A Dictionary of Fools (The HouseOf Light And Shadow Book 2)

by P. J. Fox

  After one particularly grueling familial encounter, he decided to share his thoughts on the subject. He and Renta were sitting on the verandah, where they’d taken to having tea and talking in the afternoons. Kisten was less talkative now than he had been, but he liked to listen to her. She was witty and well read, and amused him with stories about life in the city. It was almost like going outside; she painted very vivid pictures.

  Renta poured him a cup of tea, passed him a biscuit and commented that Zoharin was a lovely girl and would grow into an even lovelier woman. The monsoon had come and, with it, the warm weather. Slow, steady rain pattered on the verandah roof and the world outside was gray. Frogs crowded the island in the ornamental pond, belching forth their pathetic mating calls.

  Kisten almost surprised himself by having something to say. It had been a long time. “I don’t see why I should be subjected to these interviews,” he said petulantly. “I gain no pleasure from them.”

  “That’s not true,” his companion replied. “And even if it were, they gain pleasure from seeing you.”

  Kisten’s family had made no comment on the sudden and unexplained appearance of a strange woman in his bedroom. They were used to the twins doing whatever they pleased and knew better than to inquire. Or perhaps, as Kisten thought more likely, they didn’t want to know. Whatever they thought Renta was, and however much they knew of her true identity, they treated her kindly. Mahalia, at least, sensed that she had Renta to thank for Kisten’s, if not improved mood then improved availability.

  Renta, for her part, served refreshments and made herself scarce. It wasn’t, she’d said when he’d questioned her about it after the first interview, appropriate for her to participate. She wasn’t a social guest, and she and Kisten both knew what their relationship was and wasn’t.

  Kisten supposed that she was right on all counts, but the notion made him sad for reasons he couldn’t explain.

  “They vex me with their endless questions,” Kisten grumbled.

  He sounded like a child to his own ears. He sipped his tea. Monsoon notwithstanding, they were dry on the verandah. It was sufficiently large to insulate them from the weather and they were both fairly well bundled: Renta in a throw she’d cadged from the couch in Kisten’s study and Kisten in a quilted dressing gown. He wore it belted over his shirt and trousers, both of which were fitting better. He knew, in his heart, that he’d never regain what form he had to regain unless he went outside and exercised. But it was easier to sit here and complain like the little old woman—or toddler—he’d become.

  “Appreciate your family,” advised Renta. She’d tied her hair back in a loose bun, and the escaping tendrils had curled into ringlets in the humidity. Her eyes were serious. “Having one is a privilege denied to many.”

  She was right, naturally. And he was, he supposed, being insensitive. Scowling, he returned his attention to the frogs. He felt chastened, which he hated. As much as he hated himself for the failing, sometimes he still wanted to hit her. He and Renta were too much alike.

  A week later, Renta lectured him on the state of his room. Since that fateful first afternoon when she’d forced him into the tub, she’d harped on him to take better care of himself. And when he wouldn’t—sometimes just to spite her—she took matters into her own hands. Their connection was, at times, more contest of wills than friendship. That she wanted him to do something was, often, enough to make him refuse. He called her an officious, willful woman and she called him a spoiled brat and then told him what to do all the same. Once, horrifyingly, she’d threatened to call his mother for help if he refused to make up his bed.

  Men don’t do these sorts of things, he’d told her.

  Then perhaps you’d prefer to go shooting? she’d asked in that saccharine tone he’d so come to despise. I’ve had your guns cleaned.

  “This room needs to be aired out,” she announced.

  He looked up from his armchair, where he’d been reading a biography of the 50th Emperor. “Good morning,” he said.

  “And the sheets need to be changed,” she continued, ignoring his greeting in her usual brusque fashion. “At least you’re not still lazing about, for once; that should make things easier.”

  “Isn’t that the chambermaid’s job?” he inquired.

  Renta stopped, mid-motion. She’d brought a stack of fresh sheets in with her, and had just put it down to start stripping the old. “Allow me to point out, Your Grace, that I am your chambermaid.” She never addressed him formally unless she was upset. “Your previous chambermaid quit in a fit of pique after you threw the breakfast tray at her head. And not that you’ve deigned to notice, but I’ve been performing this office in her stead for some time!

  “Your sheets do not change themselves; your towels do not replace themselves.”

  Kisten thought about it, and allowed that she might have a point. “But is there no replacement?” he asked.

  “Your entire household is afraid of you.”

  Kisten subsided in a funk. He learned, during the lecture that followed, that she’d done all this work while he’d been locked in his study fuming about how much he hated the world, or losing himself in pointless tracts on topics that didn’t even interest him, or under the influence. For the first time, he had a real sense of just how much time he’d spent doing…nothing.

  He felt ashamed, and he said so.

  Renta sat down in the chair opposite. “The world doesn’t see what you see.”

  “What does the world see?”

  “A difficult, high-strung man in bad need of a shave. But not a monster.”

  “Tell that to the staff,” he said bitterly, feeling terrible about himself.

  “Nipa didn’t quit because you’re ugly; she quit because you’re cruel.”

  “If this is designed to make me feel better about myself, it’s not working.”

