Not yet, anyway.
* * *
Two weeks before the New Year, Tess gave her lecture at the Academy.
Josquin lent her his nicest doublet. It was a bit out of fashion (he lamented; Tess, as a Goreddi, had never seen the like) but well made, a deep brown velvet with red satin peeking through slashes in the sleeves. You could get married in a doublet like this. Tess turned her head upside down over a bucket and snipped her hair a little shorter; Josquin wore his long, but Josquin also had a chin beard and a strong jaw.
Josquin clucked his tongue at her, not for roughing up her hair but because she still insisted on going as Tes’puco.
“You don’t understand,” she snapped, tossing her head and looking in the glass. She looked dramatically windblown, which she rather liked. “It’s better to keep pretending to be a man. I’ve been the lone girl among naturalists before. They never took me seriously—or if they pretended to, they were seeking something in return.”
“They aren’t all like that,” Josquin began, but cut off when Tess gave him a look.
“Fine. Say they’re not,” said Tess. “Even so, I’m not outgoing and gregarious like you. Tes’puco is a shield for me to hide behind as I talk. He gives me courage.”
“You might try a glass of wine for that,” Josquin said, picking lint off her sleeve.
“Indeed not,” said Tess, who had her reasons. Impulsively, she reached for his hand and squeezed it. “If I took enough wine to dampen my fears, I’d forget my speech altogether.”
Josquin squeezed her hand back. “I wish I could come with you and be your wine.”
The way he said it filled her heart with exultation, and that was just as good.
He couldn’t come because the first snow had fallen, and his mechanical chair didn’t like to climb the slippery hill. Tess didn’t like it much, either. She hired a young porter with a sledge to haul her props and pictures across town, and she skipped alongside, full of giddiness, kicking clods of snow with her boots.
Unlike St. Bert’s, the Ninysh Academy was not a repurposed church but had been built expressly for the containment of thinkers and their experiments. It boasted a grand odeon and ballroom, laboratories with gleaming soapstone countertops, a library, a menagerie, a cafetorium (providing sustenance for erudite brains), and a smaller odeon for debates (the Argumenterion, some called it, although this was a silly name). A massive dome, pure rationality made manifest in stone, crowned the building. Each of the entrance steps had a scientific virtue inlaid in contrasting marble: REASON, SKEPTICISM, EMPIRICISM, DILIGENCE. They felt like admonitions underfoot; indeed, one could hardly step on such portentous nouns without feeling wholly inadequate.
Tess hesitated at the steps, as had many sensitive souls before, gauging her worthiness to ascend. She squeezed herself to one side and climbed without tripping over any of the words.
With Josquin’s help, she’d prepared drawings and diagrams on large canvases, visible from the back of the amphitheater: a rendition of the map she’d sent to Master Pashfloria, a painting that tried to capture how Anathuthia had glowed in the dark, and a diagram of the chamber complete with made-up dimensions (it might have been a mile deep, mightn’t it? This seemed plausible to Tess, who’d missed any lectures on the importance of accurate measurement and instrumentation). She’d brought the last of the small scales, of course, and a hanging her fellow embroiderers had made for her, depicting the pattern of Anathuthia’s skin in gaudy colors.
Having never given a formal speech before, she’d written it all out and memorized it. She’d taken a few of Josquin’s suggestions to heart, omitting not just Pathka but Frai Moldi and anything that didn’t make it sound like she’d been single-minded in her search for the serpent. It made the story more sharply focused, even if it wasn’t as varied, deep, and true.
Later, Tess couldn’t recall the speech itself, only how her heart palpitated and her armpits grew clammy. Her voice began shakily, then strengthened. She remembered faces in the front row, old philosophers with pointed goatlike beards, an older woman in a diamond-patterned gown that reminded her of scales. She remembered how everyone held their breath at one point, and how the candles of the great chandelier flickered when they collectively exhaled.
