Authors: Suzette Haden Elgin
“No dessert,” said Myrrh of Guthrie, “because of the Reception and the Dance.”
One of the young women looked up at that and offered that there was a bread pudding ready in the Castle kitchen if her lady wanted it, and no trouble atall, but Myrrh waved her away.
“You do
see
,” she said to me, “why I told you we hadn’t time right now to play games with you?”
No, as a matter of actual fact, I did not see. I’d never heard such a tangle of nonsensical tales in all my life, and I couldn’t imagine how any group of supposedly competent grown-up people had allowed things to reach such a pass. However I now had a certain feeling of conviction about one thing— whatever was going on here on Arkansaw, it was keeping the Guthries so busy they had little time to even think about the Jubilee, much less plot against it. That didn’t mean I didn’t have my guard up, not with that canny Magician of Rank sitting there to remind me. The Guthries could of put all this together as one gigantic distraction, in the hope that I’d feel obliged to stay on and try to settle it, for instance; that would of been perfectly plausible. I didn’t
think
so. It all had the ring of truth, however ridiculous; but I wasn’t putting it entirely out of my mind. But I was reassured a good deal by the number of lies I’d been told in the space of one brief hour ... well, call them distortions, lies may be too strong a word ... and the lack of craft behind them. The Parsons were feuding with the Guthries; and the Guthries were feuding with the Parsons; and the Purdys were caught in the middle trying to play both sides. That much was obvious. The rest of it I wouldn’t give two cents for.
It might be I’d have to do some serious digging before I left Arkansaw, and for sure I’d have to keep a wary eye and ear from here on out on Michael Stepforth Guthrie, but I needn’t waste time at Castle Guthrie. Reception. Dance. A little breakfast. And on to Parson.
It wasn’t going to be a pleasant night, of course; the Magician of Rank would see to that, hoping to provoke me to some indiscretion he could use later on, and wanting his own back for my shaming him before the Missus of the Castle that afternoon. I could count on lizards in my bed, and sheets that
felt
like bread pudding, and bangs and thumps and clanks, and mysterious names dancing in the corners, and probably—no, for
sure
—the whole room rocking and swaying all night like a small boat in a high wind. I might sleep through some of it, and then I might not. Depending on how ingenious he was. And how spiteful.
I looked at him, and he looked back at me slow and steady, that beautiful mouth curling and the lashes half-lowered over the seagreen eyes. I felt my own traitor lips part, and I firmed them tight, and I saw the devil dance behind those lashes.
I was learning; my sympathy for my mother’s victims increased.
“RESPONSIBLE OF BRIGHTWATER,” said the Attendant, in that dead voice that seemed to have been droning on for hours and hours. I gripped my glass, leaned on the table, and shook this latest hand; it belonged, said the Attendant, to one Marycharlotte of Wommack, wife of Jordan Sanderleigh Farson the 23
rd
. I didn’t even bother to add up the letters and see what number “marychariotte” came to, which was some index of my exhaustion; she could be any number she chose, including the horrible four; she could be a one like Crimson of Airy and a threat to my life and the Kingdom of Brightwater ... I no longer cared.
I stood in the line with the Attendant at my side, and the people filed past and were introduced by couples, or one at a time, and I had begun to suspect that they were recirculating that line; it trailed out the Hall door and dissolved into a milling crowd of faces and names I’d long since lost all track of. If a single face had come around twice, or three times for that matter; I doubt I’d have been able to spot it—by now they all looked just alike to me.
I was very nearly out on my feet, and the wine the Castle staff kept pouring into my glass was no great help. White wine I might have replaced with water and gotten away with, but not red; nothing else liquid on Ozark is that color, except blood, and a glass of blood in my hand would of made a mighty poor impression.
