Of Books, and Earth, and Courtship

by Aliette de Bodard

  Céleste was an old, rotund woman with a jovial manner, and a gaze very akin to Selene's: sharp and perceptive. She took in their little group, and gestured towards a nearby building. "There's clothes that need darning," she said, punctuating every gesture with a stab of her hands. "Do it well, and there's lunch in it for you. Do it unwell..."

  The freckled girl next to Emmanuelle flinched. Selene also did: Emmanuelle guessed it was for very different reasons. She looked as though she was fuming, inside.

  "It's just for a time," Emmanuelle said, as they walked through the open door–to a low, wide room where five neat piles of clothes awaited them–and children in Harrier's uniforms kept running in with extra ones.

  "Until lunch?"

  Emmanuelle shook her head. They could get to the Castle's remnants, and pick up the earth within the short lunch break they would be granted, but they wouldn't be able to get out of the House with it. "Until late afternoon," she said, firmly; and didn't need to turn around to imagine Selene's face.

  She hoped to Heaven that Selene knew how to sew.

  It wasn't so bad, mending clothes: Emmanuelle had done it before. It was just a matter of slipping the needle in; and soon she'd remembered, her hands falling into old patterns, old gestures–weaving in and out of the cloth while two fingers pinched the edges together, keeping the stitches short. It was... unexpectedly harder to do, feeling so weak she was trembling–every gesture felt like it was going to finally snap her bones apart, and anything that involved raising a hand or an arm or a leg was unbearably difficult, as if something were pressing her down into the ground–but she knew that, for as long as she felt weak, she was safe. She wouldn't look like a Fallen; just like a frail woman bowed down by misery and hunger, like so many Houseless.

  What had she thought, getting herself into this? It was all a game to Morningstar–nothing essential or primordial to the safety of the House there, just a way to make his student jump through hoops. Nothing worth... this distasteful pretence of misery.

  But then she looked up, and saw Selene looking at her, with an odd expression on her face–worry and distress, and something else?–and remembered the way Selene had looked in the library, at bay and in desperate need of comfort; and her heart melted once again. Desire and friendship were such silly things; but they were all that they had, in the end.

  Selene edged closer. The shirt she was mending looked as though... well, a kind description would have been that a hurricane had picked it up, and returned it to earth bedraggled and torn and somehow worse than what she'd been handed. "You don't know how to sew, do you," Emmanuelle said.

  Her eyes blazed. "I never –"

  "Needed to learn. I know." Emmanuelle slowed down, checked on her stitches; and looked up again. Céleste was at the door, looking bored and barely paying attention to what was going on. Of course there was no need to police them: their mended clothes lay in a heap next to them, and the ones who didn't measure up would simply not be paid–or fed. "Look," she said. "The needle goes in here, but you need to hold the cloth steady."

  "We don't care about any of this."

  "Keep your voice down," Emmanuelle said, mildly. "No, but you don't want to stand out, either. And out of respect for the others... when you do something, you might as well do it to the best you can."

  "Which isn't much." Selene's face was grim; but her fingers were already moving, haltingly following the patterns of Emmanuelle's. "I should never have come here."

  "You could have said no."

  "To him?" She didn't need to say the name.

  I did. Emmanuelle clamped down on the words before they betrayed her. "What were you, before he picked you?"

  Selene smiled. "I was working in the school, with Choérine. Teaching children." She shrugged. "I'm not very good with them." She reached out, with an open hand–as if she was going to perform a trick–and then remembered that they were pretending to be mortals–Houseless, destitute, and unlikely to be able to manipulate magic. "I wanted..." she shrugged again. "More."

  And, of course, Morningstar would provide it: he took the ambitious, the hungry, and shaped them into weapons, for the safety of the House.

  "What about you?" Selene asked.

  Emmanuelle shrugged. "I was... other, once." A different name, a different person; until she'd had enough, and stood up against Morningstar, asking only to come back to her beloved books. "I'm not in love with power."

  "Then you'll always be the toy of someone else," Selene said, simply.

