Then he sat down and put his face in his hands. I think he was crying. Vanity sat next to him on the bench and put her arms around his shaking shoulders.
I said, 'What just happened?'
Colin was standing very close behind me. 'Didn't you feel it? Trismegistus used the fact that Victor here killed Lamia and her two pals, ap Cymru and what's-her-name, the Phaeacian, to power his curse against us. Necromancy. The winged bastard probably expected us to kill the bitches. There was a moral component, a vengeance involved. We killed Lamia, so fate could kill us. Big Q, our little Quentin here, just called their bluff and trumped their ace. He forgives Lamia, so her death has to forgive Victor. That's the way I figure it, anyway. Quentin was really shaken up by the time Lamia had him strapped to the table. Maybe he can get over it, now.'
'Why is he crying?' I said. I was thinking that boys were not supposed to cry, but I did not say that. It would have sounded like such a stereotype. But I thought it.
Victor said, 'Growing pains. Children hold grudges. Adults cannot.'
I said to Colin, 'I understand four parts of what we must do to unwind an Olympian fate. But what do you do? What did you do to save Mr. Finkelstein?'
He spread his hands. 'You're the one person I cannot explain it to, Amelia.'
'Try me.'
'I turn myself into glass and remember the Real Me, a soul without a body, outside of time, eternal, enlightened, unstained. I think about how Fate has no power over Infinity. And I think of freedom. I am inspired by freedom: In my heart I sing of it. None of my brothers in the dream-universes can do what I do, for they have never been bound, and they do not hate prison half so much.'
'I think I do understand.' I smiled at him. Sometimes Colin seems sweet.
Victor interrupted the conversation. 'Amelia's turn next. We have to get rid of the curse Boggin put on her; otherwise, he can find her whenever he wants.'
It didn't work. I could give the frozen time more free will, and Victor could make it act in a neutral fashion, but the moral component would writhe and tangle, and slowly correct the fate back to what it had been.
Quentin said, 'I am sorry. If I were more skilled, studied more deeply in the One True Art, perhaps-'
I said angrily, 'I thought my parents sent me into the cursed world in order to do this! To find you four, and set about freeing mankind from Lust and Death and War and all the other gods they worship! So was it all for nothing?'
Victor said in a voice as calm and gentle as ever I was to hear him use, 'Reality consists of scarcity: No tool is of unlimited use, no good supercedes all other goods, no power is so powerful as to overwhelm all else; otherwise the universe would long ago have been reduced to that one power, with that one tool to that one good.'
'What's that mean?' I said to him. Maybe I shouted it.
'It means nothing is perfect. Every rule has exceptions. Every atom in motion has a swerve.'
I said tearfully, 'It means I will never get away from Boggin?' To Quentin I said, 'Why didn't it work?'
Quentin said, 'The wording of the oath. You would never do anything to make him ashamed. If you undo his spell, on which his whole reputation and honor depend-he took quite a risk in letting us at large-then he will be shamed indeed. I cannot undo the moral obligation, because the very act of unweaving the obligation is shameful. It is almost as if you took a second oath not to break the oath.'
Vanity looked worried. She whispered something to Colin. Colin took me by the elbow and lowered his lips to my ear. 'Amelia, don't you even think about trying to sneak away from us, to lead Boggin away. I am not going to let that happen. I want you too much.'
Well, that gave me something to think about. The conclusions I came to were not so pleasant.
Why wasn't Victor here, keeping Colin away? I turned my head. Victor was standing, simply standing, in the prow of the ship, looking out into the snowy darkness, the surging waves, his face thoughtful.
As if he had already resigned himself to the idea that I would run away.
The Bubble Bath
The magnificent Hotel del Coronado looks out upon the blue Pacific across beaches as tawny-white and perfect as no beach in Europe can be. It is summer here, in Southern California, eternal summer. The sea breeze is always cool and crisp and fresh, and the palm trees are always as green, and know no wintertime.
When ancient poets dreamed of mansions on Olympos, in the aether high above the storms and snows of Earth, they sang of untroubled climes and unchanging seasons, not knowing that the paradise they feigned was here on the West Coast of the New World.
The hotel itself is roofed in sun-baked red tile, topped with cupolas and adorned with quaint architectural flourishes. A dozen white dormer windows peer out from under the frowning brow of a titanic conical dome. Inside, the furniture and decor are stately and Victorian, but here and there are traces of Spanish ornament.
The windows here are nothing like the windows I knew in Wales, broad sheets of shining
