Dzeqar’ameh Hotel • Dejai Point
Evening on the 39th of Loshis, 2720
T
here were two other rings.
The one he wore now he’d woken up in; he’d been skin and bones, then, and he’d nearly lost it for slipping off his finger. It fit now as comfortably as it would have Anatole: a rose-gold band with a delicate pattern of leaves.
The other set was silver. They were in the shape of coiling snakes.
Rings like those had been popular in Bastia in the eighties, evidently; it was all botanicals now, like Diana’s ring, but you could still find Bastian snake rings. Penley’d had one, he remembered; he’d got it off a sailor who’d found it gods knew where, who could barely fit it on his smallest finger.
They were almost identical. Anatole’s ring was a little too big for his finger now; it didn’t slip off – it caught on the joint – but it jangled about, and he thought he could picture the hand that had worn it, younger and fuller. The other ring was almost the same size, and he thought he could’ve worn it, though an awful crawling at the back of his neck had kept him from trying. The band was narrower, and where the head lay contentedly against the body, the serpent’s tiny eyes were ruby. A word he didn’t know in monite was inscribed on the inside of both.
He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to ask. It’d been mid-Bethas, coming back from Brunnhold; he’d only been in Vienda long enough to pack a few things and head off for the platform. Diana had been at the house – it was always strange, the two of them alone, and he almost hadn’t asked – but he had, in the end.
Diana, silent and red-eyed, had led him back up to the study. With her lips pressed thin, she’d found the box in the compartment underneath the bookshelf with Anatole’s Hessean poetry. She’d left, then, and she hadn’t seen him off.
The two rings weren’t the only thing in the little box. There were letters on aging paper, folded-up and tied with a red ribbon. There was an even smaller box, which, when he’d opened it, had had a lock of curly black hair inside.
Maybe it was the hair that had stopped him, or maybe it was the scent still clinging to the letters, darker than any of Diana’s favorites. They smelled like oakmoss and laudanum and a hint of something that reminded him of orchids.
He’d shut the box and put it away and gone, and he hadn’t thought about it. He had, in fact, been trying very hard not to.
He wondered now if perhaps he should’ve brought them.
The rain was coming down hard. The letter – addressed to him, from someone named Lucretia d’Alessi – was tucked into his tunic, safe under the fold of his formal, floral turquoise amel’iwe.
He was tired from last night, dreamlike-lovely as it had been; he’d slept in, and he’d felt even more tired when the sky had finally split open and started pouring rain. The letter had been brought up that morning, and he’d sat looking at it with disbelief and an awful sinking in his gut. He’d only shaved and put himself together two hours ago, feeling like a man dressing for his own funeral.
There was no ignoring it, even if he’d wanted to, even if he hadn’t known better.
What would he have said? I got a letter from your grandmother this morning, Cerise, apologizing profusely for the late notice, saying how she hasn’t seen you in years and how grateful she would be to see you again, but I did promise we’d go to a seedy venue tonight and watch two men beat each other to a bloody pulp… That way we hammer home the point that your father has truly forgotten your mother.
Strange, he thought; he’d met her in a museum, and now they were invited to the grand opening of the Dzed’efo Gallery by the college of Tsu’un, and that was where he was going to die.
He steadied his breath as he went up the hotel stairs, listening to the chatter that spilled out of the first floor bar turn to muffled nothings. He remembered which floor she was on; he remembered the door, too, of the corner suite, even if he hadn’t known the number. He passed the last gold phosphor lamp, came to the door, took a deep breath, and –
Paused.
And then knocked, three quick raps, already taking the letter out of his scarf.
here were two other rings.
The one he wore now he’d woken up in; he’d been skin and bones, then, and he’d nearly lost it for slipping off his finger. It fit now as comfortably as it would have Anatole: a rose-gold band with a delicate pattern of leaves.
The other set was silver. They were in the shape of coiling snakes.
Rings like those had been popular in Bastia in the eighties, evidently; it was all botanicals now, like Diana’s ring, but you could still find Bastian snake rings. Penley’d had one, he remembered; he’d got it off a sailor who’d found it gods knew where, who could barely fit it on his smallest finger.
They were almost identical. Anatole’s ring was a little too big for his finger now; it didn’t slip off – it caught on the joint – but it jangled about, and he thought he could picture the hand that had worn it, younger and fuller. The other ring was almost the same size, and he thought he could’ve worn it, though an awful crawling at the back of his neck had kept him from trying. The band was narrower, and where the head lay contentedly against the body, the serpent’s tiny eyes were ruby. A word he didn’t know in monite was inscribed on the inside of both.
He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to ask. It’d been mid-Bethas, coming back from Brunnhold; he’d only been in Vienda long enough to pack a few things and head off for the platform. Diana had been at the house – it was always strange, the two of them alone, and he almost hadn’t asked – but he had, in the end.
Diana, silent and red-eyed, had led him back up to the study. With her lips pressed thin, she’d found the box in the compartment underneath the bookshelf with Anatole’s Hessean poetry. She’d left, then, and she hadn’t seen him off.
The two rings weren’t the only thing in the little box. There were letters on aging paper, folded-up and tied with a red ribbon. There was an even smaller box, which, when he’d opened it, had had a lock of curly black hair inside.
Maybe it was the hair that had stopped him, or maybe it was the scent still clinging to the letters, darker than any of Diana’s favorites. They smelled like oakmoss and laudanum and a hint of something that reminded him of orchids.
He’d shut the box and put it away and gone, and he hadn’t thought about it. He had, in fact, been trying very hard not to.
He wondered now if perhaps he should’ve brought them.
The rain was coming down hard. The letter – addressed to him, from someone named Lucretia d’Alessi – was tucked into his tunic, safe under the fold of his formal, floral turquoise amel’iwe.
He was tired from last night, dreamlike-lovely as it had been; he’d slept in, and he’d felt even more tired when the sky had finally split open and started pouring rain. The letter had been brought up that morning, and he’d sat looking at it with disbelief and an awful sinking in his gut. He’d only shaved and put himself together two hours ago, feeling like a man dressing for his own funeral.
There was no ignoring it, even if he’d wanted to, even if he hadn’t known better.
What would he have said? I got a letter from your grandmother this morning, Cerise, apologizing profusely for the late notice, saying how she hasn’t seen you in years and how grateful she would be to see you again, but I did promise we’d go to a seedy venue tonight and watch two men beat each other to a bloody pulp… That way we hammer home the point that your father has truly forgotten your mother.
Strange, he thought; he’d met her in a museum, and now they were invited to the grand opening of the Dzed’efo Gallery by the college of Tsu’un, and that was where he was going to die.
He steadied his breath as he went up the hotel stairs, listening to the chatter that spilled out of the first floor bar turn to muffled nothings. He remembered which floor she was on; he remembered the door, too, of the corner suite, even if he hadn’t known the number. He passed the last gold phosphor lamp, came to the door, took a deep breath, and –
Paused.
And then knocked, three quick raps, already taking the letter out of his scarf.
