In the Garden of Iden (26 page)

The rain stopped some time before twilight. A north wind came up, sharp and cold as crystal, and shredded away the clouds. It drove their rags far out to sea, so that a red sunset flared in through the windows, and later piercingly bright stars.

“Sweetheart, we should rise,” I whispered at last. “’Tis past the hour of six, surely. Folk will wonder where we are.”

“We may burn in Hell for all they care,” he said out loud. I jumped a little, it had been so quiet in that room.

“Maybe,” I said. “But I must see how my father fares.”

He nodded at that but made no move to get up with me as I rose and dressed. I left him there in drafty starlight and went down into the depths of the house.

Smoky and too warm: they had built up the fires. Supper cooking. I was so ravenous, I could have eaten the Christmas pie. There might well have been some left, bubbling away and evolving into a strange life-form on a forgotten shelf in the pantry.

It was quiet outside Nef’s room: no radio on. I looked in on Joseph and found him wide awake in darkness. “Where’s Nef?” I lit a candle.

“Down having supper,” he replied. “Say, you wouldn’t mind pouring me some sherry, would you? About three bottles?”

I looked around for a decanter and filled a glass. He took it in his good hand and tossed the drink back in one gulp.

“Are you still hurting that bad?” I looked at the empty glass in awe. He held it out for a refill, and I obliged.

“Wait’ll you do this to yourself some day, little cyborg. Healing hurts. Pain and I are becoming old friends. It invites me over to watch football matches in holo, and we’ve loaned each other money. Old friends. Heck, yes, I sure do hurt.” He chugged his drink again.

“Should you drink so much with the patch on?”

“Won’t affect it. It’s the shoulder that’s giving me hell. Everything else healed right up. But the Pectoralises Major and Minor and a host of their neighbors have parted company with Mr. Clavicle. They need a mediator in a big way.”

“I’m really sorry.” I poked up the fire. “Can I get you anything?”

“Just another shot of amontillado. Listen, this is kind of going to put a crimp in my abilities to, uh, make secret knockout potions and so on …”

I grinned, pouring out his refill. “Don’t worry about that. It may not be necessary. I think that issue’s going to resolve itself real soon.”

“No kidding?” He looked at me searchingly. “Somebody’s listening to reason? Well, glad to hear it. Just the same, with my arm like this, I wouldn’t want us to have to pack our bags and run for anywhere for at least a week. Keep that in mind, won’t you? In case any of your plans involve dramatic departures.”

“Hey, baby, trust me.” I smiled and exited on that line.

Down the dark staircase into firelight. It occurred to me that in a month’s time I might be in a different city, away from the rain and smoke and dark corridors of England. This cheered my heart so much, I danced a saltarello all the way to the bottom of the stairs and ran breathless into the great hall.

Same old tableau there, a few people more or less. Francis Ffrawney standing all self-important in new livery. Being a groveling toady had paid off in a big way. Sir Walter looking very stiff and uncomfortable and somehow suddenly older; nevertheless his beard wagged on implacably about something to Nef, who was nodding in boredom as she poked her spoon around in a dish of baked beans. She was a great listener, that woman.

As I came skipping in, they all turned to stare at me with varying degrees of the same expression of disapproval.

“God give you good evening, gentles.” I curtseyed. “I am come lately from my father, who hath slept and waked with a rare appetite. Which portends (as Avicenna saith) a speedy recovery, God be thanked. Wherefore I would take him some new loaves of bread, some hot broth, perhaps a joint of beef or a chicken, and some strong ale …?” Nef raised eyebrows at me, but Sir Walter waved his hand at Master Ffrawney.

“See to it, Francis. How now, Lady Rose, doth thy father so well? I am glad. I would not for the world have him miscarry in my house.”

I felt a storm of giggling coming on. “Trust me, sir, his miraculous preservation was due to none other thing but the great abundance of holy relics of the saints that fell in profusion about him. Yea, surely, the very finger of Saint Ethelbert stood upright to ward off the terrible blow.”

Mendoza
,
you brat
,
watch your mouth
.

