by P. J. Fox
Kisten liked the major, who looked on the activities of his household with tolerant amusement.
“We’re hosting a brunch next week,” Aria said. “I’m sure my lord husband could be prevailed upon to see that some of the younger, more dashing officers are invited.”
“Splendid!” Deliah clapped her hands.
Alice, poor thing, had turned red as a beet.
“I prefer older men,” Naomi commented. “More sophisticated men.”
“I don’t like it here, either,” said Bell quietly.
“Please,” Aria said charitably, “this is supposed to be about you. I, for one, would love to hear your poem.”
“Should I read The Demon Drink or the one I haven’t titled yet, about Charon II?”
“Read both, if you’d like.”
And Kisten listened, in stupefied horror, as he was treated to the worst poetry he’d ever heard. He hadn’t known that poetry could be so bad. Bell did reread her story about a dog that died protecting her master’s bags of gold. Kisten found himself wondering how even a man stupid enough to let his dog guard his worldly fortune could then ride off without it. The dog, of course, barked and barked to remind the man that he’d left his life’s savings under a tree but the man, insensible of that fact and apparently as incurious as a dung beetle, shot the dog instead of going to investigate. But then, conveniently, he did remember the money that—inexplicably—he’d decided to have changed into gold bouillon.
“And taking out his pistol, he aimed at the dog; and fired, and poor Fido lay there dead as a log.”
Why couldn’t the ass just carry a debit card, like everyone else?
Then she read a poem advising that even a single drop of beer passing his lips was enough to transform a man into a sociopath. In fact, he learned, beer made men club their consorts to death with polo mallets. Kisten, an excellent polo player himself, found this hilarious. He exchanged a glance with his consort, who was trying so hard not to laugh that tears were standing out in the corners of her eyes. Poor, pathetic Bell took herself so seriously.
“When with the polo mallet of wrath, he strikes her down while taking a bath—”
Aria made a strange choking sound.
“And his poor consort, like the ball is struck dead—”
Kisten would never again be able to play polo without laughing.
“Because whenever a father or a mother takes to drink, step by step in crime do they sink, until their children loses all affection for them—”
“Lose, dear,” Deliah corrected.
“But that doesn’t scan,” Bell whined.
SIXTY-TWO
“The couplet I didn’t understand was, Alas, strong drink makes men and women fanatics, and helps to fill our prisons and lunatics. Did she mean that the prisons were filled with lunatics, that the lunatic asylums were filled with lunatics, or that the lunatics themselves were filled with beer?” Aria’s nose wrinkled in concentration as she puzzled it out.
They were walking back across the grass, toward their temporary home. The rain had stopped, and fireflies glowed briefly in the purple twilight. He offered Aria his arm and, after a minute, she took it. Which, he thought, had more to do with the fact that she couldn’t see in the dark than any desire for intimacy. Still, the gesture pleased him.
Kisten laughed. “I can’t believe you’re taking this doggerel so seriously.”
“Bell takes it very seriously,” said Aria, a faint hint of reproach in her tone. “And I feel bad for her. She…wasn’t popular at home, I gather—”
“I can’t imagine why!”
Aria shot him a look. “Her parents sent her out here in the hopes that men might be a little less…discerning.” She smiled ruefully. “Bell is staying with an older brother, and she’s miserable—and, with all the recent troubles, terrified too. Admiring her poetry is the least I can do.”
With that reminder, Kisten’s bad mood returned in force. His mind flashed back to the hospital, and his stomach turned. “I suppose it’s better than listening to women rant about soap,” he said, thinking again that he should lock Aria up in a closet for her own protection.
“They’re right, you know.”
He looked down at her, incredulous that she, too, could be so silly.
“Yes,” she replied with a touch of asperity. “Isn’t part of being a good commander knowing one’s men?”
He nodded slowly, wondering where this was going. They’d stopped under one of the periodic groves of trees, a shooting break that also gave the children something to climb.
