A Dictionary of Fools (The HouseOf Light And Shadow Book 2)

by P. J. Fox

  And then, having said all there was to say, he left.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  When Sabihah was a child, she’d suffered from a rare genetic disease that almost killed her. She’d been hospitalized for endless stretches at a time, her initial response to treatment poor and her prognosis by no means certain. Her parents had despaired, along with her siblings. Kisten and Keshav were both quite attached to their sister, Kisten more so. Being the star pupil that he was, he’d been able to cadge several leaves of absence so he could come home and be with her. None was longer than a fortnight, but even so each represented an unheard-of indulgence at a school like Ceridou. He kept up his coursework, completing most of his assignments at the hospital where he spent most of his time. Even the best hospitals were soulless, lonely places where time seemed to crawl.

  He’d read to her, and chatted with her about this and that, and generally done his best to make her life more bearable. None of them, at that time, knew how much life she might have left and the idea of her dying before she’d even had a chance to live was like an ice pick in his heart.

  But she’d gotten better. Slowly at first, so painfully slowly that her doctors hadn’t been at all sure that what seemed like good news might be a fluke. Numbers fluctuated; tests were inconclusive. Patients had their good days and their bad days; even a straight run of good days didn’t a remission make. Sabihah, as part of a clinical trial that her parents had enrolled her in, when they’d all understood that there was nothing left to lose, had undergone several surgeries and it was then that she’d met the man who’d become her husband.

  Her homecoming, like homecomings often are, was anticlimactic. Kisten would, after he came home from Charon II, have cause to remember those months and wonder. Sabihah, unlike Kisten, had seemed genuinely glad to come home and be reabsorbed into her family. She’d been cheerful and pleasant, joining in where she could despite her low energy. She’d been, at that time, the darling of the family, laughing and chatting as she sat ensconced in her favorite chair on the verandah. Or sometimes in the living room, as friends and family paid visits and congratulated her on her remission. She’d charmed them all, appearing to enjoy the attention. And she’d started sleeping in Kisten’s bed.

  He’d been shocked the first time he’d felt her worming her way under the covers. It had been well after midnight, and he’d been sound asleep. He’d been home this time, not on leave but for summer vacation. He’d sat bolt upright and almost called out before he realized who it was.

  What are you doing here?

  I’m scared, she’d said.

  Scared? Of what?

  She hadn’t answered at first, and as the minutes stretched he’d decided she wasn’t going to. But then, in the barest whisper, I’m scared that I’ll wake up and be back in the hospital.

  And so he’d let her stay. He’d just turned seventeen and she fifteen. This wasn’t long after his first experience with a woman, but he certainly didn’t think of his sister as one. She was his sister, for one, and like most younger siblings she retained, in his eyes at least, a more or less permanent aura of youth and innocence. When he looked at her he saw the frightened ten year old she’d been when she’d gotten sick, not the fifteen year old she’d become.

  Fifteen, and a lovely girl who gave every promise of being a lovely woman. She was fine boned and tall like her brothers but translated into the feminine form those same features were sylph-like. The ghostlike pallor of her illness was giving way slowly to an ethereal beauty, and she’d begun to develop many admirers. She gave no notice of them; she’d never expressed a particular interest in men before, although Kisten had overheard her giggling about various supposed heartthrobs with her friends, and she did nothing to court their attention now. Others chalked it up to her age; only Kisten knew that she was putting on an elaborate act wherein she only seemed happy.

  At night, with him, she shared her true state of mind: that she felt pressured into performing for the crowd-like gathering of relatives, that she felt as though she’d be doing something wrong if she admitted that she was depressed. For someone who was supposed to be the center of attention, she’d said bitterly, she felt like it was her job to help everyone else recover from the fact that she’d been sick. The experience had been so stressful for them. Kisten had urged her to do what she wanted; if she’d rather spend the day in bed, reading trashy novels and eating bonbons, well, Cousin Tadia would get over it.

