Read Online Marianne, the Magus & the Manticore by Sheri S. Tepper - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sheri S. Tepper
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is wise not to trifle."
He pursued this question. "You didn't like the things Harvey gave you. Did you tell me why?"
She shrugged, spooning up the last of her bisque, sorry there was not more of it, so relaxed by the wine that she did not mind answering. "They made me feel slimy. Dirty. Not clean dirt, but sewer dirt. I've never been in a sewer, but I can imagine." She put her spoon down with regret. "The naked girl was the worst. That one made me angry. She was so...
sacrificial."
"Anger," he mused, nodding once more to the hovering waiter. "I have often wondered why anger is considered by some Western religions to be a sin. It is such a marvelous protection against evil." He examined her face, thinking of an old proverb of his people, often used to define perspicacity of a certain type: He can recognize the devil by his breathing. He thought it interesting that Marianne could recognize the devil by its breathing, and he wondered who the devil was. Well, he should not be too quick to identify.
"The reason you found them unpleasant probably doesn't matter. We've taken care of it. It's likely that your brother would not even know the difference between the things he gave you and the substitutions I have made. He would undoubtedly be distressed to learn he had caused you a moment's apprehension. There is certainly no reason to mention it to him."
Marianne had had no intention of mentioning it. "You think I felt as I did about the things merely because Harvey gave them to me? That seems a little simplistic."
"It's probably as good an explanation as we are going to get." He laughed with a good pretense of humor, watching as the second set of wine glasses were refilled. They would continue with the Trockenbeerenauslese until dessert. He had chosen it for her, thinking she would prefer it, and was now regretful that he had not realized she would appreciate something better. Still, it was a very fine wine, if not a preeminent one, and her glass was being refilled for the third time. Her face was flushed and happy, and she played idly with her fork, waiting for the salad. He went on, putting an end to the subject,
"I suggest any further presents from your half brother be put in storage somewhere. Often we wish to be exorcised of demons we ourselves have allowed house room. That is an Alphenlicht saying, one my sister is very fond of."
"I suppose she means demons of memory," said Marianne in an untroubled voice. "Of guilt, of vengeance. Things we dwell on instead of forgetting." In that moment, she felt she would not be bothered by such things again.
He cursed at himself, not letting it show. The box had been no minor assault. She should be warned. Who was he to give her these platitudes instead of the harsh warning which was probably required? If he were to be true to his own conscience, he would explore the root of that corruption, find the cause, help her arrange a defense against it rather than deal her a few proverbs to placate her sense of danger. However, there was no way to do that without frightening her, and tonight was not the time, not the place, not with her glowing face across from him, candlelit, soft and accepting. When he knew her a little better—when he found out who was responsible. He did not believe it was her brother. The shallow, puffed-up ego which had looked at him out of Harvey S. Zahmani's eyes would not have been capable of the singleminded study necessary to select those individual gifts to make up such a synergistic power of evil. Well. It would wait. He would not destroy her pleasure tonight.
Neither would he destroy his own planned pleasure for the weekend. He returned to his purpose.
"Do you ride, Marianne?"
"It was my passion once, if twelve-year-old girls may be allowed to have passions. I had a wonderful horse, Rustam. I loved him above all things. When he was sold, after Papa died, I cried for days. I never could tell it if was for Papa, or for Rustam. I think it was for Rustam,
He pursued this question. "You didn't like the things Harvey gave you. Did you tell me why?"
She shrugged, spooning up the last of her bisque, sorry there was not more of it, so relaxed by the wine that she did not mind answering. "They made me feel slimy. Dirty. Not clean dirt, but sewer dirt. I've never been in a sewer, but I can imagine." She put her spoon down with regret. "The naked girl was the worst. That one made me angry. She was so...
sacrificial."
"Anger," he mused, nodding once more to the hovering waiter. "I have often wondered why anger is considered by some Western religions to be a sin. It is such a marvelous protection against evil." He examined her face, thinking of an old proverb of his people, often used to define perspicacity of a certain type: He can recognize the devil by his breathing. He thought it interesting that Marianne could recognize the devil by its breathing, and he wondered who the devil was. Well, he should not be too quick to identify.
"The reason you found them unpleasant probably doesn't matter. We've taken care of it. It's likely that your brother would not even know the difference between the things he gave you and the substitutions I have made. He would undoubtedly be distressed to learn he had caused you a moment's apprehension. There is certainly no reason to mention it to him."
Marianne had had no intention of mentioning it. "You think I felt as I did about the things merely because Harvey gave them to me? That seems a little simplistic."
"It's probably as good an explanation as we are going to get." He laughed with a good pretense of humor, watching as the second set of wine glasses were refilled. They would continue with the Trockenbeerenauslese until dessert. He had chosen it for her, thinking she would prefer it, and was now regretful that he had not realized she would appreciate something better. Still, it was a very fine wine, if not a preeminent one, and her glass was being refilled for the third time. Her face was flushed and happy, and she played idly with her fork, waiting for the salad. He went on, putting an end to the subject,
"I suggest any further presents from your half brother be put in storage somewhere. Often we wish to be exorcised of demons we ourselves have allowed house room. That is an Alphenlicht saying, one my sister is very fond of."
"I suppose she means demons of memory," said Marianne in an untroubled voice. "Of guilt, of vengeance. Things we dwell on instead of forgetting." In that moment, she felt she would not be bothered by such things again.
He cursed at himself, not letting it show. The box had been no minor assault. She should be warned. Who was he to give her these platitudes instead of the harsh warning which was probably required? If he were to be true to his own conscience, he would explore the root of that corruption, find the cause, help her arrange a defense against it rather than deal her a few proverbs to placate her sense of danger. However, there was no way to do that without frightening her, and tonight was not the time, not the place, not with her glowing face across from him, candlelit, soft and accepting. When he knew her a little better—when he found out who was responsible. He did not believe it was her brother. The shallow, puffed-up ego which had looked at him out of Harvey S. Zahmani's eyes would not have been capable of the singleminded study necessary to select those individual gifts to make up such a synergistic power of evil. Well. It would wait. He would not destroy her pleasure tonight.
Neither would he destroy his own planned pleasure for the weekend. He returned to his purpose.
"Do you ride, Marianne?"
"It was my passion once, if twelve-year-old girls may be allowed to have passions. I had a wonderful horse, Rustam. I loved him above all things. When he was sold, after Papa died, I cried for days. I never could tell it if was for Papa, or for Rustam. I think it was for Rustam,
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