to study his finished book and prepare his case before
the ceremony can happen. And then he can come home. Back
with us, where he belongs.
The weighing of the soul ceremony is where the leaders
announce their final decision about the destiny of your soul.
They will have studied Dads book and judged w
hether he has
led a worthy enough life. The worthy go home with their f amily,
are placed among their ancestors, and are read and remembered
forever. Their soul is safe in the afterlife. If y oure found unwor-
thy, your soul is destroyed in flames along with your book. Ive
never seen it happen, but they say you never forget the smell of
a burning skin book. That wont be Dad, though; no one could
have led a better or purer life.
Closer to town the road narrows, u ntil the sidewalk is just
wide enough for one person. Walking down the dusty street, I
sneak looks into the windows of the terraced homes I pass. The
higgledy buildings are each painted different colors and face
right onto the sidewalk. When I was little I used to tell myself
stories about the streets like this; I used to imagine a g iant
had squeezed the row of h
ouses, making each one skinny and

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 - 9

creating wobbly roofs of different heights. Now, I tell myself dif

ferent stories as I peep into the leaded windows and wonder
about the lives within. When people dont close their curtains,
I take it as an invitation to guess at who lives there and what
their life is like. I am so engrossed in looking that I almost bump
into a man picking the dead petals from the red geraniums in his
window box. I step around him quickly, one foot in the road,
inhaling the sharp bitterness of the d
ying flowers.
I keep walking, and, in my mind, I turn the pages of Dads
book. I feel my shoulders relax. It was a beautiful relief to see
him last night. Mom seemed like a different person when we left
the museum; she sighed so loudly when we reached the final page
I thought at first that something was wrong, but when I turned
to look she was smiling. She was right to: His skin tells such a
good tale. When someone reads your book, they should be able
to read your life story; they can weigh the good against the bad
and know if youre worthy. Everything important goes on our
skin, b ecause otherwise it stays in our soul, and no one wants
their soul weighed down, e ither by pride at their good deeds or
by guilt at their transgressions. We mark our bodies to keep our
souls unfettered. Only the worthy attain remembrance, and to
do that your good must outweigh your bad and your soul must
be free.
I smile at the thought of Dads pure soul ready to be counted
worthy. I am longing for the day of his weighing to come.
Dad was a flayerhis friends at work will have been the
ones to slice his skin to make it ready for the tanners. He did the

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 10 - ALICE BROADWAY

same for their loved ones and for the countless unknown p eople
who came their way each day. Mom is a reader; its more of a call-
ing than a job, I suppose, but it does paynot everyone consid-
ers that a real job. Its hard to explain what makes someone a
reader, but the best way is that some of us can read the meanings
behind markswe can see beyond the immediate message to
what the ink expresses about that persons heart. My mom can
look at your family tree and tell who is the favorite child. She
can look at the age marks on your hand and tell which year
almost broke you. She can look at the marks that describe your
qualifications and tell whether you cheated. P
eople admire read-
ers, but they also fear them. Mom once told me that everyone
has secrets they want to keep.
We shouldnt really have secrets, though. Thats the whole
point.
I have the gift too. Ive been able to read p eople since I was a
child. Mom says she worked it out when I got into trouble in my
first week at school; I had asked a boy why he d idnt live with his
real dad. When his angry mom showed up at the door demand-
ing to know who had been gossiping about them, Mom knew I
must have read between the lines on the boys skin. But just
because I can do it doesnt mean I want to do it as my job. I love
the glimpse it gives me into p eoples marks and lives, but some-
times I get tired of ink shouting out the inner world of strangers
as they pass by. I dont think I could bear their anxious faces if
they were sitting across the reading table from me, knowing that
if their marks chose to reveal the truth, I could see everything.

