My pause allowed for an assessment: I had consumed neither meat nor fowl since I was nine years old and declared to my parents I wished not to eat what I believed to have thoughts and feelings of their own. My diet had been a matter of habit, unevaluated until that moment. The girl I was once was no longer. I wondered how I might respond to the taste of flesh again.
“No, not at all,” I said.
“Very good. Naughton, take him, please.” Fewmany picked up the dog and handed the animal to Naughton, who walked off without a word. “Come,” Fewmany said to me.
As we climbed the stairs, I nodded toward the musicians. The cello player returned the gesture, the only one who could without disturbing his instrument.
In the library, all of the chandeliers and sconces were lit, casting shadows which were inviting rather than ominous. Fewmany stepped toward a rolling table which held decanters and glasses of various sizes. He offered a refreshment, which I refused twice. He smiled as if amused and filled a glass of wine for himself. When he turned, I realized his Tell-a-Bell wasn’t attached to his ear. I didn’t know what to make of this, other than he wanted no interruptions.
“Mr. Gray sends his regards. I saw him this week. He mentioned some letters he’d written on your behalf,” he said.
A jolt of surprise spiked through my gut. “I’m applying to high academies for next autumn’s term. You know I’ve always aspired to further my studies.”
“I admire your ambition and wish you well, though I’d be disappointed to see you go. Your work here has been superb, and there is much left to do,” he said, then took a sip of his drink. “You could have asked me for a reference.”
“I wished not to trouble you. All due notice will be given if I’m admitted,” I said. I dared not add that as much as my desire to leave Rothwyke and start anew remained with me, the intensity wasn’t quite as strong as it had been.
Fewmany peered at me with cool scrutiny, then waved his hand over his shoulder. “To the tomes!”
We walked among the shelves. He selected several works he found especially beautiful or interesting, setting aside his drink to point out a favorite illustration or oddity. I would have guessed he’d be pompous in showing off his collection, but he was almost boyish. He took delight in the details, including the caricatures and complaints written by long-dead scribes.
By the time we were called downstairs, our conversation had moved to what was within books and manuscripts—ideas, observations, and stories.
Although upon the offer of my position Fewmany said I could have his staff prepare my midday meals, I hadn’t accepted the invitation. I resolved to change that as I enjoyed a delectable dinner. Chestnut soup, poached salmon, roast beef with a hint of blood to which my stomach gave some nauseating protest, and spinach.
Naughton appeared with a bottle. “Miss, may I?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
He filled a glass for my host. “Are you certain?” Fewmany asked me. “Falling on a full stomach, the cordial can’t rise to the head.”
My hands kneaded under the table. The liquid was a lovely golden brown, and the glass was rather small. “Well, then, yes please.”
Fewmany raised his drink, and I did in return. The first taste was syrupy, nutty, with a hint of a sting. I liked it.
Then Naughton served dessert in bowls filled with red glimmering pods. I raised my spoon, anticipating an unknown sweetness, and took a bite.
Fewmany leaned back in his chair. “You’ve borrowed several books within a certain area of interest, that of myth and lore.”
“I doubt any library would have a finer collection.” Another spoonful crossed my lips. The tart jellied globes gave way to an ossicular crunch. Pomegranates, I thought, although I’d never had the fruit.
“So, tell me, Miss Riven, what accounts for your regard of these fanciful tales?”
“I’m not certain, other than I like them.”
“An evasive reply, and spare of the intellectual vigor for which you are renowned. ’Tisn’t reason enough to hold you in such thrall so long out of the nursery. Sit, and think, and give us an answer.” His finger circled his glass’s rim. The song of true crystal rang out.
A drop of the cordial fused with the heat in my belly. I was angry, no; offended, no; kindled, yes. No one had ever asked a question of me in that way, certainly not on a subject for which I had such zeal.
I paused to think, listening to the music drift into the room. What I said wasn’t at all what I might have expected myself to say.
