“I know,” sighed Spider.
Iolanthe entered the Cathedral of Saint Thomas the Doubter flanked by Will’s two night-shift guards. Will himself walked behind her, and Prudence Favvi and three ladies preceded her. All in all, she thought, it ought to be sufficient reinforcement to keep her bravery up through the ceremony.
Bravery was needed, for one thing, because every soul in the cathedral was craning a neck to see her. Ladies in their service-going hats of sheer, pearl-trimmed lace; gentlemen in capes and admin jackets; the rows of the children’s section, where skinny arms and legs made the fine clothing look as though it had been awkwardly fitted to dolls. A mass of satin and cotton and noses and elbows and hats and the sideways flash of eyes, not as though they were people at all, but part of some collective, organic creature whose parts were wriggling about, displaying a frightening interest in you.
The aisle lasted forever, and then she had to join Adrian in his box on the side. A tall mosaic of Saint Thomas ran up the length of the wall behind them, Saint Thomas Ruiz Brennan, the friend of Adrian Sawyer who had first doubted him and later helped to build the Three Cities. Io took her seat beside Adrian, pausing to kneel and touch her thumb to her left arm in the sign of sharing.
He gave her a sideways smile. “Buck up,” he whispered as she got up, not moving his lips. “It’s only an hour.”
She was so startled she nearly lost her balance getting off her knees. Nothing in her past experience had led her to expect anyone to understand that this event might be a little frightening for her. Or was it glaringly obvious from her face? Oh, God, she hoped not.
The service wound out its routine ritual; she barely noticed it. The gospel that day was the Curosa creation tale, enacted by two priests in costumes of blue and yellow feathers, who danced precisely across the marble floor before the altar, pantomiming the old story. There was no need for Io to pay attention. She could almost have danced it herself.
She tried to stir herself for the sermon, curious as to whether something heretical would be pronounced. But it was only the old Diamond archbishop, whose name she didn’t recall, reminding the congregation of the wonder and joy that Adrian Sawyer knew when he realized the Curosa blood-sharing was simply the Christian Mass under alien guise. Iolanthe felt her thoughts drift off and made no effort to hold them back.
“… and so, brothers and sisters, if Adrian Sawyer, in his inspired wisdom, could see the unity between Curosa and human, how much more should we see the basic unity that exists between our way of Redemptionism and that which is practiced in the City of Opal? Twisted and confused though it may be …”
Io sat up straighten This was more like it! If Amo were here, he would have a stroke.
She looked around the cathedral. There were a number of dissatisfied faces; evidently even a backhanded compliment to the City of Opal was considered unpopular. Adrian’s expression was unperturbed.
When the service concluded, Io followed Adrian out to the vestibule, a good five minutes before the rest of the congregation was dismissed. She could hear “Blood of Our Fathers” thundering distantly through the walls. “Holding up?” inquired Adrian. “Breakfast and coffee in a minute.” She opened her mouth to reply, but he’d already taken the first steps up the broad stairway to the reception hall, and Will had touched her arm to guide her along behind.
Prudence met them at the entrance; when on earth had she slipped out of the service? She smiled at Iolanthe, and indicated the rest of the room with a sweep of her hand. “Better get in a few bites while you can, before the hordes arrive.” The room was lined with long tables, set out with warming plates filled to the brim with sausages, eggs, toast, bacon, rolls, muffins, and four kinds of juice. The smells were making her weak.
“Come on,” said Prudence, pulling her by one satin sleeve, “take something in before you faint. You’re looking a little pale.”
Io found her hands suddenly full of breakfast plates. She rested one on a table, took a cup of coffee, and began eating ravenously, glad that the silk and beribboned invaders had not yet arrived from below, and nobody was judging her on table manners.
“How are you taking it?” asked Prudence. She leaned against a table, holding a china cup delicately in one hand. Prudence never seemed to get hungry.
“These shoes are killing me,” said Io, her mouth stuffed with a roll.
Prudence glanced down at Iolanthe’s specially ordered white snakeskin shoes, with their crystal heels and their tiny diamonds sparkling at each eyelet, tied up with pink lace ribbons. She sighed. “I know. Mine are a preview of hell, as well.” She slipped a muffin onto Io’s plate. “Adrian failed to consult me about today’s breakfast. I must say, it’s just like a man to think of a stand-up buffet.”
They glanced over to where Adrian was standing beside a coffee urn, talking to Brandon Fischer, who’d materialized along with several more security guards. “Men are genetically incapable of grasping the Shoe Problem. You know what my idea of the perfect state dinner is, Io? A table with padded chairs, and a servant to crawl along beneath the table, massaging everybody’s feet.”
Io started to giggle at this scandalous image. “A man or a woman?”
“Well, I suppose proprieties must be observed. A woman to minister to the ladies and a man for the gentlemen. We’d have to take their word for it, though, since no one would injure their own dignity by lifting up the tablecloth to check.”
The doors to the reception room were opened and a stream of hungry churchgoers began pouring in. Iolanthe found that Will had reappeared by her side. There was a spot of bacon grease on his collar.
“Do you
