by Jon Skovron
No, he was definitely not okay. He was sinking into a maelstrom of images he hadn’t called to mind in years. His mother, beautiful, with her gray eyes and curly black hair. She had a way of smirking, quietly, mischievously, that always made you think she knew something you didn’t. He had tried all his life to emulate that smirk and hadn’t yet truly succeeded.
He had adored her. Even later, when she couldn’t stop her hands from shaking, when she couldn’t even hold a brush. It was only at the end that things got hard. When her descriptions stopped making sense. She would grow frustrated and curse at him, tell him he was stupid and clumsy. He would cry, which would only make her angrier. But then his father would swoop in, his patient eyes and gentle smile soothing them both as he wrapped his long, strong arms around them, bringing them into a big family hug. Then everything would be okay again.
Until there came a time his father wasn’t there to swoop in. Red knew he was out whoring to make money to buy those new paintings that nobody wanted. Red wasn’t supposed to tell his mother, because it would make her sad. But without his father there to soothe them, her frustration and his hurt went unchecked until one night, after she had called him weak and talentless and the worst thing that ever happened to her, he couldn’t hold it in any longer. He wanted her to be sad, to hurt like he did. So he told her what his father was doing. Without a word, she had lain down on the sofa and closed her eyes. Red stood there, horrified by what he’d said, so much anguished energy boiling inside him. He hadn’t known what else to do with it, so he’d painted. The first and only painting that was all his own.
And that was the painting he stared at now.
“Fascinating piece, wouldn’t you say?” asked a voice behind him. Older. Male. A lacy, by the sound and polish. “Her final work before she died. It was a departure for her. Different from everything that came before it. One wonders if it was a sign of things to come? If she had lived, of course. Some people theorize it was a self-portrait of sorts. Painting herself as she imagined herself to look as she lay dying.”
Red had not turned his gaze from the painting. In swirls of muted browns and grays, with small streaks of beige, his mother lay on the couch, one arm hanging off the edge, a corkscrew lock of black hair falling across her face, gaunt but peaceful. Peaceful as Red had wanted her to be. As if in painting that, it would become true.
Red’s voice was thick as he said, “She didn’t paint this one. I did.”
“What’s this you say?” asked the man, his tone offended.
Red turned to the man, not trying to hide the tears that coursed down his cheeks. The man’s distrustful scowl evaporated when he saw Red’s face. He ran his hands through his thin gray hair, then pressed them to his plump lips. “Those eyes!” he whispered. “Those red eyes! You…you’re the lost son, Rixidenteron.”
“Red, we should go,” said Hope quietly, her hand on his arm protectively.
“No, please don’t!” The man reached his hand out to them. “I’ll do anything, only let me talk to you a moment.”
Even openly weeping, his heart torn and his mind reeling, the part of Red that had kept him alive all these years recognized that tone of desperation. It was the sound of opportunity.
“Why?” Red made a show of narrowing his eyes suspiciously, as if he was afraid of this well-dressed lacy wrink. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Your mother, of course.” His hands trembled, and his brow was beaded with sweat. “My name is Thoriston Baggelworthy. Perhaps she spoke of me?”
Red shook his head.
“Well, I knew her long ago, when we were children. We used to play ropes and sticks, she and I. I was terribly smitten with her, of course. But she was more interested in art than courtship. When she left Hollow Falls, I was despondent. I thought I’d never get over it.” He gave a strange chuckle. “And perhaps I never did. After all, this”—he gestured around them—“is all mine.”
“What do you mean, all yours?” asked Red. He didn’t like the man’s possessive tone. And he didn’t like that the few times he had come back to Silverback, he was inevitably sucked into the world of Rixidenteron and its memories. Probably the best thing about Paradise Circle was that nobody gave a cup of piss about famous artists.
“The collection,” said Thoriston. “Every single painting she ever made is mine. I have hunted all over New Laven and brought them together at last. I will make your mother the most famous painter in the world! You’ll see!”
