Extraordinary (26 page)

“The queen is rarely surprised and even more rarely pleased, especially by a human. But Mayer had both surprised and pleased her, with this gift of his full self. And she—she wanted him.”

Phoebe blinked.

“It's not unusual,” Mallory said. “The queen has had many lovers over the ages, some of whom have been human. And while Mayer was not the handsomest human male to ever come her way—and that had been her usual method of selection, for she is very sensitive to beauty—the marks of his strong character and mind made him attractive in his own distinctive way. He was as exotic to her as she was to him. And so when the dancing ended, the queen held out her hand to Mayer, and he took it, and I don't suppose I need to be explicit about what happened next, Phoebe.”

“No,” said Phoebe harshly. She tried to suppress a compulsive thought of herself with Ryland. It was not the same. She had been beguiled and used, for reasons still unclear, and anyhow it had not worked, it had never worked, and the memory was bitter and humiliating.

Except. Except that Phoebe could now admit quietly and fully to herself that she had not—

She had not actually
wanted
Ryland. She had just wanted to want him. But it had not been real, because—

The realization broke over her. Because she had been too afraid. Deep down inside her, where she kept secrets even from herself, Phoebe had been afraid of Ryland.

And she'd known it too. If she had only been able to listen to her body—her body had told her. Her body had known what her mind refused to understand. Her body had—peculiarly, or maybe wonderfully—tried to protect her.

It was her mind that had failed her. Her mind, which had kept coming up with excuses; her mind, which had been so very desperate to believe she was loved.

She wrapped her arms around herself.

“Phoebe?” said Mallory uncertainty.

“Go on,” said Phoebe.

Mallory's eyes were sharp, but she nodded. “All right. So. The queen would have kept Mayer forever, and he would still be alive and part of the court to this day, if he had wished. He pleased the queen that much. But he was present of his own choice, and so she left him free to decide his future. To stay with her, or to return to human existence.

“Mayer did not hesitate. He kissed the queen, and then he chose his wife and his life and his coming son. He explained to the queen that he needed to find some way to protect his family—that it had been thoughts about this that had driven him to the forest that night. And he told her that his experience with the faeries had changed him forever. Now, he said, he would fight back, he would change his fate, and he would use every gift he possessed to do so.

“The queen was intrigued. She asked question after question, for though she had a vague awareness that humans worshipped their God in various ways, she knew no details. And while she had heard the term Christianity, she did not know what it meant and she had never heard of Jews—or, indeed, of Muslims, or Buddhists, or of the various divisions between Catholics and Protestants. And of course my story is not concerned with all of the world's religions and what the faeries know or think about them. But it was a good thing that time is not the same in faerie as in the human realm, because the queen had many detailed questions, and required many detailed answers. But finally she was satisfied.

“And she said to Mayer that, if he would accept, she would make sure that he got the thing he most wanted. She said to him, ‘You shall have five sons, the sons that you need. They will inherit minds like yours, and determination like yours, and they will understand your vision, and you shall not be disappointed in them. And together, you and your sons will make your family safe from those who would destroy you, and that safety shall last many, many generations.'

“Mayer leaned forward eagerly, but the queen held up one hand and shook her head.

“‘Be still,' she said. ‘For nothing comes without a price. It must be that way so that the earth stays in balance.”'

“Mayer nodded. We must not forget he was a businessman. ‘Of course,' he said. ‘What is the price?'

“‘In exchange for your five extraordinary sons,' said the Queen of Faerie, ‘you must promise me one daughter.'”

Mallory paused and bit her lip, and glanced at Phoebe.

“
What
?” exclaimed Phoebe.

“You heard me,” said Mallory. “In exchange for five extraordinary sons, one daughter. One Rothschild daughter.”

“But—”

“Listen to the rest,” said Mallory tensely. “Just listen, Phoebe.”

Somehow, Phoebe managed to contain herself. She would not have thought it possible for her stomach to churn more than it had already been churning, but . . .