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 - 11

No, my dream is to be an inker. All I can hope is that I do

well enough in my exams, which arent looking as straightfor-
ward as they once were. Ive missed so much time with Dad not
being well. Ive always gotten good grades at school without having
to try too hard, so being anxious is a first for me.
As I near the center of town, the h
ouses turn into rows of
shops. I pass the bakery, a florist, and the leather workers place,
where we get our shoes and bags mended. The dusty path
becomes cobbles and the narrow street Im on takes me to the
town square. In the middle of the large square is a small comfort-
blanket of green, standing out bright against the stone and timber
of the buildings surrounding it. And at its center is the statue of
Saint, the most important leader in our history.
He stands in the m
iddle of our bustling town, a tall figure
in bronze: smooth, robed, and watching us. Ive always loved his
storythe tale we tell to remind us of his faithfulness, the power
of stories, and the soul-freeing necessity of flaying the dead.
And, of course, he stands t here as a warning to us about the
despicable ways of the blanks. Footpaths cross the square, corner
to corner, and people stroll along them chatting and trying to
find a patch of grass between the footpaths where they can sit
and drink their coffee.
The square is where you can r eally get a sense of what m
atters
in Saintstone. And if t hings m
atter h
ere, they m
atter everywhere.
All the towns around depend on us: Saintstone is where the gov-
ernment is based and where all the decisions of any importance
are made. I like living in the center of things. Im not sure how it

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 12 - ALICE BROADWAY

would feel to be in one of the smaller towns where everyone

thinks they know you even before t heyve seen your ink.
Depending on which way the wind is blowing, you can usually
smell the smoke from the hall of judgment. Its a large circular
building made of stone and colored glass that tapers up to the
wide chimney. The fire is always lit, the smoke creating perma-
nent gray-brown clouds over the town. Its where the soul cere-
monies happen and where Mom and I go when its our turn to
speak the names of the dead. Its also where matters of faith are
taught and upheld. Our schoolteachers train t here; our spiritual
education and formation is just as important as our academic
attainment.
On this side of the square, behind me as I walk, is the
museummy favorite place. Its raised high, with stone steps all
around it. It towers over us, all stone pillars and arched windows.
It looks dark and imposing from h
ere but when you go inside its
bright and cozy. Dad used to take me there all the time. I swal-
low, feeling a sudden chill in the shadow of the building, and
hurry on.
Across the square, beyond the grass and trees and benches,
I see an unexpected bustle and commotion. People are setting up
loudspeakers on a temporary platform that has been constructed
outside the government building, which is a giant L-shaped box
taking up two sides of the square. People are gathering round,
some are getting up from their benches to get a closer look, and
there is a low hum of conversation. There must be a meeting Ive
forgotten about.

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 - 13

Seeing the government building makes me realize Ive not

been called for my truth-telling test in a while; I should expect it
soon, I suppose. Were meant to have one every few years to allow
us to confess. The image of Dad taking me for the first time,
when I was nearly fourteen, flashes brightly in my mind.

Dad had assured me it was nothing to worry about, but that

hadnt stopped me from being scared. Wed all been told about
the machine that reads your pulse and temperature and beeps if
youre lying, but Id never seen it. My imagination had convinced
me it was definitely going to hurt. I was certain that this would
be the moment that I would be found out; I thought of all the
little lies Id told my parents and times I had snuck an extra
cookie when Id been told Id had enough. I even had nightmares
about accidentally confessing to a crime I hadnt committed.
It was an anticlimax when we w
ere shown from the main
reception and led into a small, completely plain room with white
walls, two chairs, a wooden t able, and a small contraption that
was nothing more than a dull and battered-looking metal dome
with a light attached and wires coming out of it. A man with a
notebook was waiting and gestured for me to sit down, but when
Dad saw how nervous I still was, he asked if he could go first. He
sat in the chair, placed his left hand on the dome, and looked at
me with a smile and a roll of his eyes that said, This is a breeze.
He answered all the questions calmly and the machine did
nothing. I was relieved that the questions werent too hard, just
general queries asking about new marks and a list of crimes Dad