  They lay under the covers, facing each other.

  She was tall, like him, although not as tall. Rajesh was tall but Mahalia, from whom they’d both inherited their violet eyes, was quite short. Not quite as short as Aria, but not more than a few inches taller. No one knew how tall Udit should have been; malnutrition in her childhood had left her with a permanently waif-like, almost childish appearance.

  Kisten and Sabihah always lay close together like this, not for lack of room but to facilitate whispering. There was no especial reason to hide their activities, and they weren’t, really. They weren’t doing anything naughty, just talking. Sometimes they held hands, and sometimes they didn’t. The comfort that Sabihah sought was that of a child. Innocent.

  She slept curled inside the curve of his arm, and after awhile he got used to her being there. Learning to share a bed with another person required quite an adjustment, at least for most men, but Kisten had grown up sharing his personal space with Keshav and had never really been alone. Besides, Sabihah didn’t come every night; some nights he went out, and some nights she wasn’t feeling so sad.

  Kisten had recently discovered girls, although his father’s having walked in on his interlude with the chambermaid had limited his access to them. Rajesh had taken great pains to make sure that every woman in the household between the ages of ten and eighty knew exactly what would happen should she be caught aiding in the delinquency of a minor. So, his own slaves having shunned him, he’d taken up with Aleah and also investigated some of the seedier quarters of Chau Cera. Which had led to his first experience with venereal disease, which had made his father even angrier.

  Considering that Kisten had been conceived because his father couldn’t keep it in his pants, he’d thought the old man a terrible hypocrite.

  Catastrophe struck about a fortnight from the start of term, on the kind of warm summer night that moonlit picnics were invented for.

  The temperature had fallen, although not unpleasantly so, and with the dissipating humidity had come a pleasant breeze. It blew through Kisten’s room, disturbing the curtains, as he lay half covered on the bed. He should have been asleep hours ago, but had stayed up thinking; not due to any stress or anxiety but simply to enjoy his surroundings. He’d been surprised when Sabihah slipped in, moving silently on the balls of her feet, although he shouldn’t have been. She’d long ago become a fixture.

  She slipped into bed, her actions oddly furtive, and pulled the covers up over them although the weather hardly warranted such an action. He was even more surprised when she’d snuggled up against him as if for warmth. He took her into his arms, because she was trembling and he was worried that something was really wrong.

  Slowly, she unfolded—that was the only description he could think of: unfolded, like a lotus blossom—until she was pressed full length against him. He was painfully, horribly conscious, in that moment, that this was no child. He stilled, unsure of what to do; he shouldn’t be letting this happen but he didn’t want to pull back and possibly embarrass her, in case she hadn’t understood the effect of what she was doing. She was so young, and so innocent; despite being fifteen and almost a woman grown, she couldn’t possibly know anything about sex, or be doing this purposefully.

  And then she kissed him.

  Her lips were desperate, seeking, as she slid her fingers through his hair. He felt himself respond, kissing her back before he scarcely knew what he was doing. He rolled her over onto her back and she pulled him down on top of her. The feel of her warm, pliant flesh under his was intoxicating,
and she’d come to him that night wearing almost nothing. Only a thin chemise separated them, and it had somehow gotten rucked up around her waist. He discovered this as he slid his hand over her hip and, moments later, under the cotton veil to her breast. He fondled the tiny nipple, which had grown rock hard. She arched her back, pressing herself into his hand in a silent plea, and rubbed herself against his throbbing erection.

  He pulled her to him, no less anxious than she, and overcome by the shock of this unexpected development. He’d never considered the possibility of a sexual relationship with her, although intimate contact with his siblings was hardly a new idea. But now that she was here, his feelings on the subject had gone from nonexistent to fierce. Holding her like this felt natural, right and God, so good.

  She fumbled with the drawstring of his pajama pants; he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He slid her chemise up further, not thinking of anything but the moment—of anything at all. There was no future, no consequences.