“One can’t know one’s men, unless one understands their problems. To wit,” she continued, gesturing, “one must remember that women and men are different. To a man, yes, one bar of soap is the same as any other. He’d probably be perfectly happy washing his crotch, face and hair all with the same product. But women are different, and have different needs—and this does affect men, assuming they want their women to have nice, soft skin and also be happy enough to let them touch said skin. Why import these women in the first place if they’re unable to serve their presumable function of being women? Part of which is to offer, ah, how shall I put this delicately—feminine wiles?”
“Feminine wiles?” Kisten arched an eyebrow, amused.
“I’m sure Major Hanafi wants Deliah to feel, and taste, and smell exactly like the men he serves with,” Aria replied sweetly.
“You don’t smell like a soldier,” Kisten pointed out.
“Because you, being a prince, have access to things your men do not.” She took a step back, and turned toward the house. “Besides,” she said over her shoulder, “I wasn’t aware that you’d smelled many soldiers’ intimate regions.” Her voice carried the faintest trace of mockery.
He grabbed her and, spinning her around, thrust her up against a tree. “You little minx,” he breathed, annoyance mixing with admiration. She was right, of course, about everything. Her heart rate had increased, whether from fear or arousal he couldn’t tell. Her breathing was rapid and shallow. Her lips parted slightly, and he kissed her. After a minute, she kissed him back.
He forced her down onto the ground, ignoring her protests that someone might see them. He didn’t care, let them see. He didn’t care what she wanted, either. He’d wanted to do this since he first got home, and sitting through that farce of a tea had been pure agony. She was his and he’d damn well take her however he wanted. He pushed up her underskirt, running his hand over the smooth thigh beneath. She stopped struggling and, instead, raised her arms and slid them around his back. She opened her mouth to his as he fumbled with his belt buckle.
All day, when he’d thought of her, he’d alternated between fantasies of ravaging her and even more compelling fantasies of locking her up in his bedroom and refusing to let her leave. That girl’s—Asta’s—face haunted him; she had been a girl, inexperienced and naïve. Just like Aria. Numbness was replaced by horror and, finally, fury at the idea of anyone touching her. And at the incompetence of the people he worked with, and their complete indifference to the local population, and at the self-satisfied prejudice of people like Pasha, and at the fact that men like Setji were turning out to be the best of a bad lot, and at himself for getting them both into this misbegotten mess.
There was nothing of love or tenderness as he possessed her, using her entirely for his own needs and, he was sure, hurting her. It was a catharsis, an expulsion of demons. He was a skilled enough lover to, even now, force a response from her. But did she want him, or had she merely yielded because he’d forced her to? Bodies sometimes betrayed their owners, and feeling a certain response didn’t equate to wanting whatever had caused it.
She cried out, softly, whether in pleasure or pain he neither knew nor cared. As much as he wanted her, the very sight of her made him furious. She might get hurt, she might die—and for what? He didn’t know how she felt about him, or the fact that she was here. She had this secret, inner core that he couldn’t reach and she wouldn’t reveal
; when he touched her, when he talked to her, she was holding herself back from him and it drove him insane.
Some time later, he sat up and ran a hand through his hair, thinking. Aria didn’t move for a few minutes, and then began to straighten herself out. Her dress was covered in grass stains.
“I’m sorry,” he said, wishing he had a cigarette.
“Don’t be.”
He turned and studied her in the gloom. It was now almost completely dark. She had her knees tucked up under her chin, and she looked very small.
“Are you saying that because you mean it, or because you think you have to?” he asked, more harshly than he’d intended to.
“Because I mean it,” she said.
His anger drained out of him and he flopped back down on the grass, staring up at the cloud-filled sky. The very last traces of sun had turned it a dark eggplant, and soon it would be black. He’d always marveled at the change, when he was a boy, from the capital to their estate in the mountains. In a city, night never truly fell; in the mountains, after dark, he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He used to lie outside, wide awake and unable to sleep, staring up at the stars. There were so many more of them in the mountains.