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 14 - ALICE BROADWAY

had to confirm he hadnt committed. The man wrote down the

odd note, and when he was done, he smiled at Dad and told
him he could stand up.
Your conscience is clear, Mr.Flint. Good, good. He smiled
as though this was all a bit of fun and then looked my way. Your
turn now. He chuckled. I promise, you w
ont feel a thing.
I sat down and took a deep breath, but the moment I put my
hand on the machine it began to screech. I snatched my hand
away in horror.
What happened? I remember wanting to cry and looking
at Dad incredulously. He was trying not to smile.
The man was smiling.
Dont worry. I
hadnt reset it
properly.
Dad was r eally laughing now.
Maybe youve got more to hide than I thought, Leora, he
said. I turned to him and scowled.
In the end the whole thing was fine; I was asked the same
things as Dad, plus a c ouple tailored for someone my age, like
whether Id ever cheated in school. The machine remained
blissfully silent and Dad bought me cake on the way home to
make up for laughing at me.

Cutting through the path between the hall of judgment and the
government building, heading toward the market stalls beyond
it, I realize Im smiling. I wish he were h
ere.
Its cool today. The first day with a chill in it this winter. The
shock of it has made everyone wrap themselves in extra layers.

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 - 15

Its strange to see less skinI feel a little cut off, walking past
people when I can only see the marks on their faces and fore-
arms. It feels good, though; I feel less naked today, and not simply
because of the linen shawl wrapped around me and buttoned at
my shoulder. Just sometimesand I would never say this out
loudit feels nice to hide my marks.
The market is h
ere most days, and I plunge into a mass of
striped canopies, yells, and p eople. I try not to breathe in as
I walk past the butcherthe smell of the meat hanging there
makes me feel queasy. I gasp air once I reach the fabric stall.
The earthy fragrance of the cotton and the spiciness of the dyes
are alluring. Inhaling the colors, I imagine my breath coming out
in rainbow puffs. I walk among the crowds, watching the ground
ahead of my feetits easier this way. Just for today, I want to
tune out the snippets of conversation and let p eoples marks
become background noise. I feel content to have only Dads marks
in my mind while the memory is still fresh.
I follow my nose u ntil I can make out the fruity tang of the
grocers stall. Wooden boxes hold the grocers wares, propped up
so we can be tempted by their deliciousness. The grocer is smil-
ing, his green apron dusted slightly with dirt. Hes holding a
paper bag open and waiting to take my order. His sleeves are
pushed upwere always supposed to have our forearms on
displayand I can see so much of him from them. Hes thirty-
six and brightthe smartest in his class, clever enough to have
had the pick of trades, but t heres death in his marks. I read of a
youth cut short by the passing of his older b rother. He looks

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 16 - ALICE BROADWAY

happy now, though, and his marks twist to tell me he has a family.
I read joy in his inktheres abundance in his life beyond the
glut of apples and beans in the boxes around him.
I ask the grocer for onions and begin to fill a brown paper
bag of my own with grubby potatoes. The carrots look good and
the tomatoes smell fresh and sweet.
Do you know whats happening in the square? I ask.
Theres a stage set up and lots of people are gathering.
He shakes the bag of onions and swings it closed, holding
the corners tightly.
Havent you heard? T
heres going to be a public marking,
he says as I pass the bag of potatoes for him to weigh while I choose
some pears. I hear suppressed excitement in his voice, and some-
thing e lse too; is it fear? Theres not been one for years.
A lot of things have passed me by recently; Ive been so caught
up with Dad. I glance down the street, hesitating. Ive only ever
heard about public markings in school; Im intrigued. I pay the
grocer, pick up my bag, and join the crowd heading toward the
square. Someones shoulder bumps mine in their rush to get by
me. Voices rise, and as I get closer the path is packed with every
one drawn to the center of town to see whats going to happen.
By the time I reach the square, a large crowd has already
clustered around the stage, and Im stuck near the back. A
woman next to me nods and leans toward me. Her eyes are
bright with excitement. They say Mayor Longsight is coming
here t oday! she says breathlessly.