Michael Stepforth Guthrie had had some innovations to offer on magical harassment in the guestchamber that had outdistanced even my broadest expectations, and before long I’d settled down to taking notes on his effects, since it was clear I wasn’t going to get any sleep. I’d been grateful for my virginity before it was all over, since that had limited his legal span of effects some, but nonethe
less
—when I’d given up all hope at dawn and staggered out of my bed I’d been in sorry shape. And then there’d been the requisite eighteen hours of night to Castle Farson, which I’d had to do every one of its minutes in plainstyle—no SNAPPING. So far as I’d been able to tell, the whole continent of Arkansaw was innocent of empty areas, even in the Wilderness Lands; Sterling and I had looked down on a constant scurry of activity beneath us the whole time, and had been promptly greeted by Arkansawyers of one kind or another each time we landed for a brief rest stop.
And the Parsons themselves were terrifyingly efficient. Met me at the door, fed me and wined me, saw me to a room to change my bib and my tucker, saw me back down to the Hall for this party, which was clearly intended to fill all the remainder of this evening, and no discussion. Not a word. “Welcome, Responsible of Brightwater, pleasant to see you.”
“Beg your pardon, Responsible, but you’ve caught us at a right busy time, we’ll just have to make do.”
“Step this way, please, miss.”
“Notice the view from that window, child, it’s much admired.”
“Fine evening, isn’t it?” And on and on.
I could tell from the clustered packs of guests around the Hall and the scraps of their talk that floated my way that it was much the same stuff the Guthries had been talking. Perfidy, wickedness, and ineptitude; the ghastly Guthries and the pitiful Purdys. But no one brought any of it to
my
ears—we remarked on my costume, and how pretty it was; and on my Mule, and how handsome
she
was; and on the weather, and how fine
it
was; and the party, and how pleasant
that
was. No more.
I’d made a few early stabs at talking of the Jubilee, and had learned immediately that the Parsons were either far more subtle than the Guthries, or else under some sort of orders regarding the topics of their converse. “You’ll be at the Jubilee in May, no doubt?” (That was me, all charm.) “May is a
fine
month, we always enjoy May!” (That was whoever, moving on down the line toward the punchbowl, smiling.) I got flustered, and then I got mad, and then I got grim; and as the evening went on I reached a cold plateau of determination that floated on my second wind and a very good head for wine. I stopped asking, which got me no information, but at least deprived them of the satisfaction of ignoring my questions.
More hands. Something something of Smith, wife of something something the 46
th
. Accompanied by himself, the something somethingth. My teeth ached from smiling, my behind ached from riding, and my spirit ached from boredom, and it went on and on.
“There,” said the Attendant. A variation.
“There?”
“That’s the last of them, Miss Responsible.”
“You’re sure?”
“I am,” he said. “That’s all, and I can’t say I’m sorry.”
I looked, and it did appear that there were no more people lined up to my right with their hands all ready to be shaken by the guest of honor, Responsible of Brightwater. And a good thing, too; the Farson Ballroom was huge, but it was straining at the seams. I’d have said there were four hundred people there; surely I had not shaken
four hundred hands?
I set down my glass on the table, careful not to snap its stem for spite, and gathered up my elaborate blue-and-silver skirts.
“Give my compliments to your Missus and my host,” I told him, “and tell them I’ll be down to breakfast in the morning. Early.”
He raised his eyebrows, but it was not his place to question my behavior, and I surely didn’t give a thirteen what he thought of it. If he thought I was going to fight my way through this roomful of sweating phony smilers to find the Farsons. If he thought I was going to
thank
them for their bold as brass campaign to wear me right down to a nub, he could think twice more. Manners be damned, I was going to my bed.
I showed him my back and went out the closest door, into the corridor that led to the stairs toward my room. But I was being watched; another Attendant appeared at my side the instant I reached the door, carrying a bowl of fruit, a tray of bread and butter, and a tall decanter of that accursed Parson wine.
