Word Puppets

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  Nothing would do then but for the bridal couple to open the champagne and toast the assembly with these confections of glass. The champagne’s bubbles danced as merrily as if they were celebrating with us.

  Signore Depretis said, “Ladies and gentlemen, with this lovely Murano glass I propose a toast to my fellow countrymen and to my beautiful wife. Long life and health to us all.”

  They drank their champagne and kissed each other with love in their eyes while we looked on, applauding wildly. Signore Comazzolo, perhaps jealous that our flutes had upstaged his champagne, called out. “How is the champagne, prime minister?”

  Signore Depretis bowed to him before burying his nose in his glass to inhale the bouquet of the champagne. “An elegant nose with nuances of honey, gingerbread, parsley, and slight hints of garlic.” He sipped the champagne again, savoring it. “Minerality, pears, and a bright acidity. Delightful.”

  We applauded again, perhaps even more wildly than before. I sat, breathless with delight, darting glances at the bridal couple over each course. The first course was oysters and my brother ordered a bottle of champagne so that we could celebrate “in the same style as our Primo Ministro and Signora Depretis.”

  During the second course, Signora Depretis excused herself and I looked up as she stood. Her face was pale, and she held her hand to her abdomen as if her stomach hurt. Signore Depretis escorted her from the dining room, his own face tight.

  “What is the matter, do you think?” I asked Orazio.

  He shrugged. “Perhaps the oysters.”

  During the rest of my meal, I imagined stomach pains until, feeling nauseous, I excused myself during the fourth course.

  The next day, neither Depretis came to dinner.

  The third day, my lady’s maid, Anita, announced that two men waited in my parlour

  “Where is my brother?” I asked.

  She shook her head, smiling apologetically, “I do not know, Signorina.”

  I hesitated to step into the parlour unchaperoned, so I motioned Anita to accompany me. You must imagine my relief to find my dinner companions, Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes, awaiting me.

  Here, I must pause to give you a word picture of Mr. Holmes. He towered above me, indeed, even among most men his lean figure loomed like a hawk. His dark shaggy brows pulled down in an expression of fixed concentration from the moment I stepped into the parlour and his eyes gleamed with a fire of excitement.

  “How are you, Signorina Grisanti?” he asked in flawless Italian.

  Dr. Watson hung back and watched our conversation with the eager interest of a newspaper reporter, in the scene but not part of it.

  “I am well, thank you, Signore Holmes.” I wondered for a moment if I might ask him for news of Signore and Signora Depretis.

  “The Depretis are dead.” Mr. Holmes said, bluntly.

  I gasped, both at the news and at how easily he read my thoughts. “The oysters?”

  “Their nuptial toast was poisoned.” Mr. Holmes gave me a long searching look. “Do you know where your brother is?”

  “No.” My attention was barely upon him, so horrified was I by the thought of that happy couple murdered. Assassinated.

  “Well then, we shall chat with you while we wait for him, if you do not mind?”

  I shook my head.

  He folded himself into one of the cabin’s chairs. Dr. Watson sat in a chair to the side, holding so still that in my memory he is almost invisible. Mr. Holmes leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees. “Tell me about your approaching nuptials.”

  I blushed and stammered but proceeded to tell him about my recent betrothal to Mr. Boerwinkle and his business arrangements with Papa. About how I was moving to Africa but Papa could not accompany me because he was busy with the upcoming elections helping with the campaign for the Left. I told him about my dress; in other words, I acted every inch the vain, silly girl that I was.

  In the midst of my recitation, Mr. Holmes hesitated and then asked. “May we look at your dowry?”

  “Of course.” I beckoned Anita and she helped the gentlemen unpack the crates of crystal. I hovered, anxious and useless, as they lay the sparkling glass and crystal about the cabin with infinite care. Mr. Holmes stopped to admire an opalescent vase, which my father had made to serve as a centerpiece for our table.

  He glanced at the matched rows of clear stemware and back at the vase. “Did you have only the flutes and the vase in this style of glass?”

  “Yes.” I stepped forward to admire the piece. “No other glassmaker knows how to produce the opalescence and even my father rarely makes it.”

