The Year’s Best Science Fiction: Fifth Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  “Clothe me,” Caitlin commands now, standing with her eyes closed in the middle of the kitchen, and I put the glamour on her and her grubby kitchen-gown is transformed by desire and shadow into sea-green velvet and cream lace. She smiles. She opens her eyes, which gleam with joy and the giddiness of transformation. She has taken easily to that rush; she craves it. Already she has forsaken dreams of love for dreams of power.

  “I’m hungry,” she says. “I want to eat before the dance. What was that soup you gave me last night? You must have put wine in it, because it made me drunk. I want more of that.”

  “No food before you dance,” I tell her. “You don’t want to look fat, do you?”

  No chance of that, for this girl who has starved in a meager kitchen all her life; but at the thought of dancing she forgets her hunger and takes a few light steps in anticipation of the music. “Let me stay longer this time—please. Just an hour or two. I never get tired any more.”

  “Midnight,” I tell her flatly. It won’t do to change that part of the story until she knows everything.

  * * *

  So we go to the dance, in a battered carriage made resplendent not by any glamour of mine but by Caitlin’s belief in her own beauty. This, too, she has learned easily; already the spells are more hers than mine, although she doesn’t yet realize it.

  At the gates, Caitlin hands the invitation to the footman. She has grown to relish this moment, the thrill of bending him to her will with a piece of paper, of forcing him to admit someone he suspects—quite rightly—doesn’t belong here. It is very important that she learn to play this game. Later she will learn to win her own invitations, to cajole the powerful into admitting her where, without their permission, she cannot go at all.

  Only tonight it is less simple. The footman glances at the envelope, frowns, says, “I’m sorry, but I can’t admit you.”

  “Can’t admit us?” Caitlin summons the proper frosty indignation, and so I let her keep talking. She needs to learn this, too. “Can’t admit us, with a handwritten note from Lord Gregory?”

  “Just so, mistress. Lady Alison has instructed—”

  “Lady Alison didn’t issue the invitation.”

  The footman coughs, shuffles his feet. “Just so. I have the very strictest instructions—”

  “What does Lord Gregory instruct?”

  “Lord Gregory has not—”

  “Lord Gregory wrote the invitation. Lord Gregory wants us here. If Lord Gregory learned we were denied it would go badly for you, footman.”

  He looks up at us; he looks miserable. “Just so,” he says, sounding wretched.

  “I shall speak to her for you,” I tell him, and Caitlin smiles at me and we are through the gates, passing ornate gardens and high, neat hedges. I lean back in my seat, shaking. Lady Alison is very dangerous, but she has made a blunder. The servant could not possibly refuse her husband’s invitation; all she has done is to warn us. “Be very careful tonight,” I say to Caitlin. “Avoid her.”

  “I’d like to scratch her eyes out! How dare she, that jealous old—”

  “Avoid her, Caitlin! I’ll deal with her. I don’t want to see you anywhere near her.”

  She subsides. Already we can hear music from the great hall, and her eyes brighten as she taps time to the beat.

  The people at the dance are the ones who are always at dances; by now, all of them know her. She excites the men and unnerves the women, and where she passes she leaves a trail of uncomfortable silence, followed by hushed whispers. I strain to hear what they are saying, but catch only the usual comments about her youth, her beauty, her low birth.

  “Is she someone’s illegitimate child, do you think?”

  “A concubine, surely.”

  “She’ll never enter a convent, not that one.”

  “Scheming husband-hunter, and may she find one soon. I don’t want her taking mine.”

  The usual. I catch sight of Lady Alison sitting across the wide room. She studies us with narrowed eyes. One arthritic hand, covered with jeweled rings, taps purposefully on her knee. She sees me watching her and meets my gaze without flinching. She crosses herself.

  I look away, wishing we hadn’t come here. What does she intend to do? I wonder how much she has learned simply by observation, and how much Gregory let slip. I scan the room again and spot him, in a corner, nursing a chalice of wine. He is watching Caitlin as intently as his wife did, but with a different expression.