One Rothschild daughter?

“The queen smiled,” said Mallory. “‘Come, Mayer Rothschild,' she said. ‘You cannot claim it a hardship, or unfair. It is sons you value; sons you long for. What is one girl to you?'

“Yet Mayer hesitated. ‘What would become of the girl?' he asked.

“The queen studied Mayer's face. Finally she said, ‘I spoke before of balance. Suffice it to say that I will draw from the earth to give you what you want, for this I have the power to do. But the earth must be repaid for its generosity. I can assure you, however, that the rite is sacred. No disrespect is involved, and great honor is given. We, unlike you, value daughters.'

“‘You are saying that the girl would become a valued member of your people? Your family?' asked Mayer.

“‘No,' said the queen, and she said it compassionately, but clearly. ‘No, that is not what would occur. We take from the earth. We give back to the earth. You understand me.'

“And he did,” said Mallory steadily. “He did understand.”

Phoebe found that she was leaning against the stone wall, and that it was supporting her weight entirely.

“‘I see,' said Mayer Rothschild at last. ‘And I thank you. I am indeed honored. My family is honored. Your offer is most generous.'

“But he did not agree,” said Mallory. “And here we must again remember that Mayer Rothschild was not simply a businessman, but one of the greatest businessmen of all time. The proof of it came in this negotiation, the most important of his life.

“He took the queen's hands in his. ‘You are not wrong about my feelings, and certainly sons such as you describe are worth a serious sacrifice. But here is my dilemma. I fear losing a daughter would break my wife's heart, and although such a thing could happen naturally, for children die for many reasons and leave their parents in sorrow, yet I could not bear to be the cause of pain to my wife. No, even if she is not aware that I am responsible. I must decline. I will instead take my natural chances in life with my children, as all men do.'

“But he did not drop the queen's hands, and both of them knew,” said Mallory, “that this was not a true turn-down, but instead a move upon the chessboard. And so the queen listened, and thought, and finally responded.

“‘I like your consideration for your wife. Perhaps you are less dismissive of your womenfolk than I had thought. Very well, then. I will make you a compromise, as the earth is patient and we have some time to repay it. I offer this: the girl shall not be your daughter, nor even your granddaughter. It will be from a future generation that we shall take our exchange. Your wife need never know, and never grieve.'

“‘That is a concession indeed,'” said Mayer. ‘I thank you. I shall accept with gratitude, if we come to terms in the end. However . . .'”

Mallory broke off, her voice impatient. “Phoebe, why are you making that face? You asked me to tell you the whole story.”

“It's a
racist
story,” said Phoebe. Her stomach had not ceased to churn, but to her astonishment, her mind had also not ceased to work. And what Mallory was saying—

“What?”

“Come on, Mallory!” Phoebe exploded. “Maybe your Queen of Faerie two hundred-plus years ago knew nothing about the history of anti-Semitism, and had to have it all explained to her. But you can't claim the same! You've had the same education I've had! You've been to synagogue with my family, and you've been invited to our Passover seder every year since I met you, and you know about the Holocaust ... We even analyzed
The Merchant of venice
last year in English class. And right now you're making Mayer out to be some Shylock character, bargaining away his own flesh and blood, wheeling and dealing, a complete stereotype—and a completely offensive stereotype, let me add. Bargaining the exact terms for a sacrifice of his—his daughter!”

It felt good to be angry, the anger an effective counterweight to the fear. “Don't deny it, Mallory,” said Phoebe, staring at her with hot eyes. “Your little Mayer Rothschild fairy tale is just plain racist and anti-Semitic.” She paused. “And antifeminist.”

Mallory took in a tight little breath. “We don't have time for your tantrums. This isn't just a story, okay? It's what actually happened. And if you'll take my advice, which frankly you ought to, you'll do your little sensitivity analysis on your own time.” She stopped for a second, and Phoebe thought she was done, but then Mallory swept on, her voice rising, the words pouring out of her as if she too were furious, as if she too couldn't help herself.

