Cate Tiernan - A Chalice of Wind

I couldn't eat. I didn't know what to pack. What had happened to my life? I was about to leave everything and everyone I had ever known. I'd been looking forward to going away to college next year-had imagined leaving this place, this room. But I wasn't ready now, a year early. I wasn't ready for any of this.

In this still room, the candle flame barely wavered. How lucky, truly, for them to find such a suitable place, Daedalus liked this little room, with its attic ceiling sloping sharply downward toward the walls. He sat comfortably on the wooden floor, nailed into place over two hundred years before. Breathing slowly, he watched the candle flame shine unwaveringly, upside down in the faintly amethyst-colored glass, as if the ball itself were a large eye peering out into the world, "Sophie," Daedalus breathed, imagining her the way she'd looked when he'd seen her last. What, ten years ago? More. Sophie. Feel my connection, hear my message.

Daedalus closed his eyes, scarcely breathing, sending thoughts across continents, across time itself?

Cherche nouvtau: Uhistoire dt France.

Sophie tapped the words out on her keyboard, enjoying the instant gratification, the enormous well of knowledge at her fingertips. With every passing age, things became more wondrous. Yes, there were downsides to progress, There were many, many things she missed. But each new day revealed a new wonder also.

"Veux-tu It saumon?"

Manon asked, the phone pressed against her ear. "Pour diner" she clarified when Sophie looked at her,

Sophie nodded. She didn't care what she ate. She couldn't understand Manon's various hungers: food, drink, cigarettes, people. Sophie thirsted for knowledge, for learning, One day, somehow, if she could fill her brain with enough truth and understanding-then perhaps she could begin to understand herself, her life, the lives that were irrevocably entwined with hers. Maybe.

A thin tendril of cigarette smoke floated over to her. Manon was still walking around, phone pressed against her ear, ordering food from the concierge.

The results of Sophies search filled her laptop screen, and she leaned forward. At that moment, with no warning, the words wavered, as if underwater. Sophie frowned, glancing at the floor to make sure the surge protector was active. This computer was practically brand-new. What?

Sophie, my love. Come to New Orleans. It's important Daedalus,

The words resolved themselves on Sophies screen as she watched them, taking them in. Manon hung up the phone and came to see what Sophie was staring at.

"We haven't heard from him in a while.' Manon said unnecessarily.

Sophie said nothing.

'Are we going to go?" Manon asked.

Again Sophie didn't reply. Her large brown eyes searched the room, the air, seeming to stare across thousands of miles, straight at Daedalus.

And now Ouida," Daedalus murmured, clearing his mind of all thought, all feeling. He existed but was unaware of his own being. He was one with the wood, the air, the glass, the flame…

Okay, assuming this sample wasn't contaminated, she could isolate about thirty cells, put them through trypsin-Giemsa staining, and have a nice set of chromosomes to examine. Ouida Jeffers carefully maneuvered the dish containing the genetic material out of the centrifuge. She heard the lab door swing open and shut but didn't look up until the sample was securely on a shelf and the fridge door closed. Not after what had happened last Tuesday. A months worth of work literally down the drain. God.

"Excuse me, Doctor."

Ouida looked over to see her assistant holding out a pink telephone message.

"This came for you"

"Okay, thanks, Scott" Ouida took the message. Maybe it was about that intern she'd interviewed.

Come to New Orleans, Ouida, it said. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Breathing quickly, she glanced around the lab, her lab, so familiar, representing everything she'd worked so hard for. We need you, said the message. At last Daedalus.

Swallowing, Ouida sank down on a lab stool and reread the message. Relax, calm down. You don't have to go. She looked through the window, honeycombed with wire for security. Outside the sky was clear and blue. New Orleans. New Orleans would be very hot right now.

As soon as he saw Claire, Daedalus grimaced. Clearly she hadn't made huge leaps forward since the last time they'd met. He saw her sprawled gracelessly in a cheap wooden chair. Two uneven rows of upside-down shot glasses gleamed stickily on the Formica table where she rested her elbows.

Claire.

The crowd chanted around her. A beefy, middle-aged man, some sort of Asian, Daedalus couldn't tell which, seemed to rally himself. He tossed back another jolt of whatever white-lightning alcohol they were drinking. Beyond feeling the stinging burn at the back of his throat, he wiped his mouth on his work-shirt sleeve. Dark, half-closed eyes strained to focus on his opponent.

Claires attention was caught momentarily by the insistent ringing of the bar's wall phone.

Answer it, Claire. Ask not for whom the phone rings; it rings for thee.

…

The ringing was blinked away as if it were an annoying insect, Claire smiled, and the crowd cheered at this show of bravado. Someone thunked down another heavy shot glass; an unmarked bottle tilted and splashed more rotgut, filling the glass and dousing the table around it.

The crowd started clapping in unison, shouting something. Her name? Some Asian word that meant "crazy white lady"? Daedalus couldn't tell. She wasn't going to answer the phone-no one was. She wouldn't hear his message. He would have to try to catch her when she was more sober. Good luck. It would take her days, at least, to dry out from today's little episode.

Her eyes glowing greenly, as if lit from within, Claires unsteady hand reached out for the glass. It wobbled, clear liquid running over her fingers. She didn't notice. She held the shot glass to her lips and tossed back her head. Then, triumphantly, she slammed it down on the table. The crowd roared its approval; money openly changed hands. Across from her, the Asian man bluffed by reaching out his hand for another glass but then slowly leaned sideways, sliding gently against the table. He was lying on the floor, eyes shut, shirt wet, before anyone had realized he was out.

Daedalus groaned. All right, later for her.

At least Marcel wasn't likely to be pickling himself from the inside out, Daedalus thought, closing his eyes and focusing on the man who'd been a mystery for as long as Daedalus had known him. Marcel He pictured the youthful face, the smooth, fair skin, the blue eyes, the pale auburn hair.

The candlelights reflection didn't move while Daedalus gazed at it. Marcel

Daedalus could practically feel the chill wafting off the stone walls in his vision. He mused that he could be seeing Marcel today, a hundred years ago, three hundred years ago, and it would all look the same: the rough stone monastery walls, the dim light, the orderly rows of desks, Three hundred years ago, every desk would have been occupied. But today kw Irish families committed younger sons to God so they'd have one less mouth to feed. As a result, only two other occupants kept Marcel silent company in the large hall.

Marcel was hunched over a large book: an original, hand-illuminated manuscript. The gold leaf had faded hardly at all since the time it was ever so carefully pressed in place by a penitent servant of the Holy Mother Church.