Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet No. 32

by Kelly Link

  “Max,” she said. “You’re one of them.” And then, because, she wasn’t sure what she meant by “them,” and she didn’t want to think of herself and any other as an “us,” she said, “You? And me?”

  He held out his wide, filthy, hairy hand and she took it.

  “Do you know where we can go?” she asked and he nodded. Flour flurried. She sneezed. Smiled.

  “Let’s go there then,” she said. She saw a glimmer of auburn but it was only a lock of her own hair sailing through the candlelight on the wind. Max started after it and she followed, the two of them chasing after the flashing auburn with the wind at their backs. They left the clearing and the trees closed behind them. The wind extinguished the candle. It was utterly dark but Max was sure-footed and Lady Abergavenny was too, and they leaped over tussocks and hummocks and traveled quickly through the woodlands. The village and Lord Abergavenny were every moment farther and farther behind them.

  Lady Abergavenny supposed she wasn’t the unhappily married Lady Abergavenny any longer. But she wasn’t plain Malvina Potts again either. She was something different. She held tight to Max’s hand and they leaped faster and faster. She wondered what lay ahead. She wondered who she would find.

  The Square of Mirrors

  Dylan Horrocks

  1.

  I’m living now in a small room at the top of a tavern, overlooking the Square of Mirrors. In the evening the whole square glows with the light of the sky: a color without a name. Like azure painted over gold. But darkness, too, lurking behind it all and coming slowly nearer until eventually everything is consumed.

  It’s the strangest thing, but did you know the mirrors aren’t always there? I never see them come or go, and when they’re there, they seem like part of the old stone walls. But sometimes I look out my window and they’ve gone; the square looks just like any other (apart from the lizards). I’ve asked people, but everyone—even the traders who never leave their stalls—simply shrugs.

  ‘Ni allio qui,’ they say. ‘Everything is as it should be. Nothing is wrong.’

  2.

  In the morning (when the mirrors are there at least), I sit on my balcony and watch the comings and goings of several nearby streets, all reflected and counter-reflected across the square. Then the sky is usually paler, yet always with that translucence; a hint that something lies behind. The traders are calling out their sales-ballads, children run laughing or squealing, and the lizards remain, as ever, silent.

  I can even glimpse the Street of Mages in one mirror, a mile to the east. There, red-robed figures stand talking in groups or stroll alone, thinking. I watch them between sips of coffee and slices of cheese, but I won’t go back there again.

  3.

  Sometimes I visit Jacob’s library. He is more tired than usual, as his collection has recently come to the attention of a circle of historians and they pester him mercilessly for this or that letter or chronicle to decipher and discuss. They are young and full of self-importance.

  I am looking for material on glass. Stephanie wants me to write something new for her to publish, since the last book did so well. I am unenthusiastic, and for a month now I’ve been doing nothing—just sitting on the balcony or strolling about the city, enjoying the inactivity. But last time I saw her she mentioned it again, and I think she’s worried.

  So I’m slowly starting to work. The problem is, of course, that nothing interests me. I chose glass to be facetious, first because I hold no opinions on it and second because I don’t expect anyone else to care either. When I mention it, the only people who seem interested are traders and craftspeople, and I am learning that those who buy, sell or work with glass have plenty to say on the subject. Many have mentioned to me that it grieves them how few of their customers care what they are buying.

  They are providing me with much information. I wonder: is there a subject I could have chosen about which no-one would have anything to say?

  4.

  By mid-morning I usually leave the tavern and the square and take a walk. By then, you see, the light is too bright and the mirrors burn my eyes wherever I look. Somehow, I seem to be the only one affected by this; the traders and their customers carry on just as before, but I must shield my eyes as I cross the street and head north up Winter Street. From there I go wherever the wind blows (as your sister used to say). Sometimes I follow the Green Path—once a canal, but now dry and filled with trees and flowers, like a long twisting jungle. Other times I turn west and walk along streets that climb up stairs and over roofs, right through buildings and tunnels and streams. It’s easy to get lost and twice I have had to spend the night in a hostel, wondering if I would ever find my way home.

  The first hostel was once a huge cathedral, I think, and my room was set high in the dome; its small window had been cut through an intricate fresco filled with magical glyphs. Most had been destroyed by the renovations, but one I saw repeated again and again: ‘Kiriak.’ I think it’s a kind of wine.

  5.

  That night I dreamed of the desert: immense dunes and sloping plains, the sand so soft I sink down each time I take a step. If I walk too slowly I’ll sink completely and drown. The sun is nowhere to be seen but the sky is a clear hard blue and the heat is like a bludgeon.

  When I awoke it was still dark and very cold. Curious noises drew me out of bed and across to the window. I felt sure I had closed the window earlier; perhaps I was mistaken. But there it was: wide open, shutters thrown back, an icy chill seeping in with the orange light of the city at night.