“It’s hardly their fault,” Aria said quietly, “that they don’t know what’s going on.” She was referring, of course, to the women he’d met earlier. “Men say they want soft and complying models of feminine virtue, and to protect them from every little thing, but then they resent them for not being more like men.” Her words were astonishingly close to his own thoughts.
“You’re right.”
“It’s unfair.”
Hesitantly, as if unsure of her welcome, she inched closer to him. He reached out and, slipping his arm around her, pulled her down. She settled her head on his chest, and said nothing. Lying here like this, they had the illusion of being alone. It wasn’t such a surprise that they hadn’t been discovered; the guards’ focus was out, not in. He stroked her hair absent-mindedly, thinking about work. “I’m going to teach you how to shoot,” he told her.
“I don’t like guns.”
“You need to be able to defend yourself.”
She sat up slightly, looking down at him. “You’re worried about me,” she said, a note of wonder in her voice. He realized with a twinge that she was surprised. Because she was so unused to the concept, he wondered, or because she had such a low opinion of him?
“Oh,” Aria mimicked, “tell me about your gun.”
He laughed, beginning to feel slightly better about himself and the world. “I don’t know what to do about her,” he admitted.
“Divert her interest.”
“How, let a hyena lose in the house?”
Aria laughed, a pure uncomplicated sound that seemed right in the quiet night air.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, “I’ve had a…difficult day.”
“Tell me about it?” she asked.
And, strangely enough, he did. He hadn’t meant to, hadn’t wanted to, but sharing his thoughts with someone—anyone—was like drawing poison out of a wound. She was a good listener, as usual, as he detailed the bribe-taking, misappropriation of funds, and sheer ineptitude that characterized his new office.
He told her about his visit with Zerus, and his trip to the hospital, and answered her questions about the recent violence and why Zerus hated them all so much. She told him that the women were frightened, because they did know about the violence—servants talked, even if their husbands didn’t—but no one would give them details. It would help, she thought, to brief them; both because doing so would improve morale and because, perhaps more importantly, a little concrete knowledge would motivate them to follow the rules. Not understanding why no one was allowed to leave made accepting the restriction difficult.
He agreed with her, and he loved her, and as selfish as it was, he was grateful for the fact that she was here.
SIXTY-THREE
Colonial life, even for the consort of such an exalted person as the governor, was an exercise in compromise. Aria had always thought herself both frugal and resourceful; a month on Tarsonis had proved to her just how wrong she was, on both counts. Almost everything she used in daily life was imported, and the round trip from Brontes took six months—and that was if the ship made no detours to collect other passengers or cargo, encountered no space anomalies and wasn’t molested by pirates.
The first time she’d run out of shampoo, she hadn’t known what to do. Since that educational experience, she’d started substituting local products when possible and, when not, making her own. Garja had refused to leave the compound on the grounds that the world outside was uncivilized, although slaves could come and go as they pleased. So instead Aria had consulted with one of the local women working in the house and after making up a shopping list had prevailed upon her to have her son purchase the required items. Armed with cash from the account that Kisten had set up for her, Jon disappeared into the city and returned hours later with bag after bag of purchases that he’d loudly informed her made no sense.
Privately, Aria wasn’t sure they made sense either but she was determined. And, after the first few disasters—flaming pans of oil, hardened lumps of wax and something that smelled alarmingly like sour milk but contained no dairy—she’d started getting into the swing of things. She’d made soaps, scrubs, moisturizers and bath salts. She’d made shampoos and conditioners. She’d made bread. She’d done some writing, too, curled up in a chair on the veranda with a tablet and tucked under a blanket. Spring wasn’t very spring-like on Tarsonis.
