Pantomime

by Laura Lam

  "Genie!" he said, grinning.

  "Don't call me Genie," I said automatically, crossing into the room that was as masculine as it was possible for a room to be. The air smelled of musty books, the acrid tang of old smoke and the orange oil used to treat the furniture. Everything was maroon, hunter green, and brown.

  I collapsed into a leather armchair without ceremony, sprawling across it as they did. My cream and pale blue lace contrasted with their dark city suits. And though I had often joined in when Cyril had his friends over, it felt different this time, much like when we had smoked cigars in the woods, as though they were all growing closer and I was only growing further apart. An invisible barrier of age and propriety had come between us.

  "How are you boys?" I asked.

  "Well and good, Iffygenial," Rojer said. He never, ever pronounced my name properly.

  "For the hundredth thousandth time – I'm Gene," I said, as I always did. It was a game, though I grew tired of it. I never felt as though they took me seriously, if they could not even pronounce my name properly.

  "What were you speaking about?" I asked.

  "Dull political stuff," Cyril said wearily. "We're supposed to be studying for our exam tomorrow. We were doing all right until you interrupted us." He wrinkled his nose at me to show he was not truly upset.

  "What sort of political stuff? Maybe I can help."

  "What do you know of politics, Genie?" Oswin asked.

  "Lord's teeth – it's Gene. More than you, I'm sure. I'd be very surprised if you've ever stayed awake through an entire lecture about Elladan history or politics."

  "I'm sure I must have stayed awake through one. Possibly." Oswin thought. "Maybe not."

  "I'm shocked."

  "Come now, we should really study at least a little more," Cyril said, dragging the open book beside him on the sofa into his lap. "I'll ask you each a few more questions and then we can take a proper break."

  "All right," Oswin sighed. Rojer settled into his chair, blinking as though he were already struggling to stay awake.

  Cyril squinted at the book. "When will the Princess Royal come of age and become queen?"

  "That's easy," Rojer said. "You should try a little harder to stump us. She will come of age when she is sixteen and have the full responsibilities of the monarchy," he intoned, as if from memory.

  "How are decisions made now?" Cyril asked.

  "Through the steward," Rojer said, bored.

  "Only the steward?" Cyril pressed.

  "Mainly, I think."

  "Wrong!" Cyril said, gleeful. "Decisions are put to vote in the council, but the steward has the final say with the power to veto decisions."

  "You're asking boring questions," I said. "Give me the book."

  Cyril clutched it protectively. "I'm asking the questions."

  "What? Afraid you'll be wrong if you're put to the test?"

  "Give the book to Gene, Cyril. Let's see what you're made of."

  I beamed at Oswin. He had called me Gene. Cyril gave me the book.

  "So," I said. "What date, exactly, did the Colonies last secede from the empire?"

  "The year?" Cyril asked.

  "Exact date, I said. Are you deaf?"

  "Easy," Rojer said. "The first day of autumn, 10822. Everyone knows that one."

  "Not everyone. Oswin didn't. What were the reasons that Ellada became the head of the Archipelago Empire in 10353?"

  "Lord and Lady, boring," Oswin said. "We had most of the Vestige weapons. The Colonies didn't have as many and the ones they had were often damaged by damp."

  The history was more complicated than Oswin made it seem. Ellada constantly needed more water from the mountains. We would soon need more food than the farm island of Girit could provide. We needed nearly all of our fuel from Kymri, which kept creeping its prices higher. We needed more than the colonies wanted to give. Only the inflated prices we were willing to pay kept them selling.

  For a long time, there had been too many people for the small amounts of land. Supposedly there had once been much more land, vast stretches where one could travel for months and still not reach the other end. Now as far as we knew there were a handful of islands still above the water's edge, and all else had been sunk, still below the waves. Explorers who set out to sail the world's circumference never returned. I would like to think that they found large, wonderful places to live, but they probably perished.

  I had read a few books on economy, much to Mother's disapproval and Father's quiet sanction. Ellada had managed to gather so much power, not due to natural resources, but because there was a higher concentration of Vestige weapons.

  Over the past centuries, we had fought countless wars that always resulted in the same cycle – we would conquer and use our opponents' lands for their resources, they would grow increasingly hostile to us stripping their lands free of crop and mineral, they would rebel and secede, we would conquer them again.

  If I were actually an outside observer, I would find this period in history fascinating. For the past two centuries, Ellada had tried peaceful negotiations with Kymri, Linde, Northern and Southern Temne, and Byssia, spending the money to trade for goods rather than pouring the coin into the war effort. People had begun to immigrate and emigrate to and from different lands, mingling with the natives of each.

  But relations as of late had become strained. If something did not change so that Ellada had what it needed, war would break out again, and it would be messy. Cyril and I recently had several impassioned discussions, naively proposing different solutions, convinced that we, young children, could solve the problems of the land that the men in wigs in the council could not.

