Pantomime

by Laura Lam

  Her ghostly finger touched my face, and then she was gone.

  8

  SPRING: AFTERNOON TEA

  "Under no circumstances should a gentleman and a lady be left unchaperoned. In the presence of a chaperone, a gentleman may kiss the back of a lady's hand. If he is very bold, he may kiss her cheek. Yet the young lady must take heed. No more is considered seemly, and no more may be allowed."

  A YOUNG ELLADAN LADY'S PRIMER,

  Lady Elena Primrose

  The room was full of smiling, laughing people, and all I wanted to do was flee.

  My mother's hand gripped mine like a claw as she steered me forward to our designated snow-white table. On my other side, Cyril wrapped his pinky with mine and squeezed. He winked, and I felt a little better, and better still when I saw Oswin at our table.

  The Hawthornes always held the last social event of the spring season, and it was an afternoon tea, followed by outside games. It was exhausting, having carefully regimented and modulated amusement all day, always taking care to say and act just so, as many eyes were watching. It made me melancholy, as well, for it meant that soon we would be returning to Sicion and its sooty, sandy buildings and ever-present rain.

  The Hawthornes prided themselves on their conservatory. It was large enough to easily host the twenty or so guests, with every wall paned in glass so clear that it would be easy to walk into it by mistake. The house perched on top of a low hill and the view was majestic. The dark conifer trees fell away toward a stream, and jagged snow-topped mountains cut into the sky.

  I sat at our table, taking care to face the window. I felt woefully self-conscious – Mother had forced me to wear a horrible confection of a dress, with froths of white lace and a wide pale-pink sash high around my corseted waist. My auburn hair had been curled and artfully piled on top of my head, Mother had smeared my cheeks with a bit of rouge, and I wore white gloves. Cyril looked very smart in his light brown afternoon suit.

  According to my ghostly reflection in one of the conservatory window panes, the overly feminine clothing emphasized the strong line of my jaw and my square temples. Mother rapped my knuckles when I stooped my shoulders and whispered in my ear to behave myself, disguising the words with a kiss on my cheek, before she went to the adults' table. I fought the urge to stick my tongue out at her retreating back.

  Oswin grinned at me and elbowed me in the side. "You look like a right lady today, Iphigenia."

  "I'd still whip you in a fight and you know it."

  "Don't let your mummy hear you say that," he said, holding his face primly in imitation.

  I glowered at him. Lucy, Oswin's little sister, giggled, covering her face with her hands. A plump, happy girl who was always very taken with me and I with her, Lucy was four years younger than me and was still fond of her porcelain dolls. The other members of our table were Darla Hornbeam, a girl very concerned with her self-importance and close ties to royalty, and her younger brother Damien, whom I liked very much. We were an evenly-matched table of three brothers and three sisters. If I counted as a sister.

  Oswin was spared a rude comment by the arrival of the tea. Each guest had his or her own little ceramic teapot, embossed with a certain type of flower. I had bluebells. Cyril had roses. We had to wait precisely three minutes for the tea to steep while Oswin's mother, Lady Hawthorne, gave a short speech thanking everyone for their attendance and hoping that we would have a pleasant afternoon. We all applauded softly, and then together we poured the tea.

  Lady Hawthorne had spared no expense; it was a fine quality brew from Linde. I breathed in the steam. As we stirred in cold milk and sugar, the serving girls, graceful in their starched aprons and hats, set down the tiered plates of cakes and sandwiches. The plates looked fit to break under the weight of the food.

  A string quartet played blandly appropriate music as we ate. The food was marvelous – sandwiches of the freshest white bread filled with various cheeses, cucumbers, crisp lettuce, salmon, smoked meats, and thinly sliced fruit. My favorite was one with a special ham and melon. All of the produce was grown right on the property. Lady Hawthorne spent as much time in the countryside as she could, though her children and husband spent most of their lives in Sicion and Imachara.

  Snippets of adult conversation carried to our table over the clink of the cutlery. We listened with unabashed curiosity. We were at the age where adult matters shifted from dull to somewhat fascinating. My mother was speaking animatedly with Lady Oak about upcoming events in Sicion and mentioning her excitement at the boutique on Jade Street. My father was speaking to Oswin's father about law, of course. Father liked to speak about law and cigars at these events. It was all quite proper.

  I ate my sandwiches and waited impatiently for everyone to finish and Lady Hawthorne to give her next speech so that we could start on the sweets. They were just sitting there, begging to be tasted, but it would be a breach of etiquette to do so before the speech. Chocolate creams, glacé cherries, caramelized imported bananas from Byssia, hazelnut mousse, cakes fluffy and soft as pillows, feather-light frosting… I could already imagine it melting on my tongue.

  After what felt like an age, the adults had finished their sandwiches, Lady Hawthorne thanked us again for coming, and we were allowed to serve ourselves. I ate my way through half a dozen cakes before my stomach told me enough was enough. I felt a bit guilty when I noticed that Darla, who had not said a word during the tea, had one small candied cherry on her plate, but had not touched it. Too good for sugar. Stuck-up twit.

