Читаем Nightside the Long Sun полностью

Would Hyacinth laugh so, if she were to see him with these small and always somewhat smeared lenses before his eyes? Surely she would—she had laughed at less ridiculous things when they had been together. For the first time it struck him that she might have laughed as she had because she had been happy. He himself had been happy then, though for no good reason.

As he cleared his throat, he sought to recollect those emotions. No, not happy—joyful.

Joyous. Silk endeavored to imagine his mother offering Hyacinth the pale, greenish limeade that they had drunk each year during the hottest weather, and failed utterly.

“‘A devil does violence to itself, first of all, when it becomes an abscess and, as it were, a cancer in the whorl, as far as it can; for to be enraged at anything in the whorl is to separate oneself from that whorl, and its ultimately semi-divine nature, in some part of which the various natures of all other things whatsoever are contained. Secondly, a devil does violence to itself when it turns away from any good man, and moves against him with the intention of doing harm.’”

Silk risked a glance behind him. Orchid’s hands were clasped in prayer, and the younger women were following in decent order, though a few seemed to be straining to hear. He elevated his voice.

“‘Thirdly, a devil does violence to itself whenever it succumbs to the pleasure of pain. Fourthly, when it plays a part, whether acting or speaking insincerely or untruthfully. Fifthly, when it acts or moves, always aimlessly…’”

They had completed half of the third and final circuit when a window shattered above their heads, subjecting Crane, near the end of their straggling line, to a shower of glass. “Just the devil departing,” he assured the women around him. “Don’t start yelling.”

Orchid had stopped to stare up at the broken window. “That’s one of my rooms!”

A feminine voice from the window, vibrant and firm, spoke like thunder. “Send up your augur to me!”

Hers was the most beautiful face that Silk had ever seen. It hovered behind the glass in Orchid’s sellaria, above a suggestion of neck and shoulders; and its smile was at once innocent, inviting, and sensual, the three intermingling to form a new quality, unknown and unknowable, desirable and terrifying.

“I’ve been watching you … Watching for you. Silk? Silk. What a lovely name! I’ve always, always loved silk, Silk. Come to me and sit down. You’re limping, I’ve seen you. Draw up a chair to the glass. You mended our broken Window, mended it a little bit, anyway, and that’s part of this house now, you said, Silk.”

He had knelt, head bowed.

“Sit down, please. I want to see your face. Aren’t you paying me honor? You should do what I ask.”

“Yes, O Great Goddess,” he said, and rose. This wasn’t Echidna, surely; this goddess was too beautiful, and seemed almost too kind. Scylla had eight, or ten, or twelve arms; but he could not see her arms. Sphigx—it was Sphigxday—

“Sit down. There’s a little chair behind you, Silk. I can see it. It was very nice of you to mend our terminal.”

Her eyes were of a color he had never seen before, a blue so deep that it was almost black, without being truly black or even dark, their lids so heavy that she seemed blind.

“I would have revealed myself to you then, if I could. I could see and hear you, but not that. There’s no power for the beam, I think. It still won’t light. So disappointing. Perhaps you can do something more?”

He nodded, speechless.

“Thank you. I know you’ll try. In mending that, you mended this, I think. It’s dusty.” She laughed, and her laughter was the chiming of bells far away, bells cast of a metal more precious than any gold. “Isn’t it funny? I could break that window. By making the right sound. And holding it until the glass broke. Because I could hear you outside reading something. You didn’t stop the first time I called. I suppose you didn’t hear me?”

He wanted to run but shook his head instead. “No, Great Goddess. I’m terribly sorry.”

“But I can’t wipe the glass. Wipe this glass for me, Silk. And I’ll forgive you.”

“If you’ll—My handkerchief has blood on it, Great Goddess. Perhaps in there—”

“I won’t mind. Unless it’s still wet. Do as I asked. Won’t you, please?”

Silk got out his handkerchief, stained with Orpine’s blood. At each step he took toward the glass, he felt that he was about to burst into flames or dissolve into the air like smoke.

“I watched him kill a thousand once. Men, mostly. It was in the square. I watched from my balcony. They made them kneel facing him, and some still knelt when they were dead.”

It seemed the depth of blasphemy to whisk his ragged, bloodstained handkerchief up and down those lovely features, which when the dust was gone seemed more real than he. Not Molpe; Molpe’s hair fell across her face. Not—