  She slid her hand down between his legs, her fingers feather light and strangely hesitant as they explored. She’d never seen a naked man before, he’d realized later on as he’d cudgeled himself for his stupidity. Let alone touched one. Not all girls her age were so sheltered—witness Aleah—but Sabihah hadn’t gone out much, having been so sick. She had a quiet nature besides, preferring to watch from the sidelines rather than participate directly.

  “Darling,” he whispered hoarsely, overcome by lust and love and God knew what else as she wrapped her legs around him. She was his little mouse, whom he’d helped nurse back to health, and he felt intensely protective of her. And he wanted her. God, so badly.

  That one word broke the spell and she twisted out from under him. She was more than serious and he got up to let her go.

  “What are you doing?” she shrieked, raking her nails across his face.

  He sat back, stunned. What was he doing? She’d come to him!

  Before he’d been able to respond, she’d pulled the coverlet off the bed and, wrapping it around herself like a shroud, run sobbing from the room. He sat there in a daze, staring at the wall and wondering what had happened until, abruptly, things got even worse.

  His mother appeared, and announced that she wanted to talk to him.

  Adjudged to be the calmer of the two parents, she’d been sent in to ascertain what in God’s name had caused Sabihah to start screaming and sobbing uncontrollably.

  What followed was the worst interview of his life.

  His mother was not an unobservant woman but even the most unobservant woman ever born would have been hard pressed to ignore his state of dishabille. That he and Sabihah had been…friendly over the preceding weeks had not, as he’d so fondly imagined, gone unnoticed and Mahalia grasped the full picture rather sooner than he would have liked.

  “I gather,” she said dryly, “that the experience wasn’t all she supposed.”

  Miserably, Kisten told her the tale. There was no point in dissembling. That he was no virgin had been conclusively proved to the entire household’s satisfaction, and he knew that she knew about him and Keshav although—thank God—she’d never discussed the situation.

  Sabihah had come in to see him, she’d initiated the encounter and no, they hadn’t had sex. He didn’t add that they’d been about to; they’d kissed, he said firmly. That was it.

  “Conducting affairs with one’s siblings isn’t normal,” she replied matter of factly, after he’d finished. “In fact, it’s frowned upon.”

  Kisten didn’t respond. He was too consumed with guilt. Sabihah was miserable, now, because of him. This whole mess was his fault. That she’d come to him, and he’d been almost as young and foolish as she was, did nothing to assuage his guilt even as an adult.

  He should have known better, he castigated himself over and over. Girls—of whom he still knew very little—were different. He’d been told as much, often enough. He didn’t feel the least bit bad about himself for having sex, although he hadn’t enjoyed contracting syphilis, but girls were taught to view sex in an entirely different light. Notions of worth and value were all wrapped up with the dreaded loss of virtue. A woman’s body was supposed to be her sacred temple but, in reality, it was supposed to be her husband’s.

  Sabihah was convinced now, not only that she was a monster and a pervert, but that she’d been ruined for life and no man would ever want her and she’d end up living in a sack on some street corner. And Kisten had determined, then and there, to never get married. If this was his effect on his own sister, whom he loved, then he couldn’t bear to think what horrors he’d wreak on an almost total stranger.

  Growing up, at least until that point, he’d thought of love as wholly positive. Sex wasn’t serious, it was fun. He’d never thought of it as having the power to ruin, or imagined that, by loving his sister, he’d cause her this much pain.

  Apart from those few brief, stilted interchanges, which membership in the same family of necessity implied, Sabihah never spoke to him again. She avoided him when he was home but skillfully, without appearing to do so. And then he’d enlisted and she’d gotten married and when her husband was offered a position at a well respected hospital on the other side of the planet, she’d left and never come back. But, really, she’d left the family that night. The years between had just been a formality.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  After what Kisten began to think of as the Sabihah incident, his father grew more alarmed than ever about the fact that his eldest sons seemed unnaturally close. Mahalia counseled him to ignore the issue, as these things were common between twins. She’d spoken to a friend of hers, a well-regarded psychologist, and he’d assured her that there was no cause for alarm.

