by May Peterson
Rosemary took her turn and showed me the adjoining gardens. She grew all manner of plants, from turnips to petunias. Greatest of all were the roses; Rosemary planted them in rings around the house. She spoke of her roses like they were her family. Orange and blood red, white and pink-tipped, even pale yellow flowers, filling her beds like jewels. Her pride in them gently penetrated my haze—it felt so much like my pride in my singing.
The size of the estate awed me. I had thought this some manor fixed to the city’s edge, ready to bring Rhodry onto the street quickly. Instead, it inhabited its own far off kingdom, a forest shrouding it from behind.
Cecilio prepared meals in advance, and the larder was surprisingly full considering only Rhodry ate anything—but then, I’d seen him eat. The ghosts didn’t seem to need food, but as I had my plate and tea in the servant’s hall, they each poured a cup and sat beside me, chattering as I could not. It felt homely and surrounding. Ghosts had more solidity than I had once imagined, their ability to materialize giving the illusion that they’d never truly died.
There was good silver, Cecilio said, which surprised me. I’d heard moon-souls always used gold for cutlery. Cecilio did add that Rosemary had locked it away downstairs, as her particular fetter caused silver to bother her less.
I thought, when again in my room, that I had not been truly alone for what felt like forever. This quiet was so new. It frightened me to explore it, but I’d go insane if I didn’t. A sense of peace covered me. I should be mourning. Normally, I’d have raced to find Tibario, beg Mamma her forgiveness. But the way was barred, and my voice had taken a deeper part of my life with it. I felt hollow, but clean. Panic, anger, pain, it would all find me eventually. For now, the silence protected me from it just as it had from the occhiorosso.
I thought the ghosts would be always awake, but the next day, I couldn’t find Cecilio. Only Rosemary, sitting just outside my door at the table. She smiled up at me, dirt from the garden on her face and the pages of her book. “He’s at rest now.” She laughed at my alarmed expression. “No, he’ll be back. Go on without him, and I’ll be listening for mishap.”
So I cleaned the rooms by myself, with her nearby. One of the closed rooms was unlocked now. It was dark, but I saw at once why they had to protect it from the ice.
A full-size pianoforte stood within, sheathed in canvas. Glass cases cradled a number of instruments by the window. An impulse shook my hands as I loosened the curtain, opened it enough to permit some sun. The case held two violins, a cello, an oboe and some bells. They looked new.
I closed the door gently and dared pull back the canvas. The piano was ebony! Black all over like Rhodry’s hair, and smooth to the touch. Even the Imparviglio didn’t have a piece like this. Gulping, I sat down. Surely that wouldn’t hurt anything.
On the wall by the seat was the first portrait I had seen of the lord and lady. This was a photograph, and a startlingly clear one. Rhodry, and Her Ladyship—Eirlys—sat posing, military sashes across their chests. Rhodry didn’t look much younger than he did now, though the photo had to be at least twelve years old. Dark and wild, his features commanded me in image just as they did in the flesh.
Eirlys, on the other hand, glowed. Her straight locks were as black as her husband’s. They sat at equal height, and a sheathed sword leaned on her knee. She smiled fully, crookedly, like laughing lightning.
Seeing them had a strange effect on me. I wished I could have known her alive. I wished I could comfort that young, stormy Rhodry. The city swirled with its ghosts and losses and broken bones, and I wished the current would stop for just a moment. I would be happy with one moment.
I laid my cheek against the wood of the piano, let my head rest there. It felt so good. And I imagined the ghosts finding me, covering me with the canvas as I slept, making me just another piece of the house’s scenery. Encased like the violins, shielded from the cold.
Chapter Six
RHODRY
When I was twenty, I met General Piero.
His world had been so much bigger than mine. Great Mallory itself, with all its green shores, had never showed me a horizon so wide. Wheeled into our house on a stretcher, half blind with bandages and comatose, he’d brought with him all the apothecary secrets I had craved. That which healed and that which poisoned, that which made me whole and made me his. And I’d had no resistance.
