Steven Brust - Agyar

The answer was simple enough. All I had to do was tell her-let her know. Hand her a silvered mirror and say, “What’s wrong with this picture?”

I wasn’t certain I could do it.

I discovered that I was trembling slightly, and decided that my mood and my thoughts were probably the aftereffects of my condition; dealing with the cops had, as Susan noticed, left me pretty shaken. But there was no good way to solve that just then. I knew I was going to have to before tomorrow midnight, when I intended to perform the ritual to break myself from Kellem, but I had time.

When I showed her the upstairs, she lit on the typewriting machine at once, saying, “Good heavens. Does it work?”

“Yes, I’ve been using it.”

“For what?”

“For writing love poems to you.”

She smiled, her eyes very wide. “Not really.”

I shrugged with my eyebrows and smiled back with my lips.

She said, “May I see them?”

“Maybe. Let me work up the courage, first.”

I showed her the rest of the upstairs. She loved the L-shaped master bedroom and library combination, with its own fireplace, and asked why I didn’t have my bed in there. I said, “I can’t sleep far off the ground.”

She said, “Where do you sleep?”

“In the basement.”

“Really? Isn’t it uncomfortable?”

“Not terribly. I’ll show you later.”

“All right. What’s this?”

“Linen closet.”

“Oh. Why is it empty?”

“Why keep things up here when I sleep in the basement?”

“That makes sense. You must kiss me now.”

“All right, there.”

“You must always kiss me when we pass the linen closet; it’s an old Roman custom I just invented.”

“And a good one.”

“Why is that wall shaped so funny?”

“The chimney is behind it.”

“But the fireplace is on the other side.”

“The master-bedroom fireplace is, this is the chimney from downstairs.”

“Two chimneys?”

“Well, either they didn’t know how to connect two fireplaces to one chimney, or they just felt like having fireplaces on different sides of the house.”

“Conspicuous consumption.”

“Yes.”

“It’s grand.”

“Here’s the bathroom. It works, and there’s even toilet paper.”

“Good. Excuse me for a moment.”

Left to myself, I discovered that I had worked up the courage. I found my stack of manuscript and pulled out ten or eleven of the poems I’d written. I left two in the stack; one that I didn’t like much and another that I didn’t want her to see because, well, I don’t know. I had the pile of papers hidden again before she came out.

I handed the pages to her, and she said, “All of this? You wrote these for me?” She seemed inordinately pleased; it was almost embarrassing. “Can I read them now?”

“All right. The only comfortable chair is in the living room. I’m afraid it’s stained, but it shouldn’t come off.”

“All right.”

She went tripping down the stairs, my poems in her hand. I stayed in the typing room and took several deep breaths. While I was doing so, Jim came into the room.

I said, “Do you mind the company?”

“Not at all,” he said. “But I’m worried about the police.”

“Don’t. The two down the block are sleeping.”

He looked uncomfortable. “Are you sure there aren’t any more?”

“Well, no. I hope not.”

“Me, too. And what will happen when someone comes to investigate why they haven’t called in?”

“I’ll go turn the light off.”

“Yes,” he said.

I went down, and found that Susan was sitting in the chair, my poems in her lap, and there were tears on her cheeks. I stood over her and kissed her forehead.

She looked at me, her eyes so bright and shimmering with tears, and held up the pages as if she wanted to say something, then set them down, shaking her head slowly. If this is all the critical acclaim I ever get, it is enough. “Sleep now, my love,” I said.

She nodded. I turned off the light, then came back to the typewriting machine. Jim wasn’t in the room, so I have taken the opportunity to set it all down. I’m not certain what to do now. I cannot risk taking Susan out of here, so perhaps it would be best if she slept with me, which, after all, she did ask about once. I will keep her sleeping, because I feel no need to shock her in that way, but it will be pleasant to rest with her in my arms, though she knows it not. Perhaps she will dream of it, and we will share the joy that way.

The new moon, as I look out through the slats, is a spot of darkness near the western horizon, and only barely visible even to me. Susan sleeps once more. There is no reason for her to be awake.

Yesterday, while she slept deeply, I carried her downstairs and took her with me while I rested. I had never done that-actually slept with a lover in my arms, and I felt such a tenderness that I thought my heart would break.

We slept undisturbed, and I had no dreams, although perhaps Susan did. We began to wake at almost the same moment. Her eyes fluttered open and she looked into my own. Confusion came over her brow, so I smoothed it by kissing her.

“Where are we?” she said.

“In my bed.”

“But it is so dark. It feels-”

“Hush, my love.”

I kissed her again. The kiss became intense, and at last weakness and urgency conspired against me. She moaned softly and held me close, and it came to me that I was killing her.

I stopped abruptly and looked at her; she was very pale, and seemed to have some trouble breathing. I cursed myself silently, rose, brought her up to the parlor, and set her in the chair. She appeared to be very pale, her breath was coming in ragged gasps.

I am glad I did not kill her; sorry I came so close.

Still, it gave me what I needed; I feel ready for whatever midnight will bring.

Jim was standing next to the chair, watching me. He made no comment.

I said, “Any more police?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“Break away from Kellem? Yes. In just about three hours.”

“Do you think it will work?”

“I hope so.”

I returned to my typewriting sanctuary to try to finish memorizing the procedure, which I will be about as soon as I am done

Kellem is either one step ahead of me, or one step behind; soon I will learn which it is. As I was typing merrily away, there were police pulling up outside the house. Jim came and informed me of this.

I slipped outside to see for myself. The police are everywhere. I saw neighbors peering through windows down the street, and others, including Bill and his wife, standing staring at my house.

And there was a van that bore the inscription “WBBM Mobile News.” Apparently the news people still aren’t certain of anything, because, as I watched, the van drove away.

It was tricky, getting close enough to hear what the police were up to, but I did, and I don’t like what I learned. They are waiting for something they called the “Tac Group,” which sounds ominous. And eventually I learned why they are there, and what they are going to do.