  And someone else is watching Caitlin, among the many people who glance at her and then warily away: Randolph, Gregory’s young nephew, who is tall and well-formed and pleasant of face. Caitlin looks to me for confirmation and I nod. She smiles at Randolph—that artful smile there has never been need to teach—and he extends a hand to invite her to dance.

  I watch them for a moment, studying how she looks up at him, the angle of her head, the flutter of her lashes. She started with the smile, and I gave her the rest. She has learned her skills well.

  “So,” someone says behind me, “she’s growing accustomed to these late nights.”

  I turn. Lady Alison stands there, unlovely and shrunken, having crossed the room with improbable speed. “Almost as used to them as you,” she says.

  I bow my head, carefully acquiescent. “Or you yourself. Those who would dance in these halls must learn to do without sleep.”

  “Some sleep during the day.” Her mouth twitches. “I am Randolph’s aunt, mistress. While he stays within these walls his care lies in my keeping, even as the care of the girl lies in yours. I will safeguard him however I must.”

  I laugh, the throaty chuckle which thrills Gregory, but my amusement is as much an act as Caitlin’s flirtatiousness. “Against dancing with pretty young women?”

  “Against being alone with those who would entrap him with his own ignorance. He knows much too little of the world; he places more faith in fairy tales than in history, and neither I nor the Church have been able to persuade him to believe in evil. I pray you, by our Lord in heaven and his holy saints, leave this house.”

  “So you requested at the gates.” Her piety nauseates me, as she no doubt intended, and I keep my voice steady only with some effort. “The Lord of this castle is Lord Gregory, Lady Alison, by whose invitation we are here and in whose hospitality we will remain.”

  She grimaces. “I have some small power of my own, although it does not extend to choosing my guests. Pray chaperone your charge.”

  “No need. They are only dancing.” I glance at Caitlin and Randolph, who gaze at each other as raptly as if no one else were in the room. Randolph’s face is silly and soft; Caitlin’s, when I catch a glimpse of it, is soft and ardent. I frown, suddenly uneasy; that look is a bit too sudden and far too unguarded, and may be more than artifice.

  Lady Alison snorts. “Both will want more than dancing presently, I warrant, although they will want different things. Chaperone her—or I will do it for you, less kindly.”

  With that she turns and vanishes into the crowd. I turn back to the young couple, thinking that a chaperone would indeed be wise tonight; but the players have struck up a minuet, and Caitlin and Randolph glide gracefully through steps as intricate and measured as any court intrigue. The dance itself will keep them safe, for a little while.

  Instead I make my way to Gregory, slowly, drifting around knots of people as if I am only surveying the crowd. Alison has positioned herself to watch Caitlin and Randolph, who dip and twirl through the steps of the dance; I hope she won’t notice me talking to her husband.

  “She is very beautiful,” says Gregory softly when I reach his side. “Even lovelier than you, my dear. What a charming couple they make. I would give much to be Randolph, for a few measures of this dance.”

  He thinks he can make me jealous. Were this any other ball I might pretend he had succeeded, but I have no time for games tonight. “Gregory, Alison tried to have us barred at the gate. And she just threatened me.”

  He smiles. “That was fool
ish of her. Also futile.”

  “Granted,” I say, although I suspect Lady Alison has resources of which neither of us are aware. Most wives of the nobility do: faithful servants, devoted priests, networks of spies in kitchens and corridors.

  Gregory reaches out to touch my cheek; I draw away from him, uneasy. Everyone here suspects I am his mistress, but there is little sense in giving them public proof. He laughs gently. “You need not be afraid of her. She loves the boy and wishes only to keep him cloistered in a chapel, with his head buried in scripture. I tell her that is no sport for a young man and certainly no education for a titled lord, who must learn how to resist the blandishments of far more experienced women. So he and our little Caitlin will be merry, and take their lessons from each other, with no one the worse for it. See how they dance together!”

  They dance as I have taught Caitlin she should dance with princes: lingering over the steps, fingertips touching, lips parted and eyes bright. Alison watches them, looking worried, and I cannot help but feel the same way. Caitlin is too obvious, too oblivious; she has grown innocent again, in a mere hour. I remember what Alison said about history, and fairy tales; if Caitlin and Randolph both believe themselves in that same old story, things will go harshly for all of us.

