The Shadows of God - J. Gregory Keyes [102]
Vasilisa wrinkled her forehead. “We are all agreed it is a matter of last resort—but if it is the only thing we have for defense against the engines, isn't it worth the chance?”
“End the universe if we cannot save our lives? At least you think grandly, Vasilisa.”
Red Shoes lifted his hands and interrupted. “When death is the only choice, why not take a death of our choosing— one that might bring ruin to our enemies as well?”
“Still, it is moot. This is not a simple harmony we speak of retuning, like that between unmatched aetherschreibers,” Franklin said.
Red Shoes and Vasilisa looked at each other, as if sharing a private thought. The Indian voiced it.
“We have the device already,” he said. “It is only a matter of knowing how to use it.”
“What device is this?”
“The same device that makes the engines,” Vasilisa said, “the Sun Boy.”
Franklin looked from one to the other. Both seemed sincere. But Vasilisa was not to be trusted. And Red Shoes— even Tug was wary of Red Shoes now. There was certainly something different in his manner.
But they might reach a point when the maddest of possibilities was their only hope.
He sighed. “Explain,” he said reluctantly.
But Vasilisa was looking beyond him, at the door. “You have a visitor, Benjamin,” she said.
He turned, and found Lenka watching them.
“I'm glad you finally came to see me,” he told her, as they passed from the hall into the weed-ravaged botanical garden. “Though this is not a good time.”
“You will not make time to speak to me?” She had discarded her Apalachee warrior's clothing and now wore a gown of blue satin. She was achingly beautiful in it, reminding him vividly of when they first met. He remembered, too, twining her in his arms, the feel of her flesh, the look of her face when close for kissing, watching her sleep in the morning light, covers pulled back to reveal a form more cunning than any sculptor— even the fabled Pygmalion— could imagine, much less render.
“Lenka, I can take a moment. But there are very important matters afoot.”
“More important than me? That is always true, isn't it? I'm not a fool, Benjamin Franklin. I understand what is at stake, despite your having kept what you could from me.”
“I kept nothing—how could I? You haven't spoken to me. I've tried to seek you out.”
“I was thinking.”
“Of what?”
“Of when I met you. Of how we fell in love, or thought we did.”
“Of course we fell in love, Lenka,” he said, exasperated.
“Then when did you fall out of it?”
“I never have. I love you still.”
She quirked her lips. “Then perhaps it is the definition of love that is in question. I thought that I knew what it was, but now I see I do not.”
He closed his eyes wearily. “Lenka, can't you take my word on this one thing? Trust that I love you. And when there is time, I will make what amends I can for any poor treatment I may have given you. But now, at this moment—”
“When will there be time? You have had ten years. You convinced me the first of them. You have not persuaded since. And when I speak of you keeping things from me, I do not mean recently. You know that. You claim to value me for my quality of thought, and yet we have not shared a conversation on matters scientific— or on anything of real importance—in years. And so I act as your wife, in bed, in public, in this country where I was not born, where the language is strange. And we have not conceived children, which might have given me some peace, or at least someone not too busy to speak to me, but no, God will not even grant me that—” She broke off, muffling tears in her sleeve.
His own voice felt thick. “And here you have deceived me, wife. When have you ever told me you felt this?”
“I have told you and told you,” she said, “in words and