The Mirador

by Sarah Monette

  I fought through to the doors and outside, and just when I thought I’d made my escape cleanly, there was a muffled cough at my elbow and I turned to find Lord Philip Lemerius rising from one of the benches.

  I curtsied, cursing him in my heart. “My lord.”

  “Madame Parr,” he said with a stiff little bow. “Will you walk with me?”

  Oh God. I resisted the urge to say, I’d rather fuck a skunk— Corinna’s phrase—and instead dredged up the swan-daughter, the version of myself I’d learned to present to Antony. “Gladly, my lord, although my time is limited.”

  “I know,” he said, offering me his arm. “You go back to your theater now, do you not? I will walk you to whichever gate you like.”

  “Chevalgate, my lord.”

  He nodded, and we turned in that direction. We walked for some time in silence before he said, most uncomfortably, “Madame Parr, will you do me a favor?”

  Swan-daughter, I reminded myself. “I don’t know, my lord. What favor would you ask of me?”

  He did not turn his face toward me, staring straight ahead as if resisting torture. Finally, he said, “My son.”

  “Antony, my lord?” I said sweetly. Even a swan-daughter has weapons. “Or Semper?”

  His teeth clenched. “Semper. I hear that he is now at the Empyrean.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Madame Parr. I do not think acting is a fit profession for him.”

  “No, my lord? Why not?”

  He ignored the question. “If you have any influence with him at all, I ask that you persuade him away from the stage.”

  “And what am I to offer him in its place?”

  “Eh?”

  “What would you have him do instead?”

  “He can come to me. I can find a place for him in my household. ”

  “A noble offer,” I said, and I let myself say it coldly. “It occurs to me to wonder why you have not made it before.”

  “I am not accountable to you for my actions, madame.”

  “No, my lord, of course not. But if you ask me to intercede between you and Semper, then I think you must offer me assurances that I will be doing the right thing.”

  We had reached Chevalgate. I removed my hand from his arm, and we stood facing each other, each aware of the guards not quite out of earshot.

  I was a swan-daughter. I was cold and disapproving and perfectly in control. “I will bear a message, if you wish. I will tell him that you disapprove. More than that I will not do until I have greater faith that concern for Semper is at the bottom of your disapproval.”

  “You are too kind, madame,” he said, with a stiff, jerky bow. I dropped him a form-perfect curtsy and he strode back the way he had come. I stood for a moment where I was, until I realized that I was wrenching my gloves in my hands as if they were some vermin I wanted to kill and made myself stop. I put my gloves back on, smooth and serene, as befitted a swan-daughter, and swept out Chevalgate to find a cab.

  Mildmay

  Felix sent me away the moment court was over. Nothing had changed, and I was glad to get away.

  I’d cleaned up before court in Mehitabel’s old room, since the one thing I figured I could be sure of was she wouldn’t show up there. All her things were gone. It was probably the safest place in the whole fucking Mirador. And there was a bed. But I didn’t want to go back there. I sat on one of the benches outside the Hall of the Chimeras and made a sad, stupid list of all the things I did want to do and how many of them I could manage. Which was none. Flashies and hocuses and servants would go by and look at me, but nobody stopped. Finally I sorted it down again, about the same way I had yesterday. I couldn’t do nothing about Felix. I couldn’t even imagine anything to do. I mean, I tried to pretend I was thinking about going to Fleur or Charles the Dragon or even Isaac Garamond and trying to get them to talk to him or something, but I knew I wasn’t. For one thing, they wouldn’t have listened to me, except maybe for Fleur. And anyway, Felix would have skinned me with a dull knife. I did think, for a little while, about going to Gideon and begging him to come back, but when I looked at it square on, I knew he wouldn’t. If he wouldn’t do it for Felix—and it was pretty fucking obvious he was done doing things for Felix—there was no fucking way he was going to do it for me. And it wouldn’t’ve been right to ask him anyway. I couldn’t drag Felix out of the pit he was in, that was the long and the short of it, not until he asked me to throw him a rope.