  In the street below a procession was passing; I suppose one of the city’s innumerable guilds or orders was observing some obscure festival. I could not see the head of the procession: the wide street was filled with row upon row of men and women dressed first in gold, and then in white, then gold again, all in simple robes with a crest of feathers. They moved forward in a kind of rhythmic dance: two swift strides then one slow step, sinking low. From above it was like watching the wind roll ripples across a lake of molten gold. And as they moved forward they threw petals in the air: freesias, I think—yellow and white—billowing clouds that rose and fell and rose and fell and rose.

  But what struck me first was the silence, or rather the absence of voices. For there was sound: the whispering swish of their robes, the flutter of the petals like the wings of a million moths, the muffled tread of their feet like gentle waves on a shore. But no-one spoke or sang, or even banged a drum. The procession passed below for at least an hour, and when at last I tired of watching the endless waves of people and went back to bed, still it continued on and on, and I could hear it still until I awoke to the bright morning sun. And then I looked from the window again and saw no sign: not a single petal lay on the road below.

  By now I have grown used to such spectacles, but one thing still perplexes me about that procession. I was aware as they passed of two kinds of sound: those they made (the rhythmic swish of cloth and skin) and those they did not make (that is, their silence). One seemed intentional, the other accidental; but which was which I cannot decide. Did the rules of their ritual demand silence, or was the purpose of their dance the sounds it produced? I cannot say why this should, even now, trouble me so.

  6.

  A glass merchant named Thomas Burbekker tells me that somewhere in Great Deserts of Aristea there lives a tribe which makes glass. They choose an area where the sand is particularly fine (or a particular shade) and there they erect rows of tall steel poles: a hundred or more. The poles are carved with runes that summon lightning, but at first they are kept covered with fine silk shrouds. Only when all is ready do the tribesmen pull away the silk covers and run. Someone always dies doing this.

  For a day and a night, sheets of lightning boil and burn across the desert and the thick black sky. At dawn the tribe returns.

  The storm has usually spent itself by then, though if the poles are left too long a new one will come. The men wrap the poles once more in their silken shrouds (here, too, ther
e are always deaths; from heat or lightning trapped in the steel) and take them away. The sand for miles around will have fused to glass, which the tribe collects in the cool of the evening to sell to traders from the West. It is, Thomas assures me, the finest glass he has ever seen. And the most expensive.

  At first I thought he was merely setting the scene for an attempted sale, but when I asked if he had any of this desert glass in stock, he shook his head, sadly. ‘If I get any more,’ he said, ‘I won’t sell it.’ Then he bought me coffee and cakes and talked at length of his apprenticeship.

  7.

  I’m no longer sure what I will write. My notes now fill two journals, but they’ve failed to form any pattern. The only thing I feel when I read back through them is the growing emotion with which tradesmen tell me about their wares. I seem to have struck a chord, and each time I visit a trader or craftsman, they show me more kindness. It is touching, but troubling too. I chose this subject as one that would arouse no great feeling, in me or in my readers. I sought to write a book which no-one would be eager to read. Now it is clear that some at least will read it avidly (albeit not the usual crowd). Perhaps they will hate it. Perhaps I want them to.

  8.

  Night from my window is the color of basalt, but less opaque. The mirrors scatter the square with stars, which swivel and turn as I move my head. In the Street of Mages a woman has called down seven shimmering stars to dance above her hands. She is juggling them; juggling them with words.

  If the ancient mages are right and lightning is the source of life, then what life dwells within that mysterious desert glass? When Master Burbekker gazes on its dark frozen face, what does he see? The soul of the desert? The raging sky? Some elemental spirit, lonely and lost? Or himself, staring back from some finer, fairer world?

  The ghost of that vision haunts every wineglass and bottle and jar, every telescope and lens. And windows and mirrors.

  9.

  Perhaps I will leave the city; take a pack and some money and head out across the plains. I’d pass through villages, pause for the harvest feast, take a riverboat down to Alenar and watch knights fight tournaments for a lady’s favor. Sleep by a fire on a hillside covered in firs, swim in the Lake of Gold at sunset, when the sky and the water are the same.

  No need to carry much: just a change of clothes and a single journal and pen. I’d leave behind my notes and my books, my collections and my library; I could leave them all with Jacob and never think of them again.

  One night, I’d stand at dusk by the sea, watching the green translucent waves, and all would be quiet, apart from the water and the sand and maybe a cricket behind me in the grass. And then, among the shells and sea-smoothed stones, I’d find a piece of glass the color of smoke, forged by lightning in the midst of a terrible storm far away and long ago. Sitting in a tavern I’d toast Thomas Burbekker and the tear in his eye as he thought of that fine desert sand.

  10.

  Perhaps.

  Or else I’ll give Stephanie her new book and move away from the Square of Mirrors. Find a room overlooking a park.

  And I suppose I will take up magic again.

