Elizabeth Hand - Winterlong

“Oh, such scandals! Salamanda Illyria deflowered her son two nights before his debut to Rufus Lynx, the Regent of Zoologists. Cliantha Persia stole a beautiful child from the Librarians, and in retaliation they took Tarleton Persia. Raphael Miramar left his House to live among the Natural Historians. The House Miramar is losing Patrons without him; but already they say that Roland Nopcsa will dismiss Raphael for that albino boy from High Brazil—

I yawned, and she laughed. “I forget that the Curators have no patience with our gossip. Come, Aidan—here is something to interest you.”

The hallway ended in a barred gate. Lalage held the door open and we stepped out onto an open patio. Or so I thought at first. When I glanced up I saw that a glass room soared many feet above us. In its airy reaches flitted numerous butterflies and tiny bright shapes, glowing in the sunset light.

“Hummingbirds!” I ran to where a thicket of beetlebrush grew from a chipped porcelain bowl. Amid the scarlet flowers a dozen hummingbirds darted, flashes emerald and blue vying with butterflies for nectar.

“I’m roasting a capon for you, cousins, and there are peaches and field salad, and the first plum wine of the year,” Lalage announced grandly. She gestured toward flat metal chassis salvaged from some vehicle, now set upon stones as a table. “I’ll join you shortly.” She touched her fingers to her mouth and left.

We sank onto the grass in front of the table. About me fruit trees heavy with plums roared with golden bees longer than my middle finger. They lit upon our table to sip at the overripe windfalls splattered on its metal surface I laughed and licked the back of my hand, watched a drone land there and feed lazily upon my damp skin.

After some minutes Lalage returned. Behind her rolled a very old rusted house server, squeaking and squealing like an ill-behaved child.

“Stop here,” commanded Lalage, clapping her hands.

“Yes mistress yes mistress yes,” piped the server, bumping against me. It set steaming platters and chipped plates upon the makeshift table. Lalage rearranged three un-matched glasses and gave it a kick.

“Welcome mistress mistress mistress,” it lisped, grinding over a tree root as it rolled off. Lalage smiled after it, then sat on the grass between us.

“My pleasure to share my food with you,” she said, bowing her head. Justice bowed his in turn, nudging me until I lid the same.

The food was very good, surprisingly so. I complimented her, and Lalage beamed. While we had always eaten the best at H EL , it had been my understanding that our bounty was due only to the good graces and munificence of our Ascendant supervisors. But surely the Ascendants did not provide Lalage with cardamom and kef and absinthium?

At my audacious question Lalage stared, then laughed so hard that she inhaled her wine and Justice had to slap her back to stop her choking. She had drunk a great deal by then, as had Justice. I allowed myself a sip for politeness’ sake only, though it had a cleaner taste than the water in its rusted carafe.

“He’s a comedian!” she exclaimed when she could talk again. She leaned companionably against me. Her hand rustled through the grass and started to glide up my thigh. I moved closer to Justice, trying to hide my disgust. “Are you a Player, then, Sieur Aidan? You are too fair for a Curator!”

“Aidan has not lived with his people for many years,” said Justice. He licked a drop of grease from his finger.

“Then why is he shorn?” She ran her other hand up my back to toy with my short hair.

“A sign of respect for his people,” Justice explained clearing his throat as he glanced at me.

Lalage nodded drunkenly, her voice softening. “Oh, I understand, dear Aidan.”

Overhead, twilight deepened. I sighed and let her take my hand as she continued earnestly.

“Our people are of the House Saint-Alaban. And even though they have cast me aside for being too old —” She twirled a stray curl from one of her braids, batting her eyes. “Well, as you can see, I’ve not forgotten how to take care of myself. Not like some elders.”

She paused, slightly out of breath. I took this chance to disengage my hand. I tugged a leg from the capon and started to gnaw upon it.

“Aidan is blessed with a memory somewhat shorter than yours,” began Justice. He drew me toward him, stroking my neck, I felt as if I were playing a weary round of kiss-in the-ring with Gligor and Anna. I started to pull away; when:

“Help, mistress. Help help help help help,” piped the server. It had bumped against the far wall of the atrium, it wheels grinding against the brick. “

Another sound came from outside. Muffled voices. Then laughter and the thump of a strong hand upon wood. Beside me Lalage sat up straight and carefully put down he wineglass.

“Ask who it is,” she commanded the server; but it only; mewled help help help help.

“Damn,” muttered Lalage. When she stood she swayed slightly. “Who is it?” she shouted as she walked toward the far wall.

“‘An ambassador from Witchland and his train,” quoted a resonant voice.” ‘We craveth present audience.” He also sounded drunk.

Lalage wiped her hands on her shift. She raced to the wall, stumbling on a stone and sending a peahen caterwauling. I glanced at Justice, wondering if we should flee but he only waited until Lalage was halfway across the atrium, and then drank what remained in her wineglass.

I stood and followed our hostess. In the twilight I could just make out a heavy planked door in the wall, crisscrossed with metal and set with a listening auricle that amplified the voices of our visitors, so that I heard them shuffling in the grass outside and giggling. Lalage fumbled with several locks, finally drew herself up, and shouted “Open!”—whereupon the door flew outward. A thump and more shouts and curses followed. After a moment a bedraggled retinue tramped into the atrium.

“Toby!” Lalage threw her arms around the neck of the tallest figure, who, by his clothes and bearing, seemed to be the leader. Behind her the server squealed piteously, until a plump girl in short skirts and tight crimson jacket kicked it into silence. I drew closer to a tall plum tree.

“We have interrupted a rendezvous!” boomed the tall man. He had a deep voice and a long ruddy face ending in an unruly black beard. He drew himself up and surveyed the atrium grandly, casting Justice a mocking little wave. “How clever of us! We’ve found a Paphian boy, another Saint-Alaban, too.” He blew a kiss, then turned back to Lalage. “Many greetings, dear cousin! Girls, get out of the way.”

He stepped aside so that the others could spill into the court. Four of them: two young girls, one the plump interloper who was now pulling peaches from the trees and tasting them for ripeness; the other a tall, heavyset girl with black hair and a mustache. She carried a heavy satchel. A rangy young brown-skinned boy strode in next, somewhere between my age and Justice’s. He wore velvet knickers that displayed his slender fawn-colored legs and two enormously knobbed knees, like a pair of blackthorn walking-sticks.

And, finally, stepping demurely behind Toby, a diminutive figure in a woman’s dress and lace bonnet. I poked my head around the tree to stare at her.

“Why, here’s another!” exclaimed Toby, sweeping Lalage from his path and stepping toward me in one long stride. “My dear cousin, are you poncing?”

I shrank from him, but he pulled me from the sheltering branches. Nearly two heads taller than myself—and I was tall—his hair stuck out in an untidy aureole, adding inches more to his height. His lanky torso was draped in a long loose tunic faded to a drab memory of its former glorious blue and smelling of face powder and sweat. He jammed a huge hand beneath each of my armpits and lifted me, until I stared him square in the face.