Red wanted to tell him that fame had never mattered to his mother. He didn’t know if that was true, but he didn’t like how the man acted as though he was somehow entitled to his mother and her work. The survivalist part of him cautioned against that, though. Instead he asked, “What was it you wanted to know about her?”
“Everything! I hope to write a biography of her life, you see. And it would be invaluable to my work and to her legacy if you could tell me as much as you remember about your early life with her.”
“We’ve got things to do, and we’re in a hurry,” said Red, turning away. “Besides, it would be too painful for me to talk about it.”
“Wait, I beg you!” Thoriston wrung his hands. “I know I’m asking a lot for you to relive such troubling times. If there is any way I can repay you, name it, and if it is within my power, I will do it.”
Red pretended to consider it a moment. “We need clothes. Proper clothes, like you’re wearing.”
“Clothes?” He looked utterly baffled. Like they grew on trees and were there for the taking by anyone at any time.
“For both of us,” continued Red. “And transportation across the bay to Keystown.”
Thoriston gave him a shrewd look. “Oh, I see now. You’re making your way to Hollow Falls to be reunited with your mother’s family, and you don’t want to present yourself in these old rags.”
“You are sharp,” said Red smoothly. “I didn’t expect you to work that out so quickly.”
“Ah, but do you know where to go once you get there?” asked Thoriston, looking very pleased with himself.
Red put on a sheepish expression. “Not exactly…”
“Then I can give you even more than you ask for! I know your grandfather’s address. I can give you directions right to his door.”
Directions to his grandfather’s door was the last thing he wanted. But he forced himself to smile. “That would be a great help.”
“Wonderful! Won’t he be pleased to finally meet you!” Thoriston clapped his hands together in an oddly childish expression of glee.
“Undoubtedly,” Hope murmured.
“Now, let’s see…” Thoriston scratched his smooth, round chin. “My wife and I are staying next door at the Hotel Sunset for the duration of the gallery exhibition period. It may be a bit loose around the waist, but I think you can fit into something of mine.” He frowned at Hope. “You might be more of a challenge, my dear. You’re far too thin to wear my wife’s dresses. They’d fall right off that boyish frame.”
Red felt Hope tense up. He nudged her with his elbow, and she nodded curtly. “As you say, sir.”
He continued to stare at her. “You would fit into her maidservant’s dresses. But I’m afraid the maid’s mother just passed away, so all she packed was mourning clothes.”
“I prefer black anyway,” she said.
“Ah yes…” He eyed her black leather outfit. “So I see.” Then he turned back to Red. “Once you’ve both changed, I’ll take you across the bay myself. That way you can tell me about your mother while we travel, and you don’t lose much time in the telling.”
“Sounds perfect,” said Red, this time with sincerity.
* * *
Red tried not to gawk as Thoriston led them through the hotel lobby, which was even more opulent than the gallery. Gas-powered lights in every room, crystal chandeliers, silk embroidered wall hangings, thick fur rugs. Every room smelled like flowers and sweets. He glanced over at Hope and saw her eyes nearly popping out of her head.
Thoriston led them into his lodgings, which were just as fine as the lobby.
“Where is your wife?” asked Hope as her eyes scanned the rooms.
“Oh, back at the gallery, I expect,” he called as he walked into the bedroom and began to sort through the clothes in his wardrobe. “She’s fond of that orchestra. That’s why I hired them. My deep, lifelong passion for Lady Pastinas’s art is sometimes difficult for her to appreciate.”
“I can’t imagine why,” said Hope dryly.
Hope and Red waited in the sitting room while Thoriston riffled through the clothes, leaving a mess in his wake. Red suspected there were probably people who picked up after him. He might not even be used to getting clothes himself.
“Here we are!” he said, beaming triumphantly as he returned with clothes for Red. He turned to Hope. “There’s the maidservant’s quarters. I’m sure anything in there will do.” He paused, suddenly looking unsure. “Eh…do you require assistance in getting dressed? I can call up—”
“We’ll manage just fine, thanks,” said Red.