  But the bitch of it was that I didn’t seem to be able to do nothing about Jenny, neither. Maurice and Jean-Tigre and Hugo weren’t going to go down the city for me. Brunhilde at Mrs. Fenris’s place wasn’t going to help nobody. I was beginning to think there was something wrong with me.

  And probably there is something wrong with you, Milly-Fox. Nice, normal people don’t go around killing folks for money.

  And wouldn’t that be one of the reasons Maurice and Jean-Tigre and Hugo don’t want to go back down the city—’cause it’s full of guys like you?

  Oh, c’mon, I said to myself, about like I’d said to Jean-Tigre. I don’t do that no more. I quit doing shit like that a long time ago.

  So you think the leopard can change his spots? I actually brought my head up, because it sounded so much like Felix I thought he had to be there with me. But it was only my own head and yet more stupid fucking questions about things I’d done or hadn’t done or should’ve or shouldn’t’ve or Kethe knows what all.

  I put my head in my hands. I felt like driving it straight back against the wall—that at least might shut the questions up—but I didn’t. They’d be waiting when I came round, only I’d have a headache to go with ’em.

  And the point wasn’t me anyway. The point was Jenny, sitting there in the Kennel, not telling the Dogs nothing. And Kolkhis, sitting there in Britomart not telling me nothing. And nothing I could fucking do about it.

  And then I thought about that Brunhilde saying You want to know about her, you get her out of prison and ask her yourself. And, you know, back at the start of this whole fucking mess, I’d sworn I wasn’t going anywhere near the Kennel, but I should’ve known better. Because Jenny was there and like I’d said to Septimus, I had insurance.

  Except—

  “Fuck,” I said, out loud and loud enough that a servant going by just about dropped his broom and dustpan. Of all the people in the world who weren’t going to want to talk to me just now. Powers and saints.

  But finally I said to myself, You can sit here and drive yourself crazy or you can go try. If they say, no, they ain’t gonna listen, well, then you’ll be right where you are except at least you’ll have tried. It’s not like things can get worse.

  That seemed true enough. I hauled myself to my feet and started for Simon and Rinaldo’s suite.

  Mehitabel

  Rehearsal was bad. Not that anything went wrong, exactly, but Drin was stalking around the stage like a tomcat who smells another cat on his turf, and I couldn’t tell whether his black glares were meant for Semper or for Gordeny. Happily, Drin was cast as the villain, so his smoldering malevolence could at least be usefully channeled, but he wasn’t acting, and we all knew it.

  Beyond that, the key scene between Semper and me was limping. It reminded me of a broken vase. We’d try gluing it together one way, and a piece would fall out someplace else. We braced that spot, and a chip leaped out of the rim. We put that back in place, and the shard we’d originally glued fell out. It wasn’t Semper’s fault—his other scenes showed that he was an actor perfectly adequate for the part of Edith Pelpheria’s doomed husband—and it wasn’t my fault. But between us, the thing just wouldn’t jell. Jean-Soleil was all but chewing the flats in exasperation, and he finally had the sense to let us go, turning his attention ferociously on Gordeny and Corinna. I jerked my head at Semper, and we fled to my dressing room.

  “I’m sorry, Madame Parr,” he said, the instant the door was closed behind us. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.”

 
“Don’t apologize, and for God’s sake don’t call me ‘Madame Parr.’ My name’s Mehitabel—Tabby if you find that too cumbersome.”

  He blushed up to the roots of his hair.

  I didn’t sigh, although I felt like it. But I had a duty here, not so much to Semper as to Jean-Soleil, and really not to either of them at all. To Gran’père Mato, who had insisted that all his children and grandchildren and every player who came into the troupe be taught to read so that they could understand the stories they acted out. And to the Empyrean. And to Edith Pelpheria , because it was a wrenching, brilliant play, and if we were going to do it, we had to do it right.