  “Has he produced opalescent stemware, such as the champagne flutes, before?”

  I tilted my head and thought. “Not that I know of, but I am not often in the shop.”

  Mr. Holmes lifted the vase to his nose and, to my bewilderment, sniffed it. “Hmm. No help there. Help me put everything back, would you, Doctor Watson?”

  I was thankful that Dr. Watson looked as baffled as I felt, but he said nothing and simply helped Mr. Holmes repack everything except the vase. Mr. Holmes turned to me and said, “I am sorry for the inconvenience, Signorina Grisanti. Do let me know when your brother returns.” He bowed over my hand and he and Dr. Watson took their leave.

  I stared at the door after them and then picked up the vase and sniffed it. I smelled nothing.

  Some hours later Orazio sauntered into the room. “Well, little Rosa, how do you like your first ocean voyage?”

  “I am frightened. Dottore Watson and Signore Holmes said—”

  He crossed the room in one stride and grabbed my wrists. “What did you tell them?”

  “Nothing!” I twisted in his painful grasp. “I had nothing to say. I do not understand what is happening. Orazio, they said the champagne was poisoned.”

  He dropped my wrists and stepped back, smiling. “Did they now?”

  “How can you smile when the Depretis have been murdered?”

  He laughed. “Why, my dear sister, do you think we are on this boat?”

  The successive shocks I received that night had hardened my nerves, or perhaps I had already begun to accept the truth. With a click, the pieces came together in my head, along with something I had not told Mr. Holmes. I knew how my father made the glass. I could not let Orazio guess at my thoughts and I forced myself to answer him as the foolish girl he thought me to be, “I’m supposed to get married.”

  He turned, smiling, relief written on his face. “Yes, my beautiful Rosa. That is true.” He kissed me on the forehead. “I am exhausted and it is long past time that you retired for the evening.”

  I twisted my fingers together, faint with the awareness of what my brother had done. Had his only target been Signore Depretis, perhaps I would not have felt as horrified, but the memory of Signora Depretis kissing my brother on his cheeks, thanking him for bringing her death, sickened me. The realization that I could, perhaps, have prevented it tore at my soul. “All the excitement has me overwrought. Do you think it would be all right if I walked on deck to cool my head?”

  Orazio squeezed my hands. “I am too tired to escort you.”

  “Anita will serve.” I smiled coquettishly, masking the anguish over what I must do. “Or did you want to dazzle the young ladies yourself?”

  Laughing, my brother kissed my cheeks. “Go on, Rosa, but do not walk too late.”

  I called Anita and we went to the upper decks. You have asked about Mr. Holmes, so I will not trouble you with the thoughts of my long promenade. Know that the night air cooled my fevered temples and gave me the resolution I needed. Anita walked with me through the decks until we arrived at Mr. Holmes’s stateroom. I blushed, thinking of how it looked for an unmarried young woman to seek a man at this hour and then in the next instant I shook my head at my foolishness. What mattered my reputation on such a night as this?

  Still, the sounds of an unearthly violin haunting the night nearly undid me but I gathered my resolve and knocked on the
door. It opened to a cloud of blue-smoke, swirling about like that in the chimney of my father’s furnace.

  “Miss Grisanti?” Dr. Watson seemed so shocked at my appearance that he forgot to speak Italian and his next sentence fell on uncomprehending ears.

  Mr. Holmes tucked his violin under his arm and said in excellent Italian, “Be courteous, Doctor Watson. Signorina Grisanti doesn’t have a word of English. Won’t you come in?”

  I shook my head. “I have come simply to tell you that my brother has returned. He knew the glass was poisoned, and it was the glass, Signore Holmes, not the champagne.”

  Mr. Holmes leaned forward on his toes. My breath caught at his eagerness, but I somehow found the air to continue speaking. “The opalescence is caused by arsenic powder blown with the glass.”

  “In the glass, not on the surface!” He spun happily and pointed his bow at Dr. Watson. “That explains why my tests failed to detect it.”

  I felt close to fainting. “But you surely suspected, else you would not have come to look at my dowry.”

