Elizabeth Hand - Winterlong

In a dark alcove I found it. No doubt it had once held the remains of some princeling: the lid showed a gilded face surmounted with enormous lapis eyes and a strangely calm mouth, slightly pursed as if dreaming fair dreams. Tentatively I rapped upon the lid. It returned a faint hollow sound. In a moment I had flung it open, to find only the yellow dust of its decayed wrappings and the curled remains of antlions and silverfish.

All about the inside of the sarcophagus were inscribed odd characters. I hesitated, gripped by a sudden cold fear of the coffin itself. But then I thought of how she loved birds, and here were painted birds to fly a soul to peace surely: eagles and gyrfalcons and ibises, kites and watchful owls. I blew the dust from the case, then stood to get Francesca.

It may be true what Doctor Foster says, that the soul has weight and matter; because in my arms now she seemed to weigh nothing at all. I wrapped her worn tunic about her poor bruised body as a shroud, and wept again to think I had no finer raiment in which to lay her to rest. I comforted myself to think she shared her bed with the dust of princes. The lid slipped back on as if it had never been removed. For a moment I stared at the sarcophagus, then leaned forward and gently kissed the cold impression of its painted mouth.

At the doorway I paused. Above me hung a scrim of tattered cloth, stirring slightly from some faint breeze More tiny pictographs stalked its borders, but in its center a small square of newer cloth had been sewed—frayed and mellowed itself from centuries of wear. I squinted to read what must have been a clumsy translation of an ancient epitaph into doggerel:

Here we lie

head to head

asleep in the dark with the dead.

I shuddered; and passed from the Hall of Dead Kings.

I RETRACED MY STEPS to where we had been working. Several Aides passed me as I wandered into the Great Hall. Their scornful glances made me realize how Franca’s companionship had not only seemed to make my days easier, but actually served to deflect their hatred and disdain for a little while. The thought of remaining here among them, with the terrible knowledge of Francesca so carelessly interred nearby, filled me with dread. I hastened past the Curators jostling their way to the dining halls below. For a few minutes I considered confessing everything to Roland Nopcsa, throwing myself upon his mercy—he was a Regent, after all, and surely could argue my case against those who would demand my execution.

But then I recalled his recent disappointments with me: his flash of temper at my ill-fitting clothes and my fatigue after a day slogging with Franca through the Museum basements. Others no older than myself had been cast from their Patrons like worthless rags. Hothouse flower, Roland had mocked me; but he wanted soft hands and scented hair awaiting him each evening. I glanced at my hands now, the nails broken and begrimed, palms filthy and blistered. To think that I had thrown away all my beauty like this, and doomed myself to die away from my own people!

“… you! Slut!”

I started, brushing my eyes as I looked up into the cold face of Franca’s Supervising Technician. I said nothing but halted.

“Tell your hoyden she’s been reassigned. You’re to report to me tonight: Nopcsa will be attending the Butterfly Ball at High Brazil this evening,” he announced with malicious glee. I stared at his pockmarked face, the jagged spur of a yellowing broken tooth in that crooked mouth, the slouch of his scrawny shoulders.

“Do you hear me?” The Technician swatted the air in front of my face, then stroked my hair. I shrugged his hand from me and began to walk on.

“Whore!” the Technician yelled. “Do you understand me?”

I turned and grabbed him by the throat with one hand.

“I didn’t hear a word you said,” I hissed, shoving him against the wall. I left him sputtering and cursing in the corridor.

My disquiet at the thought of Roland attending the ball without me faded somewhat when I found our chambers deserted; I would not have to confront him yet, after all. I drew the heavy door shut behind me and collapsed upon the bed.

For some minutes I lay there, shuddering as I tried to contain my tears. Because it was clear to me now that I would have to flee. Roland’s attendance at the High Brazilian masque without me would signal to Curators and Paphians alike that I had fallen out of favor. There was fierce rivalry between Houses, and High Brazil and Miramar had long fought over lesser prizes than the favor of the Natural Historians. There were those who would relish news of my downfall, and garnish them in the telling.

Not to mention the thought of the Technician’s leering Face, and the memory of Franca killed by my hand …

I stood quickly and paced the room, gazing up at Roland’s beloved archosaurs.

“What would you do?” I whispered, stroking ‘the long obsidian curve of the Deinocherius’s tail. And recalling Franca’s mockery of the old things here I wept, knowing that I would not see them again; knowing that whatever reply their ancient hollow eyes might have made to me, I could no longer hide among the dead.

EYES EVERYWHERE. DR. HARROW’S shift into those of her brother Aidan. Anna and Andrew split like an amoeba, grinning as they proffer me a feathered headband. Atop my armoire a boy laughs, his smile strangled by a belt that twists into a garrotte as he falls onto the foot of my bed. Margalis Tast’annin looms above me, his voice soft as he repeats his question, the same question day after day, echoing now through my dreams—

“ How do you do it, Wendy? What is it like, what do you see when you make them die?”

I scream and lurch forward, the sheets tangling my arms as I try to stand.

And then light rent the room. A lumiere guttering within a cupped palm tossed black and golden petals upon the hooded face before me.

“Get up,” he hissed, dragging me from bed. I stumbled to my feet, dizzy from the drugs they had given me. I tried to explain that the session earlier had left me bruised and unable to dream properly. My tongue caught on my teeth and I retched, tasting my own blood.

“Quiet,” he ordered, still whispering. I felt the sharp prick of an ampule against my neck. He missed the vein and I moaned. The figure pulled me to him, covering my mouth with his palm as he drew the hood back to show his face. It was the Aide Justice.

“We’re getting out,” he said. With a quick motion like someone killing an insect, he slapped another ampule to my neck. “Your acetelthylene.”

My spine tingled with a rush of pleasure. I nodded gratefully. I had been without proper medication for days now—I was uncertain how long. My head ached from where they had shaved it to attach the electrodes and chemical lozenges they’d used for the endless experiments of the last few weeks. Only in the last few days, since Tast’annin had left, had the rounds of questioning and testing abated. I stripped off the yellow shift they’d given me and pawed through my wardrobe, tossing clothes onto the rug.

“Hurry.” Justice glanced behind him, kicking aside several scarves and a leather blouson. As I reached for my favorite blue haik he stepped forward.

“No—nothing they might recognize.” For a moment he stared at me, then rubbed my shorn scalp with the back of his hand. He glanced at the floor and nudged something with his foot. “Those—”