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“Marble needs little medicine,” the doctor demurred. “I made each of these myself, modeled after one of my mortal patients once their case proved . . . inevitable. If you look closely, I have marked out in black stones which villain it was that failed them, in the end. The heart, the liver, the lung, the brain.” Dr. Home’s eyes roved lovingly from statue to statue.
“This is Lord Byron’s house,” Emily protested softly. “Why should you have a garden in it?”
“George is very generous when he admires one’s work. I healed his fever after the battle of Lepanto.”
Charlotte and Emily exchanged glances. The Byron they knew of in England had died at Lepanto. But the physician to the Crown did not seem to notice the expressions on their faces at all. He was far too busy noticing himself. “This place was his personal thank-you note,” he went on, stroking his long, leather nose with long, leather fingers. He seemed entirely lost in his own words. He had come to talk to them! It was tremendously rude, Charlotte thought. But perhaps she could get an answer or two while he was distracted with imagining diseased kneecaps or what-have-you.
“Doctor, what is the average life-span of a Glass Towner? I only ask because everyone we’ve met seems quite young to be Dukes and Duchesses and getting married and having children and owning houses and building gory gardens.”
Dr. Home gave her a pointed, black look that plainly said Charlotte’s question was rude at the least and obscene at the worst. He then ignored it completely.
“I come here whenever I am able, to contemplate the nature of things,” he pressed on. “Of illness. Of health. Of time and death and memory.” Home waved his hand dismissively in the night air. “This was all before, of course.”
“Before what?” said Emily and Charlotte together.
Dr. Home smiled. All his teeth were white tiles, like the floor of a hospital. “Before the invention of rum, my dear girls.”
Silver trumpets sounded. Two drums began to beat. An oboe slid in and skipped back and forth between its two mates. Young Soult the Rhymer’s show was about to start.
Crashey finally spotted them. He waved his oak hand excitedly. “Char . . . er! Er! Em. Currer! Charcurrerie! Ellisem! Sorry! Over here, you great metal magpies!”
Lord Byron turned his head the moment he heard Emily’s half-Crashied name.
“Ellis!” he called. “You did promise you would sit by me, my darling. Did thy heart forget or thy spirit deceive? Either way, get your silver rump over here; I’ve missed you hideously.”
“I think I shall be more convincing on my own,” Emily said, a little guiltily. Of course, she did mean to get Byron to help them. But Charlotte didn’t like her calling him George, and she wanted to call him George over and over.
“Go,” said Charlotte. She shut her eyes and held her hand to her chest. Visions of onyx hearts still beat in her head. “But if he says no, you must move on. As you said. He’s not the only fellow here with a good arm and a good head.”
Half the Wildfell girls glowered hatefully at Emily as she picked her way through the sea of blankets toward Byron. Charlotte settled down with Crashey and his party of soldiers and eligible ladies. She noticed that the wooden boys had spread out very near Wellington, who had finally consented to lie awkwardly on the grass. He tried to lean against an increasingly irritated Copenhagen, but could not get his iron wings into a comfortable position. Wild roses sizzled where the hot feathers draped too far over his lion’s haunches. He slapped him affectionately with his sea-foam tail. Crashey followed Charlotte’s line of sight.
“Don’t say I never did a girl any favorindnesses,” he said, and jostled her with his elbow.
“How did your dance go?” said Miss Jane sourly as she scooted aside to make room. “I hope it was worth your reputation! If anyone in town should hear of it, I shouldn’t think your country manners would be invited back to civilization any time soon. Well, of course, I won’t
breathe a word . . . ”
“Have you found your gang of roughers yet?” Zenobia Elrington said kindly.
Lady Elrington handed Charlotte a slice of cake on a sturdy plate. She smiled at her food. It was a mille-feuille cake. That meant a hundred sheets in French. So, of course, her pastry was made of a hundred pages of sheet music held together with butter and sugar. When she bit into it, a sweet, golden song burst into her mind.
“Would you like me to be her rougher, Zenobia?” Rogue said suddenly, his unpatched eye full of love and that odd slyness it always seemed to keep at the bottom of every other feeling. “Would that please you, my dearest? If I were to go to Gondal? If I were to creep and spy for her sake?”
“Gang of roughers!” gasped Miss Jane, shocked. “Go to Gondal? What madness is this?”
Gravey, who seemed pained to be stuck with her while Rogue rested his dark head in Zenobia’s lap, hushed his date. They were all then loudly hushed in turn by the rest of the audience. Torches blazed into life; the show had begun.
Young Soult the Rhymer’s reedy voice echoed out over the audience.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I, Young Soult the Rhymer, present to you The Douro-ble Dynasty, or, Rule, Glass Town! Written by me, spoken by me, devised by me, costumes by me, sets by me, and . . . oh yes, right, puppets built and . . . er . . . puppeted by me as well.”
Lord Byron rolled his eyes. He leaned into Emily and whispered: “He chewed my ear off for a week trying to decide between those two limp-lettuce titles. Either of them is about as moving as a boiled egg.”
“George,” Emily whispered back, “about my brother and sister . . .”
“Oh, come now, there’s time for all that later!”
“There’s isn’t, really, it’s very urgent . . . ”