  "Next question, Gene," Cyril said, shocking me from my musings.

  "Ah, right. What is the current political system of Temne?"

  "That's a trick question," Cyril said. "Northern or Southern Temne?"

  "Both."

  "Northern Temne is a democracy and Southern Temne… um," Cyril faltered.

  "Southern Temne is also a democracy, you nitwit, though their leader has more power than Northern Temne," Oswin cut in. "Remember what Professor Holly said? 'The south has power and pomp.'"

  "Well done," I said, setting the book aside. "You're all set to pass. Now what?"

  "I think we deserve cake," Cyril declared.

  "I agree," I said. "I'll go ask the cook."

  I scurried to the kitchen and asked Vach, the cook, for tea and any cake or biscuits that were lying around. He brought out most of a sponge cake that had been prepared for Mother's visitors the previous day, and filled the silver tea set.

  "Lia will bring it up," Vach said. "Run along."

  "Thank you, Vach," I said.

  I returned to the study. Cyril, Oswin, and Rojer were discussing sports. Not terribly interesting, but I joined in where I could. I relaxed into my chair, the heavy book of history by my side. We laughed, and we joked, and we ate cakes and sipped our drinks. It was like a very informal afternoon tea.

  Mother walked past the door and paused in the open doorway. Our laughter and chatter drifted to silence. She looked at my stocking-clad feet dangling over the arm of the leather chaise, the lace of the skirt hiked up enough to show my legs midway up the calf. She took in the empty tea cups and the crumbs on the table. I pushed my skirt down and scooted off of the chaise.

  "What are you boys up to this afternoon?" Mother asked, smiling sweetly.

  "Just studying, Mother," Cyril said. "Gene was testing us."

  "Oh? And how did you fare?"

  "They did very well," I said.

  "That's wonderful. Oh, Iphigenia," she said, as if she had just remembered something. "How was that embroidery you were working on coming along? You did promise to show it to me this evening, did you not?"

  "It's nearly done." I muttered, a faint blush creeping into my cheeks. Oswin was undoubtedly stifling a snigger behind me.

  "Why don't you run along and finish, darling?"

  My teeth squeaked
together, I ground them so hard. "Of course, Mother," I said. "Good day, Oswin, Rojer," I gave them a little curtsey and left.

  My embroidery lay on the bed where I had left it. I had tried stitching a dandelion, which had turned out rather lopsided. I spent the afternoon cutting each stitch out of the fabric, one by one.

  "Let's go climbing," Cyril said to me that night.

  "What? Now?"

  "Yes. I need to get out and breathe, and you always say I should ask you to come along. This is me, asking."

  "All right," I said, and we changed into the threadbare clothes we wore in the Emerald Bowl, where the family estates were. I tucked my long hair up into a cap.

  We snuck past the servants and down the stairs. One of our neighbors, Lady Elm, was in the hallway as we passed, but did not really see us. We were just two scruffy kitchen hands, or not-too-sooty chimney sweeps. Beneath notice.

  We slipped out of the servants' entrance. The night was warmer than it had been, but still a bit chilly. I gestured for Cyril to follow me as I navigated my way through the familiar streets.

  I wanted to take Cyril to my favorite place to climb; a tenement in a nice part of the Gilt Quarter. The building had suffered structural damage and repairs had so far taken most of a year with no near end in sight. The tenement was right next to a large Penglass dome. Residences that faced the Penglass were especially dear, as, though the view of the Emerald Park was obscured, on a sunny day the rooms were bathed in swirling blue light.

  I tried to climb as often as I could get away or as often as I felt the need to escape. Climbing made me feel in control. I could decide how high to climb and I was never afraid to look down. At the top of a building or a church spire, my day-to-day troubles felt insignificant. Below me stretched buildings and Penglass as far as the eye could see, and any people walking below were as small as ants. They never looked upward.

  I climbed the scaffolding. The sun was setting, tingeing everything the pink and purple of growing dusk. The blue light of the Penglass shone against the sandy stone. I stopped and looked down. Cyril had hesitated at the bottom, but he grasped the metal and followed me, his face determined. I smiled and stopped at the fifth story.

  The top of the Penglass dome was close enough that I could step across to it, and I did, very carefully. Penglass was notoriously slippery.

  "What are you doing, Gene? That's so dangerous," Cyril called quietly, mindful of the curtained windows behind him. We were careful to not climb directly in front of any windows. A human-shaped shadow would frighten anyone inside terribly, and many inside carried firearms against intruders.

  "Don't be a baby. Just be careful," I said. Cyril took a deep breath and stepped onto the Penglass dome, his fingers pressed white against the cerulean glass. He carefully navigated his way and sat beside me, just in time to see the sun disappear over the horizon. This was arguably the best view of the city. The Penglass dome crested a hill, and below us was the green island of the Emerald Park, the sooty buildings and the church spires falling away toward the open sea and the sunset. Clouds darkened to grey, like charcoal smudges on a watercolor painting.

