Elizabeth Hand - Winterlong

“Pretend for you? Like a game?” Her eyes widened. “I will do whatever you wish, sieur.”

I looked at Justice. He was pale, squatting by the door on a large pillow, but he returned my gaze unblinkingly. I turned back to Fancy.

“I want you to think of Raphael.” I bowed my head and whispered the words, lifting a coil of her golden hair to display one tiny ear. “Don’t pretend I’m him, just think of him. Of something that really happened.”

“Like when he was cacique at Winterlong last year? That really happened. I should think of that?”

Against my cheek her warm breath. Her long hair sweet with some floral soap, that sweet warm childhood smell still perfuming her skin. It made me dizzy, to imagine that he had sat with her like this, the small trembly weight against his thighs, her hands caressing his cheeks … .

“Yes.” I grabbed one of her hands and held it tightly, squeezing my eyes shut as I emptied my mind to tap her. Perhaps Justice was right; perhaps it was too dangerous, not for this child (I cared little for her, a mere courtesan), but for myself.

But I would know, I had to know something of him—

Because since I had heard Miramar’s tale earlier it was as though I had discovered myself to be a changeling, the goblin barter of some malevolent agent. And in learning this I suddenly felt I had lost everything I knew of Wendy Wanders; and only he might somehow make me whole again, Raphael Miramar, my beautiful brother—

“Does he look like me?” I asked in a low voice.

“We-ell.” She closed one eye to scrutinize my face. “His hair is longer, and he has a strawberry mark, there. And Raphael smiles more. His eyes don’t cross like yours.” She grazed my forehead with a finger. “It’s not all bruised there, either.”

“Show me,” I whispered, drawing her face to mine. “Think of him, don’t think of anything else. Kiss me.”

Her mouth was so tiny that I had to hold her chin steady so that I could find it, probe gently with my tongue; and how clumsy I felt before her quiet obedient response. I recalled Miramar’s cutting aside to Justice:

“ He kisses like a Curator … he is not Raphael Miramar. …”

Think of Melisande, I told myself to keep from trembling. A girl, she’s just another little girl, a whore besides …

Sleep a soft fur upon her tongue. Her milk teeth small and sharp as a kitten’s. I shivered as she bit my lower lip, drew back murmuring No so that she would not break the skin.

“I’m thinking of Raphael,” she said.

“Good girl. Now shhh …”

I covered her mouth with one hand. With the other I took her wrist, brought it to my mouth. She giggled as I licked the rough skin, then frowned when I bit very gently where Constance’s pinion had left its own cold kiss.

“ Ow.”

I moved my hand to cover her eyes. I didn’t want to alarm her, didn’t want panic to overwhelm the subtler impressions I sought. From the star upon her wrist blood welled.

“Raphael, remember Raphael,” I said. I bowed to lick the blood from her hand, rubbing her arm so that it would come faster. “Raphael.”

There was barely enough for me to taste, but it was sweet, nothing of salt or sweat or tears in her smooth skin. I moaned and squeezed harder on her wrist, until she cried out, arms flailing.

It is enough.

Winterlong …

There are the candles, twelve of them shimmering upon a high stone shelf, high high above me. Jada passes me the silver tray blued with negus flame and I try to snatch a snapdragon, wrens’ hearts burning crisp and red on their bed of green holly. Blue flame licks my fingers, I cry out and lick them and Jada makes a mean face, I hate her. Miramar is watching me from his big chair, he laughs so hard his gums show and he looks ugly.

— Here, Fancy, don’t cry!

He grabs Jada’s wrist, plucks a snapdragon from the tray, and tosses it in his palm ‘til it cools and then he pops it in my mouth. I like the burnt ones best. Where is Raphael? My dress itches, it scratches my stomach. Quistana Illyria picked it out. I hate her. Constance gave her an electrified eel lamp and seventeen grams of tristain for Winterlong but she kissed me when Miramar wasn’t there and I told Raphael before he left. Constance keeps smiling at me and now Quistana is mad and Jada and her are both sitting on Constance’s lap but she keeps smiling at me. Where is he?

Knock knock knock. Benedick and Small Thomas yell.

— Here is the Mayor!

They run to the door. Benedick knocks over the big thing with all the presents on it and Ketura picks them up, she looks so sad since she got back. The one wrapped in blue silver with the featherbells is mine from Raphael. It’s a mirror made of faĕ’ro eggs. I peeked.

— The Mayor, the Old Gray Mayor! yells Benedick. He goes to pull the door open but Neville Warnick grabs him.

— Ho ho ho little boy, I wouldn’t do that!

Benedick starts to cry because Neville is taking him to the Lustrous Chamber and he’ll miss the guise. I want to cry too because Raphael isn’t here yet. Small Thomas opens the door instead.

They are all there, the mummers in disguise for the Winterlong masque. Doctor Foster has on a big hat but I know it’s him. One of the Curators pretends to be afraid of him but Miramar tells him Shush, Listen.

— Who in this House will let the Winter in?

That is Galatea Saint-Alaban dressed as the Old Gray Mayor. She wears a black tuxedo and a horse’s head from the Zoologists. Mandala Persia showed me once where they keep the bones.

— Who will let me in?

— Not I, Miramar says very loud.

— Who will let the Winter in? That is Doctor Foster, he makes the Dead Boy in the masque better after he dies.

— Not me! Not me!

I yell too, I am laughing too even with Jada and Quistana, it is not such a bad dress. Malva Persia is dressed just like Aspasia Persia, when he walks in everybody laughs. He looks so funny! He lifts his dress and he has bells on, the Mayor pretends to bite him and he screams just like her.

— Who will let the Winter in, who will let the Winter in?

But nobody does. Old Nick comes, he was behind Malva. He kisses Ketura and gives her a golden hat but he gives me a peacock mask and throws comfits in the air.

— Send her on, send her on, we won’t keep the Winter here! everyone yells to Winter the Old Gray Mayor.

— Take her to Persia, take her to Illyria, take her to Saint-Alaban!

— Take her to the lazars! says Small Thomas, Take her to the la —

Constance Beech kisses him so he will shut up.

— I will be back! screams the Mayor. The bones clack and she takes off her top hat and paper snow comes out and her teeth snap clack-clack-clack. I know she is Galatea Saint-Alaban but it is scary anyway. I wish Raphael was here, I wish so hard I close my eyes. I open them, here he is.

— Fancy!

He smells so good, like opium and silver powder.

— They made me cacique! I can’t stay, Whitlock is paired with me, Miramar is late too and why are the masquers still here?

He grabs me and throws me in the air, I sit on his shoulders and pull his hair and everyone is looking at me because I am his favorite and he is everyone’s favorite, Raphael, they say Raphael! The Mayor goes snap and bites at his hair, he yells because his costume is getting messed.

— They’re waiting for you for Winterlong! he says. Hurry up! I have to go back —