by John Houser
Stilian became aware that an unusually long silence had fallen in the room. He reviewed Harte's comments until he could bring forth a suitable reaction. "You are no fool. We are much alike, I think. I determined to study the law in order to--" He shook his head. Why had he studied the law? What had driven him to leave Kit at Grayholme and study at Blue House? In the trauma of Kit's loss, he seemed to have lost sight of that time and his obsession with integration. He had wanted to find a way for the Canny to take a more prominent role in society. He didn't want other canny children to experience the abuse he had, and we was sure that if the Canny were more visible, they would become less threatening. But since Kit died he had withdrawn into his grief. He had to throw off his distraction, a dog shaking water from its coat.
"I thought that being a judge veritor, that being a visible representative of the Canny, might help other canny children. When I was a boy, I knew of the Canny, but I knew nothing about them. When I started to experience--to be aware of other people's feelings--instead of rejoicing in the connection, I felt myself a monster." He examined Harte's face. "Apart from the fool, a judge veritor is still the only visible, respected, role model for a sensitive outside of Grayholme or Bugport. You are surprised. Perhaps we canny should learn to talk more of our experience; I'm afraid we get out of the habit at Grayholme."
Harte bowed. "I am honored to receive your thoughts. You will come to the party, won't you? My mother and father quite insist. There will be dancing and singing."
Stilian closed his eyes. Singing. "Yes, I will come."
* * *
The morning sing at Grayholme was Stilian's great pleasure. Singing allowed the Canny to congregate without stress. Singing focused the mind, calmed the emotions, became a collective experience. But Stilian didn't care much about the community building aspect of the sing; that was for Mistress Thalia to worry about. He loved the music. He closed his eyes and imagined the morning's chorus as a big cake layered with harmonies of dark chocolate and cream and decorated with the fruity tones of the alto and soprano soloists. His empty stomach vibrated with the sound until he felt sure the chorus must bring the whole mountainside down upon the school.
"Not hungry, are you?" Kit laughed, as they walked out of the Great Hall and down the corridor towards the dining hall. "I'm starving."
"Do you ever wonder why they have the sing before breakfast? I'm certain it must be for the pacifying effect. It encourages decorous table manners and saves crockery."
"Right. It must not work on everybody."
"You think me indecorous?"
"Maybe it's just wishful thinking." Kit put his arm around Stilian's waist and gave him a quick squeeze.
Stilian stiffened, and Kit started to remove his arm, but Stilian forced his shoulders to drop and put a hand over Kit's. "I'm sorry. I know that nobody minds. But even normal couples aren't expressive in public, where I grew up."
"It's been four years. We've been together a quarter of our lives."
"Maybe when it's two thirds, I'll be what you deserve, Kit."
"Hush. Being with you is all I need." He dropped his hand down from Stilian's waist and pinched. "And an occasional taste of this."
"Ha! The morning bell must be wired to your anatomy. I blush to think what it must have been like for everyone before we learned to shield."
"You still can't shield."
* * *
The band had just blared into life and brightly costumed guests were drifting towards the dance floor to begin celebrating the return of the sun, when Harte heard Theo announce new arrivals. "Councilman and Mrs. Greer, Miss Megan Greer, and Mr. Brin Greer." They had been relieved of their outerwear at their entrance to the house, but Harte's eyes were drawn anyway to Brin's collar. No black and white stripes were in evidence. He considered a trip to the foyer, where a rented servant would be taking hats and capes or cloaks, but rejected the idea. What new thing could he learn? Instead he set out across the room to greet the new guests. It would not do to tip off Brin that there was anything amiss. When he arrived, Father was greeting Councilman and Mrs. Greer, and his mother had taken Megan's hand in her own.
"Councilman, it was so good of you to come."
"Gastir, my friend, I wouldn't miss it! Always loved a good bonfire on the shortest night of the year. Warms my old bones to think that the sun will be rising sooner. Worthy of a celebration!"
