Porcelain Princess by Jon Jacks

was
still at its darkest.
    Even the arrival
of the morning wouldn’t bring any relief from the townspeople’s
fear. For most frightening of all was news that copies of the
illustrations had appeared on their side of the tower’s wall. Then,
no matter what other tasks they had set themselves to accomplish
that morning, they would fearfully make their way towards the wall.
Here they would even more fearfully view the illustrations,
carefully checking them for any sign of themselves or anyone they
cared for.
    Every now and
again, their fear of the tower and its demonic works became so
great (or perhaps it was that they actually overcame their
fear; no one was quite sure) that a courageous man or woman would
rise up from amongst them, calling on everyone to attack it.
Brandishing old swords, pitchforks, scythes and flaming torches,
they would storm the walls. They would break down the tower’s great
doors, they would rush through its marbled rooms, its mirrored
halls, expecting at any moment to be faced by the cohorts of demons
and devils they believed helped the Illuminator complete his evil
tasks.
    But the tower
was always empty. There weren’t any demons. There weren’t any
soldiers, any staff either. And there was nothing to say the
Illuminator had ever lived here. There wasn’t even any sign of the
dark horses that drew the carriages.
    It was as if
everyone in the tower had been magically spirited away. Which only
added to the people’s awe and fear.
    ‘ Burn
it! Burn this evil place down to the ground!’ the cry would go
up.
    They would torch
the velvet curtains, set fire to chairs they had deliberately piled
up, rush through the rooms once more with blazing blankets and
sheet trailing behind them, such that they would set everything
they touched ablaze.
    Then, from the
safety of the town, they would gleefully watch as the whole tower
blazed, cheering as whole sections broke off to tumble to the
ground in vast showers of sparks.
    ‘ That’s it, go ahead and enjoy yourselves while you can,’
older men and women who refused to join the attack would grumble
knowingly. ‘You’ll see, you’ll see,’ they would add
ominously.
    And in the
morning, they did see; they saw the tower completely restored, as
if the attack had been nothing more than an exhilarating
dream.
    ‘ It’s…it’s not possible !’ the previous night’s
attackers would groan in disbelief. ‘I saw it burning! It lit up
the whole town! I felt the heat of the flames, even standing here,
in the town square!’
    Eventually, the
attacks ceased. What was the point, when the tower appeared
indestructible? It never even suffered the Fading, even though it
had appeared in far more illustrations than any other building, any
person.
    The mysterious,
black carriages continued to hurtle dangerously through the town’s
darkened streets. Copies of the illustrations would still appear
outside the tower’s high walls.
    People and
buildings still succumbed to the Fading.
    It was just
something they had to live with, the townspeople had realised. Even
moving to another town wouldn’t save them; the illustrations had as
much affect beyond the surrounding forests as they did in their own
lands. The Illuminator could see and picture, it seemed, anyone he
chose, even if they lived on the edges of the world.
    It was said that
the Illuminator had, long ago, tried to explain his
actions.
    His
illustrations – or illuminations, as he preferred to call them,
hence his name – were mere devices to bring the characters of his
stories to life in his readers’ imaginations, he had
insisted.
    But no one was
prepared to believe such a simplistic explanation. Everyone knew
that his ‘illuminations’ were responsible for the
Fading.
    The Illuminator
never again showed himself (if, indeed, he had ever revealed
himself in the first place) to offer any further explanation. The
tower included a large balcony that overlooked the town, where he
was said to have appeared on