Hope and the Patient Man

by Mike Reeves-McMillan

  “How was that?” she said. “Did you feel anything, Hope?”

  “Sorry, no. I mean, it was… No.” A little shard of sharp ice seemed to jab into the back of each of Patient’s eyes at this confession.

  “But you also didn’t go into oathconflict. Interesting.”

  “What do you think it means?” asked Hope.

  “The other time, you were drunk, yes? Disinhibited.”

  “As disinhibited as a dockworker,” confirmed Patient, which earned him the tiniest of slaps on the arm.

  “You’re familiar, of course, as a Mage-Minor, with trancework,” the mindhealer went on.

  “Of course,” said Hope.

  “I’d like to try some, get you disinhibited, and then try the kiss again.”

  Again, they checked with each other by eye, and she nodded. “All right.”

  Patient watched in fascination as Lily unhurriedly cast a mindspell. It was clearly one she had cast many times, and Hope settled into the chair with a small sigh. Her face was relaxed, and she looked several years younger than her already young age.

  “Now, Mister Patient, if you please.”

  He leaned over and began the third kiss. This time, Hope began to return it almost immediately. He took it slowly and gently, and when she reached across and seized his arm to pull him in closer, he eased back and broke the contact.

  “Mmm,” said Hope.

  “Pleasant?” asked Lily.

  “Nice,” Hope replied, in the dreamy, blurry voice of the entranced.

  “All right,” said the mindhealer. “Good. Now, there are two ways we can go from here. Either I can lift the mindspell and we can try that again in your usual state of consciousness, and see if the effect continues, or, and this is the riskier course, we can see how far we can push things without triggering the oathconflict.”

  “I don’t want her hurt,” said Patient, surprising himself with his own firm tone.

  “It’s all right,” said Hope, still in that dreamy voice.

  “You’ll have to excuse me,” said Patient, “I don’t know much about mindmagic. Is she competent to decide things like that while she’s in that state?”

  “Yes,” said both women.

  “Well,” he said, “all right.” He didn’t really agree, but Hope knew more than he did, and had more to lose. He leaned in again.

  This kiss started out warm and heated rapidly. This time, he was the one holding back, at least at first. Hope took hold of his bicep for stability and pressed her face hard against his. Their lips locked, then flexed in all directions, exploring. He forgot the mindhealer and focussed only on Hope.

  Her lips wrapped around his upper lip and sucked. Startled, he sucked her lower lip, at which she pressed forward urgently. Abruptly, she stiffened, and her eyes went wide. Her mouth tore away from his, and she began twitching, her eyes rolling back into her head.

  “Help her!” he yelled, meaning “get her on the ground where she can’t hurt herself,” but the mindhealer began another chant. Hope’s spasms eased, and as the chant continued, she slumped bonelessly and he struggled to hold her upright.

  Lily stood, walked over, and laid her hand on Hope’s head. She closed her eyes and concentrated, then opened them and said, “Hope.” She followed this with an Elvish word. Hope sighed, and opened her eyes, blinking rapidly.

  “What happened?” she muttered.

  “You triggered,” he said.

  “Curse it,” she said, clutching her head.

  “Headache?”

  “Yes. Nasty one.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault.” That was more generous than Patient was inclined to be, and he gave the mindhealer a small frown.

  “I’ll get you something for that,” said Lily. “Here.” She produced a small wood-and-bone talisman, which Hope glanced at, then held to her forehead.

  “You want some willow tea as well?”

  “Please.”

  While Lily brewed the tea on a small burner at the back of the office, Patient watched Hope with concern, holding her free hand. She looked up at him and gave a feeble smile.

  “That was a good kiss,” she said. “Right up until it wasn’t.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Stop apologising. My choice. I knew what would happen eventually. I’m surprised we got so far.”

  “Me too, actually. You seemed… passionate.”

  “Yes. Puts paid to one worry.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  “No, tell me.”