"Mrs. Greer, you look stunning in that dress," Harte's father fawned. "I don't know how you ladies keep coming up with new ways to charm us men, but I thank you for it."
Amalia was not to be outdone. "Megan, how do you manage it? You are more lovely every time I see you."
"Oh, Mrs. Walford. I am only trying to keep up with you!" said Megan.
"Brin! So good to see you, my boy. It's been too long since you've visited. You must tell me how things are at the trade exchange. Harte, step over here and greet your old schoolmate."
"Brin, good to see you. I was sorry we had to leave so quickly last week. But here we all are now," said Harte.
"We should catch up, Harte. It seems we've gone in different directions since our school days. I've heard so little of you since you left for law school." Brin smiled distantly.
"We do seem to ride in different orbits," said Harte. "Megan, I particularly like that color on you. It brings out the color in your cheeks."
"Thank you, Harte. You have such good taste in clothes. It's a pity you must spend so much time in lawyer's black these days."
"Indeed. Perhaps I shall rebel and found a new tradition for the profession: crimson instead of white throat scarves."
Megan laughed. "To think we all had such high aspirations, once."
"I aspire to drink," said Brin, looking around for the bar. "You'll excuse me, Harte, while I run down one of the servants."
"Try not to damage the girl, Brin," muttered Harte.
Megan's ears were sharp. "Oh Harte, you are in high humor tonight."
"Sorry Miss Megan, I was aiming lower."
Megan widened her eyes and pretended to fan herself. "Oh dear. Why don't you ask me to dance? That should improve your disposition."
"Indeed!" Harte offered his arm to Megan. "But haven't you a new beau to squire you around? I would not keep you from him." They moved onto the dance floor where lines were forming for a traditional pavan.
"I've found none worth taking up," Megan said as she curtsied to her partner.
"Perhaps you need to cast a wider net," said Harte, leading her by the hand in a slow roundabout.
"If I want to catch a cold fish," Megan whispered as she passed by Harte to take the hand of a new partner.
"Should I have suggested a web instead?" Harte replied when she was passed back to him.
When the dance ended, Megan took Harte's arm. "Well, lady spiders do get to dispose of their husbands, once they're finished with them. There is some appeal in that!" Megan cackled like a hag. One of the new, less choreographed dances began and Harte put his hand on Megan's back and guided her for an open space.
"Have you experienced other disappointments--besides me?" Harte asked.
"None have raised my hopes high enough." They spun in silence for a minute. "Harte, who is that tall man who is staring at us from the corner?"
"Ah! That, my dear, is Judge Veritor Cast. He is a circuit rider who is staying with us while he is in town."
"Then he is canny. You must introduce me. They say, you know, that they make fabulous lovers. But they rarely consort with regular people."
"Hmm. You are hardly regular." Harte guided Megan over to Stilian.
"Judge Veritor Cast, may I present Miss Megan Greer."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Miss Greer. I did not intend to interrupt your dancing. You make a pleasing couple."
Harte looked at Megan and laughed a little bitterly. "I suppose it depends on whom you wish to please," said Harte. He stopped when he saw the skin above Megan's nose pinch.
&n
bsp; Megan spoke brightly. "You must tell me, Judge Cast, what it is like to be a judge veritor. Do the ladies in every town claw to be the first to ask to you tea?" Unaccountably, this caused a charming rose tint to appear on Judge Cast's angular features. Perhaps the judge was unaccustomed to ladies as forward as Megan. "Oh no. I see that I have embarrassed you." She smiled serenely. "I am sorry."
At that moment, Amalia bustled up. "Harte dear, would you mind very much supervising the men in the yard? They have been at the punch already and they are about to start the bonfire. I'm afraid they will set the house ablaze." She pulled Harte aside. "You really mustn't monopolize Megan, dear. She really should be using this chance to meet other young men."
"Yes, Mother. I suppose you are right. How awkward it is that we actually enjoy one another."
