Free Sleight by Kirsten Kaschock

should allow. He went directly to the sink, hacked up some phlegm, turned on the spigot. They waited for him.
    Kitchen lynxed himself onto the granite counter, cross-legged—there were only the two chairs.
    “Hey West.”
    West nodded. “Kenichi.”
    “It’s Kitchen. What’s going on?”
    Clef had been twisting her hair distractedly, frowning, but Kitchen’s presence was a balm. She made up a small smile for her lover. “Toss me a couple of chopsticks, would you?”
    Kitchen reached into the utensil drawer beneath him, and flicked two ivory sticks onto the bistro table in front of Clef. As she secured her topknot, she spoke directly to Kitchen, bypassing West as if he were out of hearing range, an incompetent, a child.
    “West here is looking for something structural, and seems to fancy himself a progressive—but we knew that. Do you think … should we show him Lark’s book?”
    When Kitchen nodded, Clef left. When she returned, she was carrying it.
    “My sister left this here.” Clef looked down at the large, cloth-covered journal. The cover was worn, frayed at one corner. She set the book in front of West—and West’s face was empty. She saw explanation was necessary, so she gathered up some air and dove.
    “Lark was in Monk a while ago. Not for long. I’ve never seen any drawings—you directors are cagey—but Kitchen has. He says these look like structures, but for no architectures he’s used. I don’t think Lark knows what she’s drawing. I think she’s sick in a way I don’t know how anyone would fix. You look at that. I see pain. I don’t … I think … maybe she should come back to sleight. If you can do that, you keep the book. I don’t know why she left it for me. I’m no good with what’s not there. She should know that.”
    Clef was looking at West. She was waiting. He ran his hand over the book, taking time.
    “I can’t say I’m not curious. And sick isn’t something that scares me, though you make her sound … ruined. I often find sickness to be the sign of a working mind. But why,” and West looked bemused, “why so quick to trust me with this? Haven’t you noticed? I encroach. I break enterings.” His smile was light, almost coaxing.
    Kitchen answered. “Clef doesn’t trust you. She sees your use. When she showed me this, I told her we’d need to understand it if we wanted to help Lark. But I—knew—Lark once. I’m not the person to help her. Clef’s happy to have you take an interest.”
    Clef stood to take her cup over to the sink. She stopped in front of Kitchen.
    “You make me sound heartless.”
    “You have a heart, Clef. You just like to grip it with both hands.”
    13 The vast majority of sleightists are familiar with but scant history of their craft. They can recall a few names: Revoix, Bugliesi, even Dodd. But they do not know what transpired on the island of inception. They have read not one of the diaries left by Antonia, nor those of the bastard daughters of the Theater of Geometry. Most are divorced from other areas of their art. Expert at the handling of existing architectures, very few sleightists attempt the design of new ones. They know nothing of the work done by hands, the drawings completed far from theaters, the painstaking experimentation, the research. Their system of training suggests to the sleightists that they purposefully self-restrict to instrumentation. The technique demands so much of them: they are led by one another to think it is enough. Safely cloistered within the mechanism, sleightists choose not to reflect. On rare occasion, a talent, one who wicks often and with duration, cannot help realizing what has not been at stake. One might think these few would seek to reform their passion, but invariably, they withdraw from the sleightworld—quietly and culpably aware.

LARK’S BOOK.
[On the first four pages, detailed pencil-drawn diagrams.]
Sketch one: Suggestive of a spiderweb with a central snarl. Cause unclear. Or a game of