  Emmanuelle shrugged. "There's worse things." She'd seen Leander, Morningstar's previous apprentice; the way he'd changed as time passed–like a blade, sharpened until nothing remained but the cutting edge. "I like my books. And they do keep the House safe."

  "Or help in fools' errands," Selene said, with a tight smile. She looked at the shirt in her hands, and grimaced. "Tell me that's better."

  Emmanuelle grinned. "By a fraction." Well, it wasn't as if they needed to get paid, anyway. "You'll learn."

  Selene's gaze was sharp. "I intend to."

  At lunch, they were handed a chunk of bread and slices of cheese–Brie so mature it had started to ooze, with a strong, pleasant taste of salt. The others scattered across the streets to a small square with tree-lined lawns, and sat on benches, quietly talking among themselves. Emmanuelle drew Selene away. "Come on," she said. "I know where the Castle is, it's not far from here."

  Selene threw a quick, sharp glance to the others–the flowergirls, matchstick-thin, had spread themselves on the grass, and were looking in wonder at the trees; the more experienced seamstresses were eating with relish, helping the old men tear out the crust from their own bread. Barely enough food to keep them going, of course: it was the way of the world. As Selene said, those who didn't have power were just crushed underfoot. As she'd said, there was a price to be paid for safety. She knew this.

  But still...

  "Now?" Selene asked.

  "There'll never be a better time," Emmanuelle said, with a confidence she didn't feel. Harrier wouldn't care about a piece of earth for some obscure spell–especially since every hired labourer brought earth out of the House, clinging to the soles of their shoes–but they would care, very much, about two Fallen found where they shouldn't have been. "Do you want to impress Morningstar?"

  Selene's face was remote once again; cool and composed. "Always. Let's go."

  The other streets within the House were the same as the one they'd been on, a small maze of identical buildings with cast-iron railings on the doors, the contours of their component stones emphasised by carvings running in straight lines. They passed small, verdant squares, identical to the ones the others were having lunch in: a little kiosk painted green, paths of gravel the same cream colour as the buildings, manicured lawns with a thin, perfect carpet of grass. There were people–too many people, House dependents in the blue and black of Harrier, gardeners carrying bags of broken twigs, laundry servants under piles of cotton sheets, pantry people with chicken in cages and enormous hams... Mortals, all mortals, of course; all the House servants in Harrier would be. But one didn't need to be Fallen to see magic. One of them, any one of them, would see...

  This deep within the House, magic saturated the air; the spells of Guy, the head of the House, and of his trained practitioners. Emmanuelle was soon out of breath, struggling to move as though she were going through tar–the spells swirled lazily, giving no hint they knew of any threat; just a warning, a casual statement that one did not mess with House Harrier. That one did not steal from House Harrier.

  Her breath whistled in her throat; her arms felt heavy, her entire being sluggish–no magic in her at all, it was being pressed out of her by the wards of the House; nothing to defend herself with, if anything should happen... She–she needed...

  Selene caught up with her, her face smooth, emotionless; moving a fraction more slowly, with barely any sign of weakness. "Come on," she said, laying a hand on Emmanuelle's arm. "You can do this. Show me
."

  "I–" Emmanuelle struggled to bring up words. She shouldn't have put so much magic in the mirror–shouldn't–

  "Come on." Selene smiled, her hand still on Emmanuelle's skin; and it was as dazzling and as warm as sunrise.

  They crossed more dependents: the upper class of the House, Fallen in swallow-tails and dresses laden with lace and embroidery, magic shining beneath their translucent skin–arrogant, secure. Surely they would see; surely there would be some spark of recognition. But their eyes passed over Selene and Emmanuelle with no more than a cursory glance.

  At length, they reached a small square with no more fuss than if they'd been walking into House Silverspires. There was little to see: it was deserted except for two gardeners, one straightening up the flowerbeds, the other raking the path nearby–whose gaze flicked, briefly, to Selene and Emmanuelle, and then looked away.

  "Where?" Selene asked Emmanuelle.