  Rajesh wasn’t so sure. His solution was to take them to a whorehouse. Meeting women, he reasoned, would be good for them. They’d learn, through experience, that it was vastly more rewarding to have sex with a woman—two separate women—than with each other.

  Kisten never knew what his mother thought of this plan, or even if she knew of its existence. He certainly wasn’t going to tell her. There might be some alternate universe, somewhere, where men discussed sex with their mothers but he wasn’t living there. So, potentially secretly, he’d spirited them off to the capital’s best known and most exclusive establishment: the Felix Club. Membership at the Felix was hard to acquire. Kisten had been alarmed and intrigued to discover that the application process was identical to that of any exclusive establishment: members in good standing proposed a potential, and wrote letters and so forth, and ultimately voted him in or out. Walking into the expansive, plush sitting room was like flipping through a tabloid: actors, singers, members of the peerage, all lolling about and doing nothing while beautiful, mostly naked women—and men—flitted about acting solicitous.

  The room—every room—was an orgy of expensive materials. Leather couches and club chairs, divans piled with pillows, expensive rugs scattered about. He felt like he’d stumbled into someone’s luxuriously appointed library and there just happened to be courtesans there.

  In later years Kisten would visit a number of brothels, but he’d never really grow to like them. Beneath the incense and the perfume and the coquettish, subdued laughter was a certain sterility. This was a business; the women—and men—here were service providers, people with real lives outside of work.

  He preferred a less clinical approach. He had no issue with professional sex workers, but he supposed that he liked the illusion of actual interest. A liaison with one of his mother’s friends might be equally meaningless but at least the woman in question wanted the same thing he did: pleasure, maybe a gift or two, no strings attached. Even a professional courtesan, outside of a brothel, was free to pick and choose her clients. But Kisten had no interest in women who came to him for reasons other than desire.

  Still, the recollections of a man at thirty-something bear little resemblance to the realities of life at seventeen. There were girls, he remembered thinking, and they would have sex wi
th you, any way you wanted, and all you had to do was ask. Of course, membership in the Felix was barred to those under eighteen, who couldn’t enter without a parent or guardian. When Kisten told this to Aria years later, she laughed and laughed and told him that that was the stupidest thing she’d ever heard.

  Spoiled for choice, and not a little embarrassed to be undergoing this procedure in front of his father, Kisten sat down on one of the couches and wondered what to do next. Keshav whispered that he was thinking of having a little fun at their father’s expense by going off with a man. What was Rajesh going to do—run after them? Tell him, I draw the line at buggery like Master Nisi at school?

  Kisten informed him acidly that he should practice with at least a few women, so he’d know where his cock went when he got married.

  Keshav—who’d already managed to inveigle a number of willing women into his bed—laughed so hard at this bon mot that his gin and tonic came out of his nose. Which only Keshav could make look glamorous. Indeed, he’d attracted the attention of a cute young thing with hair of a shade not found in nature. Kisten, although unable to spout liquor from his nose with quite the same panache, nonetheless found himself paired with a curvaceous little thing who loved to laugh and who’d giggled hysterically when he’d made her come.

  What their father did, he never knew. Rajesh Mara Sant had never had a mistress, not because he’d restricted himself to his consort but because a mistress was simply too much effort. Learning more than one wanted to about one’s father’s exploits seemed to be one of those unavoidable—and undesirable—parts of adulthood. Kisten and his father were hardly boon companions, although Kisten respected him well enough and trusted him after a fashion. Nevertheless, he’d learned entirely by accident that Rajesh, while determinedly heterosexual, didn’t actually like women much as people. The one woman he’d ever liked, he’d married. When it came to extracurricular activities, he wanted his cock serviced and nothing more. A complete and utter lack of conversation was a bonus.