“At first glance, the myths and tales seem different. Sometimes, the names, places, and things mentioned are particular to a clan or a kingdom, a certain group of people, you see. But underneath, the tales are all the same. Stories of how the world was created and how it will be destroyed. Wise beasts and divine children and magical weapons. Heroes with weaknesses and villains with wit and guile. Transformative potions and impossible sacrifices,” I said.
I waited for a response, but he kept quiet, rubbing the inside of his left arm as if it hurt.
“There’s something deeper still. The stories open into a secret realm that’s hidden by the ordinary one of our five senses. These are places where there is justice, truth, and innocence and goodness. And they are, too, places of strife and betrayal and rage and evil. They reveal our wish to explain and understand what is ineffable. To make sense of longing and pain. The stories are a quest for meaning.”
Fewmany braced his elbows on the table. “So ’tis not as simple as you like them and read them for pleasure alone.”
“Not any longer. My father entertained me with them when I was a child, and that was the purpose when I could read on my own. At some point, I knew there was more to them than an amusement, or distraction.” As I paused to take another draught, I realized, then said: “They’re a form of memory.”
“Memory?”
“Of what is essential in Nature, human and animal, above and below.” My arms prickled with gooseflesh, and a shudder whipped up my spine.
“Is that immutable?”
“Well, the tales themselves lead me to believe so.”
“Do you believe so?” he asked.
“Yes, but I also believe we can choose the qualities upon which we act.” Invigorated, I turned the question to him. “And you?”
“The truth of every man is revealed in the whole of his actions, not only the parts. ‘Malum quidem nullum esse sine aliquo bono.’ ”
“There is, to be sure, no evil without something good,” I translated.
He waved for Naughton to fill his glass again. I declined, but reluctantly, and had another bite of dessert.
“Now then, as to what you described before, that the old stories are a quest for meaning,” he said. “ ’Tis an eloquent opinion, dare I say, and at the risk of seeming condescending, which I don’t intend, a mature one as well. I concede I’m not as widely read here, but I’m of a different mind on the message.”
“What’s that?”
“When I was a gullible boy, my illiterate mother—peace be to the dead—pulled the covers to my neck and told me of the ills and beasties that waited to befall. There was warning in the whimsies: Beware ogres and crones; beware the calling crow, wily fox, and black beetle spinning widdershins on its back. If a careless lad dared to stray too far from home or wag an impudent tongue, a dragon lurked to eat him alive, gobble him whole. My mother, she tossed salt, whistled in the dark, and covered the mirror when the veil between worlds thinned. My ignorant father—dead, I know him to be—told of the ruin brought on by crying of phantom wolves and sparing the rod. He declared things to be, so they were, as his father, and father’s father, and all who came before. My father, he wielded repetition like a whip and used it like a sword. So, small lad that I was, I cut my teeth on fallacy and convention until I could chew my way out. The stories served the means of manipulation.”
“That is a literal interpretation, but you have a point,” I said.
&n
bsp; Fewmany crossed his arms at his chest and brushed his hand against the scar under his jaw and chin. “Of course. Seek not to displease the powers that be, whether gods, kings, or fathers, the ones who create and destroy”—his voice became sardonic—“because there will be lightning bolts and hideous devourings and beatings and banishments. But if you obey, laud them well, you shall receive a bounty of boons. In the darkest days, wish for impossible rescues by virtuous mortals and benevolent forces. Believe that if you are truly good, that if you suffer enough, even needlessly, you will be delivered through wondrous intercession, and if you are bad, willful and prying, dear child, you deserve what comes.”
“Not always. Sometimes one is delivered by her own cunning. And you’ve made an inadvertent suggestion.”
“Of what?”
“The presence of hope.”
He scoffed. “Hope, my keeper of tales, is an impotent thing, useless without action. ’Tis light without heat. ’Tis illusion without form. Unlike its brother, Despair, which thrives in its own prostration. This is the domain of superstition and rote, both effective determinants of people’s behavior. Convince them of what they’re told, and one can anticipate how they will react. Weapons are a brute’s option. Capture the mind, and the body will follow.”
“I haven’t much pondered ideas as that yet,” I said.
“Ponder, then. Even in your brief, what, eighteen, nineteen years?”