The one thing they did have plenty of was fabric; the late governor had been fond of gifting bolts to his various mistresses and a great deal of silk was still sitting unclaimed in warehouses all over Haldon. Aria had had several new dresses made, with Garja acting as seamstress. She’d proven exceptionally talented at the job, possessing a steady hand and a keen eye for design. The dress Aria planned to wear for their post—now quite post—wedding reception was one of Garja’s creations. The discovery of the fabric had pleased Alice, too; and Naomi, Aria was sure, although Naomi had begun making herself scarce whenever Aria so much as hinted that she might appear. Aria wondered if Deliah had had a talk with her, or if she’d finally come to her senses and was simply too embarrassed to face Aria at all.
Alice had a lovely ensemble to wear for her first husband hunting activity—about which she was quite excited, if equally as nervous—and another thing she’d have, soon at least, was soap.
It hadn’t taken long for word of Aria’s activities to spread through the compound and, ultimately, through the larger cantonment. Bowing to pressure, and because crafts were more bearable than poetry readings, she’d begun to give classes. She was giving one right now, on making your own soap—an activity that Lei regarded with interest, Deliah and Alice with enthusiasm, Sachi and Bell with concern and Pasha with contempt. Characteristically, Pasha had made no attempt to explain why she was there at all if the project was so beneath her.
“I’m a daughter of the House of Singh.” Pasha sniffed. “This sort of thing might be alright for you, being a child of peasants, but I don’t do…crafts.”
“Great!” Aria smiled. “You can make coffee.”
Pasha’s eyes widened.
Garja shot her a nervous glance. Aria had pressed her into service as an unwilling assistant and now she crouched amidst the soap-making supplies, decidedly wishing she were elsewhere. “Since we don’t have soap molds,” Aria said, “we’re using individual cake molds that we’ve coated with grease.”
Garja demonstrated, but without enthusiasm. She more or less agreed with Pasha about the advisability of noblewomen sullying their hands with work. The others, being in no respect from noble houses, were quite used to work and had promised Pasha that using one’s hands did not, in fact, make them explode. Deliah had, she claimed, been baking her own bread, making her own jam and ironing her husband’s shirts every morning for thirty years.
“Now,” Aria continued, “the good thing about this recipe, which is a local recipe, is that it uses cheap and easily available ingredients.” She’d learned how to make this particular kind of soap after asking the same local woman whose son did her shopping about her own skin, which was lovely. “Castor oil is a mechanical lubricant; coconut oil, palm oil and olive oil are used for frying in all the mess halls, so there’s a lot of each kind and no one minds parting with it. Shea butter is, in fact, a butter substitute; I’m told that navy cooks use it in deep space. In any case, we’ve got a lot of that, too. And then we have coconut milk and lye.”
She led them through the steps of making the soap base, which smelled awful and required a great deal of stirring.
Pasha peered doubtfully into the pot and wrinkled up her nose. “Your husband is a Prince of the Blood. He must be horrified.”
“My husband,” replied Aria, “is who brought me to this planet and he expects me to make the best of it. Now stir.” After adding rose oil, white wine and red current tea to the mixture, Garja helped Aria pour it into the greased molds. “And now,” she said, “we wait.”
“Who wants biscuits?” Deliah asked brightly.
They retired to the conservatory, everyone throwing themselves exhaustedly into chairs. After the oppressive heat of the kitchen, even the stale, humid air in the rest of the house felt like an arctic breeze. Tarsonis was never a dry place, but over the past few days the humidity had grown oppressive. Even the winds that rose in the night brought no relief, and Aria felt like she’d bathed in her own sweat ten minutes after getting out of the shower. Clouds lowered on the horizon, steel gray and sullen, promising a storm that never seemed to break. Aria could feel it waiting, though—they all could.
Deliah’s house had become something of an unofficial home base, serving to host most of their little group’s gatherings. Aria’s house was, obviously, much larger but she hadn’t offered to play hostess. She was afraid of what Kisten might think; she highly doubted that he wanted either groups of silly, laughing women or batches of soap making supplies in his house.
