When I finally opened my eyes to Reality the next day, Carlin was sprawled out opposite me on the armchair that sits by the window. He looked entirely comfortable and unstarched, and though his eyes were on me, it took him too long to notice my conscious state to sit up straight in any attempt to look like the footman he was.
“I wondered about that,” I said, somewhat indistinctly. My tongue felt very fat.
“About what?” asked Carlin. He hadn’t moved, as if, being discovered in a position completely unsuited to his job, he had given up any pretence of formality. “Miss.”
“Water,” I croaked. I genuinely needed the water, but it was also a relief when Carlin straightened and leaped up to fetch it. Having him sitting there at ease opposite me, as if we were equals, was strangely unsettling. I accepted the glass, and after a blessedly refreshing sip, nodded at the armchair. “The dip in the seat.”
“The what, miss?”
“The dip, Carlin. The dip in the seat.” I took another sip and explained, “No one sits in that chair—there’s no one to sit in it. The pillow should be plump and fat, but there’s been a dip in it for the last few years.”
“That’s very strange, miss,” said Carlin, receiving the glass from me and preparing a plate of food from the morning tea things that were on the side table. They had had a cloth over them to keep them fresh, and the cloth glimmered with stay-cool magic. Beside it, the pot of tea glowed with a stay-warm spell. “I suppose it could mean a few things, really.”
For all the world as if I hadn’t just caught him in that chair. What a good poker face he had! I said, with a tiny hiss of laughter, “Oh, really? What could it mean?”
“Well, miss,” said Carlin, pouring steaming tea into a teacup, “either you’ve got a faulty chair, a case of sabotage, or . . .”
“Don’t stop now,” I said as he stopped, accepting the teacup. “You’ve created such an intricate web of intrigue.”
“Or,” said Carlin, placing the plate of morning tea things in easy reach and stepping back to his customary position behind me, “you had someone to sit there all along and you just didn’t notice.”
“If that’s meant to be philosophical, Carlin, I won’t have you speaking philosophy to me before lunch.”
“No, miss,” said Carlin. “It’s more of a metaphor, actually.”
“Oh.” I sipped my tea and regarded him thoughtfully out of the corners of my eyes. “It’s probably too early for that, as well.”
“Yes, miss,” said Carlin.
3
I remember the day my legs moved for the first time. I was at Father’s estate in Eppa, my fifteenth birthday some months behind me, caught up in a far-off Dream of Scandia and some young children who usually played below my window at the seaside house.
That was when Jessamy first bounded into my life, burdening me with his happiness and love. We hadn’t seen each other for more than a moment or two before, when he was an inelegant boy concerned only with his food. He had been mostly at Silver Heart, I mostly by the Scandian seaside, and I had the feeling that Father preferred us apart.
But now Jessamy was home, and determined to know and love me. He interrupted my Dreams with his presence, insisting upon talking to me and showing me his latest discoveries of tadpoles and birds’ eggs. He threw feathers in my lap and demanded that I pick out a favourite. He picked me up bodily and bore me from the house on his back despite my protests. He planted me in the middle of the gardens for the beetles to crawl over, but good-naturedly picked the worst of them from my clothes, then scooped me up to recline on the slope of the riverbank while he caught tadpoles and fish. He never seemed to have trouble seeing me or remembering me.
Before long, my Dreams were following him around even when I wasn’t physically with him, and when I was with him, there was a heaviness to my limbs that I had never noticed before. My first thought was that I was sickening, or that my paralysis was about to become worse. But by and by I began to notice that my toes would occasionally twitch—something that was much easier to notice in Eppa, where shoes are left at the front hall in a series of boxes, and stockinged (or even bare!) feet are not the shocking thing they are in Scandia.
And then Jessamy took me fishing one humid morning. We set out quite early, but the summer sun was still before us by an hour or so, and it fell uncomfortably on my head as Jessamy carried me. I didn’t notice it at the time, but I remember it now, the way the sun fell on my bare feet with a golden warmth. I didn’t usually feel anything below the knee, and very little below the thigh, but that day I remember the sun on the skin of my feet, and warmer than usual on the lower parts of my arms.