“Say you so? It may be.” Sir Walter nodded solemnly. “I myself was shrewdly bruised, I fear, and want your father’s physick much. But sit, child, and thou shalt hear how I have won a sharp bargain with Master Darrell …”

Yawn yawn yawn. The little weasel had got a clause put in the sale contract for a room to be set aside for his use, if he should ever come back to visit Iden Hall: the idea being that as a kind of celebrity exhibit himself, he deserved free bed and board. I could see how he had cleaned up in the wool trade all those years ago. He seemed ready to go on about the clause for hours, so when Master Ffrawney returned with a huge tray, I jumped up and took it from him.

“Señor, you are too kind. I shall away to my poor, dear father with this bounty at once. Yet though it be excellent wholesome, I believe it shall do him less good than your prayers.”

“Why, so we shall pray for him,” Sir Walter called after me as I sped off. I paused long enough to curtsey again, didn’t spill a drop of ale, and hurried on. I took the stairs two at a time. Fresh-baked bread, oh boy. Capon broth and a roasted capon too. Joseph blinked at me foggily as I set the can of broth beside him.

“Have some chicken soup,” I said, snatching up his candle. “Trade you.”

“Room service?” he called, but I was already gone.

So at last back to Nicholas, who had put on his shirt and breeches and was sitting on the bed looking out at the little square of night sky. I set down the tray on the table where his books used to be; the candle danced and flared in the draft.

“Supper,” I announced. He turned in the candlelight, and my heart lurched painfully. It was very strange, because this surge of love swept away all my merriment and left me feeling the need to hold him and cry. I rushed to him, blinking back tears.

“What, Rose, is thy father worse?” He put his arms around me.

“No.” I hid my face against him. “But I am sick with love.”

He was silent a moment at that, stroking my hair.

“So am I,” he said at last. “Who shall heal us?”

“We haven’t got the fever by the book.” I wiped at my eyes. “All this heat, all this sorrow should have come at the beginning. By now we should have been cool to each other and free of pain.”

“Would to God we were,” he said. “And yet that’s blasphemy, to rail at love. No more of this talk.”

We had our little supper, crowded together at the table, while the draft ruffled the candle. We could hear the wild air prowling round and round outside, buffeting for a way in through the window. We didn’t talk much. I watched him eat. Half dressed and unshaven as he was, he looked dissolute. Hard. I wondered what he’d have been like that way. There are plenty of gentlemen adventurers around, bastards by birth and inclination both. I’d have loved him anyway: better for him to have been a rogue like Tom than a righteous martyr. At least we wouldn’t be sitting in this chilly room now, amid the ghosts of his books, in a fearful country.

Well, who knew? Maybe in a month’s time we’d be in some other drafty little garret somewhere, sharing our bread by some other candle or by no candle at all. But we’d be free. Running together.

To the end of his tether
.

That popped into my head so sudden and discordant, I scanned for Joseph, but he wasn’t there. What a nasty thought. I’d have to learn to keep all such nasty thoughts well to the back of my mind in the future. We’d have forty years at least, and everything would be wonderful, wonderful. Love on the run through Renaissance Europe. Grand romance, as in the films. High adventure, and it was only just beginning.

At last Nicholas leaned back from the table and sat with his arms crossed, looking at me.

“Thy father,” he said. “How long shall he lie abed until he heal?”

“Why, some days, surely,” I said uncomfortably. Why did he want to talk about Joseph, now of all times? “He is hurt sore.”

“Yet he would have no surgeon to tend him, but only thee,” Nicholas mused. I knit my brows.

“Doctors have but poor opinion of each other. He trusts no physick but his own.”

“But must he have thee by him the whole time he mends?”

Aha. “Nay, love, or I should have been by his side this whole while.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Couldst thou leave him?”

My soul leapt right up like the candle flame. I looked him straight in the eyes without smiling and said, “Aye.”

We were going to elope after all. And what an opportunity: Joseph disabled and Nef absorbed in her radio and magazines. When might such a chance come again? Though I hadn’t finished my work …

Nicholas got up and went to the window to peer out. The wind was higher; black branches whipped against the stars. “Well,” he said, “it is no night for faring abroad. It is bitter cold, and all the lanes will be foul with mud.”

“I fear no cold,” I said at once. He looked over at me and smiled wryly.

“Nor I,” he said. “But we should leave tracks in mud, and be followed.”

Oh, right. Of course.