  “It’s designed to acquaint you with the truth.”

  They looked at each other. She was a beautiful creature; he was struck once again by just how beautiful. He’d been nothing but unkind to her since they’d met, and yet she was still here. He didn’t deserve her patience, or her tolerance. She was beautiful, inside and out, and she deserved happiness. A man to love her, the family he knew she wanted, a place in the world other than the one she had. Fate had been very cruel, he thought, to make her a woman.

  She got up and began making the bed. He watched.

  “You have a reputation as quite the lover,” she said, teasing him, “which made the prospect of this job quite alluring. But so far I haven’t seen any evidence of it.” Looking up, she smiled. “Although you must tempt cavewomen, with your abundance of manners and excellent aim.”

  “Watch out, or I’ll aim something at you.”

  “Will you, now.” She tossed a pillow at his head, and he caught it. Laughing, she turned back toward the bed. Renta had been his near-constant companion for months and yet he’d never been more than superficially conscious of her other dimensions. That she was beautiful, yes; but an object of desire, no. He had, in fact, done his best not to think of her as a woman at all. Since discovering that he was…incapable, aboard the Gannet, he’d tried twice more to arouse himself. That had been right after he’d come home. He hadn’t tried again.

  He knew, intellectually, that the body had ways of protecting itself. There was no reason that things shouldn’t right themselves, in time. Women, in situations like the one he’d been in, stopped menstruating—because reproduction had become too dangerous. But as much as he repeated this mantra, he knew it didn’t matter. His problem wasn’t biological. He couldn’t perform as a man, because he couldn’t think of himself as one.

  Kisten’s momentary good mood evaporated.

  Ensconced in his favorite chair, watching Renta move about the room, he’d never been more keenly aware of his own failing. If he’d been…the man he used to be, he’d have thrown her down on the bed and ravished her. She wasn’t opposed; a fool could see that. Laughter was th
e ultimate tool of seduction; a woman might flirt with a man whom she had no intention of bedding, but she’d never tease him.

  She glanced up from the coverlet, and their eyes met. He saw the invitation there as plainly as if she’d spoken it aloud.

  She all but lived with him. She was companion, friend, chambermaid and valet in one. He had as good a claim to her, as a human being, as he did on anyone. Her life had become entirely focused on his. And he enjoyed her company.

  And yet in all these months, he’d never asked her where she went at night. Partly because he knew where she went, more or less, and partly because it was easier to ignore the fact that she left than admit—as he was forced to, now—how much he wanted her to stay. He’d tried to dismiss the thrill he got from seeing her as the natural reaction of a hermit to any other human being, and the interest with which he listened to her stories, and asked after her health and doings, as the merely proprietary interest of a master for his slave. For, indeed, that was what she was, for all that her servitude was self-imposed.

  He felt the first faint stirrings of—something, followed a second later by a rush of fear. What if he couldn’t…? And then, his body was his; his and no one else’s. The idea of sharing it with someone, of having them touch him, revolted him. He didn’t want to be vulnerable. Even if he could touch her like he wanted to, he didn’t know if he’d be able to do so without remembering what had happened…before.

  Not to her, but to him.

  Abruptly, he stood up. Straightening, Renta started to say something. But before she could, he turned on his heel and disappeared into his study. Shutting the door behind him, he locked it.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “We’re going out,” Renta announced.

  Kisten didn’t respond at first, only stared out the window. He’d heard her, but he was deep in thought.

  Since the incident a month ago, she’d been more subdued but still enthusiastic for all the silly things she loved—and for tormenting him, or so it seemed. She’d forced him to have tea with his mother, and to entertain Sabihah when she came. Sabihah’s visit was awkward in the extreme, but at least brief. But most days, it was just him and Renta and, occasionally, Keshav. Renta had read to him, and told him about the new exhibit opening at the museum, and gently encouraged him to renew the interests that he’d once found so captivating. But she’d said nothing even remotely suggestive, nor recognized by word or deed that there was the slightest difference between them. That he was a man, and she a woman. Which, strangely enough, he regretted.

  He turned from the window, watching her move about the room, and was grateful that they hadn’t lost the easy companionship between them. He felt comfortable with her and, he thought, she with him. She’d taken it well enough, when he’d been so rude; then again, she had low expectations.

  At twenty-two, she’d yet to experience true kindness. From anyone. Certainly not from her family but not from Kisten, either. Everyone, even him, had an ulterior motive. He used her for her help, and her patience, and the fact that he felt better about himself when she was around. And he doubted that she was leading a life of celibacy with Keshav. Keshav didn’t love her; he’d essentially given her to Kisten as a gift. Kisten wondered how Renta felt about the situation. Or if, being so powerless over her own fate, she’d allowed herself to feel anything at all.

  How did she feel about him?

  She’d shown courage in coming back after that first visit. That had been months ago. She treated him kindly and she was willing to let him touch her; she was a courtesan, she had no choice. If she displeased him, or his brother, which amounted to the same thing, she was out on the street. No one in his family beat her or otherwise treated her poorly but she might not be so lucky, next time. So she’d put up with him, however hateful he was.