“I’ll burn,” I said to Jessamy, but I didn’t really mind. A maid had once left me out by the seaside too long, and I’d been sunburned badly—badly enough to blister and peel. I hadn’t felt anything but a slight warmth to my nose and cheeks during the whole episode, nor had I felt enough while I was out in the sun to prompt me to call to be brought in. If I freckled in the sun, I probably would have been more careful.
“Maybe you’ll brown,” said Jessamy, looking at my pale hands, which were clasped somewhere below his chin. “Then you won’t look so undercooked. Why are you so restless, Nuna? You’re all twitches, and you’re not as light as you used to be.”
“Rude!” I told him, making an impolite noise in his ear. “You’re not meant to make remarks about ladies’ weight.”
Jessamy’s upper lip drew up on one side. “It’ll be ruder if I drop you.”
“It’s nothing, anyway,” I said. “I’m just feeling . . . funny. Sort of heavy.” It wasn’t quite uneasiness, but it was a foreign feeling, and it had been growing from day to day.
“We’ll stay inside tomorrow,” said Jessamy consciously. “I’ve probably tired you out.”
“You haven’t tired me out,” I said, though, truth be told, the idea of spending the day in the house tomorrow was a welcome one. Whatever this feeling was, it was an uncomfortable one.
It was bright and light by the creek. Jessamy put me down very carefully on a warm, partially shadowed rock on the very edge of the stream, where my feet could dangle in the shallow water below.
“I won’t catch any fish if you’re splashing,” he added reprovingly, and I made a small, unladylike snort. What splashing would I be doing, with legs that didn’t even move? Besides, Jessamy was in the shallows as well, the water rippling around his knees as he baited his hook, and if my legs could scare away the fish, his were certain to do so.
Jessamy fished in the shallows until he became bored with his lack of success, and then, in spite of my protests, nimbly clambered up the side of the stone bridge that overshadowed us, to see if he could do it.
“If you fall and die, there’ll be no one to carry me home,” I told him. “Come down, Jessamy-a!”
“I’m not going to fall!” scoffed Jessamy. He turned to face me, his bare toes curling around the crumbling edges of masonry that were too small for his feet, and gave me his cheekiest grin with his fists planted on his hips. “Nuna, look! I’m the Monkey King!”
I saw the speckles of clay and stone as they sprinkled the surface of the creek and were swept away. Nothing dramatic, just a few particles. Then the whole lump of clay beneath Jessamy’s right foot crumbled away completely. He gave a slight gasp and fell without trying to catch himself; I don’t think he was afraid of more than a wetting. It looked as if he grazed his head on one of the protruding bricks as he fell, but it wasn’t until the splash subsided and he didn’t break the surface in a spluttering, laughing lurch that the first chill of fright touched my heart.
“Jessamy-a!” I said sharply. I could see his yellow hair just below the surface; the water was very shallow. “Stop playing games!”
One of Jessamy’s hands, limp and extended, floated downstream on the current. Huskily I said, “Jessamy-a?”
I knew then that it was no joke, and that Jessamy was drowning right in front of me—and worse, that I could
do nothing about it. Something splashed at my feet, and I looked down just in time to see my right leg twitch again, kicking up a white sheaf of water. I didn’t think about it, I simply stood and took a step. One step was all I managed before the water and the weakness of my limbs made me fall, but it was enough that I fell within reach of Jessamy. I coughed and gasped, pushing myself above water with my palms against the slick stones of the creek bed, and desperately seized Jessamy by his collar. He wasn’t breathing when I pulled him close, my arms shaking with effort. I propped him up against me, his head lolling over my shoulder, and thrust the heel of my palm into his diaphragm, panic strengthening me.
Jessamy choked and vomited water down my back. I could have cried with relief to hear him gasping in air, but I didn’t have the energy. He didn’t properly come to his senses, though I could feel his chest rising and falling. Terrified that he would slip away into the sinister ripples, I clutched him closer to my chest, my fingers digging into his skin until they lost all feeling.
