by P. J. Fox
Aria blushed. “Well,” she began, “I ran away from home.” And somehow she ended up telling him the whole story, and enjoying herself in the process. “He told me later that he’d only rescued me so I’d marry him,” she finished. “So naturally, I had to agree!”
“The first hundred years are the hardest,” Ceres advised.
After breakfast, Aria decided to explore the compound. She had no clear idea of where she was going, only a strong urge to get outside. She was still feeling the after-effects of several months in space, and the fact that she could leave the house and see a tree still seemed miraculous to her. In a way, she hoped it always did. Ceres had left on business of his own, saying nothing of his itinerary but telling her that he looked forward to seeing her at dinner.
Which, with the house empty, meant that Aria had the rest of the day to herself—the freedom!
Slipping her shoes off, she stepped off the path and onto the lawn. The grass felt marvelous on the soles of her bare feet, and in between her toes. Outside like this, reveling in the sights and smells and the sounds of nature, she was hard-pressed to feel too upset with Kisten—or anything else. When she’d retold the saga of her courtship to Ceres, it hadn’t sounded so much horrible as funny. And maybe the tiniest bit romantic. She sighed, overcome with the simple pleasure of communing with nature.
If the rest of Tarsonis was anything like this compound, she’d come to a beautiful planet. Although the compound was necessarily utilitarian, majestic old growth trees and creeping vines softened the rough edges with a certain fairytale charm. The magazines, storage sheds, and other outbuildings were alive with white wisteria and honeysuckle such an electric shade of fuchsia that it almost glowed. The drowsy scents of honey and fresh cut grass hung heavily on the damp air, and Aria felt her spirits lift. She was profoundly grateful to be alive.
She discovered what seemed, to her, to be a magic garden: a wide, shallow brook cut through the grass and small trees with bright red leaves and beautifully gnarled trunks stretched finger-like branches out over the water. The occasional stray leaf floated along with the current, as did the occasional fish. Frogs, or what looked like frogs, congregated on the banks.
A little bridge spanned the brook, connecting the paths that led away from it on either side. Reaching the center, Aria rested her elbows on the railing and leaned over the side to study the water beneath. It was as clear as crystal, magnifying every inclusion and flaw in the rounded stones beneath. A few more fish darted by, and she wondered what kind they were. She’d never been much of a naturalist, although she enjoyed nature and had come to appreciate it all the more for having been deprived of it for so long.
Absent-mindedly, she fingered her piercing. Having a needle jabbed through her nose had been kind of unpleasant. Rabia had put a cork in her nostril so the needle didn’t accidentally penetrate her septum. She’d then used a felt-tipped marker to place a small dot on Aria’s nose, and Aria herself had approved the placement: nestled right into the hollow of her left nostril. Her eyes had watered when the needle went in, an unavoidable reflex reaction. There hadn’t been much pain, just a quick, sharp pinch; nothing like last night. That still hurt.
Everyone who looked at Aria would know that she was married. She couldn’t go outside without her piercing, or a veil—or, indeed, her husband’s permission. She, lifelong feminist and ardent supporter of a woman’s right to choose in all matters, had thrown herself head-first into a patriarchal culture that she didn’t understand. She remembered, uneasily, Rabia’s comment about being beaten. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Aria still had trouble believing that such a thing could happen—that otherwise decent men and women could see nothing wrong with a man striking his consort.
And yet…she herself had accepted the symbols that marked her as the property of another human being. She didn’t understand herself anymore, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to.
FIFTY-TWO
Aria was still staring into the depths of the brook, as unmoving as a statue, when Naomi appeared. She’d been lost in thought for so long that droplets of condensation covered her veil like myriad scattered jewels. Uncharacteristically silent, Naomi joined her at the bridge and was soon absorbed in the movements of the fish.
At last she spoke. “So you’re a married woman, now.”