  His bushy eyebrows arched and I blushed under his scrutiny. “Your observation is astute,” he said. “Signore and Signora Depretis’s symptoms began at dinner shortly after their champagne toast. The note of garlic, which Depretis noticed in the champagne, led me to suspect arsenic. The champagne combined with arsenic would have produced arsine gas, which was consistent with the Depretis’s symptoms, but there was no arsenic residue in the bottle, so I turned my attention to the flutes. Your mention of your father’s involvement with politics provided a motive, but I could not deduce the method.”

  Dr. Watson stepped forward, asking. “You must know what this means for your father and your brother?”

  “I do.” I looked down and wrapped my arms about myself, feeling the hard bones of my corset and wishing they could protect me. “My father has chafed against the government since Italy annexed Venezia in 1871 and my rapid engagement to Mister Boerwinkle must be a sham to give us reason to be here. I am certain that Orazio would have presented these flutes at another time, but took the opportunity to discredit the Comazzolo family. I know what is at stake and—” my voice faltered but I drew my head up higher. “I will not be a pawn. Their treachery is dishonorable.”

  From my readings of Dr. Watson’s papers, I suspect this is one of the few times Mr. Holmes was ever taken aback—not at my answers, but that a young girl could have changed so, in the hours since he had interviewed me. “Signorina Grisanti, you are a noble woman. I thank you.”

  “I will walk on deck awhile longer.” I turned to go, conscious that I had betrayed my brother and my father—but had they not betrayed my youthful ideals more? Had they not traded my hope for death? Over my shoulder, I asked, “Will you be able to complete your business before I return?”

  “Yes.” The smoke swirling in the room created the illusion of mist sweeping over his eyes.

  I walked on deck for hours, before returning to my empty cabin. The too-tidy room betrayed signs of a struggle, which some kind soul had neatened. A folded piece of paper waited for me on the table by my lacework. I enclose it now, to complete your record of this remarkable man.

  My dear Signorina Grisanti,

  I applaud the fine intellect that brought you so swiftly to understand the intricacies of the situation. I regret that I have received a telegram indicating your betrothed, Mr. Boerwinkle, is also in league against the current Italian government. With this first step, it seems certain they intended to shift the ruling party of Italia to the Left. Your father and brother have been taken into custody for the assassination and will be duly tried.”

  With these facts, it seems apparent you cannot return home, nor can you continue your voyage. Dr. Watson and I are departing the ship tomorrow and wish to offer you safe conduct.”

  I await your reply,

  Sherlock Holmes

  I wept. I wept for the truth of his words, for the loss of my home, and for the loss of my innocence. I wept till Anita came to me and held me in her arms, singing to me and comforting me for the lost child that I was.

  We departed the ship the next day. On Mr. Holmes’s urging, I changed my name to Eve V--- and I never saw my family again. Until I received your letter, I had seen the name Grisanti only once, in a newspaper report of the arrest and execution of my brother, Orazio Rinaldo Paride Grisanti. I would not read a paper for years after—lest I see a notice of my father’s trial, and know that I had killed him as well.

  Now you have my account to add to the ones Dr. Watson left of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and so, I will close by signing my old name, for the whole affair belongs to a girl much different from me.

  Sincerely yours,

  Rosa Carlotta Silvana Grisanti

  Salt of the Earth

  Melia adjusted Dora’s salt-suit, feeling as if it were futile because the two-year old would have the sweatband off her head the instant Melia’s back was turned. She caught her daughter’s hand reaching for the soft, green mesh. “No. You have to leave that on.”

  Dora twisted away from Melia and pulled the sweatband off. “No.” She threw it on the ground and reached for the high thin turtleneck that caught the sweat from her face.

  Melia’s ex-husband, Theo, leaned against the doorway, waiting to take the children to his house. “Just let her leave it off.”

  “Daddy!” Dora toddled to her father with her arms raised.

  Theo scooped Dora up, ignoring Nikolas, who seemed oblivious as he rocked in place, staring at a sunbeam on the wall.

  Melia’s smile felt tight. “We don’t waste salt.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Melia watched Theo while she checked Nikolas’s salt-suit. Even though he was six, he sometimes took his cues from his little sister. His light mesh suit still covered him from chin to toe, ready to retain any salt if he sweated in the warm New Gaean sun.

