Justice stared, terrified. I fell to my knees, my voice strangling as I brought my head back and then smashed it against the floor.
“No, Wendy!”
I heard him cry out, but only dimly. Already it calmed me, that warm wave of enkephalins rushing through my mind in response to the pain I could not feel. I struck my head again, and again, until finally I lay exhausted, my cheek resting against the floor as I breathed heavily. From the other side of the room I heard Justice weeping.
Minutes passed. I heard another, softer sound. I glanced up to see Justice standing by the open door, turning to look from me back to a small figure silhouetted against the hall’s dusky glow.
“Fancy,” I said thickly. I thought she might be frightened, to see me crouched upon the floor like this; but it was obvious she had seen many stranger things in her few, years. Still blinking with sleep, she smiled up at Justice, then peered into our chamber. She had yet to recognize me.
“Thank you,” Justice called after some figure retreating down the hall. He was careful to shield the doorway so that no one might see inside.
“Miramar said I have been engaged by a gentleman. You are he?” The girl stood on tiptoe, arms outstretched so that he might lift her. Justice stared down awkwardly, then with a sigh closed the door and shook his head.
“No. This—you have been engaged by another gentleman. Aidan Arent, a Player. There.” He gestured to where I lay upon the floor.
Still smiling, Fancy turned, taking a few steps to follow the shadow of his arm upon the carpet. When she saw me she stopped.
“Raphael!”
I braced myself, holding one hand out to keep her from me.
“No, Fancy,” I said, struggling to my feet. But already she hugged my legs. I could feel her entire small body vibrating with excitement. “Aidan, my name is Aidan. You saw me earlier this evening—”
“Raphael,” she repeated. Her face pressed against my thigh. Her eyes were shut tight against my denial. “I miss you.”
“No, Fancy,” I began, then sighed. I felt calmer now. “Come sit here,” I said more gently. I settled back upon the floor. Fancy clambered into my lap, still not meeting my eyes. From across the room Justice watched us impassively.
“I am not Raphael Miramar,” I began again. I took her chin in my hand and forced her to look at me. “See? I’m not.”
“You look just like him.” She reached to touch my hair. His would have been long, braided in a heavy russet chain. I nodded as she stroked the small raised node upon my temple.
“But I’m not him.”
“You’re not him.” Her voice no longer held much doubt. She squirmed in my lap, her little hands stroking my thigh. I thought suddenly that she might discern my disguise—she was, after all, a prostitute—and shifted until I had her perched upon my knees. She raised her hand to trace the line of my chin. “Are you his twin?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.” A child; what matter what she knew or thought of me, really? “I’m a Player, I travel through the City with Toby Rhymer’s troupe. You saw us tonight.”
“You were that lady—” She frowned, stuck a finger in her mouth.
“That’s right: Viola. I was in disguise. I pretended to be a lady in the play. Do you pretend things, Fancy?”
She nodded solemnly. “All the time. Miramar teaches us to pretend lots of things.” She tilted her head and smiled across the room at Justice, then lifted her face to mine as for a kiss. I turned away, then looked down at her hand upon my knee. A small scab on her wrist, like a star.
“Did you cut yourself?” I asked.
She nodded. “With Constance. She set the pinion too tight.”
I raised her hand to my lips so that I could kiss the broken skin. “Fancy, I want you to pretend something for me, something about your friend Raphael. Can you think of him, remember doing something with him?”
“Pretend for you? Like a game?” Her eyes widened. “I will do whatever you wish, sieur.”
I looked at Justice. He was pale, squatting by the door on a large pillow, but he returned my gaze unblinkingly. I turned back to Fancy.
“I want you to think of Raphael.” I bowed my head and whispered the words, lifting a coil of her golden hair to display one tiny ear. “Don’t pretend I’m him, just think of him. Of something that really happened.”
“Like when he was cacique at Winterlong last year? That really happened. I should think of that?”
Against my cheek her warm breath. Her long hair sweet with some floral soap, that sweet warm childhood smell still perfuming her skin. It made me dizzy, to imagine that he had sat with her like this, the small trembly weight against his thighs, her hands caressing his cheeks … .
“Yes.” I grabbed one of her hands and held it tightly, squeezing my eyes shut as I emptied my mind to tap her. Perhaps Justice was right; perhaps it was too dangerous, not for this child (I cared little for her, a mere courtesan), but for myself.
But I would know, I had to know something of him—
Because since I had heard Miramar’s tale earlier it was as though I had discovered myself to be a changeling, the goblin barter of some malevolent agent. And in learning this I suddenly felt I had lost everything I knew of Wendy Wanders; and only he might somehow make me whole again, Raphael Miramar, my beautiful brother—
“Does he look like me?” I asked in a low voice.
“We-ell.” She closed one eye to scrutinize my face. “His hair is longer, and he has a strawberry mark, there. And Raphael smiles more. His eyes don’t cross like yours.” She grazed my forehead with a finger. “It’s not all bruised there, either.”
“Show me,” I whispered, drawing her face to mine. “Think of him, don’t think of anything else. Kiss me.”
Her mouth was so tiny that I had to hold her chin steady so that I could find it, probe gently with my tongue; and how clumsy I felt before her quiet obedient response. I recalled Miramar’s cutting aside to Justice:
“He kisses like a Curator … he is not Raphael Miramar. …”
Think of Melisande, I told myself to keep from trembling. A girl, she’s just another little girl, a whore besides …
Sleep a soft fur upon her tongue. Her milk teeth small and sharp as a kitten’s. I shivered as she bit my lower lip, drew back murmuring No so that she would not break the skin.
“I’m thinking of Raphael,” she said.
“Good girl. Now shhh …”
I covered her mouth with one hand. With the other I took her wrist, brought it to my mouth. She giggled as I licked the rough skin, then frowned when I bit very gently where Constance’s pinion had left its own cold kiss.
“Ow.”
I moved my hand to cover her eyes. I didn’t want to alarm her, didn’t want panic to overwhelm the subtler impressions I sought. From the star upon her wrist blood welled.
“Raphael, remember Raphael,” I said. I bowed to lick the blood from her hand, rubbing her arm so that it would come faster. “Raphael.”
There was barely enough for me to taste, but it was sweet, nothing of salt or sweat or tears in her smooth skin. I moaned and squeezed harder on her wrist, until she cried out, arms flailing.
It is enough.
Winterlong …
There are the candles, twelve of them shimmering upon a high stone shelf, high high above me. Jada passes me the silver tray blued with negus flame and I try to snatch a snapdragon, wrens’ hearts burning crisp and red on their bed of green holly. Blue flame licks my fingers, I cry out and lick them and Jada makes a mean face, I hate her. Miramar is watching me from his big chair, he laughs so hard his gums show and he looks ugly.
—Here, Fancy, don’t cry!
He grabs Jada’s wrist, plucks a snapdragon from the tray, and tosses it in his palm ‘til it cools and then he pops it in my mouth. I like the burnt ones best. Where is Raphael? My dress itches, it scratches my stomach. Quistana Illyria picked it out. I hate her. Constance gave her an electrified eel lamp and seventeen grams of tristain for Winterlong but she kissed me when Miramar wasn’t there and I told Raphael before he left. Constance keeps smiling at me and now Quistana is mad and Jada and her are both sitting on Constance’s lap but she keeps smiling at me. Where is he?