There was a faint note of envy in her tone, and Aria was uncomfortably reminded of how Naomi had gazed at Kisten during the trip to the planet’s surface. That her friend admired him, maybe even thought herself in love with him, was obvious. Naomi was enraptured with the idea of Kisten more than the actual man: he was competent, and he was authoritative, and he’d rescued them. He also possessed the sort of exotic good looks that women usually found appealing. But Naomi had spoken barely a few words with him. She didn’t know him.
Aria couldn’t say why she found the situation so offensive. Since she’d first met Kisten, she’d kept telling herself that she didn’t like him; that he was, indeed, everything she found offensive in another human being. He provoked a response in her like nothing she’d ever experienced before. But Naomi’s comment elicited a sharp possessiveness that bordered on spite; for one split second, it was all she could do not to claw Naomi’s eyes out. This was her husband. That her friend, that any woman should presume to find him attractive was insupportable.
She took a deep breath, and steadied herself. “Yes,” she said, hoping she sounded composed, “I suppose I am.”
“And?” Naomi asked. “How is it?” She sounded entirely too curious.
Painful. Aria made a noncommittal gesture.
“You’re so lucky.” Naomi sighed.
Aria straightened and, turning, met Naomi’s gaze. “Yes,” she said firmly, “I am.” Aria was; not Naomi. She didn’t want this to become a competition; but she didn’t want any unpleasant scenes, either. And she certainly didn’t want Naomi to develop any, ah, ambitions. The Bronte concept of fidelity might not be Aria’s own, but she understood that while romance might have nothing to do with sex, at least theoretically, Naomi wanted the latter because she wanted the former. And while Aria would like for them to remain friends, that would depend on Naomi. Sensing something of Aria’s thoughts, Naomi had the grace to blush.
Aria changed the subject, giving them both a chance to escape a conversation that had suddenly become awkward. “More importantly, how are you? And where are you—and the other girls?”
Naomi brightened, grateful for the change of subject. “We’re staying with one of the officers’ families. His consort, Madam Hanafi, sent me to invite you for tea and I was on my way to the house when I saw you—more luck!”
Aria smiled. “That sounds like fun.”
They set off across the grass, and color began to come back into the world. Aria was frankly relieved that crisis had been averted—for now. Part of her wished that she’d never brought Naomi with her from Solaris, and then another part of her instantly felt guilty. She wasn’t being fair, she chastised herself; Naomi was young for her age, having apparently had little exposure to the real world before setting off on her grand adventure, and she couldn’t help who she had a crush on. She and Naomi and Alice and Grace were strangers in a strange land and they had to support each other, not tear each other down.
Thus fortified, Aria made light conversation for most of the walk. The compound was deceptively large, the vast expanse of bungalows, training yards, offices, and various outbuildings being hidden from each other by a series of dividing walls and seemingly random stands of trees. Scenic though they might be, these breaks served a defensive purpose. Aria shivered.
Passing under a heavily fortified arch and into the park shared by several of the officers’ bungalows, Aria realized that while Naomi had shared a great deal about herself and Alice, she hadn’t mentioned Grace at all. She was just about to ask why when a pair of screaming children ran in front of them, almost tripping her and effectively distracting her.
Kisten’s preference was for the t
raditional sattika that she’d worn occasionally aboard Atropos and for her wedding. Aria’s closet was full of less formal versions, one of which she was wearing now. The graceful folds enveloping her might be alluringly feminine but necessitated that she walk slowly and watch where she stepped. If she put a foot wrong, she was apt to trip on her hem. Kisten, she felt strongly, should have to wear one of these contraptions for an hour; then he might change his tune about how desirable they were. She smiled at the idea. He might even do it, too; he wasn’t bashful, even if he did take himself entirely too seriously.
The children vanished into one of the bungalows, still screeching and hitting each other. Aria watched them, still lost in thought. In all of the compounds that made up the cantonment, there were children. Some of the men had brought their families with them from home; others had married local women and started families here, raising children who thought of themselves as Tarsoni. This wasn’t a conquered province, to them; it was home—their home.
