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

by P. J. Fox

  It certainly could be. Aria had never minded Kisten’s view on discipline, even in the beginning. She wanted to be wanted, and she wanted to belong to someone who paid attention to her enough to have strong opinions about what she did. And in the end, when a woman was most vulnerable was when she felt whether or not she was loved.

  “When a man truly loves a woman,” she said gently, “he’s often hard on her.”

  “I had no idea that things would be so terrible,” said Alice. “I’d built up this idea in my mind of what marriage would be like, of what he’d be like….” She broke off into sniffles, and Aria handed her a napkin. She was clearly overwrought and, Aria thought, reacting not so much to any fault of her husband’s but to the sad realization that marriage wasn’t a cure-all.

  “What, precisely, is the problem?”

  “He never wants to go anywhere, or do anything, and he thinks I’m being spoiled for asking. All he ever does is work, and when he’s not working he’s out—probably with some whore!” Alice blew her nose. “He tells me that I need to learn to entertain myself. Well how am I supposed to do that, when I’m not allowed to do anything?”

  Aria found plenty to entertain herself, but let Alice continue.

  “And then…I went into the city with Naomi and bought myself a few things, and he was furious. He apparently thinks that I need his permission to so much as spend half a daric. And then he—he turned me over his knee like a toddler!” She blushed bright red.

  Aria couldn’t help herself. She laughed. Seeing Alice’s horrified expression, she shook her head. “I’m not laughing at you,” she promised, “honestly. It’s just…can’t you see how this situation is just a little funny?”

  “No,” said Alice.

  Calming herself down, Aria approached the situation seriously. “Sweetheart, you have to remember that this is his money, and he’s holding you to a budget for a reason. If you spend every last daric the man has on shoes when you don’t have groceries, that’s not a good thing.”

  “I was bored,” the other girl responded glumly.

  Aria sighed. She thought she understood the problem. She’d seen enough of the so-called fishing fleet to know that new brides, as eager as they’d been to get married, found that whirlwind romances devolved all too quickly into isolation from friends and family, remote rural postings, and boredom. There was nothing fun and exciting about being a colonial bride.

  With their husbands touring districts, training with their regiments, administering justice, running plantations and mining operations and who knew what else, the women of the cantonment had to make their own fun. Illnesses, natural disasters…colonial life was a rough come-uppance indeed to those naïve few who’d expected the garden parties to continue.

  Aria loved living on the frontier; Alice, just as clearly, did not. “Do you want my advice?” she asked.

  After a minute, Alice nodded.

  “We live here now. We’re never going to live anywhere else. There are eighteen planets to choose from in the empire, but in certain respects they’re all the same. Yes, the role of women is different than what we’re used to—but love it or hate it, we’re stuck with it.

  “So my advice is to, as galling as this might sound, learn to appreciate the good in this culture.” She paused, thinking of the difficulties she’d faced—and still faced—with Kisten. She’d come to her own conclusions about life within the Alliance, and she shared them with Alice. “This notion that a man taking a woman in hand, for lack of a better term, is about women being inferior, or faulty, or in need of some kind of help isn’t really accurate. I don’t think that I’m faulty, and I know that Kisten doesn’t.

  “Our roles are different. Complementary, I suppose, but no less important for that. Being equal doesn’t mean being identical. Men have more rights in some respects, but women have more rights in others. The True Faith does teach, after all, that disobeying one’s mother is a far more serious offense than disobeying one’s father. Ramesh is obliged to provide for you, but how can he trust you if you lie to him? The foundation of a good marriage isn’t some abstract notion of enlightened feminism but honesty and communication between two—flawed—individuals.”

  “But I don’t want to be under a man’s control. Why do you?”

  Aria didn’t know. She supposed, because it was sexy. She didn’t think that Alice would understand. She didn’t want to be roommates with her husband, as so many of the couples she’d known growing up had become: sexless, dull, companionable. She wanted to be aware of herself as a woman and of him as a man—of being different. That Kisten craved control appealed to her.

  Which, ultimately, was the answer: because she liked her husband. She wanted the intimate connection with him that working together toward a common problem produced. “People,” she said thoughtfully, “each have their own way of expressing certain needs.”

  “I don’t care what his needs are.” Alice’s tone had turned bitter.

  “Perhaps that’s your problem,” Aria said, as kindly as possible. “You need to let yourself connect with him. Learn to appreciate his virtues, and don’t lie to him, because doing so won’t solve anything. If you really believe that your allowance is too small, tell him.”

  “I might be able to appreciate the virtues of this culture, as you put it, but Ramesh has no virtues.”

  Which was assuredly false. Everyone had virtues, and Alice had married the man not a few months before. Surely she must have liked something about him. “Honey, no one is perfect. Prince Charming doesn’t exist. Learning to live with another person is a difficult adjustment, believe me, I know. But you’ll get used to him and, in time, come to love him.”

  “You’re telling me to settle,” Alice accused.