"You have no cause to get snippy with me. You know what I mean."
"Yes, unfortunately, I do."
"Go make your father happy, and chat with some of his friends on the council. He's right you know. You really can't afford to alienate them all."
"Yes, Mother."
"I'm sure it wouldn't hurt to introduce the judge to them." Amalia spied a councilman wandering by with a nearly empty wine glass in his hand. "Hah!" She gracefully deflected the councilman's path towards her son. "Councilman Hardy, my son has someone he'd like you to meet. Why don't you let him introduce you, while I find you a fresh glass of wine?"
* * *
Councilman Hardy had moved on to more entertaining pursuits when Harte spotted Councilman Greer returning from a trip to the yard. "Stilian, there's Greer's father, Councilman Greer. Do you want to meet him?" He took Stilian's elbow and turned him towards the councilman.
Stilian frowned. "The father of the accused?"
"He hasn't been accused of anything yet, and you must not let on that you know anything!"
"Certainly not. By all means, introduce me." He strode briskly towards the councilman. Harte hurried to catch up. Councilman Greer's eyes widened when he saw the blue tunic of the judge veritor.
"Councilman Greer. This is Judge Veritor Cast. He is staying with my family while he visits Walford's Crossing. Judge Cast, may I present Councilman Magistrate Greer."
Councilman Greer frowned. "Good evening, Judge. I was not aware of your visit. Is there some business that brings you here?"
"Walford's Crossing is a stop on my circuit, Councilman."
"I don't recall having met you before."
"No, I am new to this circuit."
"Your predecessor--I'm afraid I can't recall his name--his practice was to come when called. He took care to inform the council of his plans."
Harte was appalled at the councilman's manner. Stilian's face merely took on a stonier quality. "I suspect he found larger communities tiring. That is not unusual among the Canny."
"Better for all of us, I should think, if that were the case with all of you."
"Why, Councilman? Do you find my visit inconveniently timed?" Stilian's tone was light, but his face hard.
Councilman Greer's cheeks flushed. "What are you implying?"
Harte hastily interjected. "I'm sure the judge did not mean to imply anything, Councilman. Stilian, I see your wine glass is empty. If you'd like to follow me, I'm sure we can remedy that." Harte took Stilian's arm and guided him away from the councilman.
When they were out of sight of the councilman, Stilian's face softened. "It would have been better had you not used my given name, Harte. I'm afraid you may have given life to the councilman's fears of conspiracy."
Harte felt the blood drain from his head.
"Steady. I know you did not mean to do it," said Stilian.
"I had no idea he was so prejudiced."
Stilian peered into his empty glass. "He's hardly unique."
* * *
Hours later, Harte was slumped on a three-legged stool by the bonfire listening to the last revelers sing, when he discovered a slightly swaying judge looming by his side.
"Judge Veritor, sir! I'd have thought you'd have escaped by new--now."
"D'you know that the consumption of spirits'll con-sid-er-a-bly reduce a canny person's range and sens-i-tiv-ity?"
"No." Harte said, looking up at Stilian. Perhaps it was the flickering light, but his face seemed softer than usual. "I was not aware of that ... int'resting fact. Remind me to send you a couple of bottles of my father's blest--best."
"Yur too kind."
"Do they ming such in Grayholme?" Harte giggled. "No, do people like t'sing in Grayholme?"
"We sing all the time. Every day. Singers are highly honored in Grayholme."
Harte giggled. "Like the sisters?"
"Not so much like the sisters."
"I got an idea. Let's get those bottles of my father's, right now. Father's bottles. We can go have a glass in my sitting room, by the fire. It's getting clod--cold out here. These people are drunk."
"Thas a fine idea."
Harte stood up carefully. "Go up. I'll get the spirits and meet you in my rooms. I have to clear my head."
* * *
In Harte's sitting room, there was a comfortable couch in front of the fireplace. When Harte arrived, Stilian was putting a new log on the blaze.
