by Molly Tanzer
“You!”
“Huzzah,” said Honor, “he’s spotted us. Tonight just keeps getting better and better.”
St John, still atop the table, pointed at Henry with his beer-hand—sloshing ale all over some very unhappy patrons—and shouted.
“You!” he cried again.
Godfrey looked amused for the first time since entering the Horse and Hat; St John did not seem to find any humor in the situation. He jumped down more nimbly than he had any right to and commenced making a beeline for them, elbowing annoyed yeoman aside.
Honor stood and went forth to meet her twin. Godfrey kept up and when St John stopped, he stepped in between the two St Johns, obviously trying to make the best of things.
“Why, look, here we are assembled!” he tittered nervously. “Hello all—nice to meet you,” he said at Robert Whitehall, who looked more confused than anyone. “Cousin, you left a suit of clothes over at Christ Church, I gave them to Thomas to wear. He was quite upset when you wouldn’t spend any time with him on this happy day, the birthday of our sovereign Charles the Second. You don’t mind?”
Henry felt a momentary sense of relief—of course, it was just Thomas in a borrowed suit—but no, it couldn’t be. Godfrey was attempting damage control: The other St John had been speaking of his sister, not his mistress.
Of course. Christ, he’d been such an idiot! Henry congratulated himself for finally figuring it all out. “Thomas” was St John Clement in disguise, masquerading as his own manservant, so his sister could masquerade as himself!
Or perhaps they switched off—what had Rochester said, and Aldous Clark confirmed? That St John had made love to a whore in the back room of the Horse while the whole Company looked on—quite the feat without a pizzle. He should have realized it sooner. And Godfrey, when he had spoken of marrying St John’s sister—it had been St John-St John leading the Blithe Company the night they tormented Lucas Jones. When Thomas had come to them it had been Honor, saving him from her wilder brother, speaking of black moods and hard exercise! Yes, yes.
Feeling rather smug, Henry stood, but before he could speak, someone else did.
“Ho now, what’s this?”
Neville and Jones had joined them, looking as confused as everyone else. When no one spoke, Neville snorted.
“How funny,” he said. “Is this a prank in honor of the restoration of the monarchy? Good one even for you, St John, this other really is your very double. So close I can’t—I say, which of you is really St John?”
“I am,” they both answered.
Jones laughed uncomfortably. Neville frowned.
Henry decided to take control of the situation.
“Thomas,” he said sternly, “you must stop making a spectacle of yourself here in public. You shame yourself, but more than that, you shame my lord, and—”
Something collided with the side of Henry’s face. When he came back to himself he was lying on the floor of the tavern, and realized it had been a fist—St John was rubbing his knuckles. Henry spit out a tooth and drew himself up unsteadily onto his elbows.
“We talked about this,” Honor was saying, looking about at all the people staring at them. She seemed far calmer than before, as if she had accepted the situation and given up on trying to control it. “It was the only way.”
“You talk’d’bout it.” St John was far more drunk than he was articulate. “You tol’me—”
“Let us talk about what I may have told you back at the college, away from everyone.” Honor’s voice was stern.
Henry got to his feet. “Gentlemen,” he said, “I propose—”
St John swung again. Henry, distracted by Rochester calling his name in alarm, failed to duck—and knew no more.
***
“I don’t like it. You said I wouldn’t mind, that I would learn to like it, but …”
“You must give it time, dearest. Just you wait—when my natural temperance has worked some changes to this flesh I’ll be more to your taste, I’ll warrant.”
“But you were perfectly to my taste before.”
“Life makes fools of us all.” A sigh. “I hope you will learn to adjust. I do love you very much. That is why I did it, you know.”
“I know. I just—I shall never see myself looking out of my own eyes again.”
“A narcissistic wish.”
“I mean—”
“I know what you meant, but do not despair. I am still, as I have been, wholly yours.”
The voice was so familiar, but Henry could not place it. Still, he felt very queer, so he chose to not yet open his eyes. He had come back to himself with no notion of how long he had been out; all he knew was that he was lying on his back on a mattress.