  Emmanuelle shrugged. "Anywhere? It was a manor house. It wasn't exactly small, Selene."

  Selene made a face, but not for long. "Fine," she said, shaking her head. "Cover for me, will you?" And then, she was gone, with an easy, slow bounding stride that didn't look at all like that of a mortal–damn it, her magic was reasserting itself again, she was more powerful than Emmanuelle had thought. But of course Morningstar's student wouldn't powerless or cowering against the inevitable.

  Which only left the problem of how to distract the gardeners. Emmanuelle should be touched, really, that Selene put so much trust in her. Right now though, she felt like cursing. Selene was halfway across the square already; it looked as though she was aiming for the centre of it, in very predictable and somewhat unoriginal fashion. And there was no time...

  "Freaking idiot," Emmanuelle said, under her breath. Not very useful, but she did feel better. Then she moved–too slowly, with legs that trembled and threatened to give out under her–towards the gardeners, keeping an eye on Selene all the while.

  It was... slow. Agonisingly slow. Selene was way ahead of her, and Emmanuelle was walking through molasses, struggling to put one foot in front of the other. Selene was almost at the centre; and it was painfully obvious Emmanuelle wouldn't be in time. So she did the only other thing she could think of–drawing on her magic, slowly, haltingly–feeling as though she was stripping her own skin from her bones, tearing into her own muscles–and, pushing against the weight of House Harrier's wards, sent a fast and small burst of it into the flowerbeds.

  A cloud of insects–butterflies and bees and flies and a swarm of smaller black things, as thick as flowing tar–rose from the earth. The gardener nearest the flowers leapt as though he'd been bitten. He made wide gestures with his hands, which only served to excite the insects more.

  Emmanuelle disengaged before the wards could feel her: the pushback was minuscule, the same she'd have had if she'd been using an artefact to sew faster–forced herself to walk away, out of sight of the gardeners, around the corner; and leant against a nearby railing, breathing hard.

  Sometime later–she wasn't sure when, because she'd had to close her eyes–a hand touched her. Selene's face was aloof, remote; but the exasperation in her eyes wasn't a figment of Emmanuelle's imagination. "I said distraction. Not killing yourself."

  "You–" Emmanuelle struggled to breathe. "The gardeners–" She couldn't see beyond Selene's shoulders–noises still came from the square, but were they looking at them.

  "Busy for a while," Selene said; and, bending down, kissed her on the mouth.

  Her lips were soft and moist–and surely she didn't mean any of it, surely–but she held Emmanuelle fast, and the warmth of her arms pinned her against the railing–and it felt good, oh God so good, she was turning to jelly with those lips on hers...

  And... and there was magic, flowing between them; the heat of Selene's breath, a gradual heightening of the world around her, an infusion of strength that stilled the trembling of her legs (but not that of her heart).

  Selene pulled away. Her face was pale; her hands unsteady. "I had to." Her voice was apologetic. "You could barely stand."

  Emmanuelle found her voice from the faraway place where it seemed to have fled. "You don't need to apologise. I–" It was pleasant, she wanted to say. It was... everything I wanted.

  We should do it again.

  But the words remained stuck in her throat, shrivelling in the face of Selene's intent gaze. "You could have touched me." Magic could be passed on with a simple skin contact, though not as efficiently.

  "I could have." Selene said. "But... it was what I wanted to do." She shook her head, as though to clear a persistent thought; looked at Emmanuelle as though daring her to laugh.

  "I–" Of all the places to have this conversation. "We need to go back," Emmanuelle said, pulling away from the railing. "But... " she laid a hand on Selene's arm; felt the trembling that had seized her. "I wanted it, too."

  Selene's face was... curiously, heartbreakingly brittle–because she was weak, because of something else? Impossible to tell. "We'll sort this out in Silverspires," she said, as they left the square.

  In Silverspires, back to safety–except that of course Morningstar would never countenance any of this, ever.

  Back in the square, the others were finished with lunch, and were drifting back to the room with the sewing–no point in wasting time, when they would be paid by how much they had completed. Céleste was waiting for them at the entrance, frowning. "Wandering off?"

