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My dress; my sail.
He flies to her, his arms small and tight around her neck. Casimira watches them like a satisfied brood hen.
“I have another gift for you, November. A secret in a story. Not so important as the first. Yet it is my hope that in time it will become as vital that you know it.” Casimira sits down on the floor in the center of her hall, and the house climbs up into her lap, kissing her cheek with a loud smack.
“I was born as the children of St. Folquet are born, you must have guessed. It is not possible that I should be otherwise, as our family has within it more wealth than Palimpsest can imagine. We have long thrived on adoption, but my mother could not give me up. The brothers and sisters of that school are not alone in their skill.
“The story they tell of how I came to be in possession of my house is ridiculous-when I was eight years old I was blank as a page, and my mother had to lift my hand to the door knocker, as I could not even do that of my own will. I stood dumbly and mutely in this very hall for a week, neither eating nor moving, so stupid are the unmolded Brauria. Finally the house overcame his shyness and cared for me, as best he knew. He taught me all the languages a house can know, and all the calculations required for its construction, and all the dancing performed and poetry recited upon its floors. It was a good education. And though I cannot think how he came to imagine such a thing, one day he set about licking me into shape, with the smallest tongue and the greatest patience.”
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“I talked to the other houses,” the boy says shyly hiding his face in Casimiras arm. “They knew where the rich little boys and girls went, and St. Folquet s School, the school itself, you know, the building, she knows how to wake them up.”
Casimira strokes his hair like a fond cats. “I woke up under his mouth, and we have never separated since. That is often the way of it, I understand. And so I alone of my family was able to be both born and live as Casimira, to take my place at the center of the factory and open my ears to all of the small things made in my vats and presses. I daresay I am better at it than any Casimira before me, for I was educated by a house, and this has taught me to think strange enough things to tolerate the secret dreams of the ants in my heart.”
November traces circles on the polished cedar floor. “I thank you for the secret, and for… for the bees, but I can't think why I should ever need to know this,” she said.
Casimira holds her house to her, his fingers tangled up in her long, green hair. Her voice is thick and hard when she speaks, and November understands by now that this means the great lady does not wish her to know that her words mean worlds to her.
“So that you will know, my love. So that you will know that you can be happy here with me. That you can live. That you can have a child in my house and it will not be taken from you. That I was given grace, and you may have it also. So that you will stay until you are old, and close your eyes with me, listening to all our bees and rats and starlings dream, and you will lose nothing by it.”
“Your love is a terrible thing,” November says. “It sits heavy. It stings. It cuts.”
She shrugs. “I am Casimira.”
“I don't know if I can bear it.”
“I would not have chosen you if you could not. You will get stronger. You will grow calluses.”
The house crawls over to her, his eyes bright blue and as dashing as he can make them. “I will lick your babies alive, I promise,” he says. The love of this one, this small thing inside a big thing, that she can bear. November holds him and rocks him, and she can feel in his little body, which is not exactly flesh, and not exactly plaster, that whatever comprises his heart is thundering in exultation.
“There is a man here,” he whispers finally as though he does not wish to admit it, to interrupt his time with this new and wonderful toy he has found. “He is waiting for you.”
November starts. She looks at Casimira with alarm-she has had no warning from the bee-minds that hover around hers.
“I think,” Casimira laughs, “they wanted to make you a surprise. They can be like that.”
The boy frowns. “He cannot come in, mistress. He is not allowed. The bees brought him as far as they could, but he is… stuck. In the back, on Shuttlecock Street.”
The trio make their way through the yawning lower floor of the house, and November s heart hammers against her ribs, intent on creating some new chamber for itself She closes her eyes and tries to feel him, as she has so many times, but the bees drown out his presence with their pleas that she be proud of them. She is proud, so very proud, and she calms them with her heartbeat. They buzz sleepily content. She is ready. They have done as she asked. She has earned the secret Clara longs for, and Xiaohui, and her nameless brother, and the green-coated stranger. Not from a book or from guessing, but by bearing up under venom like love. Would she tell Clara? Would she open up to that poor redheaded girl, like a friend, like a lover? To Xiaohui?
She would not. November knew she would not. Because it is a sacred place, she thinks. I owe it, I owe it protection. I owe it my soul. And perhaps she ought to feel guilty for this less than honorable intent, but she does not.
And there is a man, at the great window behind the house. He cannot even quite get to the window, the lineaments of his permitted transience appear to be the borders of the broad avenue behind Casimiras enormous house. He tries to push toward it, but he has not known a girl named Clara with a piercing in her tongue, and the amber shadows push back. He is forty or so, his curly hair thinning lightly a long, pointed nose holding up old-fashioned spectacles. His clothes are wrinkled and plain, his eyes mild and watery.
November throws open the window.
“You can't!” the house cries. And it is true, the golden half-mist will not let her climb out, resisting gently, even apologetically, but resisting nonetheless. She closes her eyes. The bees trumpet triumph with a million horns. She makes a guess and cries out:
“Ludovico!”
He starts, stares boggle-eyed at her, at her dress, at her ruined, blistered, vaguely glowing skin, so full of poison and honey. A vague expression of recognition crosses his shy face. But November stands in her surety, and she smiles though it hurts so much, blisters stretching and tearing on her face.
“Ludovico,” she says calmly boldly the deep hum of the hive in her voice. “My name is November Aguilar I live in Benicia, which is in California. You have to find me.”
“What?” he finally sputters. “You're right here.”
“Close your eyes and remember, Ludovico. Remember me. In the frog's shop. Remember the bee sting on my face… well, yes, I suppose there is more than one sting now. But remember. I was there, with you, that first night. I held your hand.”