Once Red had finished dressing, he looked at himself admiringly in the mirror. He had on a fine brown frockcoat with gold trim and brass buttons, a waistcoat, trousers, and a silk cravat, which Thoriston had to help him tie properly. What would his old wags say if they saw him now? Handsome Henny would’ve pissed himself laughing. Sadie might have died in shock. Filler probably wouldn’t have been able to look him in the eye. And Nettles…he would’ve never heard the end of it. But now, without their snide remarks and disapproving glances, he allowed himself to relish in this odd little fantasy while he waited for Hope to finish.
Hope was not nearly as enthusiastic.
“All this fabric swishing around my legs.” She clutched at the thick folds of black cloth. “It’s nearly impossible to move properly.”
“I think it’s a significant improvement,” said Thoriston. “It lends a great deal to accentuate your more feminine attributes.”
Red had to agree. Her pale, freckled shoulders gleamed in the lamplight, and the black corset pushed her small breasts together to offer a hint of cleavage while flaring out her waist at the bottom. But he was smart enough not to say anything out loud.
Hope grunted and tugged at the corset. “It’s impractical and uncomfortable. And I have nowhere to hang my sword.”
“I can hold it,” offered Red.
She placed the small, round black hat on her head. “No. You can’t.”
“Shall I have these…disposed of?” Thoriston pointed to their regular clothes.
“No!” both Hope and Red said at once.
“Ah, we’ll just hold on to those, thanks,” said Red as he rolled them all up in his longcoat and tucked it under him arm.
Thoriston led them back out of the hotel and to the path along the cliff. The moon and stars were out, glimmering off the bay far below. After a short walk, they descended a narrow staircase that zigzagged down to the docks.
“I sail my own vessel,” Thoriston said proudly as he led them to a small sailboat. “Not out into the ocean, of course. Just around the bay. My wife tells me I’m mad and refuses to get in it with me, but I find it quite invigorating.”
His small yacht looked much like the ones they used to raid on the Savage Wind. Red suppressed a smile as he imagined how Thoriston would have reacted to being boarded by Sadie the Pirate Queen and her crew. But Thoriston did, indeed, know how to handle the small craft. Soon they were under sail and gliding smoothly out into the bay.
“Now,” said Thoriston as he leaned comfortably back at the stern, one hand on the tiller. “I want you to tell me everything about her.”
“Ah, the tragic tale of Lady Pastinas, is it?” asked Red, working into his storytelling tone. It helped him get some distance from it, and it made things more entertaining for his audience.
“Yes,” breathed Thoriston, his eyes wide like a child.
* * *
It was nearly sunrise by the time they reached the far side of the bay. The first streaks of red were just coming up over the square, orderly tops of the Keystown Imperial Garrison. Red had finished his tale a few minutes before, timing it perfectly. Thoriston was dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief.
“Your poor family,” he muttered as he tied his boat to the docks.
“Well, you’ve done a great deal to mend things,” said Red, clasping his hand. “Both in honoring my mother’s memory and helping to reunite me with my grandfather.”
“It seems the least I can do,” Thoriston sniffled. “Your mother’s work has given my whole life meaning.”
“Truly said.” Red gave his best smile and patted the top of the old gaf’s hand.
Thoriston gave them detailed directions to Pastinas Manor. Red took careful note so that he could make sure to avoid it. Then he and Hope disembarked. They stood on the dock and watched as Thoriston’s boat glided back out into the bay.
“You didn’t tell him everything.” Hope’s tone was oddly subdued.
“Of course not,” said Red. “A story is told as much by what you leave out as what you put in.”
“But if he’s truly going to write it down and make a history of it, no one will ever know that you were the one that painted so many of her works.”
Part of him wished Old Yammy hadn’t told her quite so much about his childhood. Although he was surprised to find that a part of him was grateful.
“Only one hero in a story, Hope, my old pot. And there’s no sense bogging a fine tale down with the dreary truth. Besides, we all need to keep some things for ourselves.” He turned to face the hard, uninviting exterior of Keystown. “Now, where does that sword of yours say we go next?”