  “Let them be happy together,” Gregory says softly. “They have need of happiness, both of them—Randolph with his father surely dying, and the complexities of power about to bewilder him, and Caitlin soon to learn her true nature. You cannot keep it from her much longer, Juliana. She has changed too much. Let them be happy, for this one night; and let their elders, for once, abandon care and profit from their example.”

  He reaches for my hand again, drawing me closer to him, refusing to let go. His eyes are as bright as Randolph’s; he has had rather too much wine. “Profit from recklessness?” I ask, wrenching my fingers from his fist. Alison has looked away from her nephew and watches us now, expressionless. I hear murmurs around us; a young courtier in purple satin and green hose raises an eyebrow.

  “This is my castle,” Gregory says. “My halls and land, my musicians, my servants and clerics and nobles; my wife. No one can hurt you here, Juliana.”

  “No one save you, my lord. Kindly retain your good sense—”

  “My invitation.” His voice holds little kindness now. “My invitation allowed you entrance, as it has many other times; I provide you with splendor, and fine nourishment, and a training ground for the girl, and I am glad to do so. I am no slave of Alison’s priests, Juliana; I know full well that you are not evil.”

  “Kindly be more quiet and discreet, my lord!” The courtier is carefully ignoring us now, evidently fascinated with a bunch of grapes. Caitlin and Randolph, transfixed by each other, sway in the last steps of the minuet.

  Gregory continues in the same tone, “Of late you have paid far more attention to Caitlin than to me. Even noblemen are human, and can be hurt. Let the young have their pleasures tonight, and let me have mine.”

  I lower my own voice, since he refuses to lower his. “What, in the middle of the ballroom? That would be a fine entertainment for your guests! I will come to you tomorrow—”

  “Tonight,” he says, into the sudden silence of the dance’s end. “Come to me tonight, in the usual chamber—”

  “It is a poor lord who leaves his guests untended,” I tell him sharply, “and a poor teacher who abandons her student. You will excuse me.”

  He reaches for me again, but I slip past his hands and go to find Caitlin, wending my way around gaudily-dressed lords and ladies and squires, catching snippets of gossip and conversation.

  “Did you see them dancing—”

  “So the venison disagreed with me, but thank goodness it was only a trifling ailment—”

  “Penelope’s violet silk! I said, my dear, I simply must have the pattern and wherever did you find that seamstress—”

  “Gregory’s brother in failing health, and the young heir staying here? No uncle can be trusted that far. The boy had best have a quick dagger and watch his back, is what I say.”

  That comment hurries my steps. Gregory’s brother is an obscure duke, but he is a duke nonetheless, and Gregory is next in the line of succession after Randolph. If Randolph is in danger, and Caitlin with him—

  I have been a fool. We should not have come here, and we must leave. I scan the colorful crowd more anxiously than ever for Caitlin, but my fears are groundless; she has found me first, and rushes towards me, radiant. “Oh, godmother—”

  “Caitlin! My dear, listen: you must stay by me—”

  But she hasn’t heard me. “Godmother, he’s so sweet and kind, so sad with his father ill and yet trying to be merry—did you see how he danced? Why does it have to be a prince I love? I don’t care if he’s not a prince, truly I don’t, and just five days ago I scorned that other gawky fellow for not having a title, but he wasn’t nearly as nice—”

  “Caitlin!” Yes, we most assuredly must leave. I lower my voice and take her by the elbow. “Listen to me: many men are nice. If you want a nice man you may marry a blacksmith. I am not training you to be a mere duchess.”

  She grows haughty now. “Duchess sounds quite well enough to me. Lord Gregory is no king.”

  Were we in private I would slap her for that. “No, he isn’t, but he is a grown man and come into his limited power, and so he is still more useful to us than Randolph. Caitlin, we must leave now—”

  “No! We can’t leave; it’s nowhere near midnight. I don’t want to leave. You can’t make me.”

  “I can strip you of your finery right here.”

  “Randolph wouldn’t care.”