  “Well,” she said, reluctantly, “I was a little afraid… just a little, mind you… that when I got rid of the curse, I might still not feel… passionate about you. Even though I like you so much.”

  “I see,” he said, after a moment.

  “Sorry. Stupid of me to worry.”

  “Not at all. I think that’s a very reasonable concern.” He knew his tone was stiff, insulted.

  “Patient,” she sighed, “not because of you. You’re wonderful. It’s just… I’ve only had one lover, and truth to tell, I didn’t really feel… he didn’t excite me that much, you know? I mean, I did… things with him, but he enjoyed it a lot more than I did.”

  “How old was this man?” Lily put in, from across the room.

  “Barely a man, really. Nineteen?”

  Lily gave a wry smile. “Nineteen-year-old men are typically very inadequate lovers. They’re self-absorbed and insensitive, more often than not, and don’t particularly care whether their partner has a good time, or know how to give them one.”

  “That sounds like Faithful,” Hope admitted.

  Lily poured the tea and brought it over. Patient held it in between sips, because Hope’s hands still shook.

  “Despite Patient’s lack of experience,” Lily went on in a matter-of-fact tone, “he genuinely cares for you, and is well attuned to you. With some practice, some basic knowledge, and good communication, he’ll be an excellent lover.” Patient blushed ferociously, which caused Hope’s lips to curl just a little, and her eyes to regain some sparkle. “Your reaction to him, when disinhibited, is entirely what I expected.”

  “Why was I able to go so far?” she asked. “And then, why no further?”

  “You’re undoing the curse from the inside,” said Lily. “Your condition for Faithful undoing the curse you put on him, if I recall, concerned the presence of a committed relationship. That is what you are building, though it’s still in its early stages. Do you trust Patient?”

  “Completely,” said Hope, with no hesitation.

  “Good. Trust, communication, respect, commitment… you’re well equipped for a life together.”

  Patient’s stomach pulsed with a sudden warmth. He’d barely dared to hope. All this time, he had just been waiting to wake up from the dream and find that he had been deluding himself about the possibility of a life with Hope, and now someone who made her living out of working with couples was saying that could be real.

  “What do we need to do next?” he asked.

  “Well,” said Lily seriously, “I suggest more kissing.”

  He couldn’t help his grin at that, though he sobered as he thought of the seizure. “How do we keep from triggering her oathconflict?”

  “Keep it light. Try staying in a normal state of consciousness, though you can go into trance if necessary.”

  “I’m not supposed to cast at the moment because of my head injury,” said Hope.

  “You can go into trance without casting, but I’ll give you an amulet,” said Lily, fishing in a drawer. “Don’t you use it, though, Mister Patient. It’s your job to keep things from escalating too quickly, and disinhibition is contraindicated. Don’t drink any alcohol, either.”

  He nodded.

  “I assume you’re spending the night together tonight?”

  They blushed, and nodded.

  “Don’t get too ambitious,” she warned. “Kissing only, all right? And light. Patient, I’m trusti
ng you to protect her.”

  He nodded, firming his jaw.

  “Pity,” muttered Hope. He gave her a quelling look.

  “I’m very pleased with the progress we’ve made,” said Lily, rising to see them to the door. Patient heaved himself up and retrieved his cane, then offered Hope his arm. “Come back next week,” said the mindhealer, “at the same time, and we’ll talk about further steps.”

  They walked, hand in hand, to the stop for the horse bus, looked at each other, and broke up laughing. Hope swung their joined hands, and Patient’s heart lightened.

  Chapter Nine: Rosie's Parents

  Rosie had been taking care to leave home, and return, at times when she wouldn’t encounter her parents. On Fourday, though, she overslept, and they had not yet left the house when she went down. She tried to walk quietly, but the steel-toed boots Bucket had got for her weren’t conducive to quiet walking. Hope had some kind of spell on hers, Rosie thought; they always seemed to be silent.

  Sure enough, despite her best efforts her mother put her head out of the drawing room, glared, and beckoned. She didn’t dare disobey, but clumped into the room, with its formal, upright furniture in the best of taste. Like Mother.

