Authors: Sarah Monette
Mélusine (66 page)
For a moment, I was not certain of my own reaction. The orthodox Cabaline still within me protested that he would not have incurred the curse if he had not killed a wizard, that it was not supposed to do what it had done, that it had never been intended to be activated: the Cabal and every Curia that had sat thereafter had assumed that the mere existence of that curse, and the fact that it had been made extremely public, would prevent its ever being tested.
But that was naïve and specious logic. True, the curse had not been designed to prolong its action on the body in the way that the concatenation of circumstances around Mildmay had caused it to do, but it had been designed to be both lethal and excruciating. And we had had that curse, that weapon, for nearly two hundred years. If we had truly not meant to use it, we would have dismantled it.
The fact remained that he had killed Cerberus Cresset, presumably at the behest of the heretic Miriam. Why, when I had forgotten so much else, did I remember every miserable detail of that conversation in Hermione? Mildmay's harsh breathing, the sweat on his face, the labored, slurred sounds of his words: I remembered it as if it had happened only an hour ago. At least Cerberus had died quickly.
"Yes," I said. "It was. It is. It is also heresy, a fact that I intend to point out to my learned colleagues when I return to Mélusine. The man he… killed—the man was a witchfinder, a burner of heretics."
"I don't think I understand," Xanthippe said after a moment, still sounding as if she thought I was likely to turn and savage her.
"No. Nor should you. The history of Mélusine is like a massacre in a lunatic asylum, patients and warders turning on each other, turning on themselves, turn and turn about. Mildmay is as much a victim of that as…" As I am. "As anyone."
"It is hard to think of a murderer as a victim."
"Of course it is," I said wearily, and we fell silent again.
Presently an acolyte, one I didn't know, tapped on the door to let us know that the Celebrants Terrestrial were ready. I followed Xanthippe out of the room, determined that this time I would not let Mildmay down. I would not leave him.
Mildmay
Next time I woke up, the hornets were gone. I was laying in my bed, everything familiar, and I was kind of achy, but there wasn't no horrible throbbing pain the way there had been. I opened my eyes and saw Felix sitting by the window, frowning over a book.
"So I guess it worked," I said.
He jumped a little, but closed his book and smiled at me like he still really meant it. "Xanthippe says you will heal properly now."
"Good," I said, and because I didn't want to talk about me, "Whatcha reading?"
"Oh, a book," he said, too carelessly.
I sat up, pushed my hair off my face, and waited.
He colored a little. "I don't know why it bothers me. You've never heard of it, have you?
De Doctrina
Labyrintborum
?"
De Doctrina
Labyrintborum
?"
"Labyrintborum?"
"Labyrinths." And when I just looked at him, "Mazes."
"Oh. Nope. But, I mean, I ain't much with the book learning."
"No, I just wondered if I'd… if I'd said anything about it. Before."
"Not that I heard."
"It really doesn't matter," he said and dropped the book on the floor like it had pissed him off. "I'll figure it out eventually. I wanted to be sure you were all right."
"I think I am," I said. "I ain't keen to go for a walk just yet, mind, but I think I'm okay." I could feel myself starting to blush, but I said it anyway, "Thanks."
"Don't thank me until I've done something to be grateful for," he said dryly. "I am not under any illusions as to my culpability in this debacle. I failed you."
"Kethe. Don't…"
"Don't what? Don't treat you like a person instead of an object? Don't acknowledge that you have been shamefully misused and betrayed?"
"Please." My face felt like it was on fire. "It don't matter."
"
Yes, it does
. I know that, even if you don't." He stopped. I could see the temper in him, and all at once he looked more like the guy I'd known in Kekropia than he had done. I remembered him screaming at me in the rain, him trying his damnedest to kill me on the
Morskaiakrov
, and I felt kind of a chill. That's part of him, too, Milly-Fox, and don't you forget it.
Yes, it does
. I know that, even if you don't." He stopped. I could see the temper in him, and all at once he looked more like the guy I'd known in Kekropia than he had done. I remembered him screaming at me in the rain, him trying his damnedest to kill me on the
Morskaiakrov
, and I felt kind of a chill. That's part of him, too, Milly-Fox, and don't you forget it.
He stood up, came over to the bed, and knelt down, all stiff like he'd swallowed a poker. He looked me in the eye, and his face was still temperish and pale, like he was getting ready to throw a tantrum, and he said, all tight and angry, "I am sorry."
I could see that this was some really big deal to him, that he would
never
have said it if he didn't sincerely feel like he had to, so I just said back, "Thanks."
never
have said it if he didn't sincerely feel like he had to, so I just said back, "Thanks."
And he nodded and got up again and said, "You should sleep. Xanthippe said that was the fastest way for you to heal right now." And then, almost shyly, "May I ward your dreams again?"
Which I figured was the closest he was going to get to saying he cared about me, and that was okay. "Thanks," I said again. "I'd… I'd be glad of it."
He smiled, and I lay back down. His fingers brushed across my forehead, and sleep came, simple and warm.
I heard him say, or maybe I just dreamed it, "Sleep well, little brother."
SARAH MONETTE
was born and raised in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, and is the recipient of the 2003 Spectrum Award for her short story, "Three Letters from the Queen of Elf land." Having completed her Ph.D. in English literature, she now lives and works in a ninety-nine-year-old house in the upper Midwest. She collects books and her husband collects computer parts; thus their living space is the constantly contested border between these two imperial ambitions.
was born and raised in Oak Ridge, Tennessee, and is the recipient of the 2003 Spectrum Award for her short story, "Three Letters from the Queen of Elf land." Having completed her Ph.D. in English literature, she now lives and works in a ninety-nine-year-old house in the upper Midwest. She collects books and her husband collects computer parts; thus their living space is the constantly contested border between these two imperial ambitions.
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