“I am eighteen.”
“Old enough to observe the basic conditions of mankind.” Fewmany sighed. “Men are simple, little more than animals but for the abilities to laugh and speak. They want for creature comforts of the flesh, and all else are mere trimmings. There must be enough to keep them safe, then sated. Not too much, not too little. Too much and they become complacent and entitled; too little and they become malcontent and demanding. The divide must be kept in balance, you see. All great men have understood this, and that is what, in part, has made them great.”
I let the question loose. “Like you, Fewmany?”
“So ’tis, Miss Riven, so ’tis. I couldn’t read a word until I was fifteen, but I was a scholar in the ways of the world. I simply chose to use what I’d observed rather than what I was taught.”
I had no response other than to smile with appreciation. Such a conversation I’d never had before.
Fewmany took a bite of his dessert.
A rush of fear coiled with delight. I bit my lip to suppress a smile.
“Will you convey what has amused you?” he asked.
“In light of our conversation—we’ve eaten the fruit of the underworld,” I said.
“Well, indeed, we have. And there is no mother in search of you.” He grinned as if his belly were full, which it was.
JANUARY /36
Dear Secret,
I’m writing to you inches from a blazing hearth. Otherwise, the ink would be frozen solid and my fingers too stiff to hold a pen. Oh yes, it is cold in this valley among mountains. I’ve been swathed in lynx, sable, and bear (sorry to bring those images to mind), but that does little to keep my blood warm. That sort of comfort requires boisterous activity, intoxicating drinks, and flesh-melting proximity to fire. To think I’ve complained of the dusting we have during our winters.
I shouldn’t be so misleading that I’m miserable. The land here in Bodelea is beautiful in its own stark way. The sky takes on a vibrant blue against the snow-capped peaks. You’d be awestruck by the trees, massive evergreens compared to the ones you’ve seen. I’ve learned to ski, which is almost as thrilling as a ride on a fast horse and perhaps as dangerous. Two afternoons ago, I almost failed to pivot in time to avoid a fir tree that uprooted into my way. Ha!
If I were to write about the banquets and meetings I’ve taken, I’d only repeat what I’ve told you in previous letters. Again, talk of trade, alliances, rumors of discord, threats of war, and inevitably, gossip. The intrigue of court, ever the same game with ever-changing players.
What has been different is one of my delegated companions. This king has two daughters, the elder promised, the younger not. Jorra, fifteen, has joined several excursions. I’d met her before. She attended my sister’s wedding three summers ago. Every wedding is an opportunity to arrange for another, isn’t it? She’s beautiful and spirited with a bright laugh and probably a disappointment to her mother because she doesn’t hold her tongue well.
I’ve enjoyed the goodwill visits thus far, although I have so little time to myself. Except for those moments one expects privacy and the hour before I go to bed, I’m with someone, talking, listening. I could demand more time alone, but I know what is expected of me.
Now I’m homesick. I’m thinking of my chair in my room. Now my favorite tower where the guards let me play in peace when I was small. And the woods where Cyril led our escape and it seemed there was no one else in the world but the two of us. I miss that, Secret, the quiet, the respite. I miss you. By the way, how are our squirrel friend and Old Woman? You’ve not mentioned them.
I know your letters are delayed because I’m traveling, but do write. They catch up to me. Describe what it’s like to live alone so I may vicariously experience what I’ll never know. Tell me what you’re studying from that grand library. Assure me all is well, most of all.
To bed—I must be at my royal best tomorrow.
Affectionately,
Nikolas
BEFORE FEWMANY DEPARTED FOR A trip, he offered tickets to a musical performance he’d be unable to attend. I accepted, although I considered not going. First, my evening clothes had a snug fit, likely from my indulgence in rich foods and my lack of exercise. Second, I had no escort—when had I ever?—and Father was away. But I chose to go alone, aware it would be somewhat scandalous.
