by Tanith Lee
Michael and Kei came in. They brought a tall silver teapot and cups of transparent white china, and some liqueur in a pear-shaped crystal bottle, little glasses, a plate of tiny cakes with marvelous icing, blue and pink and white and green.
All this came down on the tables, and then the alcohol and the tea and the cakes were offered.
Malach took the alcohol and the tea, nothing to eat. And Ruth… Ruth took tea. No food. She had been such a hungry child. No longer.
Ah, no.
Something in Rachaela ached. It was like a muscle stretched too far. Hurting in release.
Althene was not there. Obviously. Tact or callousness? And Camillo always avoided these family gatherings. Almost always. (Standing in armor that time long ago, as she ran away.)
Ruth had removed her left-hand glove, but not the right.
"Is that an affectation?" Rachaela said.
Ruth looked at her, politely.
"Oh, no. I injured my hand."
"That must be a nuisance," Rachaela said, "especially if you still like to play the piano."
"Malach wants me to practice some music for the left hand only. Until it improves."
Malach wants. Adam says.
"And you're going away with Malach."
Ruth smiled. It was a pretty, fleeting smile. It was a true smile.
/ never saw that. Yes I did. When Adam found, her after she had killed them. Then. She came alive and she was lovely. But she's lovely now. She's alive now.
"Yes. We're going to Europe."
It was old-fashioned, excluding Britain from the Continent. But then. What else?
Eric said, "They will take care of Ruth."
His voice was hard, abrasive.
Rachaela thought how he had put his fist through the TV screen, striking at Ruth.
Rachaela said, "We're all being so wonderful to each other. Shouldn't we talk about the facts?"
"No," Sasha said. "The facts aren't important."
Eric said, "It is essential to dismiss such errors."
"Which errors?" said Rachaela. She swallowed. "How is it possible?"
Malach spoke. Rachaela had mislaid his voice in the half hour he had not talked to them. Dry and a little rough, its music in abeyance.
"Did you think I'd kill her?"
"Yes," Rachaela said.
"She's Scarabae," he said.
"You've given her attention," Rachaela said, "the thing I didn't give her. Or Adamus. Excuse me, Ruth, I'm speaking about you as if you weren't here. But then, are you here?"
Ruth did not look at her. She only drank daintily from her cup. The two dogs lay still.
"Malach has taught you how to behave, has he?"
"Yes," Malach said. And then, "No one here has a sword drawn but you. You are her mother."
"Yes," Rachaela said.
Malach's eyes came to hers. So cruel now. Pitiless, old, no quarter given. "She hurt you, did she, coming out? You can't forgive?"
Rachaela shivered. "What happens when you lose interest in her?"
Malach, without looking, put out his hand and touched Ruth's cheek. He laid his skin against hers, softly.
"I shall never lose interest. She is my soul."
The words burned in the room.
Fire, from some altar.
And Ruth turned to him. She looked at him speechlessly.
He has created her.
Is that the reason for love?
"Oh, then," Rachaela said, "I suppose it's all right."
Miranda said suddenly, "I'm a little worried about Tracy. Shall I send Michael to fetch her down? She'd like these cakes so much."
"You have a replacement, you see," Rachaela said to Ruth, "a nice little pale, black-haired girl who acts as she should."
The door opened.
But it was not Tray. It was Camillo.
He came into the room with an odd mincing step.
"Late," he said. "There you are. Talking with my Cossacks on the hill."
He glanced at Malach, and then at Ruth. Camillo froze. It was as if he had come into the arctic cold, knowing how it would be, and as he turned to stone, he laughed.
"Mama," he said. "My father and my mother."
Ruth had moved a little. She drew back against Malach.
Yes, last time he gave her a mousetrap.
"Isn't she lovely," said Camillo. "Will she sing me asleep? Will she wrap me in the fur as we run away over the snow?"
"Tais-toi," Malach said.
"Mais non," Camillo said. "No, no I won't shut up. I like to say it. And I've brought a gift."
Camillo slipped forward to Ruth over the .carpeted ground, between the purity of the furniture. The dogs did not move. "Pour vous, Maman." He held out something long and thin.
It was a knitting needle. It was burned.
Bile whipped Rachaela's throat.
"From the heart of Anna. What you killed her with."
Malach got up. The dogs stirred.
"Get out," he said.
Camillo leered at him.
"Too old," he said. "Not to be hurt."
Ruth had risen too. She put her gloved hand upon Malach's arm. He checked.
"Camillo," Ruth said.
"Yes, Maman."
"Be my shame," Ruth said.
Camillo's face crumpled. He stepped back. He spoke in some other tongue.
Ruth nodded.
Camillo bolted from the room.
CHAPTER 39
JUST PAST EIGHT, STELLA CHECKED THE kitchen. The chicken was cooking juicily in its sauce of yoghurt, saffron, and garlic, and on the chopping board the primrose and iron-green peppers, the creamy banana and red apple, the onions and the almonds waited to be fried. The cannister of rice was full, but she peered into it again.
There were wine and beer, poppadums and hot chutney.
She went back into the main room and looked out of the curtains at the dark low night.
