by Kage Baker
The lobby was empty of guests but full of butterflies, drifting gently up the staircase in an unceasing eddy. A man came out of the bar and stared at them. It was Porter Crucible.
“Nine Hells, Boss, what happened to your arm?” he cried.
“It’s a long story. What’s been going on here?” asked Smith.
“Everything’s gone to bloody rack and ruin,” Crucible replied gloomily. “Hardly any guests at all. We’ve had to cancel the seafood specials in the restaurant on account of the fishermen jacked the price up to five crowns a pound. We’d have gone out of business if it wasn’t for Nurse Balnshik dancing for the gentlemen in the bar.” His gloom rose momentarily. “What an artist! And now our Burnbright’s having her kid upstairs. Was that the greenie we heard go running up there?” He looked out at the lobby. “Where’d all these butterflies come from?”
“Beats me,” said Smith.
Lord Ermenwyr scrambled down from Cutt. “Stay,” he told his bodyguards. Without another word he, Smith, and Lady Svnae mounted the staircase.
They brushed through white clouds as they climbed, and came to the narrow little attic room where Burnbright and Willowspear lived.
There, at last, the air was clear; but only because hundreds of butterflies had settled, opening and shutting their wings, on the bedstead. Burnbright was sitting up in the bed, clutching a bundle to her shoulder as she kissed Willowspear, who was on his knees beside the bed with his arms around her.
There was no other furniture in the room, so Balnshik and Mrs. Smith were seated on the floor, with a bottle of Silverbush between them.
“That kiss has been going on for forty-five seconds now,” observed Mrs. Smith. “They’ll have to come up for air sooner or later. Oh, my poor Smith!” She struggled to her feet. “Your arm!”
“It’s well lost,” he replied, kissing her. “I’m going to have a replacement made of silver and gold with emeralds, and it’ll do tricks.”
“But you told me you’d bring him back safely, you horrid little man!” she said to Lord Ermenwyr. He shrugged and lit up his smoking tube with a fireball. It was immediately seized from his grasp by Lady Svnae, who looked outraged.
“You can’t smoke in a room with a new baby!” she admonished.
“So you’re an expert on the damned things too?” Lord Ermenwyr raged, his eyes beginning to stand out of his head.
“Master, you mustn’t shout,” said Balnshik, uncoiling from the floor gracefully and grabbing him. “Welcome to Salesh, Mistress,” she added to Lady Svnae, before bending Lord Ermenwyr backward in a kiss that silenced him.
Burnbright and Willowspear had broken their embrace at last. They were huddled together, looking at the tiny red infant dozing unconcernedly in her lap.
“He doesn’t look anything like you,” she fretted. “Except I think he has your mouth. And your nose. And maybe your eyes, but he hasn’t opened them yet. You want me to wake him up? I’m sorry he’s not—you know—like you.”
“I’m not sorry,” said Willowspear. “Not at all. Hello, Kalyon!”
“And then again, maybe we won’t have to get him registered as a resident Yendri,” Burnbright added hopefully. “That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? All the demonstrations and fighting stopped last week. Just stopped, boom. So maybe things will be better now anyway.”
“Hush, child, you’re waking my grandbaby,” Mrs. Smith scolded. Kalyon Willowspear was worming about in his blankets, drawing his fists up to his chin, grimacing extravagantly. He opened his eyes.
They were remarkable eyes. They were a misty green, like Hlinjerith in its glory.
“Oh, look!” screamed Burnbright gleefully. Startled, the baby flung out his little arms, starfish hands opened wide.
Immediately the butterflies rose and descended, hundreds attempting to settle in his two hands. They spilled through his fingers. They circled his head. The adults watched in frozen silence a long moment.
“Oh, gods,” said Mrs. Smith huskily, beginning to cry. “The poor little thing.”
“Aren’t we all supposed to fall to our knees at this point and sing a hymn or something?” Lord Ermenwyr inquired wearily.
“No, no!” said Lady Svnae, tremendously excited. “Don’t you see what all this portentous stuff means? This is obviously what those prophecies were all about! This is the one Mother’s restoring Hlinjerith for! This is the Beloved with his imperfections forgiven!” She peered at him. “Though I’m surprised he came back in that color.”
“I bloody well know what it means,” wept Mrs. Smith. “Better than you do, my girl. He’ll never have a moment’s rest. The same old story’s beginning again.”
“No,” said Smith. “This is a new story beginning.”
He looked down at the stump of his arm, and thought: Well lost. I’d give the other one too, if that’s the price of hope. The shadow has passed from the door.
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