25
Hope knew that dresses were something many women wore. She knew it. And yet, as she and Red prowled through the orderly streets of Keystown, she had a hard time accepting that fact. Simply getting the thing on had been an ordeal. Halfway through, as she nearly dislocated her shoulder trying to tighten the corset strings at her back, she understood why Thoriston had suggested someone help her. Clothing that was so poorly designed that one couldn’t put it on alone? It seemed like a cruel joke. And once she had the corset tight enough, it was an uncomfortable joke as well. She understood now why women were always fainting in the imperial romances she’d read in her youth. It wasn’t from shock or fear, but from simple lack of breath. And this was no minor detail. Breath, as Hurlo had told her many times, was at the root of who we were. Our very soul. Mastering one’s breath was the first lesson she had to learn. To think that the women in the upper classes had this necessary aspect of themselves so restricted, it was no wonder men seemed to hold the advantage.
She had thought that at least there would be ease of movement below the waist. But these were not the simple loose peasant skirts her mother wore. These were tight, packed with redundant cloth, and then draped with even more redundant cloth. The slim pointed shoes didn’t help. Walking was a challenge. Running, if it came to that, would be far worse.
But she was grudgingly grateful for the clothes. Keystown was swarming with imperial soldiers. The neighborhood seemed to be one vast barracks. The few non-imperial people she saw were either wealthy uptown residents or their clean and smartly dressed servants. Had Hope and Red shown up in their grimy, patched-up clothing, they would have drawn the soldiers’ eyes immediately. Even dressed as they were, they were stopped at two different places by a soldier asking if they had seen a blond woman in black leather. Hope held her sword down at her side, concealing it within the ruffles of her ridiculous dress. Her round black hat didn’t completely cover her hair, and she worried that one of them would notice the color. But none did. Perhaps it was the earliness of the hour, or perhaps the investigative training of the imperial troops really was as poor as Red claimed. As they continued through the broad, straight streets, she started to believe they might make it through Keystown without incident.
The third time they were stopped we
nt a bit differently, however. The soldier wore the standard white-and-gold uniform like the others, and had that same bored expression as he stepped in front of them. “Pardon me, good people. Have you seen a blond woman dressed in a strange black leather costume skulking about?”
“No indeed, sir,” said Red cheerfully. “Is she dangerous?”
“Extremely.” The soldier’s eyes passed over Hope without even a glimmer of interest. “If you see her, don’t approach. Just go find the nearest…”
He trailed off as he looked harder at Red. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so.” Red turned to Hope. “Come along, dear, we must hurry on our errand.”
They tried to make their way around the soldier, when his face suddenly lit up. “You! You’re the one who stole the money off my cart! Got me demoted to foot patrol. I’m going to—”
He stopped short as Hope struck him between the eyes with the end of her sheathed sword. He crumpled to the ground in a heap.
“Is he dead?” Red peered down at him.
“Unconscious.”
“How long till he wakes up?”
“An hour at least,” said Hope.
“I could have talked us out of it.”
“I think your opinion of your own charm is a little inflated,” she said.
“But now we have the body to worry about,” said Red. “And this place is crawling with imps. It won’t be long before another one comes by.”
“True,” admitted Hope. She scanned the surrounding area, but there wasn’t really anywhere around to stow the body. The streets were so clean, there wasn’t even anything to cover it with. Then she took a closer look at the surface of the street itself.
“Is that some kind of hatch in the ground?” She pointed to a round iron disk embedded into the cobblestones.
Red frowned. “I’m not sure.”
He bent down and slid his fingers along the edge.
“Heavy,” he grunted. “You want to give me a hand?”
She tried to bend over, but the corset made that impossible. Instead she had to squat, straight-backed, until she was low enough to reach. And even then, she heard a slight tear as her thighs pressed out against the dress. Apparently, uptown ladies were not expected to pick things up.