He would be here soon.
She sat on the couch and picked up a book, but she could not settle. She never could when she knew Nobbi was on his way to her.
She had not seen him since that time after Christmas. The time he had woken up in the night; "The Thieving Magpie."
Christmas was bad enough, anyway.
She bore it with fortitude.
Star and her mother had been used to celebrate. They had attached silver rosettes to the cat's collar, pulled crackers, watched the better films on television, got tiddly.
Star had never spent a Christmas with Nobbi.
One day.
Something hissed in the oven, and Star went to investigate. Then she came back and sat down again.
Perhaps she ought to have a glass of wine. It might calm her down. But she liked to drink with him.
Why was she so nervous?
Of course, he was out looking for Tray.
He had intimated, although not exactly said, that Tray was with people who were dangerous.
Obviously, he wanted to do something. That was Nobbi. But what kind of trouble was he getting into?
She could hardly say Don't.
As if he would listen, anyway, if she said something like that.
It was half-past eight now. He had said eight. That would have given them time in the bedroom before she finished the dinner.
Never mind. There would be hours later. He had said he would stay with her tonight.
She liked that. She liked so much waking up with him. She brought breakfast on a tray. And they made love. They had bought a plastic duck which he put in the bath with him. Nobbi called the duck Charlie.
Star went into the bathroom.
"Hallo, Charlie."
Charlie smiled, the way he always did.
Stella splashed some cool water on her face and dried it with a towel.
Then she looked at herself in the little bathroom mirror.
Her appearance neither pleased nor dismayed her. Her eyes were too big, and her mouth, but her skin was good.
She cam
e out of the bathroom. She put Bach's Goldberg Variations on the record player.
She did not want any wine.
But she was so nervous.
When he arranged to come he was never late, never more than a few minutes. Except once, half an hour, and he had called her from a service station, something with the car.
It was ten to nine now.
She went into the kitchen and turned the oven down.
Star did not often speak aloud to herself. Now she said, "Stop acting like some silly schoolgirl. He's all right. You would know."
And then, the phone rang.
Stella flew to it.
"Hallo?"
"Star?" Nobbi asked her. He sounded very far away.
"Nobbi, love. Are you okay?"
"Sure, Star. Yes. I'm fine."
"I was—I was worried."
"Sorry, Star. Yeah, I should have called before."
She felt a crash of disappointment within her, like a broken loft plummeting to the basement.
She governed herself, and said, neutrally, "Can't you make it, darling?"
"Star… No. No, I can't. I'm really sorry. I know you really go to town, it's a bloody shame."
"It's all right, love. What's happened? Is it something with Marilyn?"
"Marilyn? No. No, it's not that."
Star felt sick.
She sank her bitten nails into her palm. There were enough of them to hurt.
"What is it, Nobbi?"
"I found her. I found Tray. I mean, the place."
"Oh, Nobbi, where?"
"Well, I don't like to tell you, Star."
The dark of night breathed in on Stella's soul.
"All right, love."
"It's just—from what I've been hearing, these people are pretty bloody weird."
"What will you do?"
"Don't know yet. I've been sitting in the car, just down the road, keeping an eye out."
"Oh, Nobbi," she said, "be careful."
"Oh, yeah. I'll be fine. I'll tell you, some bloke went up there with his bird. Classy stuff. He looked like the one. The one Tray went after. Long white hair. But this bird. Christ, you should've seen her. Like a bloody film star. And they had a couple of dogs with 'em. God almighty, big as horses."
"Oh, God, Nobbi."
"She's my daughter."
"Yes."
They stood in silence, he miles off in the telephone box, and she here, in her flat, with the scent of the chicken no one now would eat.
"Nobbi," she said, "I do want to know where you are."
"Okay." He paused. "Between us, all right."
"Yes, Nobbi."
"It's easy enough to find, once you know."
Then he told her.
Star took it in. She felt cold. She was quivering, hairs erect.
"I got to go now, Star. I don't want to miss nothing. Spend the night in the car if I have to. She may come out. My Tray. Then I'm here."
"Nobbi, take care. If you can."
"I will. Don't worry, love."
"I love you," she said.
"You silly cow," he said, "loving an ugly old git like me. I wish I was there."
"I wish so too."
"I'll make it up to you." Then there was the dialing tone. She stood and listened to it for a while, having noth-ing else.
CHAPTER 40
OUT OF MEMORY, THE SOFTNESS CAME, the note of music. Benign and comforting, and proper. What she would have wanted, if she could have had it. And for a moment she was a child, wanting. And then a woman, finding gentle death sleeping beside her. Then she woke.
The cat had died long past. And now she had the sense of seeing double, and wrongly. Her brain struggled with it.
Two demons were on her bed, on her body, light weights balanced on four stems each.
"My God," Rachaela said.
The vocal cat meowed again. He was a young male, all white but for a speckle of black on his right side, and a totally black face. He put out his paw and stroked her cheek. He had black fur testicles, too.
