The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter - Brent Hayward [23]
“Sorry to hear that.”
“I thought of you.” Her fingers went up to the matted hair again, twined. “You must forgive me for bringing you into my palace and then abandoning you. I had become, well, distracted. What’s your name?”
Octavia told her.
“You know, I feel I can trust you, Octavia.” The chatelaine smiled, but it was a pained smile. “Though you might find this impossible to believe, I think we have much in common. I feel it in my heart. We were meant to meet. Tell me, Octavia, have you ever heard of the fecund?”
“My Lady?”
“Of course you have. Even you.” This didn’t sound right at all. The chatelaine plowed on. “The fecund is my associate. My familiar. She belongs to Jesthe, rather. To whomever lives in this room. She was my father’s and now she is mine.”
“I’ve heard stories.”
“Well, the fecund is real, let me assure you. And you will meet her soon.”
The girl said nothing.
“She’s locked up, you see, in a cell, below the palace. She’s been there almost forever. I want you to visit the fecund, and I want you to give her a message. I am too ashamed to go myself. She already believes me unworthy. But she can be a powerful friend, you’ll see. She’ll meet with you, Octavia, and will listen to you. She’ll like you, I’m sure.”
Now the girl looked beyond the chatelaine, toward the rumpled bed, toward the harnesses and attachments abandoned on the crude side table, still smeared with fluids from the previous night. If Octavia was shocked by what she saw, she gave no indication. Her nostrils flared, sniffing.
“I don’t know what the fecund’ll make for me this time,” said the chatelaine, in an even quieter voice. “Probably not another cherub, not like that one. They’re all different, you know.” She put her hand on the girl’s taut shoulder. She could not stop touching her. “Listen, Octavia, I would invite you in but the place has not been cleaned, and my fire has almost died. I must see to that.”
“I understand.”
Was there a heat radiating from this girl? The chatelaine ran her fingers down the brown, toned arm. “Maybe you’ll come back later, after your task? Tell me how it went?”
“Sure.” There was still no expression on the tattooed face. “I’d like that.”
The chatelaine excused herself to fetch the small wooden box from her bedside table. When she returned, she displayed the contents to the girl. After a long moment, during which neither chatelaine nor kholic moved, she said, “You must choose one.”
“What are they?”
“These are my dreams.”
Hesitantly, the girl’s fingers rose.
“She feeds on dreams, you see.” The chatelaine whispered now. “I mean, she eats food, like me and you, but a dream gets her started. The fecund makes my pets, inside her, around these dreams, like pearls around a grain of sand. These are not from last night, naturally, but from several nights ago, from when I had an almost pleasant sleep. I was holding my baby in my arms while she rested against me. And when I awoke, I saw her on her perch, in her cage, looking peaceful and sweet. She sang me a little song that morning. She could talk, you know? The only one of my pets that could ever talk. Oh, Octavia, my heart has broken!”
Eyes downcast, looking at their feet. “What shall you have me do?”
“Do? Well, yes, of course. Please select one of these pieces of cotton and go down there right now. My chances are good, I think, to have a new baby similar, at least, to the gentle cherub. Will you go, Octavia? Will you do an old lady a favour?” She dabbed at her eyes with her fingers and felt moisture there.
The girl inspected the damp waddings and lifted one from the box.
“Be careful. Hold it in two fingers. Don’t get it all sweaty. With that in your hand, you’ll have no problem finding your way to the cell. I need not tell you directions. She’ll guide you, she’ll pull you there.”
As the kholic turned