Das Steingeschöpf

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All was dark and quiet. I jumped down, the snow crackling beneath my weight, and turned to thank the driver. He'd already clicked to the horse and was turing the cart around, grimly avoiding my eye. He spat a wad of sooty phlegm towards me which landed on one of my new Guild-issued boots with a soft splot.

I shouldn't have been surprised, but I was, every time: even a Schöpfer's status couldn't protect me from this. I had curly hair, a sloping forehead, and dark, prominent eyes. An easy target. I wanted to shout at his retreating back that I had worn my fair share of rags too, that my pristine clothing wasn't due to some Jewish conspiracy. But I swallowed my words, of course, as I always had. I pulled out a handkerchief and knelt to wipe my boot.

The creak of the cart's wheels had faded by the time I trudged up to the door of the chalet.

I knocked; a woman with kingfisher eyes opened the door. "Wer sind Sie?"

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