  “Yes I am, I suppose.” Aria met her friend’s gaze and held it. “For two reasons. One, you’re already married. Love it or hate it, you’ve created this situation and now you have to make the best of it. Just like the rest of us. Divorce, practically, isn’t an option for most women. Where would you go? What would you do? You couldn’t hide out in our villa forever, even if Kisten did approve. Which, I assure you, he wouldn’t. And two, even if you weren’t married, do you really suppose that the next man would be any different?”

  “But I want romance—love!”

  “There’s a different kind of romance in deciding to build a life together, and make things work. Marriage requires work, Alice. It’s not all fun and games, no matter how much you love the other person. If people back in Cabot stopped focusing on finding the perfect lover and started working on creating the perfect love, the divorce rate would be a lot lower.”

  That, at least, brought a weak smile. For the first time, Alice sipped her tea. “So did you love him, or did you settle for him and convince yourself that you loved him after the fact?”

  Was there a difference? “I love him now. I didn’t know him well enough to love him, then.”

  “So I should go home and get along with him, whatever the cost.”

  “Yes,” Aria replied, refusing to be drawn in. “That, and you should spend more time with us. If you want to go out, go out with your friends! Come over here and have dinner with us. There’s no reason to mope around at home, just because your husband is at work.

  “And remember,” she added, touching her fingertips to Alice’s knee, “things will get better, if you give yourself—and him—time. Overcoming our different backgrounds hasn’t been easy and Kisten and I have had our moments, but he truly is my best friend in the world.”

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  Kisten sat behind his massive desk, reviewing figures from a plantation he owned. The morning’s mist had solidified into a light, drenching rain and drops pattered against the windows. Stretching straight up from the floor, they gave the wall opposite a lovely view of his private courtyard. The small, enclosed space looked much better now that Aria had brought in all manner of different flowering trees and shrubs, much more suited to the climate, and ordered a new f
ountain. A cup of coffee sat cooling, untouched, at his elbow.

  Under Governor Jhansi plantation owners were granted a free hand in oppressing the peasant farmers who worked their land. They mercilessly hounded them into planting cash crops instead of food crops to the point where some families had been driven almost into starvation. They were frightened of their overlords, too frightened to resist for fear of—sometimes violent—reprisals.

  And their overlords, in turn, had some of them been driven mad by the staggering profits achievable on the open market. Tea, coffee, and various plants used in the manufacture of expensive dyes and perfumes all grew well in this climate, as did certain species of sandalwood.

  Kisten had instituted several reforms, which predictably had not been popular. A handful of plantation owners had already been forced to sell—to Kisten, at a reduced rate. When accused of angling to put the competition out of business, his response had been that those unable to treat their tenants with respect didn’t deserve to have them. No harm, no foul. If a man couldn’t turn a profit while paying his workers an inflation-adjusted living wage, pursuing responsible crop rotation strategies and respecting the laws concerning hazardous chemicals, then he wasn’t a canny enough capitalist to succeed. Kisten was in the business of providing jobs, not charity.

  The door opened and Kisten looked up to see his son standing, sullen, in the door. He was filthy, too; he looked like he’d just been rescued from some deprived hideout in the woods. And Aria was right; he needed a haircut.

  Kisten leaned back in his chair. “I expected you after breakfast,” he said evenly.

  Talin didn’t respond.

  “Have you eaten?” Kisten asked. “If not, I’ll send for a late lunch.” Or tea, he amended to himself, glancing at the clock.

  “Why?” the boy challenged.

  “Because I thought you might like something to eat.”

  “You’re just going to beat me to death, anyway.”

  “Then I commend your courage.”

  “What?” he asked, caught off guard. He forgot his resentment, temporarily, as he tried to work out what Kisten had said.

  “If you truly believe that,” Kisten replied, “then coming here to face me took considerable courage.” He rang for Ananda and told him to bring something suitable. “Do you drink coffee?” he asked Talin, who hadn’t said a word. He was studying his father with the keen interest of one who’d discovered an exceptionally fascinating new species of cockroach. Talin didn’t respond, so Kisten decided the issue for himself. He gestured at the chair opposite. “If you’re inclined to sit, then please do so.”

  “No.”

  “Alright.” Kisten returned his attention to the tablet in front of him. Talin shifted uneasily, again unprepared for this response. “You can stand on your head for all I care,” he said agreeably, without looking up. “My comfort is hardly affected, only your own. But you might find the present conversation more gratifying if you sit.”

  Talin sat.

  A few minutes later, Ananda appeared with a rather effeminate repast of adorable little tea sandwiches: watercress, salmon and cucumber, curried egg and quince. Talin gazed at the offering with more than a little trepidation. Kisten couldn’t blame him; he’d rather have had a steak.

  “A gentleman eats what he is served,” he said pointedly.

  Talin poured himself a cup of coffee from the silver service that Ananda had also provided.

  “As I said,” Kisten repeated, “I expected you after breakfast.”

  “Yeah?” Talin replied around a mouthful of sandwich. “I had things to do.”

  “What things?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell me about them.”

  “Well for one,” said Talin, nothing loath, “figuring out how to escape from here.”

  “Ah.” Kisten steepled his fingers. “I spoke with the cook, earlier; she informs me that you were most pleasant. She, unlike myself, finds you to be a charming young man and a credit to the establishment.” Which was perfectly true; she’d been effusive. “Tell me,” he asked, although he knew the answer to his question already, “what was the nature of your punishment?”