  Her mother was standing beside her father’s chair with one elegant hand on the back, a position they adopted when there were Serious Words to be said. Even on the rest day, she dressed flawlessly in a shirt and trousers that were almost, but by an occasional tuck and cut weren’t quite, a Victory suit. Not that Victory suits were ever made with a subtle floral pattern. Her well-polished mother-of-pearl eyeglass frames flashed, and she wore just enough tasteful jewellery to indicate that she could have worn more, had she cared to, but chose not to be vulgar.

  Mother had, as always, ensured that Father was equally well dressed, in a dove-grey shirt and charcoal trousers. His fine, aristocratic features reminded Rosie of their ancestor, the Localgold of Rosewall, whose portrait hung prominently in the hall, except that the old Localgold’s portrait was smiling.

  Rosie herself had dressed for the lab, rest day or no, in greenish canvas trousers and a beige shirt with acid stains on the left sleeve (Dignified had been showing her some printmaking techniques, and some acid had been overset). She had confined her rebellious hair, as well as she could manage, in a clip improvised out of a pipe guide. She turned her head so as to hide it.

  “Industry,” said her mother, “sit down.”

  Nobody spoke back to Mother when she used that tone. Rosie perched on the edge of one of the chairs.

  “Where have you been going?” asked her father.

  “I have a job.” Rosie did her best to steer her tone between nervous and defiant without touching either, and, she suspected, hit both.

  “You don’t need a job,” said Mother.

  “Doesn’t mean I don’t want one.” That definitely struck on the defiant side.

  “What kind of a job?” asked Father. “Not a very clean one, by all appearances.”

  Rosie lifted her chin. It was not one of her best features, that chin; too large, but then most of her features were. She protruded it regardless.

  “I’m working for the Realmgold.”

  “Doing what?” said her mother. They always took these interrogations strictly in turn.

  “Assisting her clever man.”

  “The one that came up with the farspeakers, and those airhorse things you invested in?” said her father. In point of fact, Dignified had not invented the airhorse; that had been the gnomes. He had invented an entirely new kind of wheel for it, true, but not the actual airhorse. Rosie decided that wasn’t important to say, and also discarded a remark about the excellent rate of return the airhorses were already bringing, by which time her mother was speaking again.

  “Not this inventing nonsense again.”

  “I’d like to point out once again,” said Rosie, her voice as steady as she could make it, “that if Great-Grandmother hadn’t invented pressure weapons…”

  “Yes, yes,” said her father. “But we want better things for you.”

  “Better than enjoying what I do? Better than creating new things of value, instead of just moving money around in a clever way?”

  “Moving money around in a clever way, as you put it, is something you do very well,” said her mother. “And you used to enjoy it, too.”

  “I used to enjoy sweetcakes and calliver juice,” said Rosie, referring to her favourite childhood snack.

  Her father made a sideways hand gesture that dismissed the comparison. “And now the height of your ambition is tinkering with… gears, and pulleys?”

  “I’ve already invented an adding machine,” said Rosie. “The Realmgold wants the whole first production run, but I’ll see if I can get you a prototype.”

  “The Realmgold wants it?” said her mother, doubt entering her voice for the first time.

  “Yes,” said Rosie, stretching the truth only marginally. After all, the factor spoke for the Realmgold, didn’t he? “And I will earn a license fee for every unit.”

  “How much?” asked her mother, surprised enough that she broke the alternation with her oathmate.

  “Standard is one-thirty-second. Likely comes to thirty-two pillars or more in the first year.”

  “That’s not much,” said Father, though it was more than a good many members of the Silver class earned. Their family were technically Silvers, though rather at the upper end.

  “That’s just the first year, and just the license fee from that one invention. I’m getting wages as well, a pillar a shift-cycle.”

  “You settled for that?”

  “It’s the standard, Mother. Besides, I don’t care too much about the money, as long as it’s enough to live on.”

  “You live here,” said her father.