“And you’re … certain?”
“Perfectly. Last night the hue was unmistakable.”
“Well then. I suppose I must offer you my congratulations on the happy event.”
A laugh. Henry couldn’t place it. The last speaker had been St John, but as for the other …
“It will have to be a quick wedding, which always has the hint of scandal—but I suppose it can’t be helped.” A sigh. “Godfrey, you would fly the coop just as St John ruined everything. Oh, brother mine. I know you were never very happy about the plan, but really. Such outbursts, such intemperance … to say nothing of your putting yourself at risk for the clap, or worse. You forced my hand.”
“Surely you knew enough.” St John sounded sour.
“I knew enough, perhaps, but not all. I wanted to breed Lady Franco again, now that she is possessed of Pietra’s sensitive essence, to see if her offspring were still normal.” A laugh. “If the first is wanting, we may have to try again. Poor Henry. I wonder how he’ll feel about that.”
Henry opened his eyes upon hearing his name. His vision was strange, sharper than usual. The ceiling of the room was incredibly detailed in the candlelight. Looking to where the voices came from, the first thing he saw was … himself. With a black eye and a bruise on his cheek. He closed his eyes again. The two blows to his head must have done something to his brain.
“Why did you wake up faster? He’s certainly taking his sweet time.”
“Oh, he’s awake,” said Godfrey, from somewhere behind Henry’s head.
“Really?”
Henry opened his eyes again to find his vision remained queer. Still feeling rather peculiar, he sat up slowly—and again, was tormented by seeing himself standing off to the side, looking at him keenly. Good Christ, he looked gross and uncouth next to St John! When he was better, he would have to start cutting back at mealtimes. And stop getting himself punched repeatedly in the face.
“Weird not seeing you in you,” said St John critically, canting his head to the left. “I still don’t know about this, Honor.”
“I confess even I retain mixed feelings on the matter.” Henry watched his own mouth move, though he was not speaking. “I liked my body, to be sure, but now we may always enjoy ourselves, without worrying about my monthlies, or how to get ourselves an heir.”
“What is going on?”
Henry jumped at the sound of his own voice—it was higher than it had been since his balls were smooth as eggs. He looked down, and instead of his person, he saw a thin cotton robe de chambre covering a small but elegant bosom.
“Good morning, Henry,” said Henry.
Henry felt dizzy; he went to put his hands over his eyes and realized his left arm hurt. Looking at it, the crook of his elbow was wrapped with some sort of dressing, and a pinkish dot was evident on the cloth. He covered his overly-sharp eyes with his delicate right hand. “This is a nightmare, I will wake up, I will wake up soon.”
“You are not asleep, Henry,” said Henry. “I know this must come as a shock, but it’s nothing to worry about. I have transferred your soul to a different body, by transfusion of the blood—along with a few other processes, of course.”
“I don’t think he’s happy to hear it,” commented Godfrey. “Poor duckling. Perha
ps when he sees himself in his pretty wedding clothes he’ll buck up.”
Someone sat beside Henry on the mattress. He lowered his hand, and looked into his own, concerned face.
“I am sorry to have cozened you so awfully,” said Henry. “You were far nicer than I realized when I decided on you.”
“What is happening?” Henry cried. “Where am I? Who are you?”
“You’re in my body,” said Henry. “You were in it enough yesterday, do you not recognize it?”
Honor.
Henry looked down at himself again, and pulling open the neck of the robe de chambre, he realized he did indeed recognize those small, high breasts and pink nipples. Good Christ, he was a woman. Honor had somehow stolen his body. The bitch!
“How?” he managed. “Why?”
“As for your first question, my philosophical researches, of course,” said Honor, with his voice, his tongue, his mouth. “Do you not recall what I said about the Hebrew theory of the soul residing in the blood? For the past year I have made a study of souls here at Wadham, and transfusion, too. My researches were long and arduous, but once I managed to create my psychoscopic spectacles it was simple enough to determine the soul does indeed reside in the blood. Basing my methods on Christopher Wren’s, I theorized that since blood may be extracted, so might the soul. I even developed a method for removing the soul entirely from the blood, using spinning force—my crank-tub. Sometimes bloods do not agree with one another, for some reason I cannot determine, so it is necessary to extract and then re-introduce the soul.”