After the victory of Vermagna, I was glad to leave the battlefield behind. With the battles pushed south, Eirlys and I agreed to become defenders of the city. Ruin required everything to be useful, and the hospitals overflowed. Vermagna vomited up dead and wounded like bad food. Eirlys and I admitted survivors by the wave, some who endured and some who died on our couches. Facing this every day, their missing limbs and broken faces and the smell of infection, was a harsher battle than any before it, because it had no end. Back then, I’d believed that Eirlys and I had saved many lives, but we’d lost more. The lessons of yesterday and today were the same—death would always win.
Eirlys’s cunning proved her as leader of our regiment and was recognized by the Princess of Vermagna. I won my own medals, but our rank made us no less soldiers on the field under the General Piero Santonino.
Piero’s recovery became a symbol for all my hope. Hope for peace, for love. Eirlys and I slept in shifts, so I put him in my dressing room. He talked more than the other inmates. I used to stay up with him and let him talk so he could ignore the pain. When his left hand was amputated, I held his right one and let him squeeze as hard as he wanted. I remembered the day he stood on his own two feet again. Eirlys couldn’t have truly understood why I was so happy.
His bandages came off, and both eyes gleamed at me with their secret knowledge. When the patients dwindled and we had more time, I walked with him so he could strengthen his legs. I remembered the bristle of his beard, his scent of cigarillos. When we got caught in the rain and we came home with hidden laughter, Eirlys had grinned and asked to be let in on the joke. Piero had made up one to tell her.
But I’d made her the joke. I could have blamed Piero, named him my seducer. I hadn’t felt seduced. I’d felt recognized and understood by Piero. And I’d abandoned her for that.
One day we stood on the stairwell and watched Piero walking unaided, steady and strong. “War’s almost over now,” she said. “The Princess made an announcement.”
I nodded. But she must have seen the confusion and guilt on my face and, drawing me back to the shadow, put her arms around me. “I know. This is the hardest thing we’ve ever done, or ever will. I love you. No matter what.”
I forced down my tears, and let her hold me. I let the lie grow between us.
And it’d killed us while we weren’t looking.
I stood on that same stairwell and scowled at the sun. I couldn’t sleep. Dreams of Eirlys froze me. But dreams of Piero burned.
Mio moved so quietly, as if he was afraid of being caught. He was sweeping the entry hall and brushing the drapes. Alone, so I stood back and watched him where he couldn’t see me. He hadn’t been kidding about wanting to serve. It worried me that she hadn’t come for him yet. But I would be there when she did.
Just then, the incubus came.
It appeared like Eirlys when she’d been a girl. Hair a black saint’s veil, eyes bead-bright and warm, hands strong and open. I paused, if only to acknowledge Eirlys’s stolen image.
“I miss you,” it said with her voice.
“No, you don’t.” I sneered. “How many times are we going to play this particular game? I know you’re not her. For one, if you were really my wife’s ghost, the room would have gotten ten degrees colder.”
It shrugged, almost shyly, tucking dark hair away from its face. “People can change.”
“Yes. The full moon is fond of reminding me of that.” I grabbed a glass off the side table and filled it, my heart already pounding. This was why I kept whiskey in ev
ery room.
“We’ve both changed,” it went on. “I want you to believe that I’ve forgiven you. What will that take?”
“I don’t want her to forgive me. Not even I am that arrogant.” I glanced back at the stairwell. I also didn’t want Mio to hear us. As long as Eirlys had not come for him, Mio should be safe. I knew the incubus’s limits well—only the curse let it hurt anything.
“Which only means you don’t want me to heal.” It began pacing around me, hands running over the walls. “I want to be forgiven, Rhodry. Shouldn’t you stop fearing me? All I did was die. Does that really compare to—well.” It smiled, and the expression bore no resemblance to any that had ever crossed her face.
I sipped my whiskey. “If you’re just going to fuck around, I have nothing to say to you. Go away.”