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 - 17

Im not the type to pay much attention to politics, but

theres something about Dan Longsight that seems to have made
everyone take a little more notice, even with the kids in my class.
He became mayor about six months ago, and hes totally different
from the doddery old men w
eve had before; hes handsome, for
one, and younger than most other politicians. For the first time
in a while, p eople are excited about change. I remember the excite-
ment we all felt at his inauguration when we recited the words
that invested him with our hopes and trust: He is good, he is wise,
he is the best of us. He is not cruel, he loves us, we will not fear. He
does all things for our good. I believed those words so strongly my
heart nearly beat out of my chest.
Hes brought in changes too, which we studied in history
class with Mrs.Oldham. We needed these changes, he said; it
was like wed got lost somewhere. We used to know who we were
and we used to be sure of our strength. That seemed to get more
and more diluted with each weak leader who preceded Longsight.
His government wanted to bring us back to our rootsto a
society where our marks m
atter, where their power is taken seri-
ously, and where we truly see they have the power to change our
eternity. So, Mayor Longsight and his supporters wear as little
as possible, to show that they have nothing to hide. Anyone can
see their marks and can know their lives. Mrs.Oldham looked
embarrassed when she explained this to us; I assume she is the
type who feels our marks should be private. A
fter seeing him on
the screen, and studying him so much at school, the idea that

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 18 - ALICE BROADWAY

I might actually get to see him sends an excited shiver down

my spine. Im relieved that none of the old mayors shared his
viewsI dont think Id have liked to see too much of their
skin. Mayor Longsight, from what Ive seen so far, might not be
too bad.
Some p eople say he is Saint reborn, come to purify our
hearts and our community. All I know is that it feels like change
is coming: change for the better.
Everyone is pushing, trying to edge closer to the stage so
theyll get a good view. T
here is constant chatter; it seems
everyone e lse is just as intrigued as I am. T
heres a strange inten-
sity, and I hear small arguments break out over feet that have
been stepped on and latecomers pushing in. The staging is made
of wooden sections and there are speakers on each end of it.
Thick black fabric encloses the stage at the back and sides,
flapping in the breeze. T
heres a wooden block in the center of
the stage and I wonder what its for. The murmur of the crowd
builds and builds, but moments later, when a tall, dark figure
walks onto the stage, the atmosphere changes. No one needs to
tell us to be quiet. It feels like even the birds are taking a moment
of silence to stop and gaze in awe of him. A long minute passes,
and then cheers start, and we clap and whoop as Mayor Longsight
steps t oward the microphone. He raises his hands and eventually
the noise subsides, becoming a bustling murmur as we wait for
him to speak. He clears his throat, and his ineffable authority
seems to resound through the square. He moves closer to the
large microphone. Hes even taller than I expected, and he stands

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 - 19

so composed and straight, his confidence shining from him like

rays of warm sunshine. I c ant believe hes h
ereright h
ere in
front of me.
Thank you, he says, and the crowd falls completely silent.
Thank you for being here on this momentous occasion. Under
neath the tinny quality of the loudspeakers, his voice is rich. I
wonder what it would be like to hear him speak without ampli-
fiers. What an honor it is to gather in this way; to stand
together as a community united against evil. United, he hesi-
tates for a moment and then goes on, against evil.
There is an uneasy murmur from the crowd, and I feel cold
despite my shawl.
Yes, against evil, he goes on. For I am h
ere to tell you what
many have suspectedthese are dark times.
He pauses and looks around at us all. Hes wearing nothing
more than a s imple loincloth, but he d
oesnt shiver in the chill air.
Despite this, from this distance its hard to read him; I wish I could
see the elegant tattoos on his shining black skin more clearly.
You are gathered h
ere to witness something that w
ill be
new to many of youthe first public marking in many decades.
Some of youthe respected older members of our community
might remember seeing public markings like this before. You
know what to expect. You remember those daysbetter days, I
would say. But for the rest of us, this is something weve only read
about in our schoolbooks.
Hes right; weve all studied markings, but no one I know has
seen another person marked.