  Sleek Fat Albinos in Spring

  Nicole Kimberling

  A couple of years ago I happened to be in Europe during the Easter season. Specifically, I was right at the border of Germany and France. There, in field after field lining the autobahn, I saw nothing growing. But my godson, who had just finished a cooking apprenticeship at a hotel in the Black Forest, saw something else.

  “Under those rows covered in white plastic—that’s where they grow the spargel—white asparagus. The Germans are crazy for it.”

  Is there a vegetable that better typifies spring than asparagus, white or otherwise? The somewhat sleazy little nub nosing its way blindly through the newly unfrozen soil seeking the sun’s warmth to turn from white as a worm to brilliant green.

  Or, in the case of German asparagus, their fate is to get covered up in hay and plastic and grow stiff and fat in darkness.

  Either way if it’s asparagus, there can be no doubt it’s spring.

  Asparagus is mostly enjoyed with butter or eggs, or that delightful combination of butter and eggs known as hollandaise sauce, which is wonderful.

  But what, I wondered, about the vegans?

  I confess it’s not a question I frequently ask myself, not being a vegan, but since vegan cooking is currently trending I get a lot of requests from customers to devise interesting food items that are also free of animal products.

  At the same time, I happened to be planning a high tea and hit upon the idea of a vegan tea sandwich. Eventually, after many failed attempts I experienced an epiphany and thus the Asparagus & Toasted Walnut Tea Bites burst forth.

  Here are the ingredients:

  For the bread—any kind of baguette or other skinny, tube-shaped bread.

  For the Toasted Walnut Spread—one cup of toasted walnuts, one teaspoon soy sauce, one half teaspoon sugar.

  For the asparagus—asparagus, green or white, with any very hard or woody ends removed but otherwise left whole.

  Instructions:

  Cut the bread into three-inch segments and then make a lengthwise incision along one side. Then gently pull the bread open to create a continuous strip. Toast bread under a broiler.

  To make the Walnut Spread, combine all ingredients in some sort of annihilation device, like a blender or food processor or mortar and pestle and pulse or pound until you have a rough paste. If the paste is greasy or crumbly add a teaspoon full of water to bring it back to a creamier consistency. Divide spread between mini-bread rolls, covering the whole inner surface.

  Cut asparagus to around 5 inches in length. (Save the spare ends to toss into scrambled eggs or a Chinese black bean stir-fry.) Take asparagus spears and sauté in olive oil, salt and pepper until pencil-sized asparagus is bright green. (One or two minutes only.) If using white asparagus, first remove the tough outer layer with a vegetable peeler, then steam either with a stove-top steamer or by covering with a damp towel and microwaving until the vegetable is tender. (6–8 minutes in a steamer or 3–4 in a microwave.)

  Lay asparagus spears inside the prepared bread with the ends protruding, as though it was a hot dog. For thin green asparagus you’ll need 3–4 spears per mini-sandwich whereas fatter white asparagus should only be 2 spears, since they are so much fatter.

  Arrange in single-file on a long, thin platter and present to unsuspecting vegans or anyone else who enjoys asparagus.

  Because this sandwich is simple, it is also versatile. Many substitutions could be made, including other tree nuts or almonds (technically a seed) for the walnuts. Tamari and gluten-free bread could be employed to make the sandwich both vegan and gluten-free.

  But if you’re not interested in keeping to a strict vegan ethic but still like the idea of this sandwich, I suggest that you purchase a small amount of prosciutto, Serrano or other thin-sliced dried ham and add that to the sandwiches as a garnish.

  For crispy prosciutto garnish: Place fancy ham in a hot, dry skillet until it shrivels up and turns deep red—about 45 seconds. Remove from heat. Slide inside sandwiches.

  Sun Circles

  Jade Sylvan

  At first the voices and I talked a lot. We talked almost as much as I talk to Tom, but the people would say things other than what I’d said to them. At first I would get the light blinking meaning the people wanted to talk. They would ask me a question like “What are the oxygen levels in the cockpit?” or “What’s your blood pressure today?” or “How’s the weather up there?” We’d all have a good laugh sometimes when they said a thing like that.

  After a long time of this, the talking, the words came with waiting. The light would blink and then hello and I would answer right away, then there would be waiting. There would be waiting for < 1 minute, and then the talking. We could still laugh when it was like this, talking with < 1 minute of waiting. They’d say “How’s the weather up there?” and I’d say “War
m and sunny. I may go to the beach later,” and I’d laugh, and then the waiting for < 1 minute, and then their voices, laughing.

  There were lots of different voices, but mostly, at first, there were 3. There was a voice, Sue Ellen, who would read me bits from magazines and keep me up on all the news of the place where I was a child. Sue Ellen told me she lived by the ocean. If I asked she would tell me about walking by the ocean during storms and all the different colors that were possible in the sky and she would try to describe the smell of it. We would have a good laugh sometimes when she tried to do a thing like that, because it’s very hard sometimes to describe a smell or a color to another person if they haven’t seen the same color or smelled the same smell. After we had a good laugh, Sue Ellen would say “You’re a good egg.”