"That feels good," Harte said, turning his backside to the fire. "You could have called the maid to do that."
"What for?"
When Stilian finished with the fire, Harte handed him a pair of wine glasses. "Hold these, while I open this bottle. Here." He poured them each a glass. "To fairness and justice for all, no matter who--who their fathers are."
"Fairness and justice for all fathers' sons," said Stilian, smiling.
"All fathers' sons." Harte touched his glass to Stilian's.
"Sit down, sir."
"I believe I will." Stillian sat down heavily, holding his glass with both hands. "Do you know, you are a very good dancer."
"Why thank you! It's one of few accomplishments."
"You are too modest. That Greer girl. D'you know she loves you?"
"I need another drink." Harte got up and poured himself another glass.
"You evade the question."
"No, I'm preparing to respond." Harte sipped his wine and spoke slowly. "Yes. I believe I do know that she loves me. But you see, she knows that she cannot have me, because ... because I do not want her. But I care for her very much."
Stilian looked into his glass. "You must take care that you do not hurt her."
"She knows that she cannot have me."
"She can still be hurt."
Harte closed his eyes. "Everyone can be hurt. May I ask you something, Judge Veritor?"
"I'm not judging now."
"Yes, yes. But can I ask you something?"
"Please proceed."
"Is there someone that you miss--particularly--back at Grayholme?"
"Are you asking whether I'm bonded?"
"Is that what you call it there? We engage. Engage to be married." He leapt up, nearly landing in the fire, and swept out an imaginary sword. He raised it to an elaborate salute. "It's like going into battle."
Stilian smiled at Harte. "I'm not bonded." His smile faded at the edges. "I was, but he died."
Harte collapsed back onto the couch and was quiet for a time, digesting this.
"You said he."
"Yes," answered Stilian.
"Relationships of that type are accepted among the canny?"
"Yes, and acknowledged."
"I did not know that," said Harte, closing his eyes. He pictured his father in his magistrate's robe standing next him. Harte wore the formal suit of a bridegroom. A tall white-haired gentleman led a veiled bride towards the alter. When they reached the waiting pair, the white-haired man reached up to unveil the bride. The veil lifted to reveal Stilian's stern visage. Harte put his hands to his head and shook it from side to side.
"We don't speak of it much outside of Grayholme. Some wou
ld condemn that which they don't understand," said Stilian.
"Why did you tell me?"
Stilian glanced at Harte. "You ... had need of knowing."
"I had need of knowing." Harte's rested his head on the back of the couch. "I need ..."
Stilian waited to find out what it was that Harte needed, but no information was forthcoming. "You need sleep, my drunken friend." He got up from the couch, painstakingly extracted Harte's wine glass from his hand, and put it aside. He knelt on the floor and pulled Harte's boots off, then lifted Harte's legs and swiveled them onto the couch. He got a blanket from the bed and laid it over the sleeping figure, then leaned over and kissed Harte on the forehead, nearly falling over in the process, before leaving the room.
* * *
Dear Hugh,
Kit and Stilian have arrived at Grayholme. I'm sorry this letter has been so delayed. I have watched for a dray or merchant train every day, but none passed through the gap until today.
Oh my beloved, I hardly know whether to thank you or curse you! We have not seen such a pair for a long time. They shine brightly indeed. They arrived in the morning, traipsing up to the front gate by themselves and demanding to see "the mistress" as soon as possible. Don't worry, the drays arrived some hours later, as scheduled. They had persuaded their temporary guardians to let them walk ahead from Bug Station. To have young legs again! In any case, by the time they made it to the gate, I was already on my way down. Their excitement at arriving, their joy in one another's company, the trepidation about what they would find--all were all apparent from at least two hundred feet away. I'm sure our stronger talents knew they were on their way from Market Square. They are bellows to each other's fires. I confess, I thought briefly of housing them separately, but rejected the idea as cruel. Needless to say, we started them on dampening and shielding exercises immediately.