It was laundry day in Dakley, which meant that steam billowed out into the streets as every household boiled huge vats of water up in which to dunk all their dirty linens.
As the oldest, Blossom had been drafted in to help her mother with the agitator, a long wooden stick with what could have passed for a small milking stool stuck on the end. It was as tall as Ochre and almost as heavy as Madder, and so the two of them, mother and daughter, would take turns to stir the mixture of clothes, soap and boiling water.
"Time to switch," said Hope.
Blossom nodded. Her arms felt like they were on fire, and she thought she might faint if she had to stand another moment, leaning over the steaming cauldron.
Her mother held out her hand to her, and Blossom took it as she stepped down from the stool she was balancing on.
Pushing the damp hair off of her forehead, she wriggled her shoulders to loosen them before stepping over to the kitchen table, which was currently weighed down by those garments which needed a little extra attention. Mostly Ochre's britches by the looks of it, the knees coated in green stains and the pockets filled with some brown sticky substance which Blossom didn't want to contemplate the origins of.
She wiped her sweaty palms on her apron and picked up the soap, ready to tackle any stain which threatened to cling on even after the hot bath.
Despite it being the most exhausting task in their endless ritual of house cleaning, Blossom actually didn't mind doing the laundry. There was something magical about seeing the smelly clothes undergo hours worth of backbreaking work, only to emerge as sweet-smelling as a spring rose.
Blossom loved putting away the clean sheets, and burying her nose into them as she tucked them away in the trunk, and breathing in the scent of soap left between the threads.
As she contemplated the mysteries of the laundry room, while making a note of whose undergarments would need to be added to that evening's darning pile, she was startled by a knock on the front door. The wet soap slipped from her fingers and skittered onto the floor.
"Who can that be?" said Hope, resting the agitator against the side of the cauldron and stepping down off the stool.
"Do you want me to get it?"
"No," said her mother, pulling off her apron and checking her face in the tiny mirror she kept on the shelf. "You carry on with your work. And keep an eye on the fire. I won't be long."
Blossom crouched down to retrieve the soap from under the table and got on with working it into the stains, drawing circles around them and turning them into flowers and birds as she strained hard to hear what was happening upstairs.
She could hear her mother's voice, just about. And a man's.
That was odd. No tradesman would dare come round on laundry day. There wasn't a housewife in Dakley who wouldn't box their ears for taking them away from their duties.
Putting the soap down she edged her way to the steps and hopped up a few of them, pressing her ear against the door.
And then she heard it. The drum. The same one that had marched through the capital and woken everyone on her street in the middle of the night. With a cautious hand, she eased open the door and tried to get a good look.
Her mother was standing in the doorway, her hand holding onto the frame as if to block the way. Her woollen skirts were taking up most of the view, but Blossom could just about make out the flash of a military jacket, in the King's colours.
"You're mistaken. My oldest son is far too young to join the regiment. You must be thinking of someone else."
"Are you quite sure?" came the voice from the door.
"Yes, I am quite sure about the age of my children." Her mother's voice sounded strained, as if she was doing her best not to snap at the man.
"And your husband?" asked the sergeant.
"Is under my protection."
Blossom gasped. She recognised that voice. Her mother must have too because she took a little step back, giving Blossom an unobscured view of the recruiting sergeant dithering, clearly unsure of how to react in the face of such a magnificent man.
The young earl smiled at her mother, stepping around the sergeant as if he were no more than beggar on the street.
"Hope," he said, taking her hand in both of his and bowing low over it. "Have I come at an inconvenient time?"
"Not at all," said Hope, her hand immediately going to smooth her hair and gown as soon as he released it. "Are you here to see my husband? I'll call for him."
"That would be wonderful. A quick word is all I require. I would hate to take him from his work for too long."
"I'm sure he would be delighted by the distraction." She turned and Blossom, who not having the time to duck and hide, froze in place. Hope's face registered surprise for a moment, before being replaced by a large smile. "Why don't I take your coat and pour you a cup of wine," she said, taking Patron's arm and leading him through to their front room.