  “Semper?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you understand what that scene is supposed to be doing? ”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Asline Wren put it there for a reason, you know.” What Mildmay called my governess-voice. And I was a good teacher. I’d taught Angora Gauthy how to factor an equation, although it’d taken me the better part of two weeks.

  “Oh.” He frowned, as if that was an entirely new idea. “Then I guess I don’t.”

  “Well, think about it. What do you think it’s there for? And sit down while you’re thinking.”

  He sat obediently, his frown deepening. “I guess maybe that’s why I don’t get it. It doesn’t seem to me like it’s doing anything.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s the only scene with Edith and Merrick together,” he said. “So it seems like maybe it should be showing how much she loves him. But it doesn’t.”

  “No,” I said.

  “But it can’t be showing that she doesn’t love him, because the rest of the play shows that she does. So you’re right, Ma— Mehitabel. I don’t understand it.”

  “Do you know why Edith Pelpheria is such a famous play?”

  “Is it famous? I’d never heard of it.”

  “Bless the boy, is it famous! Yes, it is extremely famous. Edith is considered one of the greatest female tragic roles.”

  “Oh. Father Ulixes doesn’t approve of plays.”

  “That’s his problem,” I said tartly. “The reason that this is considered a great play—and that Edith is so important and so difficult—is the vigil scene in Act Three.”

  “Oh,” Semper said, this time in tones of great enlightenment.

  “That’s where we find out that Edith loves Merrick, and that’s why this scene is important.”

  “I get it! Because it looks like it’s establishing that she doesn’t.”

  “Exactly.” I shut my mouth and let him think about it.

  After a while, when his eyes had refocused on his present surroundings, I said, “Your father asked me to talk to you.”

  The shutters came flipping down across his face with the speed of lightning. “You know my father?”

  “Neither well nor fondly. Nor, ah, intimately.” Semper blushed as he caught my meaning, and I forbore mentioning Antony. “But I promised him I’d tell you he doesn’t approve of you becoming an actor. He says he’ll take you into his household.”

  Semper said nothing, his face bleak.

  I said, “That’s all I promised him.”

  “My mother,” he said after a moment. “She loved him very much. She was always watching for him when she knew he was at Copal Carnifex—and sometimes even when she knew he wasn’t—hoping he’d come by, just to talk or just so she could see him. He never did, not once in seven years. Even when he took me away, he sent his steward to Moldwarp to fetch me. The first time I ever saw him was in the great hall at Copal Carnifex. It’s only about a quarter of the size of the Hall of the Chimeras, I suppose, but the effect is very much the same.” His mouth twisted wryly. “Especially when you’re seven and scared out of your mind. He looked me over and said, ‘I expect you not to shame me at St. Kemplegate.’ That was it. The steward whisked me away. I spent the night in the kitchen with the scullery boys and rode to Shatterglass the next day in the carriage with Lady Beatrice’s dresser and my—and Lord Philip’s valet. They despised me, too.” I saw the moment when his mind caught up with his mouth; that look of stark horror would have been hard to miss.

  I said mildly, “I have no good opinion of Lord Philip to lose.”

  “Thank you,” he said, blushing again.

  “Would you like me to take a message back to Lord Philip?”

  He thought about that carefully. “If I wrote a letter . . .”

  “Yes, of course. I think I’ve even got some sealing wax you can use.”

  His smile was radiant. “That would be splendid. If you’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not at all. Now, mind you, I wouldn’t care to make a habit out of it . . .”

  “No, no, of course not. But just a short letter?”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Make the letter as long as you need.”

  “Thank you, M—Mehitabel. I’ll go write it now. If I give it to you tomorrow, is that all right?” He darted out, barely waiting for my affirmative.

  Something to look forward to, I thought dourly, and went out to tell Jean-Soleil that I thought we had the scene licked.

  Mildmay

  I knocked on Rinaldo and Simon’s door. Rinaldo opened it.

  “You,” he said.

  “Me,” I said. “Just me. I mean, Felix ain’t around the corner or nothing.”

  “That is some comfort. Do you wish to come in?”