The new performance hall replaced the premier one in Old Wheel, which by then no longer stood. Once inside, I checked my coat and slipped away to stand near a decorative urn filled with dried flowers. From there, I studied the lobby, more opulent than the former one—painted vaulted ceilings, polished brass everywhere, black marble floors, red velvet tufted benches, a banister of dark wood, and not a single candle in sight.
Then I turned my attention to the preliminary show under way. Everyone strutted in their gowns and tailcoats. They gathered in talkative clusters, organized by status and sex. Many people I recognized because I’d been introduced to them throughout the years—twelfth-floor men who worked with Father as well as other associates from within and outside of Fewmany Incorporated; of course, their wives; at times their children, some of whom were schoolmates. Among the others were visitors from across the kingdom—men of land and title, some of whom were on the King’s Council; as well as their wives, or women who were not.
The chimes rang out for us to take our seats. Conversations ended. Fingertips reached behind ears to silence the Tell-a-Bells. I hurried toward the stairs. With demure nods, I acknowledged those who stared at me quizzically. I didn’t wish to provide, and neither was there time for, introductions.
An usher showed me to the private box with a superb view. I managed not to turn around as speculative whispers wondered who was taking Fewmany’s seats. The box had a door with a lock. Heavy curtains framed the balcony’s opening. Between two upholstered chairs I found a table, two sets of theater binoculars, a decanter of wine, and two crystal goblets.
There the drink sat without restriction. I poured the goblet one-fourth full and took three sips. The deep red thickened my tongue with the taste of smoke and cherries. On the rare occasion Father had offered a sip to me when I was younger, I had no desire for more. The flavor seemed bitter, nothing like the depth and richness I savored here. As I filled the goblet, my body tingled. I hadn’t drunk enough for the wine to have such an effect, I knew. The response was delight, the discovery of a pleasure I didn’t know I could feel. I stared into the goblet between sips, attentive to the warmth in my mouth and on my skin.
Eventually, I lifted my eyes. No expense had been spared in the performa
nce hall. Luxurious green curtains, trimmed in gold, framed the stage. Opposite the stage, above the floor, were three balconies of tiered seats, gold gilded. Two levels of seats, box and balcony, flanked both sides of the hall.
Then, in the box directly across, I recognized King Aeldrich and Queen Ianthe. They leaned into one another with intimacy. A young woman approached and kissed the Queen’s cheeks. Queen Ianthe held the woman’s face, and I realized she was the eldest child, Princess Doria, better known as Pretty, whose return for a visit had been announced in the longsheets and through the newsboxes. Pretty sat between her mother and a man who wore a gold emblem at his neck. Her husband, a prince from Morrdin. When she touched his arm, he laid his hand on top of hers.
I swallowed a lonely feeling with a swig of wine, then drowned it with another. Their affection made me yearn for what I believed would always elude me. I could change my hair and cover my eyes, I could try to keep my inherent strangeness hidden, but I would still never be like other people. No matter where I sat, the adjacent chair would remain empty.
The performance included three singers—a woman whose voice reminded me of meadows, a man who evoked deep water, and a dark-haired boy who called down the stars. Their voices dazzled me. My imagination failed to conjure what it would be like to have a gift that made people smile, nod, and weep.
And weep the audience did, but unlike any instance I’d witnessed before. At first, there were only sniffles, as if the most sentimental among us had been touched. Then, with each song, more of the audience were overcome. Those who couldn’t contain themselves sobbed with such intensity, they rushed out of the hall or collapsed in their seats. I held my breath against the emotions which swelled in me, both desolate and ecstatic. Why was this performance so stirring?
Then I heard it. Another voice. A child’s—but not the boy’s—which hid among the others, the harmony so perfect it was almost intangible. I leaned out to look for a fourth performer but saw no evidence. A trick of the acoustics, I wondered.
In the final solo, the boy stood at the edge of the stage. He sang without a flaw, but another otherworldly pureness touched our ears. Within moments, his voice and the other one mingled with the audience’s wails. Those who remained silent sat transfixed. The cry that surged within me met a stronger force to suffocate it. No matter the box’s privacy, no matter the outpouring around me, I refused what welled up. A grief for something unnamed and long lost.
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