She was a trickster-explorer in this story, a latter-day Dozerius hunting the beast with nothing but her native resourcefulness and guile. She’d tracked it across Goredd, deducing correctly that certain large sinkholes might be its handiwork. She’d disguised herself as a road worker to further her research, and met a brilliant geologist who’d given her a missing piece of the puzzle (she was vague about this piece, but definitely said “Nicolas” several times, in hopes of increasing his reputation at the Academy; she’d forgotten that he scorned the institution).
Only when it came time to describe the serpent did she falter, realizing that the moment was still deeply personal even without Moldi, even as Tes’puco. Certainly her chief impression—that she was nothing, and the comfort that had brought her—should have been unutterable at such a philosophical gathering. Her conclusion was the opposite of science, was speculative and subjective and unproved.
Still, she’d told the story with such vigor and enthusiasm to this point that her audience seemed not to mind that she was suddenly at a loss for words. Many had clapped hands to their hearts, moved by her passion. They were with her; they waited.
“There I found it,” Tess said, her voice thick and overawed. “Under the library of Santi Prudia Monastery. And I fell upon my knees and wept.”
The amphitheater erupted into earth-shaking applause.
* * *
She could tell a compelling story, anyway. Only afterward, when the masters of the Academy came to shake hands and congratulate her, when they mentioned her in the same sentence as the luminaries of Ninysh exploration, Nemadeaux and Captain Foille, did it begin to sink in that they’d believed her. Many academics had been skeptical that the southern voyages (such as the one taken by Honorary Master Margarethe, Countess Mardou) would prove fruitful. Now they chattered excitedly. Anathuthia was only the beginning. There were reportedly seven of these creatures, and Ninys could be first to uncover them all.
“Its healing powers alone make it the greatest discovery of our lifetimes, perhaps of the century,” said Master Pashfloria. “Are you excited by the implications, Doctor?”
The doctor he was addressing may have been a saar, because he merely raised an eyebrow. “It remains to be seen—and tested.”
“If we could harness it in some way,” an excitable scholar interjected, “we could—”
“Oh, um. No,” said Tess with some concern. “It’s not the sort of thing one harnesses, gentlemen. It’s a force of nature. One might more easily harness the moon.”
Everyone chuckled at this and let the matter drop.
Only one of the masters, a young pinch-faced fellow called Emmanuele, refused to credit Tess’s story. “Surely we don’t believe this Goreddi? He’s playing us for fools. What kind of name is Tes’puco for a man of science? I smell a fraud, and I’m going to prove it.”
“Do your worst,” said Tess cockily. “The monks of Santi Prudia can corroborate my story. Ask for Frai Moldi or Pater Livian, the abbot. They’ll tell you.”
The abbot might be angry that she’d told, but this wasn’t his secret to keep anymore. She thought Moldi would understand.
“I may do just that,” sneered Emmanuele. He stalked off, pointed elbows jabbing the air.
It was dark by the time Tess went home. She left her illustrations behind, which was just as well. No porter could have kept up with her dancing and cavorting back to Gaida’s.
They’d believed her, felt with her. She could hardly believe it herself.
Tess let herself in and would’ve headed upstairs, if not for the light under Josquin’s door. He was probably reading or writ
ing, but she knocked to see if he needed anything.
She opened the door a crack. He lay in bed, reading by lamplight. “There you are,” he said, looking up from his book. She took that as an invitation to come in. “How was it?”
“Less terrifying than I’d feared,” said Tess, closing the door behind her. She removed his fine doublet and hung it on a low peg near the desk. “Their polar expeditions have come up empty, so I’m the first explorer to find one, Josquin. The very first.” She took a comical bow.
“That must be gratifying,” he said, holding a hand out to her.
She sat beside him on the bed. He wriggled closer to the wall to make room for her. Impulsively, Tess lay beside him on top of the coverlet, her head on his pillow, the way she used to lie beside Jeanne for midnight conferences.
The way she’d cheekily lain down beside Will…It was a position with a mixed history.
