Apple III

With the fine end of the brush, Apple painted the lips a bright carnation. For the eyebrows, she dipped another smaller brush in coal-black paint and drew the thin lines delicately. She leaned back and admired her work, squinting.

From a box of hairs made of dyed wool, she picked a ginger wig with a little hat on top and glued it onto the head of the wooden doll. "There, I shall call you Rosie."

Rosie was a bright young woman from the Torinto marshes, come to Gallenport chasing her dream of becoming a theater actress. Apple imagined her some life story. Whenever Rosie was on stage, her eyes spoke words her mouth couldn't say, or her body couldn't show. But during a play in the presence of the king and his unbetrothed third son, she misspoke her lines and missed her cues. It was a disaster. But the prince noticed her distress—

"Hang it along with the others if you're done," Father told her, abruptly ending her daydream. He was sculpting a face from a block of pine. The process was long and tiresome to watch, albeit the result was astonishing. Apple preferred adding the final touches, deciding the color of their eyes and hair, crafting them a personality that set them apart from the rest of her father's dolls.

Rosie was cumbersome despite her lanky frame, Apple realized, when she lifted her by the armpit and carried her across Father's atelier. Fumbling with the chain and latch, she kicked the door open to a room that smelled thickly of wool, paint and varnish. She pulled down a pulley and hooked it to Rosie's back. Then grunting, she hoisted her up. She etched Rosie's name on the pad of her foot with a charcoal stick, blowing away the dust.

Rosie joined an army of life-sized dolls strung up by the ceiling, tens of them with different faces and shapes, not a single one of them like the other. With the lack of support, their pinewood jaws dropped open, their heads tilted askance in random angles, their hinged arms limp by their sides. From within the shadows, the sound of wood joints creaking teased Apple's hearing. Kiik. Kiik.

"Shh," Apple shushed it. "It's not time yet." She closed the door on them, slid the latch close and ensured it was properly locked.

She joined his father, stood by his side and watched wordlessly as he carved the rough outline of a nose from the workpiece. He would brush off the sweat off his temple with calloused hands then proceed on his labor, toiling in passion and quiet.

Amid the tapping rhythm of mallet on chisel, the events from yesterday came back to Apple's recollection. She remembered the rankness reeking off the lad from Vermil. Even if she covered her nose, she would still have smelled it. It was cloying and pungent, dead and evil. Yet could he indeed be the one the white dove is alluding to?

He saved me. I would have died if he didn't push me. Would he do that if he was a devil? Lucas did not possess an ounce of holy power. The vines would never have attacked him. It was my fault.

Apple's mind was in turmoil. I must observe him first. Only when all doubts are laid to rest must I speak of this to Father. I'm sorry, Father. She gave him a voiceless apology in her mind.

Even the professor told Apple to not divulge to any soul what had transpired there beneath the rain of petals. Yet keeping it a secret might seem to be a hard burden. His injury was far from trivial. Everyone would be curious. One palm was holed through. Could a person even recover from it? She should have paid him a visit. Unluckily, she did not know where he lived.

"You seem in deep thought," Father asked, turning away from his woodwork. "What's on your mind, little dove?"

"I'm looking forward to the results tomorrow," she lied, not with ease.

"I'm sure you've made it. You're a brilliant lady, just like your mother," he said. "I believe you've left them astonished they couldn't even believe their eyes. You still haven't told me about the friends you've met during the Test."

"Thank you, Father. There were a lot of nobles. Their blessings are incredible too."

"Is that so? No one suspicious?"

Apple smiled, "Not that I noticed. A lot of them are pompous and demeaning but that's just the way they are."

Father laughed, "Indeed. The highborn are all the same, in Gallenport, Cape Torinto, the Scarlet Isles, even at home. But worry not, darling, you are better than them." He went back to his chisel and mallet.

Home was a strange word to Apple. Perhaps her father had known a home once, but Apple had never had a place to reminisce and dream of and long to return to. All her life, it was a new shed just slightly bigger than the last, one white dove as bright as the next.

The white dove that had summoned them to Gallenport arrived seven days prior. It had perched on the open windowsill, cooing for attention. Tied around its leg was a rolled-up letter with a wax seal stamped in the image of a pigeon in flight - a sigil that was all too familiar to her now.

Apple had always waited excitedly for white doves. They brought adventure and purpose. Packing what little belongings they had, they left their shed in the countryside, never to return there again.

Once the quest in Gallenport was accomplished and another white dove perched in, the pair of them would take to the roads again. But not yet, she hoped.

Apple was beginning to be fond of the city, wishing they would not have to leave so soon.

Thud. Thud. Thunderous knocks rapped on the door. She smelled a recognizable scent. Not a welcome one.

"I'll go," Apple said, not wanting for Father to stop his work.

She opened the door to a bulky man donned in the peculiar fashion of missionary priests. His face was hidden under a tall hat with a cascading dark veil around the brim. His wide fitting skirt draped until his ankles. On his back hung a long enormous sack, the white fabric mottled with dark stains.

"Uncle Patrick," Apple greeted with a strained smile.

