The Sorcerer’s Wife

by Dolamore, Jaclyn

  She must focus on Irik so this moment could end. She tried to project calm into the girl’s mind.

  Irik settled onto the floor and lowered her head. Her eyes seemed sad. For a moment, nothing—

  Then her sleek spotted limbs began, once again, to change. She rolled onto her side, flailing, making a few grunts of pain. Velsa could feel a remnant of this pain as she tried to soothe Irik. The shifting hurt; every bone and muscle in Irik’s body had to rush through a violent transformation. Velsa struggled not to feel repulsed when she sensed Irik’s changing flesh. Velsa was always both attracted to and disturbed by living people, with all their fluids and the constant activity of their organs, their shocking capacity for pain. She tried to block the pain from Irik’s mind as best she could, but this was a job for a trained healer, someone who understood every complex part of the living body. Velsa was far from that.

  The grunts softened into sobs as Irik’s voice changed to that of a girl. Once again, she was left drenched in sweat and naked under the table.

  This time the Peacock General gave her his own cloak. “You did very well,” he said, smoothing a hand over her sweaty forehead.

  “It hurts…” Irik said, her fingernails scraping the floor. “Calban, please…please….the medicine…”

  “You don’t need the medicine. Take a deep breath.” Calban inhaled deeply, encouraging Irik to calm her breath. She followed along with him, closing her eyes.

  Velsa wished someone would dismiss her, now that the thing was done. The nature of Calban and Irik’s relationship was difficult to read—one minute she thought Irik was his prisoner, and the next she wasn’t sure. But she certainly didn’t want to be involved.

  Calban slowly helped Irik to her feet. She was shaky, and glanced at Velsa but just as quickly looked away again. She seemed deeply embarrassed by all this.

  After this brief hesitation, she lowered her head toward Velsa. “Thank you,” she said. “You helped me very much. I am still struggling to master this magic, and when I allow the leopard to take over she becomes very frightened inside me.”

  “You’re welcome,” Velsa said, a little confused by this description. Was there actually an animal’s spirit inside of Irik? But then, her grasp of the language seemed imperfect. She had surely been taught in one day by a telepath.

  Irik straightened, gathered her cloak around her face and stalked to the door, hiding her embarrassment behind her regal air.

  “You did well, Velsa,” the Peacock General said. “Thank you for your assistance.” He followed Irik to the door, as Lisandra let the guests back inside.

  But Velsa could not help but feel that the purpose of the party and the entire display had been to test her, the same way the General had burned Grau’s hands.

  Chapter 6

  Two days later, the sound of a grumbling, sputtering engine drew Sorla straight to the apartment window.

  “It’s a horseless carriage!” she exclaimed.

  Velsa was beside her in another second. They both watched in silent fascination as the vehicle pulled up in front of the building, with Parsons at the wheel. Sorla’s mouth was actually hanging open. There was something so brisk and accomplished about Parsons operating the machine. Velsa sometimes yearned for another life in an abstract way. She had never felt the piercing jealousy that swept over her now.

  “Who is that?” Sorla whispered. “Isn’t she a Fanarlem?”

  “Parsons,” Velsa said. “The one I was telling you about.”

  “She moves like a real girl,” Sorla said.

  Velsa frowned slightly. “I don’t move like a real girl?”

  “Well…sure, I suppose you do…”

  Watching Parsons, Velsa realized the difference. Velsa’s movements looked normal, but she never moved quickly unless she had to. She was used to taking care not to jar her bones, because over the years wooden skeletons would crack under the strain of too much running and jumping, and her slender ribs were particularly fragile so she never leaned on them. All the concubines at the House had lessons on moving gracefully so their lack of agility looked like it was on purpose.

  “It’s because of her aluminum skeleton,” Velsa said.

  Sorla looked at her frankly, and Velsa felt as if she was not fooled.

  Parsons leaned on the door of the horseless carriage, threw her cap onto the seat, and hopped up onto the curb with a careless ease Velsa had never displayed in all her life. She glanced up at the apartment building, smoothed her dress, and headed into the vestibule.

