Overlooking the Atrium • The Vauquelin House
Late Evening on the 40th of Ophus, 2719
M
y dear?” Diana says, quietly.
His eyes skitter over the faces at the balconies and down in the atrium, shadowy and indistinct behind glass. He licks his lips; his throat’s suddenly damned dry. That voice of Anatole’s, usually so quick to get a word in, is nowhere he can find it.
But in the end, it’s not too long. There’s a time, he knows – if the man’s squirming, there’s a time to bring down the knife. It’s this that gathers the pieces of him together, so he can relax his white knuckled grip round the stopwatch and draw himself back up, breathe deep into his diaphragm. “The winner,” he says, forcing a thin smile to his face, “is Mr. Delacroix.”
Diana moves closer beside him; he feels her elbow nudge him, gently, in the arm.
“Congratulations, gentlemen,” he says, and smiles brightly. Diana’s turned away; Niccolette is saying something to her in her sharp Bastian accent, though he hears it as if he’s at the bottom of a bottle.
...few emotions worse to bring to the mona than shame…
He doesn’t know whether to look at the towhead or ignore him. He was taught, as a lad, not to look at a man when he’s crying; the rule goes for most women, too, or most women he’s had dealings with. Is there a rule for this? Usually, if the company’s strange, if you’ve no feel for it, you figure out a rule by looking round, by doing what’s being done. It’s been some time since he’s had to do that, among Anaxi.
At the closest balcony on the left, one of the well-coiffed gentlemen is suppressing a laugh. They’re both looking down into the atrium. On the right, there’s a lady – it’s Mrs. Duflechy, as a matter of fact, that asked him to sing – she is looking away, but there’s color in her cheeks, above the thin white hand that hovers over her mouth.
One of the glass doors is opening, in the atrium. Mr. Delacroix is turning, now; another gentleman, red-haired and a little younger, surges out to meet him. He’s followed by Morris, who has the gentleman’s coat draped over one arm.
Delacroix is throwing his coat round his shoulders. At a distance, he hears him say something to the other galdor. He hasn’t, he realizes, bowed.
More galdori scatter out into the atrium and around Delacroix. Another natt weaves through them – Douglas, he recognizes – gets Winthrop his coat. The towhead doesn’t take it, at first. Douglas waits patiently; his teeth grit and his red face smeared with tears, he’s staring at Delacroix’ back, and then at the glass doors, even when Delacroix has gone inside. Douglas inclines his head and says something.
“I can imagine you would have, Mrs. Ibutatu,” Diana is saying, a smile in her voice. He feels it in the caprise at the edges of his; it’s never quite gone away. Niccolette’s field is still suppressed, but shivers with power, like a controlled exhale. Diana doesn’t caprise it any deeper, but he feels her field warm with it, a gold tinge she’s not bothering to hide.
Winthrop finally looks up at Douglas and snatches his coat from the natt. He throws it round his shoulders, not caring if it’s rumpled; only when the atrium has emptied does he storm in the opposite direction, despite Douglas’ tentative approaches. He’s through the glass doors, then, and no clue where he’s gone.
The natt in the Vauquelin household, he knows, are merciful, if not kind. He’ll probably find his way to the servants’ door, and then to his carriage. He half wants to say, hells, Diana, do we need to call a doctor? In a fistfight, you knock a man out – if he pisses himself, it’s his own damned fault. If you’re not allowed to make a man bleed at the second level, how can you be allowed to do that to his mind?
“I think I would have done the same as Mr. Winthrop,” Diana is musing. “For all that shame is the playing field of a duel, Mrs. Ibutatu – perhaps a pillar of our society, and certainly of politics – it does not seem to be a quality shared by many good duelists. On the other hand, my husband –”
She breaks off. It’s abrupt and inelegant; it’s everything Diana isn’t. The back of his neck prickles. In the corner of his eye, he can see her smiling still at Niccolette, as if the smile is frozen on her face. She sees her look away, toward the doors to the gallery, and her face is full of shadows.
“I would not, I think,” she says, “have yielded.”
Niccolette thanks her, then. His back is still turned; he is looking up, up, where small dusty swirls of snow have begun to drift through the sky. It’s a dark blanket above the lanterns’ glow, the stars covered in clouds.
He feels something warm at the edge of his field, a stirring of living mona. Niccolette is thanking Diana.
“Likewise, Mrs. Ibutatu. An unexpectedly stimulating evening. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Diana replies, bastly gold spilling into her caprise.
He shuts his eyes and feels the first chill ticklings of it on his face. When he opens them, he breathes in deep and feels the mona stirring around him.
He holds this awful, strange, mourning anger inside himself; he pretends it’s his breath, his blood. He gives: he reaches deeper into the feeling of the clairvoyant particles. He feels them warm around him, and some of the numbness goes out of his fingers, the sting from his cheeks.
He doesn’t know what he’d’ve done, but there’s no yielding; there’s only becoming. What’s left after the becoming? What’s gone, what moves in to replace it?
“Anatole,” says Diana, and he turns, having fit his thin, pleasant smile back on his face. He clasps his hands in the small of his back and raises his brows. “The victor is no doubt awaiting his congratulations,” she says, smiling.
“One hopes he has cleaned the ashes from his face,” he says lightly, then smiles at Niccolette. He doesn’t look at her ring, but the lantern light glints in it; he can’t seem to banish it from the corner of his eye. “Thank you for joining us, Mrs. Ibutatu, for this – unexpectedly eventful night.”
Diana bows; he bows. Somewhere, a clock tolls; there’s a pop and fizzle of fireworks, so close – and bright – the echoes of color flash across the atrium. There’s laughter, then, and the long gallery, and laughter and more champagne. He’s thinking of blood, of babies dipped in sacred water, of giving and demanding and giving again.
y dear?” Diana says, quietly.