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 20 - ALICE BROADWAY

You know that I honor and admire the leaders that have
gone before me
and they, in their...
wisdomhe pauses
briefly, and we all know he means the oppositechose to do
away with certain parts of our tradition. But its time. Its time we
returned to the old waysfor all our sakes, in these dangerous,
dangerous dayswe must recover our heritage, and not forget
the decisions our ancestors made.
At this, he is interrupted by an enormous cheer. He signals
for quiet and smiles broadly. I can see his white teeth even
from where Im standing.
For too long, my friends, we have seen truly abhorrent crimes
treated as mere misdemeanors. This must stop. Punishment
must be meaningful once more. And so, although today is
momentous, soon it w
ill be more common to see a marking in the
square. Not frequentlya public marking is not something to be
given lightlybut for the most heinous crimes, yes. We cannot
continue to gloss over the sins happening within our own society.
There is more applause, and he waits a beat before con-
tinuing. He d
oesnt seem to crave applause; he looks almost
embarrassed by it.
For too long we have allowed ourselves to slip into apathy,
but now we cannot afford not to be vigilant. There has always
been a threat from the blanks. No one believed that they really
went quietly after the great expulsionbut we chose to think
that they w
ere living peacefully, posing no risk to us. And yet
Iam h
ere today to tell you that we are paying the price for our
apathy.

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 - 21

Another murmur, almost a groan, rises up from the crowd,

and I feel my heart thudding hard in my chest.
Yes. We have evidence that the blanks are plotting. They
have taken advantage of our weakness. They want to infiltrate
and dilute us by weakening our hearts and our morals. You may
have heard it yourself; one person at the market says, The blanks
werent all bad, a friend tells you they heard the blanks are a
peace-loving people, and a work colleague admits they wonder if
the Blank Resettlement Bill wasnt perhaps a bit harsh? And you
admire the spirit of your friends: moderate, optimistic, liberal,
and open.
He pauses and lets his words settle.
Drip, drip, drip. The propaganda from the blank spies in
our midst (oh yes, they have spies) is subtle, but insidious. They
have supportersrebelswithin our own community who will-
ingly feed you lies. They let you believe that they are offering
you a light to warm yourself by: nice words that make you feel
the blanks are no threat and that you are safe. You settle down
by the light of their fire: Their words whisper peace and ease.
You believe you are finally able to rest. But while you sleep, the
rebels will strike and their small, warming flames will become a
forest fire that destroys youdestroys everything.
He stares at us from the stage, his eyes blazing. And then
he roars.
Wake up! Wake and rise up! His shout stuns me. Our
unguardedness has led us into danger. We have been too willing
to trust, and the blanks have found a foothold and are ready to

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 22 - ALICE BROADWAY

take advantage of our guileless acceptance that all is well. But

no more.
Looking around I see shocked faces; this is not what we
expected to hear. This sounds like a rallying cry: a call to war.
We w
ill be ready. We w
ill be alert: always watchful, always
wary of the snakes within our ranks. We w
ill recover our purity
and reclaim history and make it our present. It is time, d
ont you
think?
Caught up in Mayor Longsights fervor, we applaud and
stamp, and Mayor Longsight signals to someone off the stage,
hidden by the black curtain. He waits until we are absolutely
silent and bows his head as though he is praying. T
here is a long,
still moment. Then he looks up, right at us. I have serious news.
Here today is the proof that the blanks are rising up. It will come
as a shock to many h
ere, for the man to be punished today
walked among you; many of you considered him your friend.
He draws a deep breath and then bites out the words. The
judgment was made last week that Connor Drew, one of our
esteemed flayers, entrusted with our precious dead, is guilty of
skin-stealing.
A ripple of shock pulses through the crowd and I shudder. I
dont know who Connor Drew ishes a flayer, so Dad may
havebut the idea that anyone would steal skin makes me feel
ill. I think of my dad on the flayers t able and how precious his
skin is. Without the skin, t here is nothingno story, no way to
live on in the hearts and minds of loved ones left b ehind. Who
would dare steal someones history? And why?