  After a long hour, we were able to go outside for the games. The adults divided themselves into teams and began to play croquet. The elderly sat on lawn chairs, the women with fans and the men with cigars. Darla Hornbeam hustled over and joined the game, tired of being around us children. Lucy wandered over to her mother, sitting on the lawn and playing with her dolls.

  I did not bother to watch. I cared little for a peel or a scatter shot, a rouquet or a rush. But the "children" had decided to play games of our own.

  Cyril, Oswin, Damien, and I crept into the forest, hoping no one would notice our disappearance. They shouldn't; the adults were too busy with the croquet, and, besides, the sparkling wine had been opened.

  I plucked a sprig of leaves from the tree as I walked, liking their texture. The bottom of my white dress was already specked with mud. Mother would be furious.

  We settled into a clearing. It was an almost perfect circle within the trees, thick with loam and scattered green leaves. A small Penglass dome sprouted at the edge like an over-sized toadstool.

  I walked over and ran my hand over the surface, so smooth it felt wet. I could see shadows and strange shapes through it, barely illuminated by the clearing's light. There were no openings, no cracks, no pits, and no dents. Sparks flashed off the surface in the sunlight, and I drew my hand away.

  Penglass had always interested me, growing up. To my peers, it was like the crumbling ruins of old castles, or the bridge-like buildings over rivers. Something that was once used, but now is defunct, and had always been there. Another form of Vestige. But Penglass was different.

  Penglass was not actually glass, but an unbreakable mystery. "Pen" meant leader in Alder, but my history tutor said it was named after the Peng, a mythical beast from Linde, which is a fish in the water and a bird in the sky, and whose wings were more radiant than the sun and firmament. Penglass was the deepest, purest shade of blue, bluer than sapphires or cobalt. Away from the major cities, there were only occasional small growths. But the cities were riddled with them, some taller than the highest buildings. Humans settled near the larger outcrops because they were by safe ports and provided good shelters from enemies. No one could shoot through Penglass. And nobody knew what was inside. This one or any of them.

  A chill wind picked up in the forest, and I shivered. My heart pattered in my chest, though I was not sure why. We always snuck off after afternoon tea. Perhaps it was because we were all older, but this year I noticed Damien was
rather handsome, with his strong jawline and halflidded eyes.

  Oswin reached into a pocket and produced four cigars, ostensibly nabbed from the adults' box. I widened my eyes. I had never smoked before. I did not expect anyone else in the group had, either.

  "Aren't they going to notice they're missing?" Cyril asked, delightfully scandalized.

  "They don't count," Oswin scoffed. It must be nice to have his parents. My mother would have counted.

  He passed them around. I held mine gingerly. It looked like the body of a dragonfly, and the smell reminded me of my father's study.

  "Is the lady not wishing to smoke?" Oswin teased.

  "Of course I will, you daftie."

  "Genie isn't like the other girls," Damien said. I snuck a look at him and then stared intently at my cigar.

  "Aye, it's almost as if she's one of the boys," Oswin said. Was that a jibe?

  "Don't make me paint you with mud again, Oswin Hawthorne!" I joked to cover the flutter of nerves in my stomach.

  Cyril laughed. "I hope you spirited away a light as well, Oswin."

  "What do you take me for? An amateur?" He took a book of matches from his pocket. He bit the edge of his cigar and spat it onto the ground. We all followed suit. It tasted terrible, and I did not know if I had bitten off too much or too little.

  Even Oswin did not like it. "I would have stolen a cigar cutter, but there's only two."

  Oswin began to light the cigar, self-consciously puffing and rotating it into the flame. It was the first time he had tried, and he was aping his father. He passed the matches around and first Damien and then Cyril lit theirs. I did not want to smoke. It smelled awful, and I did not see the point. But I knew that if I declined, Oswin would tease me for being too feminine.

  And so I lit the cigar. I had to try a couple of times, and I did not think I lit it properly. I inhaled and immediately began to choke. My eyes watered and my lungs were on fire.

  "You're not meant to inhale, you silly girl!" Oswin said. "You're just meant to hold the smoke in your mouth and then blow it out."

  "What's… the… point… in… that?" I gasped in-between chokes.

  Damien laughed and Cyril patted me on the arm.

  When I recovered, we were all silent as we smoked. These were cigars of the finest quality, from Temne, Linde, or Byssia, but I still thought they tasted wretched. The tobacco was strong and overwhelming. I held the smallest amount of smoke in my mouth and blew it out quickly. Mostly I stared at the ember on the tip. It was beautiful, soft and orange as a coal in a fire.

  When the cigars had burned down to stubs, we crushed them beneath our feet. I had the feeling that no one enjoyed them much, even Oswin. My head was swimming a bit from the fumes, and I felt dreadfully thirsty. The smoke seemed like it had permeated every pore and hair follicle. As soon as we returned, our parents would know exactly what we had been doing. We wandered further into the forest and drank water from the stream, lovely and sweet, far nicer than the medicinal taste of the water in the city.

  Cyril decided that we should all play a game before the light dimmed beneath the trees and the adults wondered where their offspring were.

