Elizabeth Hand - Icarus Descending

“But not the fungi. We tested them; for some reason they don’t retain toxins the way that plants do. Of course, I mean the ones that aren’t poisonous to begin with.”

I put down my fork and motioned for Mazda to pour me more wine. I was thinking of those skulls above the fireplace.

“We believe it’s because they grow so quickly,” Trevor went on. “The spores actually mutate faster than the mutagens, and after a few generations there’s no trace of the psychoactive agents at all. And mushrooms grow like—well, like mushrooms—so now they seem to have thrown off the viruses completely. We hope.”

Giles nodded. “We cultivate these, of course. Had to, in order to have anything to eat in winter.”

“So you live on mushrooms? Jane picked mistrustfully at her plate.

“Oh, we have some stores of dried beans, lentil flour, things like that. And some very good chutney I put up last year—the chile and spices keep the pears from turning. But in the last few years our produce just hasn’t been very good. Once the soil is contaminated…”

Giles sighed and shook his head. “It didn’t used to be like this. Now we have to trade for much of our food from the mountain people—venison and root vegetables, mostly. And of course all sorts of things come from Cassandra.”

When I looked at him questioningly, Trevor broke in. “It’s always been difficult for the fougas to maneuver out there, in the mountains. You would be surprised—there are places in the Blue Ridge where the viral rains have never fallen.”

“And the wine?” I raised my glass. “It’s very good—”

“ That comes from Cassandra, by way of the Ascendants,” Trevor said. “May I toast our guests?” Candlelight sent motes of gold and black dancing across his enhancer, and he smiled.

Dessert was a custard fragrant with rose water—apparently the mutagens had spared some chickens and a cow, or else our hosts had stores of ersatz food in their pantry. But by then I was too tired to do more than poke at my bowl with a long-handled silver spoon.

Shortly afterward we went up to bed. Giles bade us good night and retired to the kitchen, but Trevor accompanied us to our rooms. More than once he had to help Jane up the steps. She had steadfastly refused to eat much, and the wine had affected her more than it did Miss Scarlet or myself.

“Night,” she said thickly at the door to her room. She regarded me through slitted eyes before adding, “Ge’ some other clothes,” and ducking out of sight.

A few steps more to Miss Scarlet’s room, where she turned to our host. “I have not had such a fine meal in many months, Sieur. You are a most gracious innkeeper, to serve impecunious guests with such courtesy.”

Trevor looked down at her, amused, and gave a little bow. “Our pleasure. We like to help those less fortunate, when we can.”

Miss Scarlet reached up to pat my leg as she went inside. “Sleep well, Wendy,” she called softly.

Trevor went before me to the next door, waving his hand in front of light-plates so that the hallway dimmed. I followed him into my room, still uneasy and feeling a little drunk myself. Someone had put more wood on the fire. Trevor bent to poke it, sending sparks flying into the room, and threw on another log. Then he crossed to the window, checking the casement to make sure it was closed and clucking his tongue at how heavily the snow lay upon the roof.

“Would you like some different clothes?” He turned back to me, his enhancer catching the light from the fireplace and streaking his face with gold. “I’ll be glad to get you more—”

I shrugged. There was that odd smell again: not unpleasant but so strange, like lemons buried in the earth. “Clothes? Well, yes. If you have them. I—I’m not accustomed to things like this. Skirts—” I almost told him how I had traveled so long disguised as a boy, but instead explained lamely, “An actor—actress—you know—and skirts are clumsy for traveling—”

Trevor smiled. “Of course. You should have said something. Your friend Jane—your lover?”

“No!” I hadn’t meant my voice to sound so sharp. I sat abruptly on the edge of the bed, blinking to keep tears from my eyes. “No. My lover was killed two days ago, at the feast of Winterlong. He was a Paphian, a Saint-Alaban….”

Trevor’s voice was kind. “I didn’t know. Forgive me—it must have been terrible for you—”

I remained silent, willing him to leave. After a moment he said, “The clothes you’re wearing—they belonged to my daughter. But there are others here somewhere. I’ll find them and lay them out for you tomorrow.”

I bunched the bed quilt between my fingers. “Your daughter?”

“Yes: Cadence. She lives in Cassandra, but I’ve still got many of her things here. I’m afraid they’re not very fashionable. She’s a bit older than you—”

Laughter crept into his voice as he added, “ Much older, as a matter of fact. But her clothes seem to fit, even if the style isn’t what you’re accustomed to.”

“I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful,” I said stiffly. He crossed the room to leave, and I started to rise.

“Please,” he said motioning for me to sit. He stood in the open doorway, his strong, youthful hands incongruous with that white beard and hair. “I know you must find this all a little strange, Wendy,” he said gently. He tilted his head so that blue light leaked from beneath his enhancer. “But you’re safe here—probably safer than you’d be anywhere right now.”

I tried to keep my voice from sounding cold as I replied, “It’s just that such kindness to complete strangers—it’s unusual, that’s all.”

He laughed again, softly. “Giles and I are very unusual people, my friend. We’ve entertained refugees here before; I’m sure we will again. But you have nothing to fear while you’re under this roof. In more than six hundred years no harm has ever come to a guest of the Mallorys. Not unless provoked…”

He inclined his head and left, the door clicking softly behind him. And despite my weariness and the wine buzzing inside my head, I lay awake for some time afterward, staring at the shadows cast by leaping flames while I pondered his last words and what he meant by them.

I woke late the next morning. The wind raged at the eaves as though it would tear the shingles off. During the night, someone had come in to put more wood on the fire, so that the room was very warm. Smoke flurried from the fireplace, and the sun shone blindingly through battlements of icicles around the windows. A clock beside the bed read half past ten. I felt more clearheaded than I deserved, considering how much wine I’d had at dinner. For a long while I lay there, staring at the tin ceiling and counting the stenciled grape vines circling the walls.

When I finally got out of bed, I found more clothes had been piled neatly on a chair by the door. As Trevor had warned, they were shockingly out of date—some of them reminded me of the costumes we used at the Theater, nearly a century old, nylon threads fraying, patched with much newer fabric. Only these clothes were in much better condition than our costumes. Many seemed almost new, only the faded scarlet of a brocade robe or a string of shattered lumens hinting at their age. I dressed quickly, pulling on heavy blue canvas trousers and a pullover of nubby brown wool. When I went downstairs, I met Giles in the hallway, wearing a heavy shearling coat, his cheeks ruddy with cold.

“Good choice!” He beamed, plucking at my sweater. “That’s from our sheep, that wool—”

I followed him into the kitchen. A very old wood-burning cook stove stood against one crumbling brick wall, a cheerful thing with green enameled doors and a rusted kettle steaming softly atop it. Breakfast, thank god, was a meal not totally reliant upon fungus. There were eggs kept warm in a tiny glass oven (another curious relic), and some kind of mutton sausage, its gamy taste mitigated by juniper berries. And tea—real tea, nearly black from sitting in its pot on the woodstove for most of the morning—and grainy honey dipped from a cracked glass bowl.