  “Everyone else would, and he is outnumbered.”

  “Randolph picks his own companions—”

  “Randolph,” I say, losing all patience, “still picks his pimples. He is a fine young man, Caitlin, but he is young nonetheless. My dear, many more things are happening here tonight than your little romance. I am your magic godmother, and on some subjects you must trust me. We are leaving.”

  “I won’t leave,” she says, raising her chin. “I’ll stay here until after midnight. I don’t care if you turn me into a toad; Randolph will save me, and make me a duchess.”

  “Princesses are safer,” I tell her grimly, not at all sure it’s even true. On the far side of the room I see the courtier in the green hose talking intently to Lady Alison, and a chill cuts through me. Well, he cannot have heard much which isn’t general rumor, and soon we will be in the carriage, and away from all this.

  “Caitlin!” Randolph hurries up to us, as welcoming and guileless as some friendly dog. “Why did you leave me? I didn’t know where you’d gone. Will you dance with me again? Here, some wine if you don’t mind sharing, I thought you’d be thirsty—”

  She takes the goblet and sips, laughing. “Of course I’ll dance with you.”

  I frown at Caitlin and clear my throat. “I regret that she cannot, my lord—”

  “This is my godmother Juliana,” Caitlin cuts in, taking another sip of wine and giving Randolph a dazzling smile, “who worries overmuch about propriety and thinks people will gossip if I dance with you too often.”

  “And so they shall,” he says, bowing and kissing my hand, “because everyone gossips about beauty.” He straightens and smiles down at me, still holding my hand. His cheeks are flushed and his fingers very warm; I can feel the faint, steady throb of his pulse against my skin. What could Caitlin do but melt, in such heat?

  “Randolph!” Two voices, one cry; Alison and Gregory approach us from opposite directions, the sea of guests parting before them.

  Alison, breathless, reaches us a moment before her husband does. “Randolph, my love—the players are going to give us another slow tune, at my request. You’ll dance with your crippled old aunt, won’t you?”

  He bows; he can hardly refuse her. Gregory, standing next to Caitlin, says smoothly, “And I will have the honor of dancing with the young lady, with her kind godmother�
��s assent.”

  It isn’t a petition. I briefly consider feigning illness, but such a ruse would shake Caitlin’s faith in my power and give Gregory the excuse to protest that I must stay here, spend the night and be made comfortable in his household’s care.

  Instead I station myself next to a pillar to watch the dancers. Alison’s lips move as Randolph guides her carefully around the floor. I see her press a small pouch into his hand; he smiles indulgently and puts it in a pocket.

  She is warning him away from Caitlin, then. This dance is maddeningly slow, and far too long; I crane my neck to find Caitlin and Gregory, only to realize that they are about to sweep past me. “Yes, I prefer roses to all other blooms,” Caitlin says lightly. (That too is artifice; she preferred forget-me-nots until I taught her otherwise.)

  So at least one of these conversations is insignificant, and Caitlin safe. Alison and Randolph, meanwhile, glare at each other; she is trying to give him something on a chain, and he is refusing it. They pass me, but say nothing; Caitlin and Gregory go by again a moment later. “Left left right, left left right,” he tells her, before they are past my hearing, “it is a pleasing pattern and very fashionable; you must try it.”

  A new court dance, no doubt. This old one ends at last and I dart for Caitlin, only to be halted by a group of rowdy acrobats who have just burst into the hall. “Your pleasure!” they cry, doing flips and twists in front of me as the crowd laughs and gathers to watch them. “Your entertainment, your dancing hearts!” I try to go around them, but find myself blocked by a motley-clad clown juggling pewter goblets. “Hey! We’ll make you merry, at the generous lord’s invitation we’ll woo you, we’ll win you—”

  You’ll distract us, I think—but from what? I manage to circle the juggler, but there is no sign of Caitlin or Randolph. Gregory seems likewise to have disappeared.

  Alison is all too evident, however. “Where are they? What have you done with them?” She stands in front of me, her hands clenched on the fine silk of her skirt. “I turned away from Randolph for a mere moment to answer a servant’s question, and when I looked back he was gone—”