“Now, boy!” he ordered. He pushed me from the velvet folds onto the momentarily darkened stage behind him.
The spotlight a lance through my eyes. A dazzling film of blood for an instant obscures my sight. Before me stands Justice, the Captain once again. From the audience a very soft sound, like a child starting from sleep only to plummet back into dreams. Then my own voice strained with desperation and loss as I tugged at the Captain’s sleeve:
“‘What country, friend, is this?’”
Justice’s eyes avoid mine so that I will not see his pain and desire there, even now, even alone with me upon a stage before a score of opium-besotted courtesans and their sniggering Patrons.
“’This is Illyria, lady.’”
I drew the scarf more tightly about my face as my voice rose:
“ ‘And what should I do in Illyria?
My brother he is in Elysium.
Perchance he is not drowned. What think you?’“
Justice countered:
“ ‘It is perchance that you yourself were saved.’”
I cried:
“ ‘Oh my poor brother! And ‘so perchance may he be!’”
Another sound from the audience. A single high voice called out in surprise and distress. I caught the shape of a name. So profound was the sense of loss in that sweet tone that I turned downstage and searched the rows of seats to see who was so moved.
The seat beside the lecherous Botanist was now empty. The suzein glanced about anxiously. Then I saw at the lip of the stage the little girl who had sat near him. Her coiffure bobbed as she tried to clamber onto the stage, her golden eyes fixed upon me.
“Raphael!” she cried. As she reached one hand toward me she slipped. Before she could fall she was caught by her frowning Botanist Patron, who carried her to the back of the theater, scolding her loudly.
From offstage came Toby’s bellowed whisper, “Justice!” I glanced back to Justice, who was also staring after the protesting child.
I coughed. Justice turned to me and faltered:
“ ‘True madam, and to comfort you with chance …’”
The scene wound on until the Captain led me offstage to disguise me as young Cesario. I shrugged off Justice’s hand and hurried to where Miss Scarlet waited with my costume change.
“The Paphians are taken with you,” she whispered, helping me step from skirts to trousers as she teetered in Olivia’s high-buttoned boots. But a shred of uncertainty wafted through her voice. She twitched her nose worriedly. Over the reek of white lead powder and rouge I caught the fulsome smell of her unease.
“What is it?” I grabbed her arm and felt through layers of crinoline the hair and muscle strung like rope. “What happened to that child? Did you recognize her?”
“No,” said Miss Scarlet; then, “I don’t know, Wendy.” I stooped so that she could remove my wig and tousle my short hair so that it resembled a boy’s. “They seem to sense something. Miramar—”
“The suzein?”
She nodded. “He didn’t take his eyes off you.”
“I will not traffic with Paphians,” I said. But Miss Scarlet shook her head, indicating silence as she glanced behind me to where the other actors fussed with their costumes.
“That may be so; but you draw them to yourself all the same, dear friend.” She sighed, fastening the last lace upon my jacket. “Be quick now, or you’ll miss the cue.”
I strode out beside Gitana, herself still attired as a manservant (her downy mustache helped). I paused upstage to allow the audience a moment to note the effectiveness of my masculine attire. That delighted gasp of amused recognition I was accustomed to by now; but then I heard a sharper intake of breath from several in the audience. Suddenly I felt my knees shake, knew the vertiginous approach that meant I was flashing onto something else, someone else, and who was it this time?
Emma Aidan Melisande?
Morgan Justice Scarlet Pan … ?‘
Or Him, the heavy thing I bore like a dart lodged immovably inside my head, leeching all those others into Himself until He might devour me as well? I began to shake, caught Gitana’s alarmed stare, and realized that for the first time I had dried up. Behind me Toby had already made his entrance.
“ ‘On your attendance, my lord, here!’” I stammered as Gitana scampered offstage. Toby smiled. He cuffed me with grim playfulness as he walked upstage, nearly knocking me to the floor.
“ ‘Stand you awhile aloof, Cesario,’” he commanded.
I caught my breath and balance, made a low bow and let the blood rush to my head. Then I straightened to continue with the scene. As we bantered, the Voices inside my head crept back into their secret places, small creatures with patient claws. A pulse of adrenaline. I spun on my heel to exit and dared a direct glance at the audience, aimed my sight at the center row where the suzein sat—
Bolt upright, staring at me with utter amazement. As I stepped offstage I heard his voice from the front of the house, repeating softly but insistently a name:
Raphael.
“You are his very likeness.”
The tumbler the suzein handed me glittered green with sweetmint tea. We were gathered in the Pandoric Seraglio of the House Miramar. A number of television monitors were set about the chamber, hundreds of years old and recently acquired from the Historians. Through their cracked glass flickered candlelight, and in some of them little figures had been set, dolls and small automatons, robotic hands encrusted with rings and armillas, dried nosegays of roses and lilies-of-the valley. I could smell the opiated fumes rising from the narghile in Toby’s hand. Beside the suzein three leaden-eyed Botanists sprawled upon pillows. Seated near me were Miss Scarlet (refusing like myself all refreshment save plain tea and a plate of sweet loquats), Justice, and Toby Rhymer.
“Master Aidan is an almost supernaturally talented young man,” said Miss Scarlet, drawing back her long upper Lip to show yellow teeth. She inclined her head to Gower Miramar, plucking a loquat from the platter and offering it to the suzein.
“Thank you, Miss Scarlet,” replied Miramar. When he moved, the azure lumens on his robes blinked to detail the constellation known as The Capitol. Behind him our shadows fluttered upon the seraglio’s tapestried walls, were trapped within the gold-shot eyes of the ancient monitors. A small room, oddly shaped so that the soft and richly hued cloths fluttering from the ceiling made it seem we were embarked upon some strange vessel. Miramar crumbled a leaf of sweet-smelling herb before his face and inhaled before continuing.
“Ah, Miss Scarlet! Aidan’s talent I have no doubt of—a lovely performance, sieur,” he said, turning to me. “I have always respected Toby’s craft, his attention to the details of an ancient art. Among other things, encouraging young men to play the feminine roles originally written for them.”
Miss Scarlet sniffed. I had to keep from smiling at the remarkable conceit of a girl disguised as a boy disguised as a girl traveling incognito upon the stage!
“But you know I am not Raphael Miramar,” I said again. Across from me a young Botanist snored. “You are certain of that.”
“I am,” said Miramar; but he looked disturbed. His glance lingered again upon my throat, where earlier his long fingers had sought a birthmark that was not there. “Your learning proves you grew up among the Librarians after your parents’ death—” (This was the story Justice and I had created to explain my erudition, if not my beauty.) “But you are certain you have no surviving family? No sister?”
I laughed, dread uncoiling inside me like an asp. “No, sieur! No sister—