  “For now,” said Rosie. That silenced them both, albeit briefly.

  “Industry,” said her mother, “we’re concerned about you. You know that.”

  She nodded and blinked. Where had she got that? Oh, from Dignified. Before she could decide whether that worried her, her father said, “We want you to fulfil your true potential.”

  “And I believe,” she said, “this is the way to do so.”

  “Well,” said her mother, “you are a grown woman.”

  Rosie ignored her uncertain tone and said, “Thank you, Mother. Really, I do appreciate your concern.” The necessary social fiction slipped easily from her lips. “But please, give me some time to do this.”

  “What about your investments?”

  “They’ll look after themselves for a while, Father,” she said, “and I’ve been training Constant.” Constant was her younger brother. “It takes little enough time to check on them. It’s finding the new ones that’s time-consuming. And now that I’m part of the Clever Man’s Works, I’ll see new opportunities all the time.”

  Her mother nodded. “That does make sense, Early,” she said, using her pet name for her oathmate. He lived up to his actual given name of Punctual so well that he was often at appointments ahead of time.

  He frowned, but nodded after a pause. “But must you go to work today?” he said.

  “It’s not that I must,” said Rosie. “It’s that I want to.”

  “We named you well, at least, Industry,” said her mother. “Though I could wish you wanted to do something that didn’t require you to dress that way. Go on, then.” She didn’t smile.

  Rosie leapt up, thanked her parents, and was out the door before they could say anything else.

  Rosie arrived at work to find Dignified sitting in Bucket’s little kitchen at the back of the lab, talking to a woman. Bucket, serving tea, met her startled gaze over their heads, and made a gesture which Rosie couldn’t interpret. The gnomes had a whole vocabulary of gestures that they used, and she only knew a couple of them.

  “Mistress Rosie,” he said. He had settled on this compromise form of address; the other gnomes mostly didn’t call her anything. “This is Perspicacity Weaver. She�
�s a political philosopher, and she wants to consult us about a voting system. Mistress Perspicacity, Industry of Rosewall.”

  “Rosie,” said Rosie, pressing palms with the other woman and failing to ignore the fact that she was younger and better-looking. The philosopher wore neat, good-quality clothing that fell short of being a Victory suit mainly because it wasn’t all the same colour, and had her straight black hair pulled into a tidy tail at the back with a velvet band. She peered at Rosie over small, round, wire-framed eyeglasses, in contrast to the giant lenses Rosie peered back through. Rosie sank into a third chair between her and Dignified, and nodded at Bucket when he lifted the teapot inquiringly.

  “Persy,” said the young woman, returning the self-introduction. “Thank you,” she added to Bucket, as he placed a teacup beside her. “I’ve been commissioned by the Realmgolds to move ahead with my ideas, and they suggested I should speak to you about the practicalities.”

  “What exactly are your ideas?” asked Rosie.

  “Well,” said Persy, with the I’m-so-glad-you-asked intonation of an enthusiast, “I think, and the Realmgolds agree, that it’s past time the ordinary people had more of a voice in the government of the realm. With all of the changes now we’re unified with Denning, it’s an ideal time to put an Assembly in place, a group that can represent the people’s interests, debate changes to the law as the legal systems are integrated, and propose new laws that benefit everybody.” She smiled brightly.

  “And how would we get such an assembly?” asked Rosie. “Bucket mentioned voting?”

  “Yes, well. The fairest way for the representatives to be selected is obviously for the people themselves to appoint them, by a vote similar to the way heads of family are chosen. You’re part of the Rosewall family?”

  “Strictly speaking, no,” said Rosie. “We’re too far from the tree to vote for the family head, and don’t have the Gold title any more. But I know how the process works.”

  “Right. Well. In family votes, eligibility for voting and candidacy is by descent from a previous head of family.” Rosie nodded curtly, with the impatience of someone who gets an explanation they have just hinted that they don’t need. “In my scheme, though,” Persy went on, “all permanent residents of the realm are eligible to vote and stand for election.”