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Maybe.
“But what happens when she has it severed?” She was speaking of the Fairy, only the Fairy.
“I suppose the love disappears. Like the pain of a wound of which only a scar remains.”
Yes. A scar. Nothing more.
Orlando returned the glove to the drawer and shut the cabinet. Fox loved his face. It was like a promise that wishes could come true, that desire might lead to more than yearning.
Before she knew what she was doing, she kissed his mouth. The Golden Yarn. There had to be other colors.
Red. The Bluebeard’s chamber became a bed of flowers as Orlando’s lips kissed her back. The shadows of her heart grew gray feathers. Every kiss made her breath lighter, and her fingers sought Orlando’s skin as though they sought her own. Celeste. For the first time only Celeste. And she didn’t have to hide the vixen from him; he knew about her longing for the other body. He met hers with skin and feathers and followed her into the woods that spread inside her, where so far she’d met only Jacob. They lost themselves until he found her heart, beating so fast in his hands, and still he held on to it, weaving red and gray into the golden thread.
Minutes. Hours. Time transformed into touch. No more words on her lips, not even Jacob’s name. Just the kisses she now gave to another.
Fox. He called her Fox. He whispered it over and over, as though to remind her he also loved the vixen even as he kissed Celeste’s human skin. They forgot the Dwarf and whatever information she’d gathered for Orlando. They forgot the maid who was serving her Albian cake.
Fox had no idea how late it was when she remembered it all. Orlando was so fast asleep that she managed to wriggle out of his embrace without waking him. Much harder was to stop herself from looking at his sleeping face, as if something inside her was afraid of forgetting it. She pushed the warm blanket off her skin. The cool air made her shiver, feeling the sweat on herself. She stroked her naked arms. So soft. So warm. Was she happy? Yes. And no. Because now the words were back, and with them the name that had spun gold around her heart for so long she hardly remembered how things had felt before him.
She looked back at Orlando’s sleeping face.
Gold and gray.
She wanted both, and peace between the two.
She picked up her clothes off the woven flowers of the carpet. She’d never dropped her fur dress so carelessly and was relieved when she found it among the discarded human clothes.
Ludmilla Akhmatova was gone. She’d left a note for Orlando. Secrets. Fox didn’t read it.
Baryatinsky’s palace was far, but she walked. She took her time, looking at her reflection in shop windows as if looking at a stranger, not sure whether she should laugh or cry, and doing neither. She left someone behind on Moskva’s streets: the Celeste who’d sat at the Bluebeard’s table, but also the girl who’d followed Jacob all those years like a child. She couldn’t yet tell who’d taken their place. When she passed the entrance to a park, she called the fur. It came more easily than it had in a long time. The gate scraped the vixen’s back as she squeezed under it, but it felt go
od to break away from all human memory. If only the sun hadn’t been spinning golden threads between the trees.
The guard at Baryatinsky’s gates opened them without question. He lowered his eyes as she stepped past him, but she’d already seen the desire in his eyes. Like an echo of before.
Jacob was not back yet.
Fox was glad.
The Bear in the East
Wladimir Molotov was not just the curator of the Tzar’s Magic Collection; he also taught Varangian history at the university of Moskva, as he proudly informed Jacob before he began the tour. Ten minutes later, Jacob already pitied every student who had to attend Molotov’s lectures. The collection was indeed as unique as people claimed, and Molotov’s Austrian was almost flawless, but his speech was slower than the gait of his gout-bowed legs, and even the famous magic eggs lost all their mystery under his dusty explanations.
Armor to make one invulnerable, ovens that gave a bear’s strength to anyone who slept on their warm tiles, two rooms filled with invisible-making mushrooms, magic nuts, magic rose hips, and Baba Yaga bark. Three rooms full of carved figurines from all around the world to summon the old gods: a god of thunder from Fon, a snake goddess from Bengal, the Fire Dancer from Savai’is... And there was no end in sight. Molotov’s dull monologue gave Jacob much time to wonder what Fox was doing with Orlando. Ridiculous how persistently his thoughts drifted back to her. No matter how much he tried to force himself to pay attention to his guide, it was too obvious whom his mind tried to follow as naturally as she’d followed him all these years.
The seventh room into which he followed Molotov was filled from floor to ceiling with magical books. Jacob had only seen comparable collections in Pendragon’s university library and in a Ligurian monastery. One of the books was bound in silver, which of course made him think of the Alderelves. Molotov explained how that book, should one be foolish enough to open it, gave the power to read things and creatures out of any book in the world. Jacob had never heard of such magic and was just about to ask Molotov about the silversmith who’d created the book’s covers, but then he saw what was in the next room.
They flowed down the walls like woven water, and their patterns conjured a thousand and one faraway places. Flying carpets.
Jacob’s heart began to beat faster. There it was, the magic that could help him find Will. How could he have forgotten that the Tzar’s collection was famous for its flying carpets? Because your jealousy won’t let you think straight, Jacob. Most flying carpets would take the rider to a place, but a few could also be steered toward a person. The pattern for that rare kind of magic was so complex that even the most talented weavers rarely managed it without flaw.
The first carpets Molotov limped past were woven and could at best be used for short trips. Then came carpets with knotted patterns that indicated they could fly neither very fast nor very high, let alone do any other magic. But Molotov had much to say about each one, and Jacob had to restrain himself not to leave the old man standing there to go off in search of the right carpet.
The patterns became more complex. Knotted thickets of flowers and animals, abstracts, celestial constellations.
“This carpet brings love if you ride it with the lady of your dreams during a full moon.”
Yes, yes, fine. Next.