  "Charades?" Damien suggested.

  "We don't have pen and paper, idiot."

  "Statues?" Cyril asked.

  "I hate that game. I always lose," Oswin said.

  "And I always win, which is why I suggested it," Cyril joked.

  I was chosen to be the sculptor, and I posed them all in funny shapes. I made Cyril hold an arm high above his head and stand on a foot, with the other hand posed to make him look as if he were about to pick his nose. In a fit of wickedness, I made Oswin put his head between his knees. His mouth worked furiously as he struggled not to laugh. Whoever laughed or moved first after they had been posed lost, and so I had to pose them very quickly so that there was not too much of a time lapse. I felt very nervous posing Damien. In the end, I made him rest an ear on his shoulder and stuck his arms and legs akimbo, with his feet facing in.

  Oswin laughed first, of course. We played several more rounds and I lost more than half of the time, which was not fair because I wobbled easier due to my slippers, skirts, and corset. Had I been dressed like a man, I would have won, I comforted myself.

  Next, Oswin suggested the game of sardines. Damien was chosen to be the first to hide, and we had to count to one hundred while he hid. I strained my ears and listened to him as he crashed through the undergrowth. I smiled slightly to myself as I counted in time with Cyril and Oswin. My sense of hearing was remarkably good, according to the doctors, along with my sense of smell, touch, and taste, and I rarely fell ill. They believed it was somehow linked with my birth disorder, though they had not come across it in other cases. One, Dr Birchswitch, published a thirty-page article about it, and went on a medical tour around Ellada and the former colonies. Thankfully my parents would not allow him to drag me along with him as his show monkey.

  When we reached one hundred, I opened my eyes. I started walking and Cyril followed me. He knew about my hearing. I raised an eyebrow at him and he reluctantly branched off. I moved as quietly as I could with my silly slippers, and held my skirt high off of the ground.

  I did not know for sure if Damien had come this way. I paused and smiled when I saw a bit of movement: a branch of a bush quivered in front of a hollow tree. No one appeared to have followed me and I heard no other footsteps, and so I moved the bush branch back and grinned at Damien's shocked face.

  "So quickly!" he whispered.

  "You're not very good at hiding. Move over," I replied, and moved into the hollow tree. I crouched awkwardly, and Damien offered me his jacket to sit upon. I smiled at him, and noticed my heartbeat was echoing in my ears again.

  "Do you think the others will find us soon?" he whispered.

  "I don't know. We all went in separate directions."

  "Hope they don't get lost."

  "Oswin probably will. He'd get lost on a straight footpath through the forest."

  Damien chuckled and gave me a considering look. "When did you grow up, Iphigenia?" He was one to talk. He was younger than Cyril, and only a year older than me.

  I mock-scowled at him. "Gene. And I don't know if I would call myself grown."

  "Gene." I liked the sound of my name on his tongue.

  We sat in a tense silence. The hollowed tree smelled of old smoke, damp wood and earth, and it muffled sounds from the outside. Water dripped, and animals occasionally rustled leaves. I breathed in deeply and closed my eyes.

  "What are you thinking about?" Damien asked, still whispering.

  "How much nicer the forest smells compared to the stench of the city."

  "So much better. The air smells so clean. No soot, no coal smoke, no seeping sewage."

  "Mm, can't wait to smell it all again in a few days!" I shocked him into laughter.

  "You are different from other girls."

  "I'm not easily scandalized," was all I could think to say in return.

  Abruptly, he leaned forward and kissed me right on the mouth. I made a muffled squeak behind my closed lips. He broke the kiss, leaned away, and opened his mouth to apologise.

  I did not give him a chance, and boldly kissed him. His lips were a little chapped from the sun, the skin on his chin just beginning to prickle.

  Damien made a small sound in the back of his throat, almost a growl. He pressed himself closer to me and ran his hands over my torso. I could barely feel his hands through the layers of fabric. My stomach twisted. It felt nice, wonderful even, but I knew with certainty that I was not supposed to be doing this. A kiss or two was acceptable. My mother always spouted the virtues of playing difficult to catch, of stringing men along until they could not bear to be without you. She told me that playing difficult to catch was particularly vital for me.

  I'll give it one more minute, and then push him away, I thought, a little woozy with all of the emotions swirling through my mind and body.

  I did not get ano
ther minute. Quick as a snake, his hand worked its way beneath my petticoats and brushed between my legs. Every muscle in his body went still.

  I scrambled away from him, to the opposite side of the tree, careless of the mud splattering my dress. It was too dim to see Damien's face.

  "Please…" I whispered, hoarsely. "I was…born with–"

  "A prick." His voice was flat, surprised and cruel.

  My breath was ragged. "No, I'm a girl. That part, it just, it grew too big. I'm seeing a doctor soon. Please… please…"

  He was utterly silent. I was panting in fear. If he told just one person, the entire secret would be something of the past. I would never find a man to marry me. All would shun me. I would be stuck with Mother forever.

  "Please," I said again, my voice too low for a girl's, too frightened to even articulate the plea properly.