  Velsa answered Parsons’ knock a moment later.

  “Hello,” Parsons said. She had the unexpected accessory of a black rat perched on her shoulder, sniffing the air, but otherwise she was dressed almost the same as at the party. Her dress was simple gray cotton, fitted at the bodice and full in the knee-length skirt, with white collar and cuffs, paired with black stockings and button-up boots. “I wanted to let you know that the skeleton is ready whenever you are.”

  “The skeleton?” Sorla asked. “You’re getting an aluminum skeleton, too?”

  “Yes,” Parsons said.

  “Oh,” Sorla said, and for the first time, Velsa felt a clear pang of envy brush off of the girl.

  “Once Grau and I can acquire you outright, we’ll get you fitted with my old skeleton,” Velsa said, but she couldn’t blame Sorla if this didn’t feel like enough. She knew all too well that when someone else owned you and was able to choose which kindnesses they could afford to give you, even being granted every heart’s desire was bittersweet. She glanced at Parsons. “I’m ready any time.”

  “Then, come with me.”

  Velsa put her cloak on. She fished a few small coins out of her pocket. “Sorla, why don’t you treat yourself to some hair ornaments or something.”

  Sorla blinked at the money and looked at Velsa. Her eyes—the only part of her that looked as real as Velsa—were deep, but Velsa wasn’t picking up the slightest emotion from her. “Thank you, miss,” she said.

  “You dote on your servants, don’t you,” Parsons observed as they walked back down the stairs. As if Velsa had more than one. “Hair ornaments won’t do her any good. She needs a new head first. I couldn’t stand to look at that every day.”

  “She’s my only servant,” Velsa said, bristling. “And she’s a very good one. I can’t afford to get her a new head yet…but everyone likes to have nice things.”

  “All I’m saying is that you should save money on hair ornaments until she has the right head to put them on,” Parsons said. “All my Fanarlem servants are very well outfitted. Fanarlem like that are unbearably dated.”

  She replaced her cap and coat, her rat now peering out between her lapels, and climbed back into the driver’s seat. She pulled on little black gloves. Velsa sat beside her on a seat of upholstered black leather, with a little thrill of anticipation as Parsons started the engine. The interior had a variety of knobs and dials, some of them with rows of unfamiliar letters or symbols.

  Parsons noticed her interest. “You’ve never been in an automobile before, have you?”

  “No.”

  “There are only about a hundred of them in the city,” Parsons said, raising her voice over the sound of the engine. “But they’re working on factories that can produce them quickly. So before long you’ll be sick of them.”

  Parsons turned the wooden wheel and the automobile quickly picked up speed so the winter cold tore at their hair. Certainly Velsa had known other Fanarlem prettier than Parsons, but never one who looked so in charge. She surveyed the road ahead with an imperious expression and when a young boy started to step into the road ahead of them Parsons mashed furiously on a button to blow a horn.

  Velsa wasn’t sure she actually liked Parsons; in fact being around her made Velsa feel like an utter nobody. Was there anything in the world she might say that Parsons would find impressive? She had a feeling not.

  Parsons drove just outside the walls, to a neighborhood of mansions running up a hill t
hat overlooked the back of the palace. This almost gave the impression that the people living in these mansions were more important than Kalan Jherin himself. The houses were like smaller versions of the palace, with towers of their own, and driveways that circled around dainty landscaping. Where Velsa had grown up, in Nisa, not even the richest families in town had homes as large as these. A hundred people might have lived in each of them, and still they would not be as crowded as a slum.

  The automobile was so speedy that the trip was over in a blink. Parsons pulled into a carriage house and shut the automobile off.

  “C’mon,” she said, offering Velsa no time to linger on the other automobile parked within, or the many objects that caught her eye: some sort of calendar with unfamiliar dates and an array of tools and canisters of fluid that must be for working on the automobiles.