They didn’t see themselves as conquerors, but as fellow natives and equals. The great tragedy, for them, was that they were too much of the Alliance to be Tarsoni and too Tarsoni to fit in with their so-called peers or ever feel at home anywhere else. After the relaxed pace of colonial life, the protocol-obsessed and class-conscious Home Worlds would seem like a series of prisons.
To these children, the discovery that their home was no home at all—was hostile to them—would be devastating.
Aria forced her mind back to the topic at hand. “Where is Grace?” she asked.
Naomi paused, and the air of tension returned.
“What?” Aria couldn’t keep the nerves—or the frustration—out of her voice.
“Grace…is living in the city.”
“What?” But the city was dangerous! It was no fit place for a woman to live, and a foreigner at that! What could Grace have been thinking, and how come no one had seen fit to stop her? She expressed all of this to Naomi, who listened stoically. And as Aria trailed off, realizing that Naomi hadn’t responded, it occurred to Aria that Naomi was hiding something.
“Tell me.” Part of her was afraid that she already knew.
“Grace has decided to become a courtesan,” Naomi said slowly, gauging Aria’s reaction. “It’s an independent life and that’s what she wants.”
“What?” Aria repeated stupidly, unable to wrap her mind around what she’d just heard. While it was true that, as a courtesan, Grace would be her own mistress and could make whatever choices she felt like making without regard to male authority, she’d also be denied many of the protections afforded to other women. In effect, she’d be legally a man and thus considered capable of defending herself.
It was a horribly lonely life, removed as it was from normal society. A concubine was technically a slave but she was also part of the family and was, in many cases, really a second consort. Concubines had many of the same rights as consorts, and their children were legitimate if not always possessed of the same inheritance rights. But a courtesan could not mix in the same polite circles, and she had no right to demand acknowledgment of paternity in the event that she gave birth to a child. Whether or not to do so was solely her client’s choice. And, of course, instead of loving and serving one man as a concubine did, she entertained many men and with no emotional involvement at all. Sometimes, a courtesan might enter into a contract with a specific client, promising to entertain him exclusively in exchange for financial support; and sometimes, these relationships became more. But that was rare.
“Kisten agreed,” Naomi told her, evidently pleased to think that she knew more about Aria’s husband than Aria did. “She’s not established enough to be on her own, so she’s working at some fancy club frequented by all the officers. That’s Kisten’s doing, too,” she added self-importantly. “He arranged the whole thing and even wrote her a letter of introduction. I guess he didn’t tell you.” Naomi twirled a lock of her hair, and waited for Aria to feel insecure.
Aria was beginning to really not like Naomi. During the trip itself, she’d seemed pleasant enough and Aria had more or less thought of her as a friend. But since arriving on Tarsonis, Naomi had begun to display a side of herself that Aria wouldn’t have even guessed existed.
“First,” Aria said archly, “he didn’t agree to anything. To become a courtesan is Grace’s right as an Alliance citizen. Second, Kisten and I aren’t in the habit of discussing other women.”
“So you’re not worried?” Naomi’s tone was saccharine.
“Why would I be?”
Naomi looked away first. Aria was irrationally glad that Naomi wasn’t her guest, after all, although not for the reasons that Naomi would have suspected. She didn’t know what her new husband’s habits were and didn’t care to speculate, preferring ignorance over conjecture about a state of affairs she could not change, but she did know that standing before her was one woman about whom she need not worry. It occurred to her now that the fortuitous coincidence of Naomi having been assigned different housing might not be a coincidence after all and that Kisten might not be as oblivious to Naomi’s admiration as Aria had first assumed.
Standing there on the wet grass, slippers in hand, she felt both triumphant and sick to her stomach. She had a place in this new world, of which she was assured. But all the same, she’d see her husband an hour or so a night if she was lucky and had serious doubts about whether the other women in the cantonment would accept her. She was a foreigner and different in all respects—and knowing how Kisten’s father had been treated hadn’t exactly filled her with confidence. If even Naomi was rejecting her, Naomi who had every reason to feel a bond of kinship with this, her fellow refugee, what hope could she have with the Bronte?