I couldn’t command it to leave forever. Never that. Only to get out of my face. But my words had no such force now. It smiled a bit longer before the emotion drained from it like blood. “I have stayed with you all this time. Trust that I will never leave, my love.”
I turned my back and made down the hall. I didn’t have the strength for a full round with it.
“I wish you wouldn’t ignore me, Rhodry.” Now it really had changed. Piero’s voice. Instinct made me look. It was him. Hands and flesh intact, no scars. Just his rough-hewn regard. “Haven’t I apologized? Didn’t you trust me once?”
I slammed down my glass. “Fine. I’ll play. One guess. You’re provoked about the new addition to our little household. Hoping Eirlys will come to feed you soon? You’re wasting your incorporeal breath. You’re going hungry this time.”
It frowned and followed my gaze. Down the hall, to the stairs. Shit. I hadn’t wanted to direct it toward Mio. Then, in such a Piero-like way, it raised an eyebrow. “Such a sweet boy. Look how he cows to serve you. But I’m surprised, Rhodry. He’s not your type. Too...fey.”
Heat crawled across my skin. Piero would think that. Both that Mio must be a paramour, and that all my future interests should resemble him. “You don’t care. You’re an incubus.”
It narrowed its eyes at me for several minutes. When it finally spoke, the hauteur and drama were gone from its voice. “Do you love this boy?”
My heart sank. “Of course not. I barely know him.”
Oh, but I did know him. If only by the thrill of his voice, the strange power he represented to me. Abruptly, I wondered how much the incubus had seen. How much space it could read in my heart. Mio’s note was weighing down my jacket pocket. I was overcome with an urge to cover it with my hand.
Piero’s features were melting, diffusing into a smear of human-shaped emptiness. The smile it produced was skeletal, mechanistic. “But you feel something. Never before have you taken such a charming creature into your home. I always have to wait for the trap to spring. But you—you’ve brought me something fresh. New. Something you desire. I can hear it. Pitter patter, right in the pit of your rib cage. So sweet.”
I refused to look at Mio. To give the incubus any more credence. But my heart was attaining a speed far beyond a damn pitter patter.
“Ah!” The incubus’s shifting features sprang up in something like a smile. “You were hoping that this might be the body I claim. A body that you prefer. One you would love to be near. Is that it, my dear Rhodry? Are you finally coming around?”
It had to have been plotting Mio’s possession from the moment I’d brought him past my gate. But hearing it spoken aloud, with such glee, was something else entirely. Something savage and weightless and freezing.
“Listen to me.” I lowered my voice, leaned closer to it than I had ever dared. “The only body I want you near is mine. Here, in this rotting coffin that we share. Because you and I? We’re stuck with each other, for what I’m sure will prove to be a very long eternity. You are never getting free. So you may as well bundle up nice and comfortable in the bed I made for you, because there’s not going to be another beating heart to warm it up for you anytime soon.”
Strangely, as I spoke, it seemed to listen. Expression flat, gazing into my eyes. No games. No imitations.
Then, its phantom head tilted.
“And yet you’ve brought one.” Its words grated like rasps. “Do you want your bed warmed, Rhodry?”
I whirled by instinct, found Mio crouched by the door. Checking, as if the incubus could annihilate him by mere speech.
I didn’t have to turn to see that the incubus had vanished. Its absence was like a presence in itself.
And its purpose was done. As always, the incubus only had to remind me of what belonged to it.
Mio looked like he had drifted off to sleep, head leaning against the doorframe. Poor thing. The last few days must have completely worn him out.
And it wasn’t going to get any easier.
I wasn’t sure what really would have been kinder. Bringing him here—or leaving him there on the street.
* * *
Funny how much it helped to have something to do.
Something concrete, with a goal that was more than enduring and second-guessing. My goal? Make this work. Protect Mio. That purpose was like a flame hovering in my palm; a mere breath could extinguish it.