“What?”
“Do you not recall my looking at Lady Franco’s blood? I had switched her essence with Pietra Poodle’s—Godfrey’s dog—and wanted to make sure her essential biology went unchanged, since my dear plants, being vegetative, had demonstrated some … unusual reactions. A rose producing a tulip’s blossom, for example.”
“Tudors and the Rembrandt,” said Henry, finally understanding at least that.
“Yes, yes! But as it turns out, a flower’s blossom is a bit like … like our soul, I suppose. A beautiful thought, isn’t it?”
“Quite,” said Henry dryly.
Honor didn’t seem to notice his irony. She patted Henry’s newly-slender knee. “After I successfully exchanged Lady Franco and Pietra Poodle’s souls—their sensitive essences, as Aristotle would say—well, it was time to find an appropriate vessel for my soul. Which leads me to your second question, the why.”
“Honor, I—” St John looked uncomfortable.
“St John will not like me to tell you that he is infertile,” said Honor, “But he is. Sterile as a stone. We tested him quite thoroughly to make sure it wasn’t me who was the problem, and he couldn’t get so much as a country milkmaid with child. But we had to have an heir, you see.”
“You can’t marry your sister,” said Henry weakly.
“No, but you can marry your cousin,” supplied Godfrey.
“It would not have been easy to find a man willing to marry a woman in love with her own twin brother,” Honor said wistfully. “Do you recall Master Fulkerson’s lecture on Plato’s Symposium? I confirmed everything Aristophanes believed, looking through my spectacles. My brother and I, our souls look the same, we are … we are, as I said, more than twins.” She smiled at her brother with Henry’s lips.
“No longer,” said St John.
“Still.” Honor’s tone was irresistibly firm. “Godfrey was kind enough to propose to me, given that our interests could be mutually satisfied. I would not care who he took to bed, nor he me. But that did not help us with our need for an heir.”
“If I could have gotten one on St John, that would have been different,” said Godfrey, smirking.
“Not that I was ever averse to trying,” said St John. He sighed, and shook his head. “You can see how biology thwarted us there, too.”
“So the only thing for it was to find someone to, ah, donate an heir,” said Honor. “Godfrey could have done that easily enough, but then I should still be sacrificed on the altar of womanhood, and I enjoy my freedom far too much for that. Who on earth would want to be a woman? Not objectively—all things being equal and all that—but in this world? I had to play dress-up, live a lie, just to go to school! And there’s always the risk of death when a woman is brought to childbed, and how could I leave St John alone, should such a thing transpire?” She looked lovingly at her brother. “You are such a dear, but so helpless.”
St John shook his head. “I cannot think I could survive without my … other half.”
Henry’s head was swimming, his heart—Honor’s heart—was pounding. “So you—you stole my body?”
“No, of course not! I gave you more than an equal exchange for it, I’d say.”
“But I didn’t want to exchange it!”
“You said you’d do anything for me,” said Honor. “And it won’t be so bad. Once we pack up, we shall need to soon, I think the bell for prayers shall toll soon, you shall elope to London, with Godfrey—your future husband—and there you shall buy, with Calipash coin, the finest wardrobe a married woman could want. Then to the church, and after that, Godfrey has agreed to escort you to our home in Devon before he goes abroad. There you shall live like the noblewoman you are, and be given all possible honors when you bear our heir. Your heir, actually, come to think of it. How lovely.”
“We, however, shall stay here,” said St John. “Now that Honor’s a boy, there won’t be any trouble with her going to classes. I’ll stay on as Thomas, and claim the Lord Calipash abandoned me when he ran away with Godfrey over the scandal of Lucas Jones’ humiliation.”