From beneath the veil, a coarse hollow voice sounded. "You haven't grown much since I last saw you. I see the city has been kind to you."

She picked at the neat white blouse she had on. Uncle Patrick raised his large hand to pet her hair.

"Keep your filthy hand off her." Father hissed. He walked over to them and pointed the sharp end of the chisel over Patrick's heart. The difference between their statures was stark. Father's height could not reach the top of his shoulder.

Patrick said, tucking his arm back to his side, "I believe it best to take this confrontation inside."

Apple made him a cup of tea. He accepted with a polite thank you and drank it under his dark veil.

He asked them in his deep gritty tone, "Have you found him?"

Of course, a white dove was sent to every member of the order who were able. But how many more are coming to Gallenport?

Father has come back to his sculpting. He said as he hammered, "I am yet to."

"But is it certain he's coming to the city?"

"If he doesn't, I will turn every rock in West Bismuth until we exorcise or exterminate him."

"A demon disguised as a noble young lad. I don't think you would need to look that far. Then I will be around the city. I will exterminate it if I am able to. I will call for your help if I can't."

"Doesn't the letter say, to exterminate or exorcise depending on the situation. For all we know, he could be possessed," Father argued.

"He's a noble. One less bastard to inflict suffering on the masses," Patrick replied, voice ripe with conviction, "And they breed like roaches. They would not even notice he's gone."

Father gave him a glance over his shoulder. "Well then, don't die."

Patrick stood up, towering over them, the crown of his hat almost grazing the ceiling. "You can always find me by the old temple. Thank you for the tea. Take care of yourself, Apple. Glory to Gabriel," he bowed, slung the huge sack onto his back and disappeared through the door, stooping low in order to not hit his head.

"Glory to Gabriel," replied Apple softly. To Father, she asked, "Does he have some sense like mine in order to locate him?"

Father paused his sculpting, staring at the air as if in retrospect. "I've only worked with him once in one of the Isles. I could not tell how, but he could always find them he said, no matter how long it took. As shall we."

 * * * * *

Apple was back in the grounds of Demach Academy the next day, flaunting this time a different pair of footwear — snug blue-dyed leather sandals with a pink blossom on each — and a light red coat with silver buttons. Her raven hair draped in a braid, the masterful work of Father's deft hands. She had adorned herself with a bud of rose tucked over one ear. She felt like the prettiest.

"You're here!" Yuri suddenly jumped in front of her, putting on a cocky grin. "Did I tell you last time that I think you were really incredible?"

Yuri had meager talent, her nose told her. But he boasted striking features and overflowing grit. During the Test in the Henge Field, he displayed swordsmanship that could rival those of the new recruits of the holy army. And though born with a silver ladle, he did not hesitate to save anyone during the rampage of the tumbleweed, be them a noble or commoner.

"You seem happy," she said, "I believe you got in."

He chortled smugly. "Of course, I passed."

A mass of young aspirants swarmed the board, some of them drawing away languid or weeping, a few of them erupting in joy. Apple's eyes flitted through the area, searching for the uniquely bright golden hair of her hero. He's not here. Will he come later? Or did he already leave?

Yuri, like a kind gentle lord, parted the crowd for her.

"Oh, thank you, you did not need to do that."

He winked at her. "Anything for my friend. We're friends, right?"

She nodded, with enthusiasm. He hadn't told her his name yet though. "You're a noble. Which house do you belong to?"

He shrugged, "Nothing important."

So, he doesn't want to tell me.

The names on the board were ranked. She scooted over to the first parchment, confident that her name was there. A title on the top read: Divine Ordination — Class Aleph.

Her eyes skimmed down the list, finding noble names dominating the top ranks. She saw Diana Rupert at eighth. When her name went past the tenth, sadness slowly crept in. I didn't answer the written tests. I should have expected it. When her eyes went further down, she gave a yelp.

"There's my name," she rejoiced. Yuri gave her a proud smile.

20. Apple of Heinstead She was twentieth out of thirty in the first class.

She expected it but seeing it written there in ink brought a certain kind of joy. But it was short-lived because on top of her name was 19. Yuri Amberworth. He scored higher than me. Thanks to the test, I'm sure.

How about him? Did he make it? 

She stepped over to scan for his name in the other departments. He said he did not have holy power, so he should be in the other courses. She scoured the lists on History Studies, Alchemy, Mathematics, Literature, Arts. There were a couple of Lucases but not the one from Vermil.

"Looking for a friend's name?" Yuri asked

"Indeed, but I don't think it's there."

"How about the Ordination class? Did you look through it? What's his name?"

"Lucas of Vermil."

"I see, he might not be in Aleph but there are also two other tiers. The classes are mostly named differently based on the average holy power they hold. Aleph is first. After us are Classes Daleth and Heth."

She returned to the leftmost part of the board, jostling past nobles and commoners taking a peek.

Class Daleth did not contain his name, nor did the third one. She almost missed it but on the same parchment as Heth, after the last name, just under it was written the words: Divine Ordination — Class Zayin. It had only one student.