Page 39 of They Call Me Blue

“In addition to delivering our young, Stitchers are responsible for all skin, organ, and bone transplants. A skilled Stitcher can begin the grafting process at birth; however, it is not without risk. To minimize complications, all transplanted parts should be from a healthy, whole, and infection-free individual.”

M y newborn sister is already gray. Her lumpy purple skin lies in a bucket next to the surgery table, amethyst blood dripping off it.

Dressed in his white Stitcher’s uniform, Yaklan gently raises her club hand and assesses the silver stitchwork.

Smiling to himself, he moves on to examine her lumpy shoulder, then her malformed nose.

The more advanced surgeries will have to wait until she’s old enough to crawl.

Even then, finding an elf child of similar size with compatible genetics will be a challenge.

I was seven before my body looked right, and I was lucky.

Azerin had the money to pay for upgrades as I grew and underwent puberty.

Most can only afford the surgeries once, and they wait until adulthood.

“How is she?” I ask, leaning against the wall. It’s only him and me in the surgery center—well past visiting hours—but my father insisted I retrieve her tonight before the Ring Day celebration.

It’s a welcome distraction all the same. If I’m kept busy, I don’t have to think about Eleesy or the training house—sacrificing my best friend to save a godsdamned elf, murdering an innocent to fill my aching belly. So much blood is on my hands. It makes my stomach turn.

“Your sister is fine,” Yaklan says, shaking me from my tormented thoughts.

“I placed her under anesthesia a few hours ago. It should wear off soon.” He leaves Tyla on the surgery table and walks across the room, loafers clicking on the white marble floor.

Metal tables and sinks line the back wall.

Surgical implements, gauze, and disinfectant litter the countertops—all bloodstained from the operation.

Yaklan plugs one of the sinks with a metal stopper. “Your inauguration is tomorrow. How do you feel?”

“How am I supposed to feel?”

With his back to me, he reaches for a large glass bottle filled with clear liquid and wiggles the stopper until it pops free.

The sour stench of vinegar follows, glugging and splashing when he pours it into the sink.

“Your father sent you to me, so if I had to guess, you’re having second thoughts. He mentioned we might need to speak.”

More political maneuverings. Why am I not surprised?

“There’s nothing to talk about. I don’t want to be a Karesai,” I admit. “Azerin’s given me permission to deny the appointment and return to the forest.”

He hums thoughtfully. “That must be very tempting for you.”

You have no idea.

My palm tingles, right where I bit Arden.

I flex my fingers, trying to ignore the aching possessiveness that flares to life inside my chest. It’s only gotten worse these last few days.

I need to return to the forest—to consume her and sever this twisted bond between us once and for all, before it gets anyone else killed.

Thank the gods Sarvenna escaped.

Metal scratches against metal as Yaklan scoots his bloody scalpels into the sink. Slowly and meticulously, he scrubs each one with a sponge, then soaks his hands in the vinegar mixture before drying them on his pristine white apron.

He returns to the surgery table and raises my sister, cradling her to his chest.

“Walk with me,” Yaklan says. “I have some patients I need to look over before I leave for the day.”

I obey.

My boots squeak as I follow him out the door.

Kerosene lamps flood the white hallways in golden light. Large bay windows reveal a small, moonlit courtyard where cobble paths weave through wildflowers and orangewood trees. Yaklan opens a closet near the courtyard doors, revealing an assortment of colorful baby blankets.

“Pick one,” he says.

I select an indigo quilt with golden stitchwork, knowing that’s the color my father will prefer.

Together, we wrap my sister, Tyla, in it, and then he passes her to me.

She’s deadweight in my arms—a hideous little thing, but my heart melts all the same.

As my father’s eldest, I’ve held and cared for many of his babes, picking them up from surgeries, feeding them at night.

It was one of the few tolerable things about returning from my hunting trips.

Resting her head against my chest, I marvel at how fast the stitchwork has healed. Ossi dust is a miracle. Our bodies— monstrous as they are—are miracles. Resistant to infection. Fast healing. Capable of regenerating skin and bone when cut. The elves never stood a chance.

Arden won’t stand a chance either when I finally reach her.

Yaklan opens the courtyard doors and ushers me outside.