Beside him stood the girl cat. She was almost exactly like him but the other way around. Black with a white face. No speckles, just a white corona here and there at the tips of her fur. She did not speak or touch, but eyed Rachaela demurely. You won't be able to resist me, said her eyes, which were blue. The male's were vivid yellow in the black mask. Come on, they said, here I am. Be quick.
She put out her hands and smoothed them both.
The male rubbed his face into her palm, the female narrowed her eyes. Both purred.
Althene was sitting in one of the green chairs.
"I did knock, but you didn't wake. Forgive my coming in unannounced. But I wanted you to see them and they were annoyed with the basket."
"Where have they come from?"
"Ah," said Althene, secretively, "I had them made especially for you."
"You mean you're giving them to me?"
"My messengers while I'm away."
"A farewell present."
"Bookmarks," said Althene, "to mark my place in your heart."
"But how can I—I don't—" The male cat was up on her breast now, rubbing his head under her chin. The female had begun to wash her paws.
"They are not a responsibility," said Althene. "Your windows open and they will be able to climb down the roofs to the common. They'll come and go. They'll sleep on your pillows."
"Something to love," said Rachaela.
It was difficult to be churlish with the two cats purring and washing and rubbing.
"Cheta will cook them food," said Althene.
"Caviar and dover sole with lemon," said Rachaela. "Marrons glaces."
"Nasty bloody liver, chopped small," said Althene, "boiled ox-heart, chicken pieces, occasional steamed white fish. They may eat biscuits in moderation to clean their teeth. Kei has planted catnip for them."
Rachaela laughed. The male approved and kissed her lips. The girl cat snuggled into Rachaela's side and slept.
"What are their names?"
"It's for you to name them."
Rachaela lay back, and the male came up and poured down on her hair.
"I never let myself—have another cat."
"Love is dangerous."
"Yes. Well, I've had it now. Hopeless to deny."
"Good," said Althene. She stood up. "We must leave tonight."
"Yes, I see."
"There are some things I want to take with me, so I must go to pack. One doesn't keep Malach waiting."
"Yes, of course. Thank you—thank you for these."
"They're brother and sister," Althene said. "When they're a little older, they'll mate."
"But then—kittens everywhere—"
"Delicious," said Althene. "I will supervise the kittens."
"Oh. When you come back."
Althene opened the door. "Cheta will bring up a sand tray for the bathroom. They must stay in for a couple of days."
"Yes, I'll be careful."
Althene went out.
Rachaela turned her face into cats' fur.
Can I still cry?
But the sadness was only leaden and still, it did not break in rain.
There had been a book, years ago, a character called Jacob, who wore a black mask. The male cat should be Jacob. And the demure, white-faced girl? She was like a young actress playing Shakespeare. Juliet.
Jacob and Juliet began to purr again, as if aware of nominal recognition. The vibration drummed through the bed. It was only eight o'clock, the windows gray. To the cats' lullaby, Rachaela let herself drift back into sleep.
Above, in the lofty pale room, Ruth stood below the window. It had no colors, but was of opaque white glass, incised with an intricate pattern, coiling ferns, and the head perhaps of an angel.
The light fell over Ruth.
She was naked. She slept naked now, with Malach, in their bed. With him she had lost her modesty and her evasion.
Ruth had grown taller with the winter. Her body was eve
n more beautiful, elongated in its slenderness that flowered into lustiness at the breasts. At her groin the raven's feathers, melting to a blue mist under her flat belly. There was no hair on her arms or legs, it did not grow there, and under her arms was only a shaven whiteness. The hair of her head cloaked her back down to the base of her spine.
On the table lay her treasures, her trophies.
She had brought them to the flat. The apple, the duck, the gold razor… The leopardskin had gone, given away. It was not a living animal but a robbery of life.
Ruth lifted her right hand, and looked at it. There was a dark scar across the palm, exactly below the fingers. Some of the nerves were dead, or temporarily impaired, and the fingers were stiff and awkward. Malach had shown her that with practice, she could write with her left hand.
She had burned her right hand on the ice. Malach sometimes took this hand, and held it against him, against his face, or his chest, as if feeding her the pulses of his body.
He slept now.
He slept like death. So silent, hardly seeming to breathe. Sometimes in sleep he would murmur words. They were the languages of other countries, perhaps of other times.
Ruth went back to the bed, and sat down on the edge of it, watching him.
He lay on a tide of white hair, his head half turned.
There were faint lines on his face, about the mouth, on the forehead, those of a man in his late thirties. But his skin was taut, the light brown of some lost summer, which had never left it.
Ruth wanted to touch him, but she would not wake him.
She wanted to touch him continually. She was sore with want, with always yearning. She relished the rare rich pain.
And now, he opened his eyes.
Their blueness always caught at her. There had never been blue eyes in the world, until his.
"You're awake," he said. "Wide awake."
"Yes."
"We are going," he said, "to a flat land with low skies crowded by clouds, and with a liquid light. Do you remember the paintings I showed you?"
"Yes."
"Like that."
"Will they hate me there?" she said. "Like here." It was not a child's question, it was uttered nearly indifferently.
"They'll judge you from what you are."
"What am I?"
"What I will make you."
"Yes," she said. "Scarabae."