  “Not if you’re gonna be giving me the hairy eyeball the whole time. I ain’t responsible for Felix being an asshole.”

  His mouth twitched. “Good point. Come in.”

  Simon and Gideon were sitting by the fire. They both looked nervous when they saw me.

  “Don’t get excited,” I said. “It’s just me.”

  “Where’s Felix?” Simon asked.

  “Fucked if I know.”

  “Get him a chair, Simon,” Rinaldo said behind me. “At least, I assume you’re staying?”

  “Um, yeah, I mean, I . . .” Powers, Milly-Fox, could you sound stupider if you tried?

  “Do you need something, Mildmay?” Simon said, dragging a chair forward.

  “Um, sort of.”

  “Not to do with Felix?”

  “Nah. It’s, um . . . well, it’s about Jenny.”

  “Your friend in the Ebastine,” Rinaldo said.

  “Yeah.” I sat down. “I, um, I think I got to go talk to her. But it’s gonna take some really fast talking, and I . . . well, I could use some backup.”

  “You want me to come with you,” Simon said.

  “Yeah.” I didn’t let myself wince, because I knew better than that, but I was all tied up like a piece of string inside waiting for what he’d say.

  He looked at Gideon, kind of sharp. Then he said, “Gideon wants to know if he can come, too.”

  “You . . . I mean, don’t . . . I mean . . . oh fuck it. Of course you can come. If you want to.”

  Gideon nodded and gave me something that was almost a smile.

  Simon said, “Then I’m in, as well.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Thanks. I’ll, um . . . is tomorrow afternoon okay?”

  Gideon kind of shrugged and nodded at the same time, and I knew what he meant, but Simon made a face. “It’d be better for me to wait a couple days.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Kennel ain’t going no place. I’ll come by when I can get away—you know.” I got up.

  “You don’t have to leave,” Rinaldo said.

  “Yeah, I do,” I said. I didn’t mean to look at Gideon when I said it, but my eyes slid that way anyway.

  “Gideon says he isn’t upset with you for anything,” Simon said.

  “Thanks, Gideon, but I know how Felix would feel about me being here. And, I mean, you can’t exactly want me around. I’ll just go.”

  Rinaldo said, “You said, accurately, that Felix is not your fault.”

  “Yeah, but I got to drag him around after me anyway. I mean, I can’t get rid of the binding-by-forms. I�
�m sorry, Rinaldo. I guess I lied.”

  “No,” Rinaldo said. “But I think I understand how you feel. Go if you think you have to. We will see you tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” I said and left without looking at either Simon or Gideon again.

  Mehitabel

  I heard the knock, but thought nothing of it until Lenore came in and announced, “Lord Felix Harrowgate, miss.”

  Oh hellfire, I thought. I put my book down. “Please, show Lord Felix into the sitting room and tell him to make himself comfortable. I’ll be with him in a moment.”

  I hadn’t been expecting anyone and so had unpinned my braids and taken off my shoes, and I was glad of the time to collect myself. When I came out of my dressing room, I saw, through the open antechamber door, Felix alone in the sitting room and clearly not expecting me yet. He’d sunk into a chair; his left elbow was propped on the chair arm, and his head sagged against that hand as if it were too heavy for him to hold upright. I had a clear, fire-lit view of his profile, his blue eye clouded and all his habitual façades and masquerades dropped. He looked deathly tired. I backed away from the door before he noticed me; I couldn’t deal with that Felix. When I started forward again, I was noisy about it, and by the time I came into the sitting room he was on his feet and smiling.

  “Tabby,” he said, “do I kiss your hand?”

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I hardly think that courtesy necessary among friends.”

  He seemed somehow to brighten. “Do you really think of me as a friend?”

  “Of course I do, sunshine,” I said, and gave him a real smile. “And anyway, at least I know you’re here for me.”

  “I see. Heavy lies the, er—”

  “No, don’t go on from there,” I said, and we both laughed. “Sit down instead and tell me to what I owe the honor.”