I must have dozed myself. It seemed that the figure of the Magdalene had gathered Her robes tightly about Her thighs. As I watched She writhed as though in pain,’ a sight made more horrible because of Her eyeless face. Her gown rippled and swelled until it tore apart. Then I saw that at Her feet crouched a boy with fair curling hair and grass-green eyes, beautiful as any Paphian mite. He might have been the twin of those other images of the Magdalene, a boy as lovely as She herself, but his lips curled in a cat’s cruel smile, and his green eyes winked malice. In his hands he held the torn hem of the Magdalene’s gown, and I saw that She bled from wounds in Her hands and feet. The shining stars upon Her robe turned to tears of blood.
Then I saw that the boy was wounded too. About his neck hung a bit of cord, or perhaps a vine. It had left a red scar around his neck. But he did not seem to be suffering. Instead he smiled to see the Magdalene in pain, although She reached to him with Her white hands, to offer succor or perhaps forgiveness. I knew then it was that boy who had injured her. In a rage I sprang to hit him.
My head banged against the edge of the altar. I fell back grunting. Above me the faces of Miramar and Doctor Foster and Fancy folded together in concern.
2. Convergence of a number of separate and independent probabilities
“J UST STAY STILL AND drink your valerian,” ordered Doctor Foster. “Here, Benedick: give this to Raphael.”
“Thanks, cousin,” I said, taking the steaming mug Small Benedick held out to me. I waited until he skipped back to Doctor Foster before grimacing and drinking the awful stuff.
To my mortification, they had brought me to Doctor Foster’s infirmary. Actually the anteroom of his chambers, dignified by the term infirmary only by virtue of a warped wooden shelf sagging beneath a row of very old glass bottles. Inside of them one glimpsed homunculi swimming in the cloudy spirits, or the clenched fronds of bizarre plants, the preserved limb of a carnivorous betulamia. I had fortunately never seen these used in any treatment, indeed had never known him to treat us with anything except tincture of opium or chamomile tea (for pain or overstimulation), or sops of wine or an infusion of valerian (for everything else).
“I’m all right,” I said. I glared at Small Thomas and Benedick and the other very young children sniggering at me from the other side of the room. They sat at Doctor Foster’s feet. My forehead felt bruised where I had knocked it against the altar, and there was that familiar dull throbbing that often followed worship, from inhaling hempen smoke. Doctor Foster nodded, stroking the coiled yellow hair of Fancy in his lap.
“Yes, well, drink it anyway and try to rest. I gather you weren’t going to the Conciliatory Masque, so there’s no need to rush out of here.” He smiled, tossing back his hair (graying at the temples and starting to grow a little thin on top, despite frequent applications of lilac water and honey). He shifted so that more of the children could lean against his legs, and cleared his throat. Doctor Foster liked to talk and liked to have an audience. Too old to be engaged by Patrons, he was still too clever to meet the usual fate that elders meet, little more than slaves to their younger cousins. Instead he had parleyed his gift for storytelling, along with his (mostly imaginary) healing abilities into a position at the House Miramar that was, if not precisely honored, still eyed affectionately by Miramar and the rest of us. We older pathics had lost our appetite for his tales— stories for boys and stories for girls, he called them—preferring the real intrigues of our constant round of masques and the intricate couplings that accompanied them. Still it was soothing to lie upon the swaybacked couch beneath a catskin comforter, breathing the sweet fumes that rose from his narghile as he related old tales of the City of Trees and the tragic love stories that were the Paphians’ favorite entertainment.
“… and so the aardmen took him, and Lilith Saint-Alaban gave herself to them in exchange for his life; but the aardmen killed him anyway, and her too; and their son Small Hilliard died in a rain of roses.” Doctor Foster sighed. I started, realizing I must have drifted off again.
Not that it mattered. All his stories ended the same way: tragically, with beautiful Paphian boys and girls kidnapped by geneslaves or devoured by lazars or enslaved by Ascendants and Curators. It made life seem a somewhat more comforting prospect in comparison; except that as we got older we learned that most of the tales were true.
“Now a story for boys, ” demanded Small Thomas, pinching Fancy as he shook his curls at Doctor Foster.
Doctor Foster drew from his narghile and stared at the mosaic ceiling, as though he read there some strange history. “What story?” he said at last.
“My story!” said Small Thomas.
“Raphael’s story!” said Fancy, kicking him and hugging Doctor Foster. “Please, Doctor Foster!”
I pulled the comforter to my chin and tucked my long braid around my neck. Doctor Foster exhaled a plume of smoke and began.
“I remember the day Raphael came here. Sixteen years ago; the same day that Trahern High Brazil performed his inspired Akolasian gambade for the Curators, and as a result of their overly enthusiastic ravishments died; but it was an extraordinary thing to see all the same.” He sighed at the memory.
“Raphael’s mother was a beautiful girl, a child really—no older than you are now—” He inclined his head to me. ‘Miramar wanted to take her in, she was so lovely; but I discouraged him, she had been among the lazars for too long. But she was a Paphian, Saint-Alaban we thought, because of her eyes; so many of them have green eyes. She had two children with her, twins—”
“Twins!” said Thomas. He was very young and had not heard all this before.
“Twins,” Doctor Foster repeated solemnly. “Raphael and his sister. We bought them both—you all know how rare twins are, and these were extraordinarily beautiful.”
“The Saint-Alabans say twins are holy,” said Small Thomas. He was thinking of the Masque of Baal and Anat performed at Saint-Alaban each Autime.
Doctor Foster snorted. “Yes, well.” He turned back to me and smiled. I dropped my eyes as the children looked at me, and pretended to pluck at a stray thread on my chasuble.
“So did she die?” urged Fancy.
“The mother? Oh, yes, of course. Probably the aardmen lad followed her to our door and were just waiting, hoping they’d get all three of them. Miramar thought I was heartless to push her back out again, but—” He shrugged. “I thought we could take a chance on the babies, they seemed free of contagion. And at first they both seemed fine. After a few months the boy—” He pointed the mouthpiece of his narghile at me. “Raphaeclass="underline" he started talking. But the girl never did.”
He paused, one hand dropping to pat Thomas. “She was a head-banger. Frightened the Patrons. I did all I could.”
He gestured vaguely at the shelf of physics. I silently thanked the Magdalene that he had never had to do anything for me. He shook his head. “But she wouldn’t behave. We finally sold her to the Ascendants.”
Benedick sniffled at this. More than one Patron had recently complained of his truculence in the children’s seraglio.
“Still, the boy was fine,” Doctor Foster continued, tugging Benedick’s braid reassuringly. “After his bedwarming he drew more Patrons than any of us: a true Son of the Magdalene!”
He ended suddenly and fell to staring at his pipe, his fingers still laced about Benedick’s braid. When it seemed apparent that there was no more story forthcoming, the children started to yawn and fidget. I amused myself by making cruel faces at Benedick until he looked about to cry.