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 - 23

Mayor Longsight signals to one of his aides, and a man is

brought onto the stage by two enormous guards. Theyre obvi-
ously h
ere to protect us from this criminal. Or protect him from
us, perhaps? I think as the crowd hisses ominously. The man has
chains around his ankles but his hands are free, his arms held
tightly by the men on either side of him. He wears a loincloth like
Mayor Longsights, only this mans is dirty white and looks
ragged. His skin is black like Longsights, only he appears gray
with tiredness and defeat.
Following the men onto the platform is the towns story-
teller, Mel. Shes not much older than I am, but she holds our
stories on her skin; she embodies our aims and ideals. If Mel
ishere, this is even more serious than I first thought.
You know your history, my friends. You know how the
blanks worked to break our spirits. They removed p eoples
marks so that their souls would be forever incomplete. And this
man, Connor Drew, may be marked in body, but he is blank in
spirit. For he removed skinof course he did, he is a flayer. But
instead of letting it be stitched into a book, he kept it for himself.
In stealing one piece, he is guilty of stealing a persons story, of
jeopardizing their journey into the next world, of editing what
is left for him to be remembered by. He has worked to prevent
us from making a judgment on this soul. This is the work of
the blanks.
There is a long pause and now no one is cheering; they look
frightened. I can confirm, friends, that Connor Drews actions
were not without motive. He was acting in league with the

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 24 - ALICE BROADWAY

blanks, aiming to incite a rebellion. He has confessed to having

contact with blanks. He is working with them.
Shouts rise through the crowd. How could he?
Here is evidence of their ways; this is just the beginning.
We must fight. The blanks are back and are using our own men
to steal our skin, our stories, our souls. They will not stop at this.
It is not our souls they truly desire, but our destruction. For the
blanks hunger and thirst for our land. They wont be happy until
they have overtaken our cities, towns, homes, and beds. They
desire our land and will stop only when every one of us is with-
out a home and without a hope in our own world.
A woman next to me is weeping. I dont want to cry, not here,
so I breathe deeply against the tears and sickness and tell myself
to keep my head. There have been rumors for some time that
the blanks are on the risethat they will return and ruin us. I
didnt want to believe itI hadnt believed it, until now.
You know our history; youve seen the evidence in the
museum. When the blanks w
ere among us they maimed and
dismembered their victims in order to steal their marks, stories,
and souls. They, a weak and lowly p eople, clawed at our bodies
because they wanted to make us like them. They wanted to over-
come our strength and righteousness and claim our land: the
land that God gave us and Saint died for. We w
ill not allow this,
of course. But justice must be done. Connor Drew stands with
those evil blank rebelsand he does not stand alone. He is the
first of a plague that we must stamp out. Now, my friends, you
know that a person cant play God without expecting that God

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 - 25

might one day choose to play with him. This man tried to change
one h
umans eternity, and in return he w
ill forfeit his own. He
will know what it is to have his future wiped out.
I look around at the silent crowd and feel the cold air drive a
shiver through my body. T
heyre g oing to kill him. T
heyre g oing
to kill him in front of us allis that what everyones here to see?
I desperately try to remember if I learned about this in school.
I dont want to witness this. Someone coughs, and the people in
the crowd begin to shift their feet and whisper to one another.
Mayor Longsight is looking at us, his face serene. Hes com-
pletely in control. I relax a little. I shouldnt worry. I close my
eyes and picture his marks, and once again I think of the words
we said when he was appointed, I whisper them to myself and
feel calmer. He is good, he is wise, he is the best of us. He is not cruel,
he loves us, we will not fear. He does all things for our good. I tell
myself I am not worried. I am not afraid.
Hold him, please, Mayor Longsight says to the guards. His
voice is gentle and courteous.
They force the man to his knees and place his forehead onto
a wooden block that has been waiting on the stage. I look at my
feet, but hear the man groan and struggle against their strong
arms. T
here is a gasp through the crowd and I c ant help but
look back up againLongsight has a slim case in his hands. I
watch him open it carefully, and with a flourish, he takes out a
knifeshort-bladed but gleaming in its readiness. He stands
over the criminal, one foot on either side of his body, grasping the
prisoners hair to hold him still and to reveal the bare skin of his