I rose early, before sunset, and had breakfast with Mio—well, his dinner. His earlier eagerness had dimmed—he was so downcast. But he came to the table with a stack of paper, his hand no doubt already cramping at the thought of keeping up with me. Ideas took form in my black old mind.
“Are you sleeping all right? This house is a bit drafty for live ones.” I cupped a cigarillo and lit it on the oil lamp.
Rosemary, who was adjusting the drapery to let a little light in on Mio without hitting me, coughed loudly. I raised an eyebrow at her, and she made a snuffing motion.
“Oh, right.” Even I should know that smoke would hurt a singer’s voice. I extinguished it.
Mio slid me a response that everything was well, thank you, and that his accommodations were comfortable. But I couldn’t ignore his air of melancholy. “I don’t want you to accompany Cecilio this evening. I have a plan for us.”
That piqued his interest. He followed close by as I took him upstairs for the first time, to my study. He must have thought Eirlys would jump out at any moment here, because he all but gripped my hand. That warmed me with surprising intensity.
I made my table our little workspace, dual armloads of books from the library stacked up beside. Mio’s eyes widened until they could have fallen out.
“Is that shock or delight?” I grabbed another cigarillo by instinct before throwing it to the side. Harder than I expected.
Some of his excitement seemed returned. We have crime money now, but I grew up poor. I didn’t get to have many books. I suppose it pays to be aristocracy.
It was such an earnestly innocent statement, coupled with his amazed expression, that I couldn’t resist laughing. He blinked a few times before quietly beginning the dissemination of my volumes by genre. He was such a quaint little sweet pastry.
I let him rifle through them. “All this note passing is never going to be practical. Especially not if you’re going to be staying here for the foreseeable future. We need to work out a better means of communication.”
He may have heard me, but a leather-bound work slipped into his palm, and he was lost. He fingered the gold print as if he might lose composure at any moment. I permitted myself another chuckle. “Find an old love?” His easy delight at such everyday things was almost enough to make me coo.
He turned that earnest gaze on me again, eyes trembling with emotion. He flipped through and then pointed at the title, as if to ask if it was real. The Black Queen? I didn’t think people sincerely waxed sentimental about classics.
“Brought it from home. It’s all in Malloric, though. Portian translation’s kind of shit.”
He nodded, so enthusiastically I was su
re I’d missed something. He scrawled, I learned Malloric with this book! It has original bardic notations and everything!
“Wait. You speak Malloric?” This was unreal. I’d heard him sing in Zeidich before, too. Learning just one other language had about done my brain in my first year or so here. Most young children probably learned to dance or fence, or in Vermagna, pickpocket. Apparently Mio had been about learning a string of tongues. Though it made sense that a mage of words and songs would have a superhuman knack for language.
Not very conversationally, because I learned operatic diction. Oh, well, who hadn’t? I had to restrain an amused laugh. May I borrow this book, my lord?
“It’s yours.” He brightened. Seeing him this happy over something so small was better than smoking.
I combed the pile for help while he read. “Hold it for a second, lemon drop. This is it.” I slid the volume to him.
Handspeak? He mouthed the title.
“It’s signing language. The language of deaf people all over the world. Though specifically I think this is Portian handspeak.” I thought for a moment. “You don’t...already know it?” He shook his head.
We had a bit of work ahead of us. The book contained instructional diagrams, which was all that kept me in the game. I quavered at the sight of all that vocabulary. A lifetime of speaking language had clearly not prepared me for how many words a language had in it. I’d hoped for something more basic, like an alphabet.
We flipped through the pages, and by the time I found it, Mio was already ahead of me. He’d mastered his name, and “hello” and “yes.” Not about to be outdone, I got to work on my name, and tried to have him sign it back.
He actually turned pink. I briefly imagined running my fingers along that rosy flare, feeling him heat. Amusingly, he produced “my lord,” and “Your Lordship,” but refused to sign “Rhodry.” Eventually I said, “Mio, in my country, the custom is to use whatever name an artistocrat gives you. People’d think it standoffish not to accept.”