  Inside, it was the same story. Parsons shot right for the stairs, brushing off a maid who asked if she needed anything, so Velsa had barely a peek at the elegant rooms beyond. She glimpsed rugs and shelves of books and fanciful light fixtures, framed paintings and upholstered furniture—she could hardly imagine the price of all this. The sheer amount of color and materials used in the house were staggering. Velsa lived in a world of common, sturdy objects and a few bits of decoration. To adorn rooms with so much glass, so much delicate fabric and gilt and paint, seemed a great indulgence.

  At the end of a long hall on the third floor, Parsons shoved open the door to a messy workshop. Velsa’s eyes hardly knew where to go. In one corner was a large phonograph with another one dismantled beside it. Models of flying structures hung from the ceiling. Books stained with grease were stacked or left half-open. Velsa hardly knew what half of these small machines and devices were.

  A slender metal skeleton was laid out on a large work table. It must be intended for her.

  Parsons slipped her rat back into its cage, which was stacked atop a larger glass case holding a snake. Glancing around, Velsa noticed a photograph of a little girl sitting on a woman’s lap. The little girl was flesh and blood and yet she still deeply resembled Parsons, with her dark eyes and side-swept bangs. The woman had an unruly mane of hair, dark circles under her eyes, and a bright, warm smile.

  Parsons stood up, now holding a large furry spider—Velsa had not even noticed the smallest cage. Parsons’ eyes immediately darkened when she noticed what Velsa was looking at. “Shall we begin? I don’t have all day.”

  “Of course, I was just leaving you alone while you got your pets arranged…”

  The spider was climbing up Parsons’ arm and Velsa didn’t want to take her eyes off of it. She didn’t trust tiny creatures with lots of legs. Her innards had a spell cast on it to repel them, but she’d heard horror stories of centipedes crawling between stitches and moths infesting wool stuffing.

  “Are you going to be the one to make the switch?” Velsa asked.

  “Yes, I thought you’d rather have me than Papa since it is a rather indecorous procedure.”

  “That’s true,” Velsa said, although in some ways she would have rather had kindly, absent-minded Trosiran Belvray see her naked than his intimidating daughter.

  “What order do you prefer things to be done in?” Parsons asked.

  “I’ve never had my skeleton swapped but not my skin…”

  A Fanarlem’s soul was held in their eyes, so when Velsa grew into larger bodies, her eyes were quickly plucked from her old body and placed in another. In this case, all of her skin and stuffing would have to be cut away and sewn onto the new frame, including her head.

  Maybe she shouldn’t have agreed to this.

  “I’m quick,” Parsons said. “It’s not that bad. I could give you a spell to knock you out for a bit while I get started.”

  Velsa hesitated. “Do you…need to have that spider with you while you work?”

  “You aren’t afraid of it, are you?” Parsons gave Velsa a look as if she had just proved herself to be completely disappointing. “What, you think it’ll bite you? Crawl inside you unnoticed? It’s much too large for that.”

  “That’s…true.”

  Parsons sighed. “Lie down. I’ll give you the spell. It’ll put you out for ten minutes and by then I’ll have your face and torso in place.”

  “No,” Velsa said. “I don’t need the spell. I want to know how these things are done.” She had some—probably futile—desire to impress Parsons.

  “Well…all right, then. Just lie down.”

  Velsa climbed onto the table and almost as soon as she put her head down, Parsons loomed over her with a dropper. “Keep your eyes open.” She dropped potion on Velsa’s eyes and pulled them from the sockets, detaching Velsa from her body.

  Velsa had not wanted Parsons to know how terrifying she found this sensation; to go from an almost-real person to a bodiless ghost in an instant. She could see but her eyes had no control, they rolled in Parsons’ hand until Parsons put them down on a hard surface. Somehow she could hear, too, but that was the end of it. She had no voice, no body. She did have telekinesis but it was hard to gain any control around her panic. Her limbs seemed to quiver, but that was only a memory.

  She heard a tiny little snipping sound of threads being cut. Parsons must be swapping her face. There was a seam around her hairline and another around her chin, both of them normally undetectable to eyes and touch, due to the many spells cast upon her face. She wouldn’t have even known how her face attached to her skull except for the books she had read about how Fanarlem were made.