  The purple of dusk faded to the bright yet dark blue of early night. I sighed, content in the moment.

  "Um, Gene?" Cyril asked.

  "What is it?" I said, almost dreamily, still staring at the horizon and the half-moon.

  "Look at your hands." His voice was frightened.

  I looked down and was so startled I nearly fell off of the Penglass dome. Where my hands rested against the dome, the glass glowed.

  I snatched my hands away from the glass. The outline of my hands remained, in a white light tinged with blue, purple, and green. It looked incandescent, almost like when the sunlight hit a crystal or a dragonfly's wing. Cyril's hands did not change the glass at all.

  "What is this?" I asked.

  Cyril's wide eyes were my only response.

  "Maybe we should go. What if it's going to explode?"

  Cyril shook his head. "I don't think so." He trailed his fingers against the glass. Nothing. No light at all.

  My handprints began to fade, the light dimming to dark blue.

  "Try it again," Cyril urged.

  I stretched my hand toward the glass, my fingertip hovering above the glass before I set it down. Light radiated from the single point. I glanced at the curtained windows of the tenements, afraid that someone would see.

  "It's so beautiful," Cyril said.

  "It is, but it's also damned terrifying," I said, taking my fingertip away. I had spent more time atop Penglass domes than most. I had watched countless sunsets and sunrises from them. Maybe that was why this one glowed at my touch. I spent more time on this Penglass dome than any others. Had it grown… used to me?

  I told Cyril my theory.

  "That must be it," he said, and I was relieved. I did not want to think of another reason why the Penglass should react to me and not Cyril. And why now? I had spent years touching Penglass, but this had never happened before.

  I touched the dome again, mesmerized. I trailed my fingertip along the glass, and a trail of light followed. Cyril and I both laughed in pure delight and amazement. I swirled my fingertips, creating beautiful glowing spirals, like the aurora borealis.

  "Can I try?" Cyril asked, reaching for my hand.

  He held my index finger and wrote "MAGIC," with stars surrounding it. He let my hand fall.

  "It is magic, isn't it?" my brother asked.

  I took my hands away from the glass again, watching the light slowly fade. "I don't know. It might be. Alder magic."

  "Maybe you could open the domes," Cyril said, excited. "Imagine if you did. You'd be famous and you'd go down in the history books forever. The girl who solved the mystery of Penglass."

  My eyes widened with the daydream. I tried knocking on the Penglass, half-expecting a little door to open to let us inside. But I heard nothing but the dull tap of a fist on glass. "What do you think would be inside?"

  "I always imagined they were the home of the Alders," Cyril said. "So maybe they would be filled with tons of Vestige. We'd be rich beyond imagining!"

  I licked my lips. "There could be dangerous things in there as well. Maybe the domes are prisons, filled with monsters."

  His smile wavered. "Maybe it's filled with Chimaera."

  I gulped, wondering what was inside what we were sitting on. I lay down and pressed my ear to the glass, but I heard no scrabbling of claws from within. The imprint of half my face and my ear remained when I sat up.

  In a fit of silliness I wrote "GENE'S PENGLASS. NO TRESPASSING." The light of the day was well and truly gone, and my name glowed like a beacon. I swiped my open palm over the words in a swathe of light.

  "I've never seen anything like this," Cyril said.

  "We shouldn't tell anyone," I said, watching the last of the light fade from the Penglass.

  "Why not?"

  "Because it means more tests. I've had enough tests, don't you think?"

  He swallowed. "Of course." He peered at me. "You think this might have something to do with how you were born, don't you?"

  "No," I said, my voice sharp as a knife. "It's only because I've touched this dome so much. I bet if I touched another nothing would happen. It has nothing to do with me."

  "We should head back," Cyril said, wisely changing the subject. "Before someone sees us." He glanced over his shoulder at the curtained windows. He stood. "I also have that damned exam tomorrow, but I've no idea how I'll sleep tonight after this."

  "You and me both–" I started.

  Cyril teetered on the smooth Penglass. He half-smiled as he reached out for me to steady himself. But the act of reaching unbalanced him and his feet slipped out from under him. My hand snatched out, but I only caught the cuff of his coat. My brother slipped from my fingers.

  And he fell.

  Without thinking, I followed him, sliding down the blue Penglass, cold and smooth beneath my hands. I controlled the slide, where
as Cyril scrabbled as he fell, his clutching hands not slowing his tumble at all. I could only watch in horror as he headed directly toward a tree in the Emerald Park. At the last moment, he managed to swerve, but he still hit an outstretched branch with a sickening crack before landing in a bush.

  I landed on the grass in a crouch and rushed toward him. Please don't be hurt, I prayed. Please, please, please.

  "Cyril?" I asked, barely able to breathe.

  He groaned.

  I went to his side, afraid to touch him. "Cyril, are you all right?"