“Won’t you have some more stew, darling?” John asked, serving ladle poised over the tureen.
Ayradyss laughed. “I have had two helpings already, John, two helpings of stew, fresh black bread, soft cheddar cheese. I am pregnant, not being fattened for the fair!”
Setting the ladle down, John joined in her laughter. He scooted his chair around the table so that he could sit next to her and put his arm around her shoulders.
“I fuss, I know,” he said, “but I worry about you. This is hardly a typical pregnancy. I want the best for you.”
“Thank you, John. I know you do.”
“And I’m not certain that wandering around in the cold is the best thing for you or for the baby. If you need outside views isn’t the Great Stage sufficient?”
“No, it isn’t—I don’t feel safe in Virtu, John. I don’t know what the Lord of Deep Fields did when he returned me, but I fear that he will undo it. Best I do not bring myself too often to his notice.”
“The Great Stage is more like Verite than Virtu, Ayradyss. It is the appearance of Virtu without the projection of the self into the programming. It is a setting you can still enjoy without becoming a character— nothing more than elaborate wallpaper.”
“I know, John, I know. Still, the awareness of the Lord of Deep Fields extends into all of Virtu, even when we do not make the crossover. No, I prefer to avoid Virtu unless you are with me—and perhaps even then.”
“Whatever you say, dear.”
John’s tone was level, but Ayradyss could tell he was humoring her as he might have if she suddenly acquired a taste for pickles or mango ice cream.
“So, Ayra, if I can’t expect you to stay in out of the cold, would you like to relocate to a warmer climate? I could visit you regularly. I would move as well, but I need the equipment that I’ve set up in the castle.”
“No, John. I don’t want to leave you. I see you little enough as it is. At least let me have you warm beside me at night.”
“Have I been leaving you too much alone, Ayra?”
“No, love. I have found things to occupy me. Still, they would lose some of their zest if I could not anticipate your company of an evening.”
“Ayra, I do love you. I may not always be the best at showing it, but I do… more than I know how to say.”
Her answer was not verbal, but it was pleasant and John returned to his office over an hour later than he had intended, smiling, the memory of her laughter warm inside him.
For herself, Ayradyss cleared away the lunch dishes (Dack had the robots busy unloading some crates of electronic equipment John had ordered), enjoying the simple task as a means of extending the mood. When the room was tidy, she went into the parlor and eased another log onto the fire. Even though the winter was giving way to spring, the castle remained chill. Taking up a book, she settled herself into a chair and tried hard not to remember that she was waiting to see if the caoineag would come to call. It had occurred to her that the spirit might bind her to her share of the promise, then fulfill her own part but grudgingly.
Ayradyss need not have worried, for she had barely read two pages when the flames leapt within the fire, the wind outside battered at the panes, and the slim, pale form of the wailing woman was seated in the chair across the hearth.
“Is it any good?” the caoineag asked, gesturing at the book Ayradyss had let drop into her lap.
“Good enough,” Ayradyss said. “Seafaring tales. Strange, having been a mermaid, to see a shipwreck from the sailor’s point of view. Of course, in Virtu most sailors are merely on holiday and their drownings trigger a recall program into Verite.”
“Still, activities in Virtu can cause death in the Verite. Peculiar, isn’t it, if only one place is reality?”
“Virtu is reality,” Ayradyss replied, aware that the caoineag must have her reasons for arriving at her point in such a circumlocutory manner.
“So you say, so many say—especially those of Virtu—but where did that reality come from?”
“No one knows. It is the great mystery, the mystery of the First Word, the Creation Scramble. Forgive me, caoineag, but I am not a religious person—not even Deep Fields has converted me to such introspection.”
“But the Lord of Deep Fields has converted you to a creature of Verite, Angel of Virtu. Have you wondered why he did this when all that Donnerjack asked for was your return to being? Wise as John D’Arcy Donnerjack is, he did not even think to ask for you as his bride in Verite.”
“I have wondered at the Lord of Deep Fields’ odd generosity, and I have concluded that he wanted me to bear this child so that he could claim it as the price for my life, but what use would the Lord of Deep Fields have for a child of Verite?”
“What if your bairn is not just a child of Verite? What if, despite the changes made in you, he will still inherit something of Virtu from you? What would that make him?”
“Confused? Wailing woman, I think you are poorly named! Riddling woman would be a better title for you!”
The caoineag dimmed in her chair, her slender form rippling. Ayradyss thought that she had offended the spirit. Then she realized that the wailing woman was laughing. When the spirit grew opaque once more, there was a touch of color on her high cheekbones and a friendly smile curved her thin lips.
“I like you, Ayradyss. ‘Tis a pity… Very well. To tell you bluntly. Not all of Virtu is content to have commerce with Verite be in one direction. The Lord of Deep Fields knows this and seeks an edge in the game. Your son may be that edge, may not be, but Death may have trapped John D’Arcy Donnerjack to give himself that edge.”
“Why John? Why me? We are not the only couple separated by the interface.”
“No, but he is John D’Arcy Donnerjack and you… you, poor soul, are far more than your husband knows. The dust of the black butterfly yet clings to your hair. Have you told John this?”
“I have not.”
“So.”
There was a long silence, companionable, in an odd way. Ayradyss broke it.
“There are tunnels beneath the castle.”
“I know them.”
“I have wanted to explore them.”
“I could show them to you.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I shall see you then.”
“Indeed.”
The wailing woman faded away. Ayradyss smiled, picked up her novel. How nice it was to have a lady friend again, especially at such a time. Robots were well enough, warrior ghosts as well, but there was something to be said for the company of one of your own gender.
She turned the page. The wind was rising on the fictional sea. Outside her window, the ocean’s roar and crash provided her with a soundtrack.
Breakfast porridge and cream still warm inside her, Ayradyss changed into heavy ankle-boots—rather uglier than she would have preferred, but both waterproof and possessed of excellent traction. Over her wool trousers and sweater she tossed on a light windbreaker, more for the protection it offered against wet than because she expected there to be wind in the caverns.
“Going out on the strand again, Ayra?” John said. The stack of disks and reader he held loosely in one hand testified that he must have come over from his office to retrieve the materials he had been reading in bed the night before.
“No,” she said, surprised to hear a touch of defiance in her voice. “I thought I would explore the tunnels under the castle—the remains of the old place.”
John frowned slightly, glanced out the window, noticed the steady drizzle, and nodded.
“The weather outside doesn’t seem very inviting and since you won’t use the Stage…”