She turned to look at Josquin directly, and he was so close. The disarming blue eyes, the tender mouth, the silly red chin beard. She rolled onto her side, touched his cheek, and kissed his forehead. He didn’t recoil from her touch or the kiss, so she went for his mouth next and found it a welcoming harbor.
Reality exceeded all dreams. She felt illuminated.
“I see,” said Josquin when she paused to catch her breath. “It’s like that, is it?”
She answered with more kisses. He smiled against her demanding mouth. “Tess,” he said mushily, then turned his face aside so he might speak: “What are you asking of me, dear?”
She stopped her onslaught and rested her forehead against his. “You know.”
“Yes, but do you?” He took her face in his hands and made her look him in the eye.
“Of course,” said Tess, vibrantly alight, moving in on him again and kissing his fuzzy chin. It was like being drunk, but better, everything sharper instead of dulled.
“Wait, wait. Listen to me, sweet,” said Josquin gently. “You understand, I hope, that I take this rather seriously. If it’s your first time, that’s a responsibility I—”
“It’s not my first time,” said Tess, flushing. She hated confessing it, but could not, in good conscience, let him think her better than she was.
His pale lashes fluttered in confusion. “Your questions the other day, about Rebecca’s herbs, sounded inexperienced to me.”
It was rude to bring his ex-girlfriend into bed. Tess felt the strongbox where she kept her heart closing. She pulled away, and he seemed to glean that there were things she did not care to discuss.
“Maybe I was mistaken,” he said, laying a hand on her forearm, “but you are also ten years younger than me, Tess. If I should hurt you, however inadvertently, your sister—”
“I see,” said Tess, pulling out of his grasp. “You’re not over Seraphina.”
Josquin emitted a short laugh. “Over her? She’s one of my dearest friends. She critiques my poetry better than anyone. Heaven forfend I should get over her! I only meant she’d kill me if I hurt you. She’d hunt me down, and my incapacity would earn me no mercy at her hands.”
Seraphina hadn’t hunted Will down, Tess recalled sourly, after Will had…What he’d done wasn’t the point. Will had hurt her, and nobody had helped. Between him, Seraphina, and Rebecca, there were now far too many people in this bed.
Tess squirmed and rubbed her eyes as if she were tired, so that Josquin wouldn’t see the tears burgeoning there. “This was a mistake,” she said. “You’re right; I’m not ready. I’ve been through a lot. You don’t know the half.”
“You haven’t told me,” he said softly.
“Nor shall I,” she said, turning her back to him. “I thought maybe it was time and I could heal those old hurts. You seemed harmless enough.”
“Harmless?” he cried, and then he grabbed her.
What happened next happened so quickly that for a moment Tess didn’t understand what she’d done. She was on her feet, looking down at Josquin, who was clutching his nose. She’d screamed; she could still hear the echo.
Her body had acted without her. Again. After all her work and diligence, her struggles to keep herself unified, how did this still happen? How could the past keep sneaking up on her like this? She reeled with despair. It was never going to be over.
Now there were footsteps outside, and Gaida arrived in her nightcap and chemise, crying, “Josquin, what have you done to this poor girl?”
“It’s all right, Mother,” said Josquin, his voice nasal. He removed his hand to reveal blood trickling over his upper lip. “I alarmed Tess, but she’s going to fetch me a handkerchief now, and then she’s off to bed.”
Gaida’s eyes flicked from one to the other, as if she couldn’t tell whether the bloody nose was the cause of Tess’s alarm or its effect. “I’ll wait for you outside, Tess,” said the old woman.
“Please don’t,” said Tess, meeting Josquin’s eyes. Stopping his nosebleed wasn’t enough; there was a friendship hemorrhaging, too. This was going to take some time.
Gaida left, muttering. Tess brought Josquin the requested handkerchief and then slipped out to the yard for an icicle. He let her minister to his nose; it didn’t seem broken, which was cold comfort. Tess could hardly grasp what had happened, let alone fathom what to say. She’d rolled onto her side, he’d grabbed her, and she’d panicked, a full-body lightning strike. She’d apparently rammed his nose with the back of her head before leaping out of reach.
