Adrian closed the door on the way out. In the outer room he found Brandon Fischer with a tall, middle-aged woman who wore her court dress as though it were a disguise.
She glanced toward Adrian with the equality of one who considers herself a mistress of her own world. “How is my patient?” she said.
“Tired. And I suspect, sore.”
“Painkillers, as I’ve said, for at least ten days—”
“Yes. So you’ve said. You pumped enough into her last night, and there was more in the tea this morning.”
She looked at him narrowly.
“I promise you, madam, we are giving her the best of care. She’s my wife, isn’t she?”
Her voice gave him back nothing in trust. “I’ve never taken a patient before who didn’t come to me of her own will. I’ve never walked into a room with a coven circle to take a woman already drugged senseless—”
Adrian’s wince was imperceptible.
“And none of us would have done it for anyone but the Protector. Nor for any reason but that she’d been violated before.”
Now Fischer was looking at him, too. “You didn’t tell—” He cut himself off.
Crossly, Adrian said, “Satisfy yourself, madam! I insist.” He gestured toward Iolanthe’s room. “You’ll find her sleeping peacefully.”
She took him at his word, leaving them there.
As soon as she was out of the room, Fischer said, “You didn’t tell Iolanthe?”
“She wouldn’t have liked the idea, Brandon.”
“But you didn’t tell her,” he continued, monomaniacally. The concept, Adrian saw, left him completely at sea. Was this what marriage reduced one to?
“I had the right to insist the operation take place.”
“That’s my point, Adrian. You could have ordered her to go through with it. She would have, I’m sure.” Adrian paced uncomfortably. “I refuse to have her looking at me. With that look women get, as though you’ve failed them entirely and ought to be taken out with the spaniel who’s left something on the rug.”
“Iolanthe wouldn’t—”
“Look who speaks for her now! The man who tells me the obvious, that she’s a product of Opal!” Abruptly, his anger passed. “She doesn’t trust us, Brandon. She would have been terrified. I make choices for four million people—it’s a little late to decide I can’t make one now.” Fischer regarded him silently. At last he said, “We must pray she never finds out.”
The witch-surgeon returned. She closed the door gently and brushed her hands together as though disposing of chalk dust.
Adrian waited, then said, “Well, madam?”
Her face expressionless, she said, “I wish you joy of your marriage, sir.” She inclined her head to them, and left.
“Witches,” said Adrian.
Fischer made no comment as they left Iolanthe’s rooms. Out in the corridor they were met by Will Stockton. “Sir, I must lay an objection,” he said formally.
Adrian sighed, knowing what was coming. With the two Opal security guards, his own two, Brandon and now Will, quite a knot was forming in the corridor, all to listen and participate in a discussion that would be better not happening.
Will spoke with stiff earnestness. “With all respect, why wasn’t I informed that a party was taking place here yesterday? I was under the impression the Lady Iolanthe had retired for the evening. Sir—I don’t like to hear this sort of thing from my own guards after the fact.”
Adrian gave him a look of well-bred surprise. “It was a simple tea party, from what I was told. Ladies only. I don’t think you’d have been welcome.”
“Sir,” Will said doggedly, “the point is that this is a security issue. I should have lists of attendees, times, places—”
“Yes, yes. You’re quite right. We’ll be more careful in future. No harm done this time, though, was there?”
Will’s expression was pure dissatisfaction, the look of one who wanted to fight for his point and was balked by unfair capitulation on the part of his enemy. Finally he said, “I must insist on being informed, sir, really.”
“You’re absolutely right, Sergeant. I’ll speak to someone about it.”
He heard the tiredness in his own voice and was surprised by it. Guilt can be wearing, said an imp in his head, nastily. Oh, shut up.
“That poet was a liar,” he muttered to Brandon as they walked away from the tangle. “Love does not make all things simple.”
“Would you like my advice?” Fischer said. He opened his mouth.
“I shall become violent,” said Adrian, turning to look at him. “This is fair warning.”
Fischer closed his mouth. They continued down the corridor, Adrian hearing the pace of his security guards like the tramp of every bad decision he’d ever made, treading on his cape.
Hartley sat in Rose Court, behind the Cascade, hidden by the staircase. He peeled off an exquisitely thin silk glove and inspected it for tears. The truly creative, he thought, are never bored, but this is pushing the theory. He’d been waiting for over an hour.
The expanse of the courtyard was nearly empty now; partygoers, pleasantly drunken, had swayed gently from their gatherings and made their way home again, guided by pages. It was dim and quiet—only the distant murmur of a private dance, talk and music together, blended on the periphery of hearing.
A man approached him. A young man, Hartley thought, from the way he moved. He wore a party mask, a scarlet bird’s head with crepe streamers.
‘“Out of the night that covers me,”’ the young man offered, his voice uncertain.
The truly creative are often tested by boredom, though, Hartley said to himself. The young man’s mouth was just visible beneath the top half of beak, and as Hartley watched, a tongue emerged to wet dry lips.
“‘Out of the night that covers me,’” the young man said again, more uncertain than ever.
“‘Black as the pit from pole to pole,’” said Hartley obligingly.
“ ‘I thank whatever gods may be—’ ” Slight note of relief there.
“‘For my unconquerable soul.’ Pleased to be of service. Have we met?”
The bird-man goggled at him. In the same mundane tone, Hartley continued, “Do you know, I believe the man who wrote that poem killed himself soon thereafter. It