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 26 - ALICE BROADWAY

neck. Like a lamb to the slaughter. I dont want to watch but I

cant look away.
He brings the knife down and a thick lock of the mans hair
falls to the ground.
Like a sheep to the shearer.
Im so relieved I cry out a laughing sob. Hell be OK. Hes
not going to be killed.
The woman next to me looks at me sharply. Its no laugh
ing matteryou watch this. Watch this and remember.
The man is weeping. The guards have hold of him still, but
he seems puncturedhis fight has gone as though hes given
himself over to his fate. Longsight raises the knife high and as
he does a man dressed completely in black comes to the stage.
Two assistants follow with a stool and a t able laden with a kit,
and then I know whats going to happen. As Longsight wipes his
knife and returns it to the case, the man sits and takes a razor
from the table. Carefully, he shaves the back of the prisoners
head. Then he removes his black gloves, discards them, and puts
on a fresh pair. I see him lift the familiar machine, ready the
skin, and then begin to work on the scalp just above the hairline
at the back of his head, dipping the needle into a small inkwell
on his workstation. The prisoner groans but doesn't movethe
guards still holding him help.
Theres a commotion in the crowd, and I see a young man
shoving his way through, fighting to reach the platform. I see the
guards tense, but before he can get close some of those around
him reach for him and drag him away. I see his face as they

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 - 27

leaveblank with horror, glasses knocked askewand for a

moment I imagine our eyes meet.
The inking continues. It d
oesnt take as long as some of the
tattoos Ive seen, but still the buzz of the machine wheedles into
my mind like a dull tinnitus. I begin to feel weak as I stand and
half watch, half dream while the man in black completes the
mark. Then, with a sudden absence of sound, the machine stops,
and the inker stands up. He returns the machine to the table
and, with a final respectful nod to the mayor, walks away.
Mayor Longsight, who has been standing at the back of the
stage while the mark was made, steps forward to the microphone.
Today, my friends, you have seen justice done. This man
will remain in our societywe are generous. His hair will grow
and his ink w
ill be hidden. But he has received the mark of
theforgotten.
Something pierces the numbness in my brain. The forgotten?
When this criminal dies, this mark w
ill be read, this mark
will convict him, and his book will be destroyed in the flames
of the fire in the hall of judgment.
How could you live once youve been marked as forgotten? How
could you go on, knowing none of it matters, that your life will end at
death and oblivion? All I hope is that I will ascend to the ranks of the
rememberedthats what we live for. But right here, this mans hope
has been blotted out by black ink.
Forgotten.
A dull peal is ringing in my brainsomething Ill remember
if only I let myself.

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 28 - ALICE BROADWAY

Friends, let this encourage you to live lives worthy of the

calling we have received. Live lives to be remembered, friends.
Dont let this mans failure be in vain.
A whisper goes through the crowd, ending up as a held-back
roar. People are cheering, p eople are shouting, p eople are saying
over and over, A crow, a crow. The mark is a crow.
Forgotten. And I remember now. I remember everything.
The mans howl merges with my own and I run home, the bag
of onions banging against my thigh and the soil from the pota-
toes still under my nails.
A crow. A crow. The mark is a crow.

