The Vauquelin Parlor
he held quite still in the hall and listened – to all of it. She could not see, and from here, she could not feel even the brush of that bright, sharp field; somehow, nevertheless, she could feel the settling of Mrs. Ibutatu’s attention, the centering of it, as if the room had gone sigiled.
She found that she could picture it vividly, for all that she had never participated in anything quite like it. She remembered nevertheless her awkward, cramped tangle of limbs on the lawn, her cheek pressed to the short-cropped grass, breathing in the smell of dew and dirt. It seemed as if it might have been a hundred years ago; she had gotten mud all over her uniform dress, all in her hair. The remembrance made her ache for something she felt she had nearly forgotten, and she was surprised at the jolt of excitement all through her; she thought she had forgotten that, too.
He backlashed, Mrs. Ibutatu said, in her sharp, decisive accent. Her hand went from her mouth to her chest; she breathed in deep. And then, she thought, he forfeited –
She might have known better. Her eyes went wide.
There was near silence, after. Anesthesia, and then weals. Anesthesia, and then – she turned them over in her head, one after another. If she had been a braver woman, a less graceful woman, she might have asked: why anesthesia first, and then weals? Why numb him, when he is only to feel the pain – later?
It shuddered through her. She breathed in, carefully, and then out; she breathed her field quite indectal. She passed a hand over her brow and straightened her shoulders. It nearly frightened her, how badly she wished to ask the question, and more, how badly she wished to hear an answer, any answer at all. She did not know what had gotten into her, this afternoon; she was increasingly glad that Amaryllis had left before they had begun discussing such ghastly subject matter.
Amaryllis. She centered herself, smoothed her dress, and crossed to the other hall silently. She heard a hushed murmur of Cerise’s voice behind her; it was all she could do to hope that it had nothing to do with Sish, whatever it was.
The hall was empty. She walked along the broad, tall windows that gave out on the atrium, squinting at the bright winter sun reflected through the glass. A maid, crossing from one room to another, gave her a curtsy; she nodded her head, smiling a warm, easy smile, and moved briskly by.
It was the ladies’ retiring room she checked first, which was not so far from the parlor. Amaryllis had been gone some time; Diana was not quite sure what she expected, tapping softly at the retiring room door. There were no sounds of weeping from within. When she opened it, as quiet as a mouse on cotton – dear Lady, she realized she was quite concerned – there was nothing but the long, empty room, cool light shivering in through the high fogged windows.
She shut that door behind her and thought a moment. She thought to go back to the parlor, in the hopes that Amaryllis had perhaps resumed her seat, that whatever had troubled her about the tea –
She turned and moved swiftly, purposefully, back down the hall. This time, she turned, picking up her hems to climb the stair-step down to another, dimmer hall. It was even quieter here, though she thought she might have heard a sound, as of running water, when she turned the corner.
The door to the lavatory was shut, as she thought it might have been. She held outside for just a moment, breathing in deep; she was not quite sure what she meant to do. She heard no weeping, but she feared, perhaps…
She tapped twice, delicate, upon the door. “Amaryllis?” she called, very softly. “My dear cousin?”
There was irony enough in the way Eleanor had felt this afternoon, rather like a beetle under a spyglass. She had done nearly everything Mother usually encouraged her not to. She felt reprimanded enough after the earlier debacle with the magnificent web – left, regrettably, by the arachnid she had just missed – and she’d thought her face might turn purple when she brought up young master Harrowbottom.
And in front of cousin Chrysanthe, no less. “He is – he is quite insistent,” she laughed, sharply aware of her stammer and her terribly deep voice.
Which seemed to her only deeper when she laughed. But she couldn’t help it; cousin Chrysanthe was shaking with laughter, now, her strange short hair shivering just above her shoulders. She couldn’t help it any more than Mother seemed to be able to help it when Mrs. Ibutatu told that dreadfully exciting story, which was strange enough to begin with.
Everything was quite strange, this afternoon.
Her Mother’s teas usually left her feeling like the gray, fuzzy duckling in the room, or perhaps the awkward caterpillar that has yet to enter its chrysalis; that was, at any rate, how the ladies all treated her. At least she had had her glasses fixed. After the soiree where she had been introduced to Mrs. Leblanc and Mrs. Trellisani, she had nearly sworn them off. Mother had been keeping her away from home, anyway, the past year, no doubt to keep her away from all the fine and terrifying ladies whose company she seemed so keen on; she had determined that the only company she needed was that of hexapod invertebrates.
But she had been so excited to see cousin Chrysanthe, after all. And Cerise couldn’t even have ruined that; nor could Chrysanthe’s strange haircut, though Eleanor missed her long, beautiful braids terribly.
Mrs. Ibutatu and Mrs. Rochambeaux, though she knew the latter a little, were proving to be an exciting surprise all their own. She had not thought herself very welcome in the conversation – it was, after all, more Cerise’s sort of thing – but Mrs. Ibutatu had turned to her and fixed her with those sharp green eyes, no less sharp than the living field which had given her quite a fright.
A reminder, she had pronounced, in that strange accent. She was grateful for Mr. Phileander’s interruption; she did not think this was the sort of living magic she wanted to practice.
Mr. Phileander was a surprise of his own. A surprise which was, now, pressing the absolute wrong part of his thorax and making the most ridiculous noises. “I shall tell you more in a moment, Mr. Phileander,” she said, when she had exhausted herself laughing. “The gland is higher – think of the thorax as closer to the ribs and lungs…”
She reached out a finger and poked Mr. Phileander where she meant. She had not meant for this to result in Mr. Phileander dissolving into giggles, and more silly noises.
So occupied was she that Cerise’s voice came as something of a surprise. “Hm?” She shot Chrysanthe a worried look, first, and then turned to Cerise. “Of course they’re not poisonous,” she said, rather loudly than she’d meant to. “They’re venomous. Nearly every arachnid has venom glands.”
Rather belatedly, she realized Mrs. Ibutatu and Mrs. Rochambeaux, and her cousin, were still very much present. Attempting to imitate Mother’s glowing smile, she turned back. “Cerise was asking me about a spider we found in the atrium earlier,” she lied easily. “Much, much earlier.”
“Whewe’s pidew?”