by Sharon Shinn
“I cannot imagine that my presence will significantly add to anyone else’s enjoyment of the evening, and it certainly will not add to mine,” I said rather boldly. “I wish you would excuse me.”
“It may serve to educate you about how little you need to envy those who, by the law of society, may be considered more exalted than you, or at least more fortunate,” he said.
“I do not envy them even now.”
“And it may serve to educate them about the quick wit and resourcefulness of those they are used to considering inferior,” he said, grinning now. “I refer of course to your brilliant and audacious use of weaponry in our late military encounter.”
“Such education cannot serve to endear me to them, however, so their enjoyment of my company is likely to be even more impaired.”
“I, however, will enjoy your presence at these gatherings,” he said decisively. “And that should be reason enough for you to attend.”
I made a brief deferential nod of my head. “Very well. I shall do as you ask. I will not participate in any more games, however, but will merely sit quietly observing the foibles of you and your guests. Will that content you?”
“It will do perfectly,” he said, and without another word, turned and strode toward the cellar.
I stared after him a moment, then shook my head in amazement. An abrupt, changeable, difficult, and altogether unpredictable man—and yet he fascinated me. Merely to be in the same room with him—to see his live flame ignite the slumbering souls of the ridiculous creatures he chose to surround himself with—made my own soul catch fire. I would join their revels, as he asked, since he asked it of me. Even though I must watch his flirtation with the cold, gorgeous Bianca Ingersoll, still I might watch him; and fool that I was, this seemed a treat and a blessing to me.
All of this I recorded in my diary, every word that I could remember, every impression of the evening. “Oh, Reeder,” I whispered as I concluded, “with no encouragement at all, I could fall in love with this man.”
Chapter 7
The next few days passed in similar, though rather less spectacular, fashion. During the days, I managed to keep mostly clear of the grand company, adjusting the generators in the basement and only circling the lawns when I was fairly certain the others were not outside. They were not the athletic sorts who would engage in some kind of energetic outdoor play—at least the ladies were not—so I only had to worry about encountering them as they assembled for some excursion elsewhere—to town, for instance. This they did almost every afternoon, for they were easily bored and the amusements offered at Thorrastone Park were relatively limited. Once or twice I caught a glimpse of their Strattens and Vandeventers leaving or arriving, but I was always far enough away that I did not even need to wave.
In the evenings, we had dinner followed by some sort of electronic entertainment. One night, Mr. Ravenbeck showed a holofilm in the library and we all crowded in to watch. It was some paltry romance which made the women sigh and the men groan; I did not think it very worth watching, but at least it obviated the possibility of any interaction with Mr. Ravenbeck’s guests, and that made it a welcome diversion to me. I appeared to be the only member of the female sex who found it silly, however, for I discovered Mrs. Farraday and Janet Ayerson in tears once the room lights came back on, and even Ameletta seemed moved by the story. The Ingersoll women, of course, were all openly sobbing, Bianca Ingersoll leaning on Mr. Ravenbeck’s chest to do so. Melanie Ingersoll was wiping her eyes and hunting frantically in her pockets for a tissue, when Joseph Luxton came to his feet, pulling a handkerchief from the back recesses of his jacket. I saw Melanie form a pretty look of gratitude on her face, but she was unable to bestow it upon Mr. Luxton—for he stepped past her to offer the cloth to Janet.
“Crying over something like this,” he said in his sleepy, seductive voice. He softened the words with a smile. “I would think there would be so much else to cry over.”
My thoughts entirely. Certainly Janet instantly wished she had been able to contain her emotion, for suddenly she was the cynosure of all eyes. The handsomest man in the room showing a slight kindness to one of the most invisible females in the manor? It was almost shocking. Even I felt a moment’s disapprobation, and I believed she was every bit his equal.
“Th-thank you,” she said, stammering somewhat over the words, and taking the handkerchief. “Perhaps it is easier to cry over things that do not really matter. The other tears are too difficult to shed.”