“This way, miss,” he said, and he led on politely, looking back now and then as we wound up stairs and down corridors, down stairs and through tunnels, round turrets with more stairs and across echoing rooms lined with the family portraits of generations of Parsons, until we came at last to a door I had seen before and knew full well could have been reached by a direct route taking maybe six minutes flat.
“Your room, miss,” he said, opening the door to let me pass.
“Thank you for the grand torn; Attendant,” I said through my teeth, and he bobbed his head a fraction.
“No trouble atall, miss. No trouble atall; I had to come this way anyhow.”
And then he set the food and drink down on a table and left me, blessedly, alone.
I was so angry that I was shaking, and so tired that I was long past being sleepy. The second was a point in my favor, as I had work to do, but the first wouldn’t serve. You can’t do magic, at whatever level, when you’re in a state of blind rage. (Well, you can, but you risk some effects you aren’t counting on and that may not exactly fit into your plans.)
I threw myself out flat on the narrow elegant guest bed, kicking off only my shoes, and whistled twenty-four verses of “Again, Amazing Grace.” No way to tell which was which, since I was only whistling; but I kept count by picking one berry from the fruit bowl for every verse I finished, and setting them out on my lap in sixes till I had four sets. By that time I was a tad hyperventilated, but I was no longer furious; I had in fact reached a stage of grudging admiration.
After all, the Parsons had given me nothing tangible to complain of. I’d been properly met, a full complement of Attendants in red and gold and silver livery at my beck and call. I’d been dined and wined to a fare-thee-well. I’d had a servant at my elbow every instant, and often half a dozen. I’d been guest of honor at the biggest party I ever remembered seeing, and formally introduced to who knew how many scores of distinguished citizens of Kingdom Parson, and all their kith and kin. And now here I lay in state in one of their best guestchambers, and it had been
my
choice that I’d not stayed below in the Ballroom to receive whatever honor had been next on their list for me.
Thinking about it, staring up at the vaulted ceiling high above my head, I chuckled; it had been done slick as satin, and I had not one piece of information to show for all those hours— nor one legitimate complaint. Well done, well done for sure.
I got up then and went into the bathroom, where I was pleased to see that the facilities were not marred by any nostalgic antiquation, and made myself ready for the night.
Three baths, first. One with hot water; and one with cold, and one with the proper crushed herbs from my pack. Then my fine white gown of softest lawn, sewn by my own hands; I pulled it nine times through a golden finger ring, and examined it carefully—not a wrinkle, it was ready to put on. My feet bare, and a black velvet ribbon round my neck; my hair in a single braid, and I thought that would do. I had nothing really fancy planned for this night, just a kind of easy casting about for wickedness, if wickedness was to be found here. I didn’t expect any; for all their sophistication in handling one lone inquisitive female, this Family was just as taken up with the continental feud as the Guthries had been. I was just checking.
I set wards, Ozark garlic, and well-preserved Old Earth lilac, at every door and window, laying the wreaths so anyone passing would be certain I slept no matter what went on. I didn’t bother warding against Magicians, just ordinary folk and a possible inquisitive Granny; if the Parsons cared to send a Magician, or better yet a Magician of Rank, to check on me, I wanted
that
person to come right on in. I’d be saved hours of Spells and Charms that way, and I had nothing in mind for the night that was forbidden to a woman.
I set two Spells, Granny Magic both of them, and the leaves in the bottom of my little teacup formed unexciting figures both times. I didn’t need the bird to tell
me
there was travel in my future, not with all of Kintucky and Tinaseeh still ahead of me; and I didn’t need the fine hat that formed high on the right side near the rim to let me know diplomacy was indicated.
And then I moved up a tiny notch, with the idea of making assurance doubly sure, and ran a few Syllables.
I said;
ALE.
BALSAM.
CHERRYSTONE.
DEVIL IN DUNG.
EMBLEM IN AN EGG.
FOGFALL IN THE FOREST.
EGGSHELL IN AN EEL.
DUNG ON DEWDROPS.
COBBLESTONE.
BOWER.
ALE.