As soon as they were gone Blossom scuttled back down to the kitchen and applied herself to the laundry with vigorous energy. A few minutes later, the door opened and there was the soft tread of feet coming down the stairs. Blossom didn't look up, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on an oil stain on her father's collar, as if it were the most fascinating thing she had ever seen in her life.
"You've left it sitting too long in the lye," said Hope quietly.
Blossom jumped, running over to the shallow tub to empty it. Her hands were shaking so much that the contents slipped over the side and drenched her apron.
"Here," said Hope, throwing over a rag. Blossom dried her hands, trying to ignore the itching of her skin.
She watched as her mother, as graceful as a dancer, picked her way through their kitchen and stepped onto the stool, taking hold of the long stick and turning over their sheets in the cauldron. She looked utterly calm, as if the knock on the door had been nothing more than Mistress Baker asking for some spare potash.
"What happened, Mama?" she asked, unable to stop herself.
Hope just shook her head, and resting the agitator against the side of the pot lifted her hands to cross her eyes and cover her ears. Whatever was going on, it wasn't something they were supposed to think about or question. Blossom, still holding on to the rag, performed the same motion, not really understanding why she was doing it, just knowing that she had no choice in the matter.
They worked on in silence for what felt like hours, with Blossom sneaking looks at her mother to try and gauge what was going on. She gave nothing away, her expression quite still except when the sound of scraping furniture of the heavy tread of footsteps filtered through the floorboards down to them in the kitchen. And then came the voices.
Blossom could make them out at first, just a gentle rumble over the sound of the pacing footsteps. But then they grow louder. It was her father, shouting at Lord Patron.
Her hand stilled as she strained to hear what was going on. Her heart was hammering so hard that she was quivering. She had to hold her breath just so that she could hear anything over the rush of air.
"Blossom!" snapped her mother.
Blossom jumped. She felt the blood rushing from her limbs, leaving them cold and tingly. She knew she wasn't supposed to listen. She was too old for that now.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
Her mother's lips were pursed in a thin line, the colour utterly drained from her cheeks despite the heat of the room.
"Put that down and go outside," she whispered. "You can't be in this house."
Blossom was going to argue, but the look on her mother's face made her think better of it. She dried her hands on her apron before pulling it off. And with wet eyes ran up the stairs and out of the kitchen.
She closed the door behind her, the click of the latch releasing the wave of tears. She stared up at the ceiling and blinked, but that just made them pour out even faster. With the back of her hand, she pushed them aside and tried to catch her breath.
From the hallway, she could hear the goings on in her father's studio so much clearer. If she really concentrated, she would be able to make out the words. With cautious steps she moved over the the foot of the stairs and leant her chin on the newel post. Whatever their Lord Patron was asking of her father, he wasn't happy about it.
Unable to stop herself, she crept up the stairs, easing her foot onto each step so that they wouldn't creak. The shouting had died down. She could just about make out the smooth, cultivated tones of Patron. He didn't sound angry, but then Blossom could never imagine him doing anything as vulgar as raising his voice.
She paused on the landing, eyeing the closed door of the studio high above her. She could go up there, press her ear against the door, and find out exactly what was going on. No one would ever know. Everyone said that the masters didn't watch the nobility. They wouldn't dare spy on the private conversations of a member of the King's council.
Without thinking, she took another step, her body taking her towards the studio of its own accord.
"Sienna?"
Blossom whipped around. Her little sister Lake was watching her from their bedroom.
The guilt made her temper flare. "I told you not to call me that," she hissed.
Lake blinked, the auburn smudges of her eyebrows scrunching up as she prepared to cry. Blossom sighed and went to pick her up, but the little girl shied away and scuttled back to her bed.
Blossom watched as her sister grabbed her doll and clutched at it in a violent hug and she sighed.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to shout."
"Everyone is angry today."
Of course the babies must have heard the shouting too. At least they didn't need to leave the house. It must be such a relief for their mother only to have one named child.
Blossom grabbed her sketchbook from the drawer and slammed it shut. She didn't bother to look back at what effect this outburst might have had on her sister, but ran out of the room, clattering down the stairs and out the door, only allowing herself to breath freely when she was safe outside.