“Too wet to fare abroad.” He came and leaned forward, taking both my hands. “But if this wind continues, it will dry out the roads soon. In some two days or three, one horse might bear two riders to the sea, leaving no mark of their passing.”

Yes, a horse. How foolish I’d been to think of running out now just as we were. How clever he was at planning. Clearly this was going to work out well.

“Art thou fearful?” He leaned closer.

“I? Nay!” Was my face doing something I wasn’t aware of? His eyes were a little sad.

“My Rose is scarlet sometimes, and other times white pale. Come to bed, sweetheart. Thou to rest, and I to think. It is a long way yet until morning.”

A long way until morning.

I must finish this. I began it as a kind of therapy, and, like pulling one’s own tooth, it becomes unbearable as the inevitable conclusion nears. But I find myself back in that room again, seeing that sad candle, that girl expecting a miracle. So let’s finish it.

Joseph lay awake in pain, in darkness. The amontillado had long since been metabolized down to sugar and water, leaving him mercilessly sober. The capon broth was busy providing him with protein and hydrating vital tissues; but even its most enthusiastic proponents cannot claim that chicken soup is a narcotic.

“Screw this,” he told himself at last. Groping one-handed, he pushed back the sheet and crawled out of bed. From beneath the bed he drew a slim wooden box, awkwardly thumbed the combination, and removed a small leather case. This he unrolled, and spread its contents out upon the counterpane.

Steel rods, the size of pencils. They had peculiar grips and buttons and tiny winking lights. He studied them for a long moment and hummed a little song to himself. It was a very old song. He had learned it as a child, and it evidently held some soothing association with a pleasant memory, for he had found that humming it helped him self-induce a light trance state.

After about five minutes of contemplation he got up and wandered around the room, slightly glassy-eyed. His little song was doing its trick. He found five wax tapers in a drawer and carried them to the hearth, where he crouched down and held the tips into the coals until they ignited. Light bloomed. He stood up and arranged the surface of his writing desk, sticking the tapers upright in a tankard, fanning them out. He found a mirror in his travel bag and propped it up in the candlelight. When he was satisfied with the arrangement, he took off his sling.

The humming had become a chanting now. With his good hand he collected the instruments and moved forward to regard himself in the mirror.

Pulse, slow. Heartbeat, slow. Respiration, very slow and deep. His right arm was warm and had good color, but the rest of his skin now was pale, especially over the left side of his chest. He depressed a button on an instrument, and there was a hiss, followed by a strong smell of cloves. He put down the instrument, took up another, and applied it to his shoulder. No blade was visible, but his skin parted in a long red line. He extended the line down in a semicircle, back and forth. His skin peeled back in a sheet, gradually exposing the musculature underneath.

There was no bleeding. As he worked, there were pinpoint flashes of green light. The chanting resolved into words, in a language long forgotten, about some boys with new spears who go down by the river to hunt bison but catch ducks instead, and take them back to their girlfriends who live under the cliffs, who are not impressed and won’t dig garlic for them anymore …

It was dark where I was, except for the hole the fire shone through and the red red coals, and they gleamed in the priest’s eyes but not in Joseph’s where he watched in a corner. My eyes hurt. And I couldn’t breathe. I tried to get out of the chair, but my hands were pinned straight through by the spines of holly leaves. Merry Christmas. Jesus Christ, said Joseph, they’ll bury you alive.

“Rose!” The terrifying darkness faded into Nicholas’s staring face. He had me by the wrists. “Rose, in God’s name!” Only his room. Only England outside, with her buffeting wind and her stars wheeling late through the night. Only the candle, burned low through the hours so its big flame staggered like a drunkard.

“Los Inquisidores,” I stated. I lay back down, and it began again at once, the fire, the darkness, the suffocation, and with a scream (silent, I had no breath) I fought my way back upright. Without another word Nicholas swung me out of bed and stood me on the cold floor.

“Walk with me.” Three times around the room, and I was wide awake, shivering in my shift. It was clammy with sweat.

“I couldn’t wake up,” I explained. He helped me back to bed and sat beside me. My heart was hammering still, so loud he must have been able to hear it. Carefully he arranged the blanket and smoothed my hair back. He was shaking too, his face twisted by pity and revulsion.