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 chapter 3

A
s I run through the square, past the hall
of judgment and the museum, I try to picture my fathers
book. I try to envisage each page I turned, each moment of
his life. I cant help but read p eople as I dodge past them:
Fourteen, loves m
usic, hates her s ister.
Loves his lover, has tricked his wife.
Her dog is more of a friend than any h uman shes known.
Fifty-six but feels eightyso many sicknesses have taken her joy.
Past the bakery, keep running. I need to get home, away
from the noise, away from the visual cacophony, away from t hose
voices cawing at me.

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 30 - ALICE BROADWAY

I cant get the buzzing of the machine out of my head. A crow. I

had forgotten about that day till now. That day...
I was littleeight years old maybe. It was late in the after
noon, we were expecting Dad home any minute, and I was play-
ing upstairs when there was a knock at the door, a brief flare of
voices, and a few moments later I heard it slam. I wandered
downstairs to ask Mom who was there. It was then I discovered
I was home alone for the first time. I opened the door and
looked down the streetin the distance I saw my m
others red
shawl. She was walking quickly, and a man next to her was trot-
ting to keep up. All I knew was that I shouldnt be alone, so
Ifollowed my mother, letting the door swing shut b ehind me. I
had nearly caught up when they turned the cornerthey were
heading to the flayers, where Dad worked. I followed at a dis-
tance, all the time meaning to call out, Mommy! Im here! You
forgot to take me with you! but my lips wouldnt move, and my
voice d
idnt work.
Outside the battered metal warehouse of the flayers there
was a small crowd of p eople leaning in, looking at something. The
group opened to let my Mom in, and an anxious-looking man
said, It was just an accident. It looks worse than it is. A casket
fell and cracked him on the head. They were unloading them for
us to work on... But Mom moved past him, ignoring his words.
As the figures made way I saw my dad sitting on the ground with
someone holding a folded pad of fabric to his head. The

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 - 31

makeshift bandage was red and his hair looked wet. He blinked
his eyes open and when he saw Mom he reached out his hand.
Im fine, love. It was only a knock. Dont worry the doctor
I just need to rest up, Dad winced a little as he spoke.
Oh, Joel, she said. What have you done? Mom sounded
annoyed rather than scared and I knew Dad must be all right.
Just an accident. No ones fault. H
ell live, the man said
again.
I felt then that they might be cross if they saw me, and I
scampered home. The door had locked behind me when I left to
follow Mom, so I found a window that was half open and climbed
into the h
ouse through it.
It was dusk when Mom and Dad got back. Julia, my best
friend Veritys mom, was with them.
Ill just sleep down h
ere tonight, Dad said, yawning. So
Mom made a bed of cushions and blankets on the floor near
the fire because Dad was too tall for the sofa and too heavy to
take upstairs. I sat on the stairs and listened to their whispered
conversation.
I didnt know who else to call, Mom murmured. Hes had
some painkillers, but I think he could do with some stitches.
You shouldnt have involved me. If Simon ever found out...
I dont understand why you d
idnt just take him straight to the
doctor. T
here was anger in Julias voice, or maybe it was fear.
You know I c ouldnt. Please, Julia.
Julia sighed. Do you know how risky this is? And Im no
nurse.

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 32 - ALICE BROADWAY

Nobody saw anything. He covered it. Anyway, you stitch

women up all the time. Please. T
heres no one e lse.
There was a pause, and then:
Boil some water. Do you have a razor? Joel, this w
ill sting.
No one thought to look for me; they w
ere too preoccupied. I
hid in my room until everything was quiet. It must have been the
middle of the night when I crept to look at him, to make sure he
was OK. I had been so sure he would die. His back was rising
and falling, his breath coming out in a quiet snore. His head
was bandaged but the dressing had slipped; perhaps Dad had
grabbed at it in his sleep b ecause I was able to see what lay
beneath. His hair around the injury had been shaved by Julia,
and I saw a dark line across the back of his head. I saw the neat
stitches holding the skin together and smelled the healing spices
mixed with the scents of blood and sweat.
The razor had revealed a hidden secret. Truth laid bare.
Because there it was. Rent in two but joined by the stitches.
A mark Id never seen before.
A picture of a crow.

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