If the water hadn’t been so shallow, we both would have drowned despite my heroics. As it was, for those first few minutes it was all I could do to stop us from being tugged away downstream into the deeper water, Jessamy limp and heavy on my shoulder. When I wasn’t so dreadfully weary, I began to edge us both closer to the bank, little by excruciating little. It felt as though it took hours, but it was probably only an hour before I had us half-in and half-out of the water, mired in the mud of the creek bank and unable to move any farther. Jessamy had gained a little more consciousness, but his head was bleeding freely and all he was capable of doing was locking his arms around my neck and shivering. I wrapped my arms tightly around him and we rested like little children, clinging to each other with our heads shaded from the sun and our feet warmed by it despite the coolness of the water.
It wasn’t until the sleeplessness of a night with badly sunburned feet that I realised what I hadn’t earlier. I felt heavy and uneasy not because my paralysis was getting worse, or because I was beginning to feel less; it was because I had begun to feel more. There was something about Jessamy that pulled me closer to my body than I was used to being.
Jessamy came to see me the next morning after breakfast, bringing with him cubed melons in a cool, fragrant bowl. “Because you saved my life,” he said, kneeling at the table beside my couch and helping himself. “And I get some because I almost died.”
“You have it all,” I said, pushing the bowl closer to him. Jessamy grinned a juicy, messy grin at me and wrapped both arms around the bowl, clasping it to his chest. “You deserve it. Jessamy-a, I think you woke up my legs. Just a little.”
He gaped at me, dribbling juice, and said, “I thought it was funny that you got me out of the water. Did you walk, Nuna?”
“I fell, mostly,” I said, grimacing. “But I think I walked a little, too.”
Jessamy stood up immediately, his eyes glittering and his bowl of melon still clutched to his chest. “Do it! Do it again, Nuna!”
But I couldn’t do it. My legs didn’t so much give way beneath me as refuse to function at all. Jessamy, who had abandoned his bowl in his attempts to prop me up, at last set me down on the couch and went back to slurping up melon.
“We must be doing something wrong,” he said. “Maybe we should go back to the creek.”
“No!” I said fiercely, surprising myself with the vehemence of my voice. Jessamy had sat down beside me, and I could feel the warmth of his arm up against my own. I shouldn’t be able to feel that. And my feet, so hot and sore with sunburn—I definitely shouldn’t be able to feel them. It was all connected with the pain in my heart, I was certain—this ache that made me heavy with dread that Jessamy could have died.
One thing I didn’t feel was the familiar sense of disconnection with the world around me.
There. Did that answer the question you had in mind?
It did? Then would you mind telling me what the question was?
Oh, you’ll tell me later.
Typical.
***
I arrived in Eppa just in time to catch the last bright colours of spring, the Dreams dogging me at every stage. I travelled by Contraption train, with much fuss and bother, just as I always did. It’s a big undertaking, getting me from Scandia to Eppa. Even now that the Contraption train goes the whole way, there’s the fuss of me and my chaise being manoeuvred onto the train and into the private compartment, the arrangements to be made for my care during the three-day journey, and, finally, the bustle as I’m carried out. Carlin is always with me, of course, but there has to be a maid, too, which adds to the bother, even when the maid does remember me. After all, someone needs to stay with me while Carlin goes off to fetch a troupe of porters to carry me off the train, and someone has to make sure that I’m already dressed in something appropriate for Eppa when we cross the border. Scandia might celebrate low necklines, and allow without too much gasping the sight of a woman in bike-trousers, but woe betide the woman who shows too much cleavage in Eppa. To my eternal amusement, however, the perfect indifference that Eppa as a whole shows toward women’s ankles is regarded in well-bred horror by Scandian women everywhere. Ankles are an entirely taboo sight in Scandia.
As a result, I wear comfortable necklines and long skirts in Scandia, and switch to cool, calf-length skirts when in Eppa. Bare arms in Eppa and long sleeves in Scandia. Shoes in Scandia and bare feet or house slippers in Eppa. Most of my wardrobe for each country is kept in its respective country, but when I travel I need to have access to a selection from each.