Humid wind whips at our clothing. Cupping Tyla’s head, I shield her from the worst of it. Single file, we wind through a bumpy cobble path toward the recovery center on the other side of the facility. The twin buildings tower at the city’s edge—its walls so close I can smell the musty rainforest.

Home.

“Do you know what the surgeries were like before I took over?” Yaklan asks, forcing me back to the present. We pass under a marble bench where luminescent white moths fly. They’re everywhere—covering the seat, the manicured orange grasses, and the yellowberry bushes that shine in the silvery light.

I don’t answer his question. Yaklan is over two hundred years old—he became a Karesai long before I was born.

“They didn’t use anesthetic on the elves,” he says. “If they needed a cesarean, they cut the babes out with no effort to preserve the mothers.”

I swallow at his choice of words. No one calls them that here—it’s forbidden. It’s grounds for execution.

Yaklan continues as though he didn’t say something fanatical.

“Back then, disease and infection ran rampant in these halls. Elves were kept alive until all their parts were either used or rotted.” He shudders.

“It was a nightmare. When I took over as a Karesai, I ended the worst of it. Elves that are used for parts— any parts —are now euthanized on the same day. They don’t have to experience their bodies disappearing little by little over months or years.

We use anesthetic during surgery. Mothers can go on to have more children . . . if it’s their master’s intent.”

That word again. Mothers. Not incubators. Not myrie.

We reach the recovery center, and he opens the door for Tyla and me.

Pushing fingers through his hair, Yaklan straightens and forces a fake, political smile to his face—the same one Colette and my father wear.

It’s not directed at me, but rather at the patients who face us.

Transparent glass walls line each side of the hallway, looking in on the rooms of dozens of elgrew and elves.

The former have curtains to draw if they so choose.

The latter would never be granted that degree of privacy.

Most of the recovering elves lie in plain white beds, their stomachs wrapped in bloody gauze from having cesarean births—few myrie can deliver the natural way.

Their pelvises aren’t shaped to accommodate us, and trying to force it poses undo risk.

A handful of elves tout injuries from working in the mines—either missing fingers or crushed arms.

“In the beginning, there was pushback to my changes,” Yaklan says, peering into each of the windows.

“The cost of surgery has more than quadrupled in the last hundred years, but as a Karesai, I’ve had the ability to ensure my policies remain intact.

If you don’t like the way things are, Lyrick, it’s possible to improve them.

You’ll never stop the Butchers from butchering or the Hunters from hunting, but you can make incremental changes for the better. ”

Once he’s finished examining the elves, he moves on to the elgrew, occasionally stepping into their rooms to check their vitals. I wait outside each time, not wanting to see the transplants when they fail.

Drooping body parts. Sloughing skin. The thought alone makes me gag.

We pause in front of Chalk’s room—not Chalk, I realize a second later—but Sorso’s daughter.

She’s taken more than the elf’s scalp. Most of her skin is that same shade of pale, almost white.

But her teeth are still razor sharp, and her eyes still glow amethyst. She sits in a wooden chair beside her bed, flipping through a voluminous black tome titled Obedience Training: When Beating Doesn’t Work.

My mouth curls in revulsion.

Yaklan forces me away, placing a steady hand on my back. He maneuvers me to the end of the hallway—my baby sister snoring the entire time. Unaware of what befell the creature who birthed her.

“Chalk didn’t suffer,” Yaklan says. “I was quick.”

My throat bobs. I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze. “It’s not my business.”

“No, but it’s alright to care. It’s better if you do. Having compassion will make you a good leader.”

“I can’t live in this city, Yaklan. It’s . . .”

Repulsive.

Rotten.

Sighing, he brushes the hair from his face.

“Azerin has given you a gift, Lyrick. As a Karesai, you can affect real change. Your caste is rife with cruelty, but you can reduce it just as I have with mine. We can’t save the world or stop what’s in our nature, but we can be more ethical about it.

I get the strong impression that’s something you want. ”

I think of the mess halls and the arenas. Of the training houses and the Hunters like Conrin, who can’t keep their fucking hands to themselves. Yaklan’s surgery is perhaps one of the only places elves aren’t tortured or abused. But it’s far from kind.