Aurorarama - Jean-Christophe Valtat [120]
“Many women. Good,” said Tiblit, making to Gabriel, who could not contradict him, a thunderous debut in Shakespeare’s tongue.
The party arrived in a larger hall, decorated with three classical statues, all made of the same crystal. The one closest to Gabriel was dedicated to Elfinor, who, a few carved lines informed him, “was in magick skill’d/he built by art upon the Glassy sea/A bridge of Brass, whose sound Heaven’s thunder seemd to be.” This was a rather standard New Venetian reference, and the d’Ussonville coat of arms right under the verses doubtless expressed Isabella’s familial piety as the daughter of a founding father. The statue at the other side of the hall, depicting a long-bearded man, was dedicated to Elfant, “Who was of most renowned fame/who all of chrystal did Panthea build.” Maybe this was a direct reference to the founder of that most mysterious castle, which certainly looked like the work of a fairy king, though the statue itself surprisingly resembled Henry Hudson. Could it be that he had been rescued by these people? The third statue was a well-endowed God of the Gardens, labelled Elfinstone, In Memoriam, but whose face was not quite unfamiliar to Gabriel.
A shiver struck him as, warned by the sudden silence of the group, he turned toward the—was it one? or two? persons who had entered the hall to welcome them. The creature was, by all standards, a freak of nature, or even slightly beyond that. Siamese twins are one thing, if one may say so, and being joined at the side is not the rarest thing nor the worst that could happen to them; but conjoined twins of different sex were, at least by Gabriel, unheard of. These twins were also albinos, their snow-white hair and pale complexion underscored by the black velvet clothes they wore. But they were also the most beautiful, graceful, luminous adolescents Gabriel had ever beheld.
“I am Reginald Elphinstone,” said the boy, who wore a little golden pendant of the sun around his neck.
“I am Geraldine Elphinstone,” said the girl, whose pendant represented the moon.
“Welcome to Caer Sidhe,” they said together.
It was later that night, after a sumptuous dinner of fresh food served on the finest crystal dinner service had been finished, that the twins, in a perfectly executed duet, told their tale …
THE SURPASSING STORY OF REGINALD & GERALDINE
The story begins in New Venice, where other stories end. Once upon a time, a woman—let us name her Isabelle, or as she was known later, Isabella—was forbidden by an unfair law to have any children. Her husband, Nixon-Knox, a respected doctor and a member of the Council of Seven, not only never touched her but also watched her very closely. But there came a time when she was required to have her official portrait painted. The painter was a young, gifted, ambitious, hotheaded artist called Alexander Harkness. Alexander fell in love with Isabella’s pale face and fine features, and the benevolent sadness she carried about her like an aura. Isabella fell in love with Alexander’s curly mane and bushy brows, and the way his look stripped her naked as he was painting her. Before the painting was even finished, she discovered she was pregnant.
Nixon-Knox learned about it, through, let us suppose, a treacherous maid. As a doctor, he suggested to the maid that she serve a pennyroyal infusion to her mistress. Isabella, indeed, felt so sick upon drinking it that both Nixon-Knox and the maid thought that they had succeeded in provoking a miscarriage. The maid, decidedly garrulous and malignant, informed Alexander Harkness of the success of Nixon-Knox’s plan. Harkness, desperate as only a young man can be, called the husband to a secret duel on the ice field, but having counted ten steps and turned toward his opponent, it was himself he shot in the head, for having dishonoured Isabella and lost their child.
But it turned out