  A smaller sound followed, of thread pulled through fabric. The rattling of potion bottles. And then Parsons picked Velsa’s eyes up and put them back into her face, but now her head was attached to the aluminum skeleton. Parsons threw a blanket over her but Velsa could still feel her new skeleton, bare metal bones laying hard against the table. She flexed her spine gently and immediately felt that this body moved more smoothly than her old one.

  “I should have asked you to take off your clothes first,” Parsons said. “Would have saved time. Sorry for the indignity.” She unfastened the clasps of Velsa’s tunic, which now clothed a faceless body.

  “It’s…fine.” Velsa stared at the ceiling. Having her body worked on always unsettled her; it broke the illusion that she looked and felt almost like a flesh and blood person.

  At the same time, she was the tiniest bit enthralled for the same reasons she was unsettled. She had grown much more comfortable with her body than she used to be, as she read more about her own kind and better understood her construction. And Grau never tried to pretend she was anything other than herself; he seemed to treasure what she actually was, to the point where he bought her dresses without considering that she might not want the whole world to stare at her stitches.

  Parsons carefully cut the seams of Velsa’s old torso. “When did you become a Fanarlem?” she asked.

  “I was two,” Velsa said.

  “So you probably don’t even remember anything else, do you?”

  “No…”

  Parsons did. Velsa knew the photograph on the table must be of her. But the other girl volunteered nothing, and Velsa didn’t ask.

  “How long have you been married?” Parsons asked.

  “Since the beginning of November.”

  “Not long, then.”

  “It feels longer, though. It feels like I’ve known him forever.”

  “Paugh, no gushy talk, please. I’m not interested in romance, I am far too busy. I just wondered. Most men aren’t very interested in Fanarlem girls and the ones that are, well, they’re usually creepy about it.”

  “That’s certainly true,” Velsa agreed.

  “Sometimes when I go out men think I’m a concubine.” Parsons spoke with such disgust that Velsa’s mind briefly blanked. “Especially in Atlantis, where they don’t know my father like they do here. It’s appalling that there are so many fools in the world who don’t stop to remind themselves that not all Fanarlem were born that way.” She lifted the blanke
t over Velsa’s body to stuff her ribcage with wool, adding a little extra.

  Parsons was clearly an expert with stuffing. She threw out some of Velsa’s and replaced it with new pieces that were deliberately shaped like musculature, securing them with a few stitches or a bit of glue in strategic places, so that when the skin was sewed back around stuffing and bone, Velsa’s innards felt more secure than before. Tiny auto-needles, which wove in and out of the seams guided by magic, made quick work of replacing Velsa’s skin.

  “Who made you this way?” Parsons asked.

  “What way?”

  “So…pretty. People must mistake you for Grau’s concubine all the time.”

  Did Parsons guess the truth about her? “Well—my father had to go to a concubine maker, of course.”

  “Your mother is dead?”

  “Both my parents are, now.”

  “How unusual…”

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” Velsa said, borrowing a page from Parsons’ own book. “I don’t think you want to talk about how you became a Fanarlem either.”

  “I don’t mind,” Parsons said, in an almost bored tone. “Everyone knows the story already. My mother was killed in a boiler explosion. Almost everyone in the shop that day was killed. I almost died too but I was saved this way.”

  Velsa’s fictional story was uncomfortably close to Parsons’ real one: an accident that killed her mother and would have killed her too. When, truly, Velsa knew nothing of having a mother or a flesh and blood body. She felt like an impostor to say even the slightest word of sympathy, as if they knew the same pain.

  “You’re done.” Parsons tossed Velsa her chemise. “And you wanted to save your old skeleton for your servant girl, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I might have a better face for her.” Parsons dragged a box out from under a table while Velsa slipped on her clothes. The increased strength and lighter weight of her new skeleton was immediately apparent. Now she felt almost like she could jump without thinking twice.

  Parsons handed her a head with real hair. Velsa couldn’t tell what the face looked like, all folded up, but certainly the hair alone suggested quality. “Try that with a cheap illusion spell. It’ll be a big improvement.”