“Do you ever feel as if your mind is full of traps?” Josquin said, his voice distressingly nasal.
“Traps?” said Tess, not following.
He closed his eyes, pressing what remained of the icicle against the side of his nose. “Long ago, when I was searching for Ninysh Saints with your sister—the one I’m not over—we spotted the house of St. Blanche the Mechanic across a clearing. We didn’t realize, until we were in the midst of things, that the clearing was anything but clear. Invisible trip wires crisscrossed it, each strung to a trap. Axes and logs swung at our heads, a pit opened beneath my feet, and your sister faced spiders as big as sheep.”
Tess had heard the story from Seraphina, but it had felt like myth, not something that had happened to real people.
“So here’s my theory,” Josquin continued, folding his handkerchief back to find a clean corner. “We booby-trap our heads the same way. The trip wires can’t be seen, even by those of us who strung them, until someone snags a toe and sets off an explosion.
“I think”—he held her gaze significantly—“you and I each set the other one off just now. I’m happy to explain first; I know what happened with me.” He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “You called me ‘harmless,’ but my mind translated it to ‘broken.’ ”
“I didn’t mean it that way,” said Tess hurriedly, although this was a lie. She’d meant it, even if it wasn’t all she’d meant.
Josquin smiled wanly. “The ridiculous thing is, I am harmless. I was harmless before the accident. Ask your sister. I just hate the implication that I am defective and emasculated. That I couldn’t hurt anyone. In that terrible instant, I wanted to remind you that I’m strong enough to harm you if I chose.” His eyes glimmered; the bloody nose hadn’t brought him to tears, but confessing did. “I’m ashamed that I felt the need to show you that. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry,” said Tess, sitting down again. She considered kissing him, but feared bumping his nose. She settled for taking his hand and kissing the knuckles.
He watched her expectantly; it was her turn to help him understand. Her lips quivered. She wasn’t sure what the answer was. That lightning-strike moment—it had been some other moment. Her mind had come unmoored in time, like Griss’s.
“I don’t like being surprised from behind,” she said at last, feebly.
Josquin nodded solemnly. “Lesson learned, believe me.” He extended an arm, inviti
ng Tess to lie down and be held—facing him, or as she preferred. She hesitated, then lowered her head onto the pillow. He pushed himself onto his side and stroked her hair in silence.
She wiped her eyes and sat up. “I should get to bed,” she said dismally. Her Academy talk felt like a million years ago, the exuberant energy all drained from her limbs.
“You could sleep here,” said Josquin. “You don’t have to, but know that you could.”
Tess carefully kissed that fine, gentle mouth again, and took herself upstairs.
A letter arrived from the Academy, inviting Tes’puco the Explorer to a gala reception in his honor, whereupon he would be made an Honorary Master of the Academy.
“Yes, you can borrow my doublet again,” said Josquin before she asked. “You’ll want something nicer than those breeches, which have seen a great deal of road. Mother may have something in storage that fits you. I wasn’t always so thin in the legs.”
Gaida found trunk hose in one of her cedar chests, all the while clucking disapproval. “You might dress properly, child,” she harped after Tess as they came downstairs. “If you tucked your hair under a gabled cap, no one would know you’d chopped it off so dreadfully.”
“Leave her be, Mother,” said Josquin, sampling the stew he was simmering for dinner. “She’s doing what she thinks she must.”
Tess appreciated this, although she suspected he felt the same as his mother. She planted a grateful kiss on his mouth before stopping to think who was watching. Gaida cleared her throat, and Tess backed off, embarrassed. The old woman shook her head as she went back up, muttering, “First a bloody nose, now this. Let me know when you two decide to make sense.”
“We have confused my mother,” said Josquin, pulling Tess nearer until she lost her balance and ended up in his lap. “Yes, the chair can hold us both,” he added, when she looked down at the iron arachnid legs, perturbed.
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