“But why should anyone cry at all?” Mr. Ravenbeck demanded. “Let’s play some happy music, so everyone is smiling again.”
So that evening ended with a sort of impromptu dance, though neither Janet nor I participated in it. Mrs. Farraday did one stately turn around the room with Mr. Ravenbeck (their calm demeanor at wild variance with the almost abhorrently lively beat of the music), and Ameletta danced several times with each of the men. The little blonde girl only came up to their navels, but she had a great deal of style and skill, and she enjoyed herself so much that her delight reflected back on her partners, who each begged her for another turn. Yes, she was a little flirt, and I could not help thinking of her unprincipled mother, wondering what tendencies this little one might have inherited; but what harm could she come to in such a setting, with such guardians around her? Janet and I watched her enjoy herself, and we smiled.
The fourth night of the Ingersolls’ stay, Mr. Ravenbeck had planned a new entertainment, which we discovered when we all trooped into the library upon his request. But there were no monitors set up, no holoscreens, no special toys immediately visible.
“Looks like a great deal of fun,” Mr. Fulsome said, glancing elaborately around. “Should have thought of this myself.”
“I hope you do not expect us to amuse ourselves with conversation, Everett,” Bianca said, smiling, though her voice held an edge. “I think we’ve quite exhausted our available topics over dinner, and I for one can’t think of a single additional malicious thing to say about anyone I’ve ever met in my life.”
“My dear Bianca, I’m sure you underestimate yourself,” Mr. Ravenbeck said genially. “But don’t worry. I don’t expect any of you to tax your conversational abilities any longer. This night you shall have an opportunity to listen instead of speak.”
“Oh, of course, that’s always so much more interesting,” said Mr. Taff. Even his amiable voice sounded ironic.
Mr. Ravenbeck pointed toward the ceiling, which, I assumed, was meant to indicate his study on the level above us. “Just for tonight, I’ve subscribed to one of the online psychic services. It’s very expensive, by the way, though I was able to convince myself that nothing was too good for my guests. We can each go in there, one at a time, and ask our clairvoyant consultant the questions that—shall we say—trouble our hearts. I’ve been told the accuracy rate is remarkably high. Of course, I was told that by the saleswoman with whom I conferred this morning, but I suppose that is no reason not to believe it.”
Mrs. Ingersoll looked up from where she was sitting, a book open on her lap. “Oh, but they are accurate!” she said with great earnestness. “I have had my aura scanned many times, and I was always amazed by how completely the computer program analyzed my personality and predicted my future. Quite eerie, I assure you, but fascinating.”
This was the longest speech I had ever heard the Ingersoll matriarch make, and her testimony obviously had some effect on the others. Her two daughters-always fairly impressionable-looked intrigued, and even the men looked curious, or at least willing.
“Is it a computer program, then, or is it a remote link to a psychic based elsewhere?” Mr. Taff wanted to know.
“Both, I believe,” Mr. Ravenbeck replied. “There is a scanner attached to the computer, and it reads your face and presumably takes in other data, which is fed to the psychic on the other end. Using this physical evidence, and asking you a series of questions, the psychic herself—or himself, I am not sure which gender we have secured
-will then do a reading for you. You may also ask it specific questions and receive clear answers—or so I am told. I have never indulged in this particular parlor game before.”
Mrs. Ingersoll was on her feet. “Well, I am quite ready to try it now!” she said. “Shall we draw lots? Or may I volunteer to be first?”
“You may of course be first,” Mr. Ravenbeck said graciously. “The rest of us will devise some method of deciding who shall follow in what order.”
“And the monitor is set up in a room upstairs?”
“I will show you the way,” he said, and escorted her out the door.
“Well! I must say, this seems very unlike Everett,” Bianca said, sinking gracefully into a chair and propping her head upon her hand. She was wearing a bodysuit of indigo velvet sewn with sequins; with her pale hair, she looked like the first intimation of dawn over a stormy sky. “Romantic almost, don’t you think? I cannot see him caring too much about someone else’s opinion, or putting too much stock in a computer’s predictions about his future.”