  But did she think of him as a friend, or did he revolt her?

  “What are you thinking?” she asked. Aros had asked him that same question; he hadn’t spoken to Aros more than a handful of times since they’d come home. He wished he had, suddenly.

  He turned. “I’m wondering if I disgust you.”

  “No,” she said calmly. “You can be quite charming, when you choose.”

  He barked a mirthless laugh and resumed his vigil at the window, his back to her. The correct term for these kinds of situations, he believed, was damning with faint praise. He felt wretched. Of course she didn’t care about him. Why would she? He was crazy and sickly and hideous.

  “Can I ask you a question?” she ventured.

  “If you must.” He did not, however, promise to answer it.

  “Why are you so vain, that you’d make yourself a prisoner in your own bedroom rather than risk someone—anyone—seeing you when you’re not at your best? We both know that you would have refused to see your own mother, had I not forced you almost at gunpoint.”

  “Because, darling, vanity is all I have.” His tone was bitter, and the endearment insincere. He’d told her the truth, though—and why not? She’d known him this long; she’d undoubtedly learned it for herself. Kisten knew that he wasn’t a nice person. He needed to be adored in much the same manner as an infant needed food: constantly and with no regard for the opinions, feelings, or preferences of others. That was part of what he loved about sex—or had loved, at least. It was all about him: proving that he was the best, incredible. Perfect. When a woman breathed hard, and moaned, when she trembled and her face flushed and she dug her fingernails into his back and left deep red furrows in his flesh, he felt a tremendous rush of power. But there was no intimacy. He didn’t want it.

  At the core of Kisten’s obsessive self-love—or at least self-involvement—was self-hatred spawned of the fear that he was, in fact, incapable of love. Although he’d insisted for years that he’d be single forever, he’d done so taking for granted that he had only to change his mind for marriage to be an option. But until he’d been back aboard the Gannet, and seen how people looked at him, seen the mixed pity and revulsion in their eyes, he’d never admitted how unprepared he really was to spend the rest of his life alone. Which, given that the outside now matched the inside, appeared to be his only option.

  “I disagree,” Renta said quietly.

  “I won’t throw you out for telling the truth,” he replied, equally quietly.

  He supposed that she was going to lecture him again, point out that people loved him for all manner of reasons that had nothing to do with his looks—or, indeed, beat him about the head with that old axiom beauty fades. He’d gotten himself saddled with Aros when he was at his worst—in every possible dimension. Which should prove, if nothing else, that he was still capable of being a true leader. And he did want to inspire adoration as a leader, but it wasn’t enough.

  Renta surprised him by doing neither. “It’s raining,” she said calmly, pointing out the obvious. “There’s no one outside.”

  “And if I decline your generous offer?” he asked dryly.

  “When was the last time you looked at yourself—really looked at yourself—in the mirror?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “I’ll wait in the hall,” she said.

  If she’d subjected him to the kind of fight talks that Ravipati gave, he would have refused her out of spite. He wasn’t an idiot; he knew that he was being irrational and he knew, moreover, that he’d never get better by hiding in his room. But, blighted by his own narcissism, he loathed the idea of following directions like a child. It was perverse: by doing what was best for himself, he felt like he was giving in. Giving something up. He’d been reduced to such an abject state of dependence that he found himself grasping for control wherever he could find it, in petty ways and even to his own detriment. If his bevy of well-meaning jailers told him to go outside, he’d damn well stay in.

  And he was afraid: afraid of the sidelong glances and afraid of the pity he’d see in them. For as long as he could remember, he’d defined his existence by how others saw him; he couldn’t get used to this new versi
on of himself. But, he realized, he had to try. He’d be going back to work soon, he had to adapt. Aros’ reaction to him, and Renta’s, proved that he still had some value to the world.

  Or could, if he tried.

  Although he didn’t acknowledge this to himself yet, part of him also knew that he’d started getting better when he’d started planning for the future. For a long time, there hadn’t even been one. He pulled open the door to his wardrobe—a room larger than most people’s bedrooms, elaborately fitted and full of expensive articles—and stepped inside, thinking as he did so that it’d been a few weeks now since he’d spent the afternoon locked in his study, drinking laudanum-laced malt and avoiding the world.

  Avoiding Renta.

  He was changing his trousers when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He usually made a concerted effort not to look; this time, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned instinctively before he realized what it was. And stared. He looked…almost normal. He was still thin and pale from inactivity, but that wasted look was gone. The dark smudges had faded from under his eyes, and his face had filled out. When he was rescued, his hair had been so matted and filthy as to be unrecognizable as hair; dirt and grime and lice had made it dull as straw. But it had grown back in as black and glossy as ever.

  He’d let Renta shave him and cut his hair, so he wouldn’t have to look at himself. That, and if he was being perfectly honest, he liked to watch her dance attendance. She’d given him a bit of a schoolboy haircut, his bangs swept across his forehead. Too long for a navy man.

  The transformation, though, was startling—as startling as it had been when he’d first seen himself in that sliver of mirror at Palawan. He looked almost like his old self. Like his brother. His eyes were the only thing that had changed. The man looking back at him was far more serious than the one he remembered.