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Authors: Elizabeth Hand
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abashed. “I understood from Miramar it was to be delivered later—”
“Oh,” I said, investing the syllable with all the sneering doubt I could muster. As the yellow tapers threw more light into the chamber I was rewarded with her blush. The mere thought that their association with us consisted of anything but raw commerce mortified even the most devout Patron of the Hill Magdalena Ardent. I knew that Miramar would be furious if he heard I had embarrassed Iris Bergenia by this intimation of impropriety. I also knew that there would never be any punishment for Raphael Miramar, favorite of the House Miramar and Roland Nopcsa’s pet. “Well, if Gower Miramar is expecting it …”
I stretched, wondering if the exchange for my favors might also bring us more of the cosmetic madder the Botanists had given us at the last masque. “May I escort you to your friends, Iris?”
“No.” Hastily she collected her cloak and carrying pouch, the tarnished swivel gun that I knew wasn’t loaded but which all Botanists carried anyway when they visited our Houses. “I think I remember the way out—”
I walked her to the chamber door, enjoying her discomfort as I embraced her. I shut my eyes and sighed into her ear, felt her shudder as she pulled away from me. She bared her teeth in a false smile. She did have even white teeth, as so many of the Botanists did; Miramar said it was from chewing birch twigs. For a moment a hint of warmth flared in her eyes.
“Roland was right about you,” she said. She gave me a fleeting smile.
I bowed my head, affecting modesty, and said, “I’ll tell Miramar you promised the tincture would be delivered soon.”
Her smile froze. With a shrug she turned and fled.
“Puh,” I said aloud. “That old bitch.” I walked to the bed and retrieved my rings and the aluminum bracelet Roland had given me last year when I had been chosen cacique at the Masque of Winterlong. It was a lovely bangle, taken from the Hall of Civil Servants in the Museum where Roland lived and where soon, soon! I would live as well. For several minutes I stood before the mirror, combing my long hair and braiding it again. This time I bound it with a long indigo riband, pulled the braid taut to display the titanium ear-cuffs that had been another token of Roland’s favor, ancient ornaments he had found among the ruins beneath the Obelisk. I dropped the braid, gingerly touched my cheek, wincing at how rough it felt. Most Patrons preferred the youngest children. Those of us old enough to shave were encouraged to do so each morning and evening. But Roland had confided that Iris Bergenia would prefer me unshaven, and so tonight I had forgone my toilet. Despite this the face that glowed between the shadows in the mirror’s flecked surface was no less beautiful than the painted effigies in the Hall of Dead Kings. Raphael Miramar, most sacred of the Magdalene’s Children, beloved of Paphians and of the Curator Roland Nopcsa.
Tonight I would tell Miramar I was leaving.
I smiled into the mirror, once more made the Paphian’s beck to myself. I was turning to leave when a shape shot across the room, giggling.
“Fancy!” I cried, laughing as I whirled to catch her. Candlelight struck the spurs of her shoulders, collarbone, knees; made a golden cerement of her thin white tunic. She squealed as I grabbed her and we both tumbled onto the thick carpet. For a moment I pinned her, felt those sharp thin ribs that I could have crushed like the husk of a tamarind. Then she wriggled from my arms and slid beneath the bed.
“Miramar is waiting!” she said, blowing a dust feather into my face. “Let me out.” She peered from the bed-shadows: enormous eyes in a triangular face; golden hair just long enough to be pulled into two tight braids that left her ears pitifully exposed to the autumn drafts that chilled our House.
I settled back onto my heels. “Come on out, then.”
“You’ll catch me.”
“I’ll come under there and
“Oh,” I said, investing the syllable with all the sneering doubt I could muster. As the yellow tapers threw more light into the chamber I was rewarded with her blush. The mere thought that their association with us consisted of anything but raw commerce mortified even the most devout Patron of the Hill Magdalena Ardent. I knew that Miramar would be furious if he heard I had embarrassed Iris Bergenia by this intimation of impropriety. I also knew that there would never be any punishment for Raphael Miramar, favorite of the House Miramar and Roland Nopcsa’s pet. “Well, if Gower Miramar is expecting it …”
I stretched, wondering if the exchange for my favors might also bring us more of the cosmetic madder the Botanists had given us at the last masque. “May I escort you to your friends, Iris?”
“No.” Hastily she collected her cloak and carrying pouch, the tarnished swivel gun that I knew wasn’t loaded but which all Botanists carried anyway when they visited our Houses. “I think I remember the way out—”
I walked her to the chamber door, enjoying her discomfort as I embraced her. I shut my eyes and sighed into her ear, felt her shudder as she pulled away from me. She bared her teeth in a false smile. She did have even white teeth, as so many of the Botanists did; Miramar said it was from chewing birch twigs. For a moment a hint of warmth flared in her eyes.
“Roland was right about you,” she said. She gave me a fleeting smile.
I bowed my head, affecting modesty, and said, “I’ll tell Miramar you promised the tincture would be delivered soon.”
Her smile froze. With a shrug she turned and fled.
“Puh,” I said aloud. “That old bitch.” I walked to the bed and retrieved my rings and the aluminum bracelet Roland had given me last year when I had been chosen cacique at the Masque of Winterlong. It was a lovely bangle, taken from the Hall of Civil Servants in the Museum where Roland lived and where soon, soon! I would live as well. For several minutes I stood before the mirror, combing my long hair and braiding it again. This time I bound it with a long indigo riband, pulled the braid taut to display the titanium ear-cuffs that had been another token of Roland’s favor, ancient ornaments he had found among the ruins beneath the Obelisk. I dropped the braid, gingerly touched my cheek, wincing at how rough it felt. Most Patrons preferred the youngest children. Those of us old enough to shave were encouraged to do so each morning and evening. But Roland had confided that Iris Bergenia would prefer me unshaven, and so tonight I had forgone my toilet. Despite this the face that glowed between the shadows in the mirror’s flecked surface was no less beautiful than the painted effigies in the Hall of Dead Kings. Raphael Miramar, most sacred of the Magdalene’s Children, beloved of Paphians and of the Curator Roland Nopcsa.
Tonight I would tell Miramar I was leaving.
I smiled into the mirror, once more made the Paphian’s beck to myself. I was turning to leave when a shape shot across the room, giggling.
“Fancy!” I cried, laughing as I whirled to catch her. Candlelight struck the spurs of her shoulders, collarbone, knees; made a golden cerement of her thin white tunic. She squealed as I grabbed her and we both tumbled onto the thick carpet. For a moment I pinned her, felt those sharp thin ribs that I could have crushed like the husk of a tamarind. Then she wriggled from my arms and slid beneath the bed.
“Miramar is waiting!” she said, blowing a dust feather into my face. “Let me out.” She peered from the bed-shadows: enormous eyes in a triangular face; golden hair just long enough to be pulled into two tight braids that left her ears pitifully exposed to the autumn drafts that chilled our House.
I settled back onto my heels. “Come on out, then.”
“You’ll catch me.”
“I’ll come under there and
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