The Fecund's Melancholy Daughter - Brent Hayward [42]
The chatelaine hoped that neither her disappointment nor her nervousness was obvious. “All right, then,” she said. “All right. Another time. I know how tiring it is, going down there. Positively draining.” She bit at her thumbnail. “But are you okay? Did she upset you? I should have told you that she likes to say, at times, outrageous things. She can mess with your head. You know she won’t hurt a fly? Well, maybe a fly. But that’s about it.”
“I just need to rest for a while.”
The chatelaine moved closer to the girl. She thought about kissing Octavia, maybe pushing her back, gently, onto the bed.
But then the lemonade would spill.
As if sensing the growing energy, most likely trying to postpone the chatelaine’s advances, the kholic said, “I guess you could show me your pets, if you’d like.”
Relieved at having a goal—back on track—the chatelaine gestured for Octavia to stand. When the girl did so, they walked together to the alcove, the chatelaine’s hand propelling Octavia from the small of her delightful back. Reflected in the huge mirror that covered the entire wall, the creatures, and indeed the women’s own reflections as they approached, were distorted by flaws.
Watching their mistress, watching the stranger—those with eyes, at least—the pets began to get excited. The chatelaine frowned, thinking for a second that they might have recognized the kholic.
In front of each cage, the chatelaine gave a short introduction to the beasts within, which peered out or drooled or huddled away in fear. They were formless monsters. They hissed and burbled and chirped. Those she could reach, and which were benign, the chatelaine touched, rubbing their skin or scales through the bars with a crooked knuckle.
“This one represents Soaper’s and Candles, and the Horse Market.
“For Torchmere Lane, and the homes of North End, on the hill.
“This one is for Hangman’s Alley, and your ostracon.”
A beast uglier than the rest.
Octavia stared, unblinking.
“Child,” said the chatelaine, after a while, sidling closer, “Nowy Solum was not always the way it is today. Even during my father’s brief time as castellan, the city was different; it changes, subtly, with each leader. Chaos in the city, if there is chaos in Jesthe.” The chatelaine frowned at the intent expression on the kholic’s face. Was she even listening? Her pets seemed to be entranced by the girl. The chatelaine shivered. “The fecund,” she said quietly. “Do you understand? The monster takes what we give her and gives us back in return. She can change Nowy Solum. The colbali, for instance, when my father was down here. They appeared then. Me? Oh, I don’t know. My babies, and maybe even you, coming here!”
Octavia glanced at the chatelaine and then continued to the end of the alcove, where three paintings were hung in a vertical pattern, each illuminated by a torch, either side of the ornate frames. Then Octavia asked about the large iron key, hanging on two hooks above the wainscoting.
“That is the key to my heart,” joked the chatelaine.
The girl took a sip of her lemonade and put the glass down on a small ledge upon which the chatelaine usually kept water jugs to quench her pets’ thirst. She glanced at the floor for a moment but when she looked back up, her eyes met the chatelaine’s and burned with an intensity that made the chatelaine look away this time, breath catching in her throat.
“My— my father, painted these pictures, and he is also somewhat of— of a physicker, a splicer. I’m sure you know he’s up there, in the dungeon?” She pointed self-consciously to the wooden ceiling. “Self-imposed isolation. He’s afraid of ailments, you see, among other things. He once explained to me about the four humours, the biles. And the elements of fire, and water. Air, of course.” She had almost told the girl, right then, that the castellan often accused his own daughter of having traces of melancholy in her blood, so prone was she to gloomy moods, but the chatelaine managed, at least, to not blurt this out. At a loss for further words, however, she stood awkwardly, regarding