“Still, if it’s as accurate in its analysis as your mother suggested,” Mr. Taff said in a somewhat excited tone of voice, “I would find it very hard to discount what such a psychic might have to say.”
Mr. Fulsome shrugged. “Simple enough to do,” he said. “Physical scan gives your basic height, age, weight, condition. Actuarial tables supply some of the possible outcomes. Fact that you’re buying the service at all means you’re probably wealthy and idle. And the questions you ask”—he shrugged again—“bound to give away all sorts of clues.”
“I won’t ask it any questions, then,” Mr. Taff promised.
Bianca laughed. “Well, I will! I have things I want to know! And I’ll be sure and ask it a few qualifying questions before I pose the real ones, just to see if I can really trust its answers.”
“Oh, yes, that’s what I’ll do too,” Melanie decided.
“Wonder what your mother’s asking,” Mr. Fulsome said. “Seemed to be pretty eager to go in and talk.”
“Why, she’s asking about her daughters’ futures, of course,” Bianca replied flirtatiously. “What else would she want to know?”
Conversation continued on in this meaningless way for the next hour or so as, one by one, the guests left the room to consult the computeraided medium. After Mr. Ravenbeck had deposited Mrs. Ingersoll before the psychic screen, he had returned to help decide who should go next, and who should follow that lucky individual. Mr. Ravenbeck thought perhaps the company should go alphabetically, which pleased Bianca but was not agreeable to Melanie, whose name fell so much later than that of half the company. Then Mr. Ravenbeck proposed to set forth a series of riddles, and whoever answered the first one correctly would go next, and whoever answered the second one would follow, and so forth. But everyone rejected this as being too taxing. Going by age was clearly ineligible, since Bianca would not want to admit to being older than anyone in the room, even her sister, and letting Ameletta choose would obviously be an exercise in disaster.
“We shall draw lots, then,” Mr. Ravenbeck decreed. “It is the only truly fair arrangement.”
Accordingly, he tore up sheets of paper, numbered them, folded them, and scooped them all up in the palm of his hand. “No one is to glance at his number until we have all drawn papers,” he ordered, and he offered his hand to Bianca.
“Thank you, Everett,” she said with a warm smile, as if certain he had positioned the number one scrap on the top of the pile just for her. He smiled back, and moved to her sister, and then to Ameletta.
“Oh! I am number two! I am number two!” the little girl squealed.
Her guardian frowned at her. “You were not supposed to look until all the pieces had been distributed,” he scolded.
Her face fell; she looked as if she might cry. “Must I give it back?” she asked.
He could not keep from smiling at her; indeed, none of us could. “No, you may remain number two—though you are really number one in my heart,” he added in a loud whisper. “Just try to be good next time.”
“I will. So good.”
After Mr. Ravenbeck had allowed the society women to pick from his palm, he approached Janet Ayerson where she sat quietly typing into a handheld monitor. She looked up in confusion when he held his palm out.
“Miss Ayerson,” he said. “Surely you would like to know what your future holds.”
“I have a fair guess,” she said, recovering her composure.
“Perhaps you will be surprised. Come! I already paid the subscription price. We should all enjoy the novelty.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ravenbeck,” she said, and selected a number.
After this exchange, I could hardly be astonished when he came my way next, and I did not bother to protest. “This should be instructive,” I remarked. “I will be interested indeed to learn how such a program assesses my life and its possibilities.”
“Perhaps you will share with me what the psychic predicts for you,” he said in a low voice.
“It depends upon her commentary. If she foresees a life of ignominy and wretchedness, I don’t believe I shall tell you. If, however, she sees me raised to some high station, mistress of some vast establishment and doing good works—why, yes, I will be happy to convey the news.”
He tried to discipline a smile. “I can see you do not have much faith in my electronic mystic.”
“More faith in my own analytic powers, that is true,” I said. “But I will reserve judgment until I see this program in action.”
