Uh-oh. Something more to worry about.
I understand that the complications are as much her creationas yours. She recognizes that herself. But she cannot blame herself in front of her friends. They would say she is enabling you by making excuses for your bad behavior.
Definitely not something I wanted nagging me right now. ‘‘Back to the subject. You learned things.’’
Principally from Heather Soames. She has an organized, scholarly mind. She is slightly insane, as well. Miss Weider, on the other hand, is as empty-headed as she appears. Yes, I know. She has her positive attributes. From a young man’s point of view. But you, as you declared earlier, are taken.
‘‘Taken. But not dead. Or blind.’’
The other women, including Miss Tate, have no particular knowledge concerning the World’s troubles. Only Miss Soames and Miss Weider do. Miss Soames is interested in the opportunity the World offers. Miss Weider despairs of it ever coming to fruition.
‘‘She isn’t sabotaging things, is she?’’ I’d seen stranger things.
No. But there seemed to be substance to her ghost story.
‘‘How could she be the only one who . . . ?’’
There have been others. Few with the regular sightings she has experienced, however. It would seem the sightings are of considerable emotional impact. Denying them might be easierthan discussing them.
‘‘Hang on. How would Alyx see them? Max wouldn’t let her go near the World.’’
Max Weider knows only what Max Weider sees. And what Manvil Gilbey chooses to tell him.
‘‘Like that, eh? So. A targeted ghost?’’ In TunFaire most anything can happen. And eventually does.
Based on anomalies in Miss Weider’s memories, it could be that she was hypnotized and told that she saw ghosts. But that seems unlikely.
‘‘That would mean someone close to the Weiders, or who can get close, wants to sabotage the World. I’d agree. Improbable.’’
That is all I can give you. Nothing inside her head looked like a thread begging to be tugged.
‘‘And Heather Soames?’’
Miss Soames is, truly, an interesting mix. Very nearly two people in one body.
‘‘Another one? Let’s fix her up with Barate Algarda. They could be their own extended family.’’
You find me in a charitable mood. I have been handed several worthy puzzles. So I will exercise my benevolenceand stipulate that your observation included amusing elements.
‘‘Score one for Garrett. All right. Give me the gory details on Heather.’’
Miss Soames is determined to develop the soul of a serpent.But she cannot get shot of a soft spot for Manvil Gilbey.Whom she seems to have met the week she started tricking, at a tender age. Who has always treated her with respect, as an equal, not as what she was determined to be.
‘‘So Gilbey is a good guy.’’ No earth-rocking secret wriggling out of the sack, there. ‘‘And, hard as she tries, she can’t help liking him. And can’t make herself work evil on him.’’
In essence.
Because she needed one anchor in the world outside. She had to have somebody out there to care about. And who she could let care about her.
Been there. On the anchor end. For Belinda Contague, psychotic queen of TunFaire’s underworld.
He understands. He is clever in the ways he manipulates Miss Soames. Refusing to let her slide under by placing less destructive alternatives in her path. In such a manner that she cannot refuse without worsening her own concept of who she is.
‘‘I’ve known Gilbey a long time. He wouldn’t waste the time if he didn’t see something worth saving.’’
Just so. And try as she may to trip herself into falling down the well of perdition, the thing Gilbey sees betrays the destructive urge. It compels the other Heather to respond and produce. She has found a passion for the idea of the World. She could be the finest theater manager working— if she steps off the road to hell long enough to give it an honest effort.
Heather Soames would not be the first or even tenth person I’d met who came with a wounded personality, fitting a similar mold. There are droves of them. The cleverest and strongest have learned to hide it. ‘‘Why do so many people get that way?’’
In your species the most common cause is what the child must endure. Especially from their own families.
‘‘Huh?’’ More of that wit on the razor’s edge.
It is the cruelest secret of your race, Garrett. I have seen dozens of generations of your people. I have seen the bleaknessand darkness and despair haunting ten thousand human minds. It would amaze and horrify you to discover how many of your young are maltreated, how often, and how terribly.
‘I’m not sure I can be amazed by human evil.’’ He was right, though. The exploitation of children isn’t uncommon. Nor is it illegal, except in the churchly, moral sense. For some faiths.
I have no direct experience but I’ve known plenty who do. And suspect there are more who just can’t talk about it.
That is true. You see only the surface reality. Exploitation is so common that your people shrug it off as part of growingup. Assuming the victims will forget. And many do, becauseso little is made of what was done to them. But the internal influence never ends.
Now I was uncomfortable. I felt a crusader zeal beginning to bubble down deep inside him. And that was not a crusade I wanted to take on. The cure for that lay in the hands of fanatics like Deal Relway. People who saw in black and white exclusively and would act on what they saw. Change doesn’t come through persuasion. Not in a single lifetime.
I could imagine numerous commonlaw and customary exceptions to any do-gooder law the Crown might hand down. Including the inarguable fact that before your thirteenth birthday you’re legally the property of your parents. Unless you have the stones to run away.
There’s a timeless conflict between what’s right and what’s legal. Laws, most times, get handed down with good intentions. And immediately become cobblestones in the highway to hell. The instant the grand good purpose thuds down, unintended consequences start bubbling up around the edges.
You are a cynical beast.
‘‘It’s the company I keep.’’
Indeed.
Amazing how much sarcasm can be loaded into one supposedly neutral message.
The perverse foibles of your species need not concern younow. Unless the children of the Faction turn out to be productsof abuse. Which could well explain their penchant for sneaking around. Ah! Interesting.
‘‘What now?’’
Another of the company you keep is about to pass across the stage.
‘‘Huh?’’ Master of witty repartee. That’s Mom Garrett’s ever-lovin’ blue-eyed baby boy. ‘‘Tinnie came back?’’ I was in a mood for that. In a mood, lately, for having the redhead underfoot most of the time.
Pular Singe, in damp street clothes, stuck her snoot through the doorway briefly. She didn’t say anything. She wore a chagrined look, near as a ratperson can. She went on, not in silence, raising an angry racket climbing the stairs.
‘‘Did I miss something?’’
No doubt. That is another of your master-level skills.
At least he was awake at a time when his minds might come in handy.
She spent last night away from home.
‘‘Ouch!’’ I turned into a worried father in two seconds flat.
Again, you need not be concerned. She did nothing to worry you. She did nothing but disappoint herself. And be forcefully reminded that she is not human. And, therefore, less prone to be victimized by the vagaries of romance.