Was she doomed to have no friends? The thought filled her with a numb kind of despair.
“We should go,” Naomi said finally.
Aria nodded, wondering as she did so if Naomi was going to pretend now that this conversation hadn’t taken place. She moved slowly across the lawn, still glad to be alive and outdoors but markedly less excited for tea. Judging from the hazy brightness of the sun, it was mid-afternoon. Aria, always an early riser, couldn’t believe that she’d slept so late.
Would Alice be like this, too? And what about their host? Maybe Naomi would improve once she found a husband, which is what she claimed she wanted. What Aria couldn’t understand was why, if Naomi thought Kisten would be so wretched to a woman he’d just married, installing her friend as his mistress before her very eyes, she’d want anything to do with him. And she certainly couldn’t marry him—he was already married. Aria chanced a quick, sidelong glance at Naomi but said nothing.
FIFTY-THREE
Deliah Hanafi turned out to be charming, which was an enormous relief.
The women sat in a small, glassed-in conservatory on the far side of the bungalow that looked out onto an equally small private garden. The garden, enclosed by tall stone walls, was riotously overgrown and so lushly green as to defy all rules of nature. Shortly after Aria arrived, the mist had begun thickening into rain and now fat droplets pelted the windows and rolled down towards the ground. It seemed that, however gloriously a day began, rain was never far in her new home. After the morning she’d had, the observation was curiously comforting.
She was greeted enthusiastically upon arrival by Deliah, who ushered her into the small but neatly kept bungalow and introduced her to the other guests. Alice she knew, and there were two others: a pleasant, round-faced Bronte named Sachi, whose husband was a major in the Blues, and a Braxi who claimed that her name was unpronounceable to non-Braxi and advised everyone to call her Lei for short. Sachi and Lei both smiled in greeting but, seeing Aria, Alice squealed and, jumping up, raced around the table with her arms outstretched.
“Aria! Hooray! Isn’t this wonderful?” She stepped back, studying Aria with the critical eye of a—very young—mother hen. “You look wonderful. Deliah has been such a wonderful host and friend, and I’m so glad she invited
you and that you could come!” She pulled Aria over to a free chair. “And your dress! I love it!” Aria loved it, too: both blouse and underskirt were a dark turquoise, with sattika and veil in a lighter shade of the same color.
“It is a lovely dress,” Sachi agreed. “Where did you get it?”
Aria told them the story of her trousseau, and soon the women were laughing as if they’d known each other forever. Lei was solemn but interested, and Sachi had the kind of welcoming enthusiasm that put everyone at ease. Deliah was both outspoken and kind, and it was obvious that she and Alice had taken to each other right away. Alice beamed happily at the older woman the way Aria imagined some girls beamed at their mothers. Naomi alone seemed to resent Aria’s presence, perhaps feeling that Aria was honing in on her space.
At first, Aria had wondered if she were imagining things; not so much because her friend had said anything overtly hostile but, rather, because of a certain almost…aura that she radiated. A glance here, a thinly veiled comment there, nothing that Aria could put her finger on but that was becoming increasingly noticeable nonetheless. Catching her host’s eye, she realized that Deliah had noticed the problem too and was wondering if she should intervene. She was spared the ultimate decision, however, by Naomi declaring that she felt fatigued and had to lie down. She stalked off without further comment.
More food was delivered shortly thereafter and the unpleasantness was forgotten. The temperature had dropped with the rain and although the conservatory was snug and dry Aria found herself shivering. She’d been outside longer than she’d realized, growing so damp from the mist that she’d begun to feel like a mushroom.
Deliah leapt up and, moments later, returned with a throw. “You look like a tiny little sprite washed out of its buttercup,” she said, tucking the fur and cashmere thing in around Aria. Deliah herself was not tiny; she might generously be described as queen-sized.