“Also, may I remind you, this was 1772, and a man who didn't have the luxury of a lot of choice. Look, sometimes people in desperate circumstances do desperate things! Sometimes—” And now Mallory's voice was like a whip. “They even do bad things, okay? Things they would rather not do. Sometimes it's just one loyalty pitted against another, and there you are, trapped, and you have to choose. Maybe, Phoebe, you're just a little bit lacking in compassion for your great-great-great-whatever-grandfather, who you claim to admire so much. Life is complicated. Sometimes people really do get trapped, and why should it be bad for them to use whatever they happen to have, whatever skills, to try to make a bad situation a little bit better? Nobody can look out for absolutely everybody else in the world, can they? Don't we all have to look after our own, first and foremost?”

Now it was Phoebe who was staring at Mallory.

Mallory drew in the kind of ragged, harsh, wheezing breath that might once have come from Phoebe.

After a minute of silence, in a much altered tone, she muttered, “Sorry.”

“No,” Phoebe managed. “I see—I see what you're saying. Only—”

“Only we don't have time,” interrupted Mallory. “Can we—please—can I just go on with the story?”

Silence.

“Go on,” said Phoebe heavily.

After a few seconds, Mallory did.

“‘One daughter,' said Mayer thoughtfully. He raised first the queen's left hand to his lips, and then the right. ‘Let me be sure I understand. In exchange for giving me five extraordinary sons, you shall receive one daughter of my line. She is not to be taken from either my own or my children's children, but from a generation after that.'

“‘Yes,' said the queen.

“‘But here is one final clause that I suggest,' said Mayer. ‘To balance the fact that my sons will be extraordinary, the daughter must be commonplace. You said, remember, that any child of my line would do. So, this daughter shall qualify herself when, at an age of sufficient maturity to judge herself and her capabilities, she sincerely and accurately feels herself to be ordinary.'

“‘Interesting,' said the queen.

“‘ These are my terms,' said Mayer.

“‘And to these terms you freely agree?' said the queen.

“‘ To these exact terms,' said Mayer, ‘I freely agree.'

“So,” said Mallory, “the contract was made on Midsummer night 1772, between the Queen of Faerie and Mayer Rothschild. The queen kept her word. But in all the time since, the Rothschild family has not produced that one ordinary daughter that is owed to Faerie.”

Phoebe's mouth was so dry she could hardly get her question out. “Why not?”

For a second, Phoebe could see in Mallory's expression a flash of the old witty, insightful, familiar friend she once had had.

“Honestly, Phoebe? I've decided Mayer must have been planning on it. Remember the terms?
She must sincerely judge herself to be ordinary.
He figured no child of his line, female though she might be, would do that. Whether they were ordinary or not.” An expression approaching compassion crept into Mallory's gaze. “Until you, Phoebe.”

Phoebe was silent. She was thinking of Catherine, imagining what she might have been like at Phoebe's age. The awkward, homely, socially maladapted young Catherine. Would that Catherine, with all her personal problems, have agreed that she was ordinary?

Never. And no one could have made her, either.

“And now,” said Mallory to Phoebe, “I really have to go. And so do you.”

“But—but—” Phoebe could hardly think. “I don't think
badly
of myself, I really don't—”

Mallory was turning away. “I know it's a lot to take in, but this is what has to happen now.” She pointed. “Go that way. You don't have a choice. I mean, you could stay here in the glade after I leave, but then Ryland would come get you and force you. My brother—well. We have all been waiting a long time. Patience is short. You don't want him to come get you. You want to be dignified.”

“I might be the most ordinary Rothschild ever, but I can still have dignity?” Phoebe managed a trace of sarcasm.

Mallory shrugged uncomfortably. “I don't know. At least now you understand. Phoebe—this is where we say good-bye. So. Good-bye. Stand away from the wall now, and let me pass. I still have to take care of—of my mother.”