His eyes skitter over the faces at the balconies and down in the atrium, shadowy and indistinct behind glass. He licks his lips; his throat’s suddenly damned dry. That voice of Anatole’s, usually so quick to get a word in, is nowhere he can find it.
But in the end, it’s not too long. There’s a time, he knows – if the man’s squirming, there’s a time to bring down the knife. It’s this that gathers the pieces of him together, so he can relax his white knuckled grip round the stopwatch and draw himself back up, breathe deep into his diaphragm. “The winner,” he says, forcing a thin smile to his face, “is Mr. Delacroix.”
Diana moves closer beside him; he feels her elbow nudge him, gently, in the arm.
“Congratulations, gentlemen,” he says, and smiles brightly. Diana’s turned away; Niccolette is saying something to her in her sharp Bastian accent, though he hears it as if he’s at the bottom of a bottle.
...few emotions worse to bring to the mona than shame…
He doesn’t know whether to look at the towhead or ignore him. He was taught, as a lad, not to look at a man when he’s crying; the rule goes for most women, too, or most women he’s had dealings with. Is there a rule for this? Usually, if the company’s strange, if you’ve no feel for it, you figure out a rule by looking round, by doing what’s being done. It’s been some time since he’s had to do that, among Anaxi.
At the closest balcony on the left, one of the well-coiffed gentlemen is suppressing a laugh. They’re both looking down into the atrium. On the right, there’s a lady – it’s Mrs. Duflechy, as a matter of fact, that asked him to sing – she is looking away, but there’s color in her cheeks, above the thin white hand that hovers over her mouth.
One of the glass doors is opening, in the atrium. Mr. Delacroix is turning, now; another gentleman, red-haired and a little younger, surges out to meet him. He’s followed by Morris, who has the gentleman’s coat draped over one arm.
Delacroix is throwing his coat round his shoulders. At a distance, he hears him say something to the other galdor. He hasn’t, he realizes, bowed.
More galdori scatter out into the atrium and around Delacroix. Another natt weaves through them – Douglas, he recognizes – gets Winthrop his coat. The towhead doesn’t take it, at first. Douglas waits patiently; his teeth grit and his red face smeared with tears, he’s staring at Delacroix’ back, and then at the glass doors, even when Delacroix has gone inside. Douglas inclines his head and says something.
“I can imagine you would have, Mrs. Ibutatu,” Diana is saying, a smile in her voice. He feels it in the caprise at the edges of his; it’s never quite gone away. Niccolette’s field is still suppressed, but shivers with power, like a controlled exhale. Diana doesn’t caprise it any deeper, but he feels her field warm with it, a gold tinge she’s not bothering to hide.
Winthrop finally looks up at Douglas and snatches his coat from the natt. He throws it round his shoulders, not caring if it’s rumpled; only when the atrium has emptied does he storm in the opposite direction, despite Douglas’ tentative approaches. He’s through the glass doors, then, and no clue where he’s gone.
The natt in the Vauquelin household, he knows, are merciful, if not kind. He’ll probably find his way to the servants’ door, and then to his carriage. He half wants to say, hells, Diana, do we need to call a doctor? In a fistfight, you knock a man out – if he pisses himself, it’s his own damned fault. If you’re not allowed to make a man bleed at the second level, how can you be allowed to do that to his mind?
“I think I would have done the same as Mr. Winthrop,” Diana is musing. “For all that shame is the playing field of a duel, Mrs. Ibutatu – perhaps a pillar of our society, and certainly of politics – it does not seem to be a quality shared by many good duelists. On the other hand, my husband –”
She breaks off. It’s abrupt and inelegant; it’s everything Diana isn’t. The back of his neck prickles. In the corner of his eye, he can see her smiling still at Niccolette, as if the smile is frozen on her face. She sees her look away, toward the doors to the gallery, and her face is full of shadows.
“I would not, I think,” she says, “have yielded.”
Niccolette thanks her, then. His back is still turned; he is looking up, up, where small dusty swirls of snow have begun to drift through the sky. It’s a dark blanket above the lanterns’ glow, the stars covered in clouds.
He feels something warm at the edge of his field, a stirring of living mona. Niccolette is thanking Diana.
“Likewise, Mrs. Ibutatu. An unexpectedly stimulating evening. I am very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Diana replies, bastly gold spilling into her caprise.
He shuts his eyes and feels the first chill ticklings of it on his face. When he opens them, he breathes in deep and feels the mona stirring around him.
He holds this awful, strange, mourning anger inside himself; he pretends it’s his breath, his blood. He gives: he reaches deeper into the feeling of the clairvoyant particles. He feels them warm around him, and some of the numbness goes out of his fingers, the sting from his cheeks.
He doesn’t know what he’d’ve done, but there’s no yielding; there’s only becoming. What’s left after the becoming? What’s gone, what moves in to replace it?
“Anatole,” says Diana, and he turns, having fit his thin, pleasant smile back on his face. He clasps his hands in the small of his back and raises his brows. “The victor is no doubt awaiting his congratulations,” she says, smiling.
“One hopes he has cleaned the ashes from his face,” he says lightly, then smiles at Niccolette. He doesn’t look at her ring, but the lantern light glints in it; he can’t seem to banish it from the corner of his eye. “Thank you for joining us, Mrs. Ibutatu, for this – unexpectedly eventful night.”
Diana bows; he bows. Somewhere, a clock tolls; there’s a pop and fizzle of fireworks, so close – and bright – the echoes of color flash across the atrium. There’s laughter, then, and the long gallery, and laughter and more champagne. He’s thinking of blood, of babies dipped in sacred water, of giving and demanding and giving again.
