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I wedged heavy eyelids open to see the tent had cooled and darkened, the bright sunbeams gone. Darling gone. Dragonfly stood over me, her spiky wings a disturbing gray silhouette. I was groggy enough from the hard sleep that I couldn’t even feel pleased yet that I hadn’t dreamed.
“My lady sorceress?” Dragonfly chirped again, my personal mechanical bird.
“Yes—what?” I sat up and finger-combed my hair.
“Shall I light the candles? It’s dark now. And you must go to the evening meal at Lord Falcon’s tent.”
“Knock yourself out,” I said, looking around for my trunks, then it occurred to me to check that my words hadn’t translated literally. Fortunately she seemed to have the sense of them. She skipped about lighting little white candles that had been set out in the spaces between cushions. Looked like a fire hazard to me. And there were still too many cushions. I wished one into a philodendron, just to amuse myself. Reveling a little in the freedom. It came out silk, but at least it took up less floor space.
I didn’t question how she knew what time the dinner started. For all I knew, she’d been assigned to me primarily as an alarm clock, since I still lacked whatever plug-in they all had that told them when things started. They seemed to have a kind of hive mind. Many of these people, in fact, seemed to have an affinity for insects. But then others tended more toward vertebrates. Something to ponder.
Nature’s call forced me to instead ponder how I might relieve myself. I found a chamber pot behind a screen. Instead of looking for Restroom signs in this place, one apparently looked for a free-standing screen. I peed, but to my dismay, the pot filled up like any other. No magical vanishing. No convenient flush. I thought about wishing it away, but wasn’t sure where to send it. Along the road I’d simply availed myself of the great outdoors—an option I now missed. This was better than the bucket in my cell though. Not sure of the protocol, I left the pot there, covering it with the provided lid. At least it wouldn’t stink.
Finding my trunks tucked against the back wall, I dug through them for a dress for tonight and immediately put my hand on the lily, wrapped up in a dress that needed washing. Peeling away the fabric, I watched in reluctant fascination as the crushed blossom unfurled its petals, smoothing the creases, returning to its usual redolence and shimmering with a just-picked glow. And everyone back home had been excited about how well Tencel packed.
I longed for a microscope. With even just a dissecting scope I could break petals and watch them reform, try to pin down the mechanism. Following the rules of the mundane world, the cellular structures should recapitulate their original formation, in essence regrowing. But here, would they simply shimmer into place as if they had always been there, the way it appeared to work to the naked eye? I should try to make a microscope. Thanks to Dr. Jenkins I probably understood enough of the mechanics to do it. He’d believed a microscopist was only as effective as his or her understanding of the device. Never truer than now.
For now, I needed to figure out a way to contain the dangerous blossom. Not that it would go crawling around the tent in my absence, like some kind of luminous blue spider.
I hoped.
I wished another pillow into a pedestal in the corner. Maybe the things would come in useful after all—at least the pillows provided a lot of raw material. I thought carefully about a bell jar that would fit against a glass bottom, with a rubberized air seal. Pleased when it came out just as I wanted, I placed the lily under glass. The heady sweet scent of it still swirled through the tent, but ought to diminish over time.
I instructed Dragonfly to leave the overhead flaps open unless it rained, to ventilate the place. Which ought to help with keeping candle smoke to a minimum, too.
In any good experiment, you tried to narrow down the effect of something so you could test one aspect at a time. This setup should serve to confine the effect of the lily only to sight. Though the whole magic thing skewed that—I’d probably have to encase it in silver to test whether it operated on another plane entirely.
Satisfied for now, and feeling a bit smug about my solution, I dressed in a ruby-red dress that seemed appropriate for dinner with generals, if not for a strategy meeting. I mean, did you wear cocktail length or tea length when planning a war?
Things my mom never taught me.
I keenly looked forward to having many questions answered this evening, though likely not that one.
I sat in front of the mirror Dragonfly had obtained, and studied my face while she brushed my hair. The witches in stories always seemed so vain in their obsession with mirrors. Now I understood. In a world where physical manifestations could change in a moment, mirrors were the only objective reality. Sort of objective, anyway.
I’d learned to observe my face as if it were not mine. This became quite simple when you forgot who you were. How it looked when I wasn’t doing anything in particular could be informative, kind of like getting a resting pulse. I tried not to notice Dragonfly’s left wing brushing dangerously close to a lit candle. The damn things probably had no nerve endings. My face in repose looked sad. Grief with an undercurrent of dread. Shocking.
While Dragonfly affixed Starling’s golden headband to my hair, I did my makeup. Through precise and small wishes, I applied the colors, shadows and brighteners I would for any party. I’d tried it first at Castle Brightness with decent results. Clive once told me that he didn’t think makeup made me look much different, just “more fuckable.” But I felt more confident. Facing Falcon, I needed every boost I could get. I’d undo it again afterward. I wasn’t sure why, but it seemed important to retain that ritual of fixing up, then cleansing for bed.
I never could commit to tattooed makeup either.
A horn trumpeted and a stentorian voice announced, “All rejoice at the arrival of Lord Puck!”
I rolled my eyes at myself in the mirror, pleased to see the sparkle of sarcasm wipe away the sorrow. If I had to choose an expression for my face to freeze into, I’d take that one over the mournful-orphan-waiting-to-get-punished look.
With an impressive jingling, Puck pranced into the tent. He wore a bright gold velvet uniform, one that might have been conceived by the costume designer forThe Pirates of Penzancerather than for any military purpose. Copious medals dangled from bright ribbons, flashing in the candlelight. Puck pirouetted in a distinctly unmilitary way, gave me an elaborate salute, then struck a pose reminiscent of a flamenco dancer. I clapped politely.
“You like it?” he gushed. “Don’t I look amazing? I think I shall wear it all the time, now that we’ve been deployed.”
“You are certainly impressive.”
“Oh, and you haven’t even seen the best part.” He untucked a helm from under his arm and plopped it over his bright strawberry curls. The gold of the helm clashed with his hair, but worse was the enormous plume of celadon ostrich-like feathers that now brushed the tent ceiling, though he stood near its peak. Dragonfly squealed with delight.
“I’m speechless,” I said with a wide smile. Puck grinned back, with a wink for little Dragonfly.
“You can design your own uniform, too—I’ve already arranged it.” He turned, holding his arm for me, just as Rogue had done. Thankfully I felt no charge when I laid my hand on his forearm as I had with Rogue. He clearly was the exception to so many things. Puck was looking Dragonfly over.
“Fabulous wings! She’ll make an excellent beginning to your entourage.” The girl nearly simmered with pleasure. “But you need more pillows in here—better see to that.”