More bother, more fuss.
This journey was significantly less burdensome than usual. Less for me, that is. I doubt that either Carlin or the maid found it very easy. I Dreamed for most of it, following Ae-jung’s adventures between the publishing house, the boardinghouse, and the Hilltop district. I remember the noise of the Contraption engine and the juddering of the sofa beneath me as we travelled. I remember Carlin feeding me when I didn’t wake from the Dreams, and the maid working small, discreet bathroom magics on me. It wasn’t as healthy as actually eating or going to the toilet for myself, but it would do until the Dreams receded enough to make me capable of tending to myself again.
I arrived at Eun-hee’s huge, Scandian-style manor before I was aware of it. Eun-hee loves everything Scandian; perhaps she loves me so much because of how obviously, typically Scandian I am. Her house is an extension of that love for everything Scandian, tall and grand and unlike a traditional Eppan house in almost every respect. There are suites set up in the traditional Eppan manner, with everything low to the ground, but by and large, if you don’t look out the windows at the cherry trees and jacarandas, you could think that you’re in Scandia.
Fortunately for Eun-hee, she was married early to a man without anything but a large fortune and good manners to recommend him to anyone but parents. His good manners had extended to dying early in the marriage, leaving Eun-hee to fill the house with people, parties, and a great deal of very good music, all the while dressing and living as she saw fit.
It was no surprise to me, therefore, arriving only half-awake and clad in an Eppa-appropriate frock, to find myself being greeted by Eun-hee, who was wearing a completely inappropriate frock.
“Clovis-a! It’s so good to see you! Oh! Those doe eyes of yours!”
I coughed through a mouthful of perfume and tried to avoid being suffocated by Eun-hee’s scandalously displayed cleavage. “You’re squashing me, Unni!”
Over Eun-hee’s besilked shoulder I saw Carlin failing to repress a smirk, and glared at him. He stopped smirking, but only because he began to cough with laughter.
Eun-hee pouted at me. “You’re not happy to see me?”
“I’m happy to see you,” I said, in slightly rusty Eppan. “I just didn’t expect to see so much of you.”
Eun-hee giggled. “I keep forgetting how dry you are! You! Bring her in! We’re going to take tea in the green sitting room.”
“Carlin will carry
me,” I said. Eun-hee’s footmen were looking confused and not at all sure of themselves. That’s what usually happens when someone is forced to look at me: discomfort followed by a creeping sense of insecurity. In Scandian I added, “Stop coughing, Carlin. I won’t be coughed on.”
“Yes, miss,” said Carlin. I saw his smile as he ducked over me to pick me up, but by the time I was hefted in his arms he was solemn faced again.
“You’re getting better at that,” I told him, still in Scandian. “But you’ll have to do something about that cough of yours.”
“Yes, miss,” said Carlin, and allowed himself to be hustled into the manor ahead of Eun-hee.
“I’ve prepared tea,” called Eun-hee, dancing behind us. “And chocolates!”
“That reminds me,” I said, passing her the wrapped basket that had been on my lap since leaving the train. “I got you all soft centres.”
“You beautiful child!” Eun-hee sighed. “Oh! Jessamy will be here next week; shall I throw a party for you both?”
Carlin put me down gently on one of the sofas and tidied my skirts. I looked up at Eun-hee’s piquant little face and said, “You’ve already sent out the invitations, haven’t you?”
Eun-hee pouted again. “Maybe one or two?”
“Lovely,” I said, quite well pleased. “Just what I wanted.” And then, because I had been Dreaming so often of Yong-hwa and it had put me in the mood for decent music, I asked, “Will there be any musicians?”
“I’ll have to see what I can do,” said Eun-hee, becoming thoughtful. “It’s more of a literary crowd this time; that funny thing Park Hyun-jun should be here as well, if he ever makes up his mind to say yes.”
Well now. The Dreams really were rallying around, weren’t they? No doubt Ae-jung would be going along wherever Hyun-jun went, and the only one of my Dream people I wouldn’t see in a week’s time was Yong-hwa. That was a shame. I would have liked to hear him play in person.
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