Lord Patron's carriage was still there. The driver dipped his cap at her as if she were a young lady, and Blossom was ashamed to find herself blushing, making her blush all the more. She tossed her hair, pretending not to notice him.
The recruitment party had made its way to the end of the street. Almost every door was open, with women peeking out, their hands red from the hot water and their eyes filled with worry.
Blossom wandered down the road, her sketchbook tucked under her arm. Up ahead Mistress Weaver and her eldest daughter were whispering to each other, their heads so close they were almost touching. Their bare arms were covered by thick shawls. The Weaver's eldest daughter had just declared her intentions to marry a boy from the next road at the local chapel. They were to be married the following month. Now it seems her intended was to be taken off to war. There was no resisting the recruiting officer's drum.
A fat tear rolled down the young woman's cheek, and before she could stop herself, Blossom found herself perching on a neighbour's front step and sketching the two of them: mother and daughter. Each attempting to comfort the other.
Blossom worked quickly, trying to get the lines down on paper before they moved on. She was soon biting on her bottom lip as she always did when she was concentrating hard. As she drew, the two figures became less distinct, as if they were merging into each other, joined together by their common pain.
She was so absorbed with her work, she did not notice the boy leaning over the iron railings, to watch her from above.
"That's good," said the butcher's boy. Blossom started, her shock marking the paper with a dusty black line as her fingers lost control of the charcoal.
"Look what you made me do!" she cried out, much louder than she had intended.
Her two subjects looked over, their heads turning as one, and their red-rimmed eyes widening with horror as they noticed what she had been doing.
Blossom felt the heat leave her cheeks as she realised how it must appear. Her naming up at that fancy chapel on Mease Street had been the talk of Dakley. Everyone knew about it. They would know that she had given her name to the masters.
With heavy arms she reached up and brushed her hands over her eyes and hands and then, with the greatest care, tore her sketch in two, letting the pieces fall into the muck of the street. It wasn't enough. With looks that were poised between fear and hatred, the two women turned, and clutching at each other, disappeared inside.
"What was that about?" asked Caul, plonking himself beside her on the step.
Blossom took a deep breath, ready to tell him everything. She wanted him to tell her that she'd done nothing wrong, that it was only a silly mistake, but she couldn't. She couldn't speak of it to anyone. Not any more. She remembered how hurt she'd been when Caul had stopped telling her everything, after his naming the previous year. And now it was her turn to guard her lips.
They'd spent their childhoods running around the streets together, playing games and trading secrets. But that was over now. There was always to be a barrier between the two of them now. Even sitting next to him, mere inches away, she could feel the wall growing taller, stone by stone being placed by the masters.
"You made me ruin my work with your sneaking around," she said, already feeling guilty for blaming her actions on him. "It doesn't matter," she said quickly, as he began to apologise. "I didn't like it anyway."
Her stared at her for a moment, his large eyes squinting as if trying to decipher a puzzle. Blossom's fingers curled around the edge of her sketchbook to stop the pages rustling in the breeze. But a moment later, the tension broke and he grinned.
"Did you hear the drums earlier?" he asked, running his hands through his slicked back hair, before wiping his grease coated fingers on his britches.
"Yes, of course. They knocked on our door."
Caul nodded. "Ours too."
Terror coursed under her skin. "They didn't...?" she started. She couldn't imagine having to say goodbye to Caul. To have him all dressed up in the King's colours so he could go fight the Pryvians. Serrador never lost a battle. Their army was the envy of the Western Isles, but that didn't mean that sometimes soldiers didn't come back.
"Nah," he said, leaning back on the step and sticking his stocky legs out in front of him. He was still wearing his white apron. There was a splotch of blood at his waist. He must have been helping Birdie with the butchering that morning. "Not that I wouldn't," he hastened to add. "King and Country and all that. Just too young. I offered to go bang the drum a bit, but Ma told them I wasn't fourteen yet and they left."
"Oh," said Blossom, trying very hard to keep her relief from showing.
"They took a note of our address though. Said they'd be back next year if the war was still going on. So, that's good."
"Yes," she said, shocked that they were already talking of the war lasting longer than a year.