  “She made me scrub pots.” Talin’s glare deepened.

  “When I was at school,” Kisten said conversationally, “they caned me.”

  “Well the pots actually weren’t that bad,” Talin amended quickly, and then added, “I had more fun in the kitchen than hanging around with stuffed shirts like you.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” Kisten helped himself to a watercress sandwich. To this day, watercress sandwiches reminded him of having manners lessons with his governess when he was a little boy. He’d hated manners lessons, which had included eating foods one really didn’t like and learning to smile about the experience. He’d smashed one especially loathsome sandwich in his governess’ face in protest. “Then,” he continued, “you’ll be delighted to hear that you’ll be scrubbing the pots after dinner every night for the next fortnight.”

  “What?” Talin demanded, shocked.

  “And then there’s the matter of your schooling—”

  “I don’t give a fuck what you think about my schooling and I’m not about to take orders from you, you fucking useless wanker! You’d forgotten I even existed until now.” His glare intensified. “I hate it here! Everyone’s awful, everything’s awful, there’s nothing to do except scrub pots and you’re awful. That whore of yours might put up with—”

  “Has Aria done something to deserve your condemnation?” Kisten asked. “Other than being married to me, of course.”

  “My mother says she’s not really your consort.”

  “Does she.”

  “Or did, before she left me here. With you.”

  “We are, in fact, legally married. More coffee?”

  “How old is she? Twelve?”

  “She’s twenty-two,” Kisten replied. He understood the source of his son’s anger, or thought he did. That Aleah had been telling tales didn’t surprise him. He was glad that she’d left. Talin subsided into silence. “Family isn’t a business arrangement,” Kisten said slowly, “where one can hire and fire at will. I might be a wretched father but I’m also the only father that you have.”

  “It was a business arrangement when you abandoned me.”

  Kisten surprised Talin by meeting his gaze levelly. “Yes, I did. I made a mistake and you suffered tremendously in consequence. For that, I apologize. I had my reasons, and some day we might discuss them, but the point is that I acted on certain assumptions, which turned out to be wrong. I don’t imagine that you’re thrilled to be here. You had a life in Achren, I’m sure, with plans and dreams and hobbies and friends. Moreover, you have every reason to hate and distrust me.

  “But I am your father and, whether you wish it or no, here you are. We’re either going to move on from the past or we’re not, but either way you’ll still be living under my roof and to that end I believe that it’s important for us to understand each other.”

  “I don’t want to understand you.”

  “As engaging tutors will not be an overnight process,” he continued, ignoring his son’s outburst, “you’ll have the next several weeks free to do as you wish. You can come and go as you please in the compound, provided that your chores are done, whatever those chores might be, and that you notify someone—Aria or Ananda, preferably—of where you intend to go. And you will be polite to Aria. She, through no fault of her own, was unaware of your existence until now and has had no part in creating the circumstance in which we find ourselves. And you will be polite to the servants, as well.”

  “Or you’ll cane me.”

  “I haven’t yet,” Kisten pointed out. “And I don’t expect you to be responsible for rules that haven’t been communicated and understood. This is a learning process for both of us.”

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  All was not well at the dinner table. Kisten watched as the first course was served in silence. Aria s
miled briefly, pleasantly, as though the appearance of lamb pakora was in and of itself a thrilling event. Kisten did not smile in return. He sipped at the inch or so of liquid in his glass and brooded. Like most nights, when they had no fixed engagement, he and Aria were sharing a quiet meal in the small private dining room. Only now there was a third.

  That third hunched sullenly between him and Aria, refusing to utter.

  The dinner table seated six. Kisten sat at the head. The room was attractively appointed in shades of greenish blue, its snug intimacy in stark contrast to the openness of the house’s more public areas. Imagined as a retreat for the overworked official and his family, right now the welcoming space felt like anything but.

  Bravely, Aria chatted on about the various events of her day. Setji had stopped in for a visit and stayed for tea, evidently, and a message came announcing that the Caiphi regional consul would presume on their hospitality by the end of the month. Pasha was pregnant, but Kisten knew that already. And although quite the last thing he wanted was to engage in conversation, he feigned interest and made polite noises. A gentleman, as he hopefully illustrated by example, made a lady feel as though she’d captivated his full and undivided attention.

  Talin refused to touch the lamb pakora. Instead he glared daggers at his portion, as though half expecting it to leap off the plate and attack him. Aria addressed the boy, her manner and tone sympathetic. “We can send for something else,” she offered.

  “No.”

  They both turned to look at Kisten, Aria startled and Talin resentful.

  “He can eat what he’s served,” Kisten said firmly, “or he can starve.”

  He’d put some thought into the problem that afternoon, and determined that nothing would be accomplished by putting off the inevitable. Talin had a great deal to learn—about everything—and he might as well start learning it now. Rewarding his rotten attitude wouldn’t do him any favors in the long run, although Kisten recognized that Aria’s heart was in the right place. But Talin had to learn to get along with other people, or his obvious intelligence wouldn’t matter. Neither would the fortune to which he’d always been entitled and now had access.