  "We were... looking for somewhere quiet," Emmanuelle said–and thought of the kiss and of the railings digging into her legs, and was amazed to feel the blush work its way to her cheeks. It was... a lie, very clearly a lie, but why didn't it feel like one? "Just the two of us."

  Selene's hand was in hers, as if it had always belonged there; her face softening just a fraction. "There are no strictures on our free time."

  Céleste sniffed. "Of course not." Her frown shifted, from anger to mere irritation they didn't have the grace to work all day without respite. "Go on, then. Finish the mending."

  At the end of the day, they were paid for the shirts–Emmanuelle above average, Selene only a handful of bronze centimes.

  And then it was back to the wrought iron gate, following the flow of labourers coming out–the guards bored, giving them hardly a glance. As they passed between the open leaves, Emmanuelle tensed–waiting for something, for anything to happen–for the gardeners to come shouting, for Guy himself to appear at the gates, smiling a secret, knowing smile–but there was nothing but a slight jolt, a lessening of the magic around them, and then they were in the street, and Selene was smiling broadly–her task accomplished, her master duly impressed.

  "Give me your centimes," Emmanuelle said.

  "Why?" Selene's voice was puzzled; and then she looked at the file of labourers. "Oh."

  As they peeled away from the group, Emmanuelle tapped on the shoulder of one of the flowergirls. "Excuse me? Can you open your hands?" It was a command, emphasized by a brief burst of magic–drawing on the strength Selene had given her–and the girl's hands flipped open mechanically. Emmanuelle dropped the entirety of their salary in them.

  "Why–?"

  "Don't need it," Emmanuelle said, and walked away before the girl could call her back.

  Selene was waiting for her outside of the procession: cool and composed once more, playing with the mirror they had left outside the House. She'd taken back her magic from it, and looked Fallen once more: ageless, immortal, effortlessly arrogant, with the trapped light beneath her skin. No one could have mistaken her for a mortal. She threw the mirror at Emmanuelle. "Here," she said. "Your turn."

  Emmanuelle paused for long enough to get her magic back–like life given back to her, the feeling she could do anything once again, that she wasn't weak and vulnerable and easily crushed.

  Then she started to walk away, fast. "Let's go." she said, in a foul mood. One coin at a time, one person at a time–she couldn't help everyone, she knew she couldn't, but s
till... It rankled, somewhere.

  Selene didn't speak until they were almost at the bridge leading into House Silverspires. "Thank you," she said. And, more slowly, "It was a good thing."

  "The coins? Barely a drop of water in the ocean."

  "Small drops of water are the ocean," Selene said, and her smile was bright, dazzling. "Emmanuelle..."

  Emmanuelle looked up–a mistake, as Selene's grey gaze held her–a hint of carefully controlled emotions, a fire that would sear her, given half a chance.

  "I won't forget this," Selene said.

  You'd better not. What she said, instead, was "We need to talk."

  Selene looked as though she was going to speak; but then her gaze slid away. What–?

  "Ah, Selene." Morningstar didn't walk–he strode across the bridge with the smugness of one who owned the House, his metal wings catching the reflection of sunlight in the water, his fair hair the colour of ripe wheat--his presence a tangible weight in the air that made the entire House of Harrier feel like a minor inconvenience.

  Selene's voice was stiff. "I have what you required, sir." She threw him something: a small wooden box that held the earth from the Grenelle Castle. Morningstar caught it, effortlessly; and tucked it into a fold of his swallowtail jacket.

  His eyes were on Emmanuelle; the same gaze that had once pinned her where she stood, breathing hard and struggling to collect her thoughts. "Indigo," he said, with a slight bow–her old name, the one he'd given her, the one he always insisted she should keep. "Always in unexpected places, I see."

  She should give in. She should make her excuses and leave. She should–

  The words welled up out of her mouth before she could stop them, the same ones she'd spoken to him in his office, all those years ago–walking away from the name he'd given her, from the expectations he was placing on her.