After this exchange, he moved on to hand out slips of paper to the men. Then, upon his signal, we all unfolded our numbers at once. Mine was eight-which, since I had noticed Mr. Ravenbeck did not reserve a piece of paper for himself, meant I would be the last in the group to be summoned.
“Ah, I am first,” Bianca said, making no attempt to disguise her pleasure. “I wish Mother would hurry.”
The others called out their numbers as well, and there was a great deal of good-natured grumbling when they realized that Mr. Ravenbeck did not plan to submit himself to the clairvoyant’s powers.
“I would rather be surprised by my future,” he said. “For I remain continually surprised by my past.”
This caused everyone to laugh and forgive him for his omission. In a few minutes, Mrs. Ingersoll returned to the room, looking thoughtful but not unhappy. Bianca immediately jumped to her feet.
“My turn!” she exclaimed. “Everett, should you escort me to show me what I must do?”
“Happily,” he said, and took her arm to lead her from the room.
“Well, Mother? What did you learn?” Melanie demanded.
Mrs. Ingersoll seated herself in her customary chair and took up her book again, though her eyes retained a faraway look that made me think she might have trouble concentrating on the pages. “Many interesting things,” she replied regally. “I don’t think we are supposed to discuss them.”
“Takes some of the fun out of it,” Mr. Fulsome observed. “Think I might be inclined to talk about it, myself.”
“You,” Mrs. Ingersoll said, bending her head to read, “may do as you choose.”
Not unexpectedly, this put something of a damper on general conversation for a few minutes, though Melanie managed to move her chair next to Joseph Luxton’s and engage him in a quiet discussion. Mr. Taff and Mr. Fulsome took out a board game and argued halfheartedly over the rules, and Janet returned to her monitor. Ameletta skipped over to my side.
“Oh, Miss Starborn, what do you think I should ask the sidekick?” she inquired.
“Psychic,” I corrected, though inwardly I was laughing. “You might ask if you will grow up to be a good, happy woman who makes others around her happy as well.”
“I think I shall ask if I will marry a handsome man. Or a rich one,” she said. “And if I will be very beautiful when I grow up.”
She was vain and ridiculous, but she was eight years old, and I stroked her pretty blonde curls. “How cou
ld you not be a beautiful woman?” I murmured. “You are such a lovely child.”
I noticed that Mr. Ravenbeck did not return while Bianca was out of the room, and concluded that he was helping her frame her questions or interpret the replies she was given. I wondered if he would be quite so assiduous with all the rest of his guests. Ameletta, plainly, would need some guidance, but I fancied most of the rest of the party could handle the computer interface on our own.
When Bianca returned, some twenty minutes later, she looked pensive and not entirely pleased. She was not clinging to Mr. Ravenbeck’s arm, as she usually did, though he stepped into the room right behind her looking remarkably cheerful. In fact, she did not spare him another glance as she crossed the room to draw up a chair beside her mother and began whispering in the older lady’s ear.
If he noticed this rather ominous turn of events, the host gave no sign. “Ameletta, I believe you are the next one to consult the fortune-teller,” he said. “Do you have your questions ready?”
She hurled herself across the room and fairly towed him out the door. “Yes, I have so many questions! Do let us hurry!”
The rest of the evening continued in this fashion, Mr. Ravenbeck escorting his guests to the study, the rest of us continuing our own quiet pursuits while we waited for our turns. From my place on the sidelines, I observed the face of each supplicant as he or she returned from a visit to the oracle, and I was surprised to note that none of them looked ecstatic. None showed the same degree of instant unhappiness that Bianca had displayed, but all the others looked pensive, uncertain, or worried when they came back into the room. I began to wonder what sort of bad news our medium was handing out, and if I would be offered a similarly unpalatable forecast.
I questioned those I thought I had some right to interrogate, beginning with Ameletta, who dropped back to my chair looking positively woeful. “Why, chiya, what is wrong?” I asked as she came dragging back to my chair, for I had adopted Mr. Ravenbeck’s pet name for her. “What did the psychic tell you?”