Caul scratched his nose as his gaze drifted down the street. "Is old Vain-boy visiting?" he asked. He must have spotted the carriage.
"Yes, our Lord Patron came to see father," she said carefully. She hated it when Caul called him that. Just because he was good looking and wore smart clothes didn't mean that he was vain. "He asked to see my work the other day," she said, opening up her ledger and idly flicking through the papers so that she didn't have to see Caul's expression. "I think he might give me my own commission one of these days."
Caul didn't say anything, so she snuck a side-long glance at him. He was still watching the carriage, almost frowning with concentration. The corners of his lips were turned down and there were lines between his eyebrows.
"Do you think he signed up?" he asked.
"He is on the King's Council."
"So?"
Blossom paused. She'd always thought that was a good enough explanation for their Patron's actions. It was the one her mother had always used when she asked questions. "He serves the King. He can't go fighting overseas. Who would help run the country?"
"Fighting is serving the King," said Caul. "And we don't even have one of those any more. He's dead, isn't he?"
"You mustn't say that," whispered Blossom. She wasn't sure if it was against the rules, but it sounded so very wrong to have someone say it as boldly as Caul had just done.
"Well, he is. That's a fact. There's no use denying it. That's why we're all going to war." He shifted into a more comfortable position. "Some of us, anyway."
Blossom shivered. The fog that filled the streets had settled on her clothes, making her dress damp to the touch. "I'm sure he does his duty."
"I'm sure he does too. But some people's duties are easier than others."
Blossom narrowed her eyes. "Are you jealous?" she said, giving him a teasing pat with the back of her hand.
Caul almost choked in his desperation to get out a denial. "Of that preening lord? Not likely."
Blossom shrugged. "It's just, I can see why you might be. He's pretty impressive."
"He's pretty, I'll give you that. But hardly impressive."
"Oh yes, being the youngest member of the King's Council is so utterly dull. Sure."
"He got that because he owns some poxy country. Just like his Da before him. It's not like he earned it."
"He's the Earl of Fellshire."
"Well la-di-da. Do you even know where that is?"
Blossom didn't know, but she was hardly going to admit that to Caul. "West of here," she said. "It's the most beautiful county in Serrador."
"Of course it is. Lord Fancy-Pants wouldn't have accepted anything else," he said, nodding at the sketchbook sitting on her lap.
She looked down, and saw that she must of unknowingly flicked to one of the drawings she'd done of the earl. She'd imagined him in the pose of a hero, his hand resting idly on the hilt of a sword, as if it were a cane. She blushed and rearranged the papers with fumbling fingers until her shame was buried under a pile of flower studies.
"And there's Lord Fancy-Pants himself," said Caul, sitting up straight.
It was true. The tall figure of Lord Patron, had emerged from her front door and was striding out towards his carriage. A footman wearing the Vanatis livery was cutting around to open the door for him and the earl dove inside with barely a look of recognition.
Without thinking, Blossom stood up, ready to curtsey, forgetting the sketches she held. They fluttered to the ground at her feet. Before the filth and muck could hold them, the breeze swept them away, so that they flew out across the street like blackened doves.
"My work," cried out Blossom, running into the street, darting back and forth to pick them up.
With a groan Caul got up and joined her, running full pelt across the cobbles to catch an unruly one. He caught one, half crushing it in his big hands before he grabbed another.
Behind them came the rumble of the carriage. Blossom looked around. The young earl must have been in a rush because the carriage was going far too fast for the cramped streets of Dakley.
Caul was bent over, moving close to the ground, his hand outstretched as one of her sketches skipped just of of reach.
For Blossom it was as if the air had turned to treacle, pouring into the cogs of time and slowing it down. The horses juddered like the images in a flip-book as they bared down on her friend.
Blossom tried to move, but her limbs had turned to stone. So she screamed at him. But it was too late. He'd run out in front of the carriage.
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[AUTHOR NOTE: Just remember kids, DON'T PLAY IN THE ROAD. It's dangerous.
And now after that public service broadcast, do let me know your thoughts and theories down in the comments, and any votes you feel like casting will be gratefully appreciated.]