“And since you were already taking the proper classes, I can learn lawyering, and after I graduate come to live at Calipash Manor with you, and with St John, and with Godfrey. And our child, too, I suppose. Do you see now, Henry, how all has worked out?”
Henry blinked at her.
“Henry?”
“Worked out?!” he leaped to his feet, feeling strangely light and weak. “What has worked out? You speak of me possibly dying in the act of bearing your heir—my own child—after subjecting me to arcane torments and nefarious schemes? You won’t get away with this!”
“We will,” said St John.
Everyone looked at him.
“Tell anyone outside this room what’s been done to you and you’ll be sent to Bedlam.” St John shrugged. “Far less comfortable accommodations than at Calipash Manor, I daresay.”
“You’re … you’re all monsters!” Henry began to cry, and even the tears felt alien on his face.
Honor looked surprised. “Henry, don’t weep! You’ve gotten everything you wanted!”
“When did I want a cunt?” snuffled Henry, hating how petulant he sounded.
“You certainly wanted mine,” she said reasonably. “Now it’s yours forever, I gave it to you. And did I or did I not promise you that I’d help you get your grades up enough that you could join the Natural Philosophy class in the fall?”
St John laughed.
Honor shot him a look, then turned back to Henry. “All joking aside, I promise you your teachers will see an immense improvement in your schoolwork. See you now how you’ve gotten everything you wanted? Better grades, an easy life untroubled by social class or difficult academics, and, as you’ll discover once you arrive at Calipash Manor, you’ll finally have everyone at your beck and call, paying you respect, et cetera.” She smiled at him. “Oh, Henry. I’m sure you’ll come to see everything in the right light—in time.”
Epilogue: Just Like Henry
John Wilmot sidled into Logic like it was no big deal, hoping no one would remark on how he hadn’t been at the Chapel for prayers that morning. He had briefly waked upon hearing the bells calling him to worship, but he’d had such a splitting headache from all the wine he’d drunk with Robert that he just couldn’t get out of bed. Five in the morning was simply too early to rise after getting in at two. He would need to be more temperate in the future.
>
Or less religious, one or the other.
He slid onto his accustomed bench with a groan. He still felt rotten as French cheese and like he might need to make a run for the jakes before class was finished. He rubbed his chin, feeling the sparse stubble of his beard; shaving had been beyond him. He knew he looked rough, but still, things could be worse. Idly, John wondered what had become of Henry after he’d taken that drubbing from one of the St Johns that had come to the Horse last night.
One of the St Johns. My, it had been a bizarre night, hadn’t it! First he’d agreed to Robert’s proposition that John pay for the use of a private room one night a week at some public house so they could meet sub rosa for “poetry lessons” and then that second St John had shown up and beat the daylights out of Henry. Robert’s suggestion that they have another bottle of claret—apiece—after the unconscious Henry had been borne out of the tavern by that giggling fellow and the identical boys had seemed sound at the time, but now John wasn’t so sure … he couldn’t remember much after that. Robert had been on about something about school or—
The door to the auditorium banged open; John winced from the racket but quickly schooled his face into impassivity. It was the Blithe Company—and there was Henry, trailing behind on his fat little legs. How dare he have called Robert a toady! He was the toad, a squat, fat, ridiculous, warty, croaking little toad of a boy.
John shot him a nasty look, but was surprised, upon further inspection, to see that Henry looked … good. Tired, but good: For once in his life he looked like he’d gotten up in time to damp and comb his hair, his face looked clean, his robes were ironed, shoes were brushed and shined, and he was leaning against the wall of the auditorium in a casually confident manner, laughing with the rest of the boys. Maybe joining the Blithe Company really was proving to be a good influence on him?
Ah! That was what Robert had been saying, that John should ‘get in’ with the Company; that he would be surprised how old school ties came in useful in later life. When John had protested that the Blithe Company were rotters all, Robert had told John to trust him, and suggested that it was due to a lack of truly refined, artistic influences among them, and they were likely wanting for someone to bring that tone to their chord. Or something like.