  Theo tickled Dora into a trill of laughter. “You’ve got enough salt to spare.”

  Melia picked the sweatband off the floor. “Because we don’t waste it.” She settled the band on Dora’s head.

  Theo bounced Dora on his hip. “You don’t want to wear that do you, A-Dora-ble?”

  “No!”

  They had never agreed on disciplining the children. It was as if Theo took a perverse pleasure in watching Melia undo the damage he caused. Given a choice, she wouldn’t let him take either child, but it was his week for custody. “We reclaim our salt, just like everybody else on New Gaea.”

  “But you’ve got plenty in the ‘Salt Baron’s’ storehouse.”

  Melia held her breath, biting down on the words she wanted to shout. Dad’s salt money had supported Theo for years. Her great-great grandfather’s luck in discovering a salt deposit on this sodium-poor planet had started her family’s fortune, but they retained that money because they weren’t wasteful. She let her breath out slowly. The only way to end an argument with Theo was to relent, to let him think he had won. “Please. It’s important to me.”

  He smiled at her over Dora’s head. “I’ll remember that.”

  Melia turned from his mocking face and knelt in front of Nikolas, inserting herself into her son’s line of sight. “Nikolas? It’s time to go with Daddy.” She looked for a sign of life behind her son’s eyes. “Nikolas?” The rocking slowed a little.

  Theo said, “Just leave him. He won’t even notice when I’m gone.”

  Melia bit the inside of her lip. Theo had never been able to deal with Nikolas’s autism. “If you want me to contact my attorney, I’d be more than happy to make that a permanent arrangement.”

  “I bet you’d like that.” He shifted Dora to his other hip. “Just get him ready.”

  It was probably just as well. She had spent most of the last year getting Nikolas adjusted to the new schedule; he knew that every seventh day he switched between his parent’s houses. Breaking the routine now would upset him. “Nikolas. It’s time to go.”

  His eyes flicked to the clock and then back to the dus
t motes in the sunbeam. He shook his head once, and then began rocking again.

  Melia looked over her shoulder at the clock and sighed. They still had three minutes before the scheduled time.

  “For Pete’s sake.” Theo strode over, still holding Dora. “Nick. Let’s go. Now.”

  “Just give him a minute.”

  “I don’t have time for this.”

  Melia pressed her fingers between her eyebrows, as if that would stop her impending headache. “Please.”

  “Then let’s go.” He reached down and took Nikolas’s hand.

  Nikolas screamed as if the world were ending. He pulled away from Theo, leaning back with his whole body. Theo let go of his hand and Nikolas dropped to the floor, still screaming.

  “Hush, hush.” Melia was by his side in an instant. She watched the tears flow down Nikolas’s face, knowing that the salt in them was lost. Damn Theo. He knew better than to touch Nikolas without warning.

  “Oh for the love of Pete.” Theo pulled a salt candy from his pocket and held it out to his son. “Here. Want a Salti?”

  The screams stopped as if a switch had been thrown. Nikolas took the Salti, and removed the paper wrapper with precise motions. He put the candy into his mouth and folded the wrapper in half, then half again and then dropped it on the floor.

  “Me too, me too.” Dora called.

  “Sure, Adorable.” Theo stripped the paper off one and popped it into his daughter’s mouth.

  Melia picked up the wrapper, and put it in her pocket to drop in the reclaimer later. She got off the floor, feeling every joint ache with sudden weariness. “Don’t give them too many.”

  Theo snorted. “You control them your way, I’ll control them mine.”

  Melia opened her mouth to retort, but Nikolas stood up, abruptly, and went to stand by the door. She looked at the clock. “Time to go.”

  “Well. I wouldn’t want to break his schedule.” Theo stopped by Nikolas and turned to smirk at her. “See you next week.”

  Traffic in Delfie City was crawling. Scattered thunderstorms dumped heavy rain randomly, followed by brilliant blue sky. The few pedestrians had slickers pulled tightly over their salt-suits to keep the salt from washing down the gutters.