Staring into her old eyes, I suddenly believed her. I had read Pomposus’s books, just as Constanzia had. The difference between Constanzia and I was that I had understood what they meant. I knew that Chinanga was an imaginary world. All the people in it were imaginary people. It had been dreamed up by Ambrosius Pomposus—or by some creature or person calling himself or itself Ambrosius Pomposus. He had packed it full of all manner of strange things and characters. He had borrowed from myth and legend and other worlds for some of them.
How would anyone except Ambrosius himself know anything about this world? And he, I thought, had possibly died long since.
As though reading my mind, Carabosse said, “I used the secrets of time to find this place and explore it. No one else could find it in ten million years. All my effort, all my care has been directed at bringing you here. Believe me, Beauty, here you are safe.” She patted my hand.
Safe? Why should Carabosse care? I opened my mouth to ask these questions, and others.
She shook her head at me, much as my aunts had used to do when I asked questions about sex. No, no, no, her expression said. You must do without knowing. She drifted away down the deck, leaving me to wonder at what she had said.
What did I believe?
I believed that I was safe. I believed that she cared greatly about my safety, though I did not know why. I believed there was something more she had not told me. I did not believe, could not believe who it was she said I was safe from. What would the Dark Lord, under any name, want with me?
* * *
The Queen arrived at Novabella about noon. Among those assembled for the arrival were a squat and swarthy couple, Emilia and Domenico Sandifor, charged with conveying an official welcome to the Viceroy’s plenipotentiary and the chaperone, and, of course, to the captain. Constanzia and I became part of the party by virtue of the fact that no one saw fit to deny us that privilege. If anyone had done so, I am confident that Constanzia would have been equal to the occasion.
“I hope you’ll consent to stay with us,” Emilia bubbled at Mrs. Gallimar. “Don Masimiliano, the perfect of our province, has requested the honor of your company at the castle, yours and the chaperone’s, but I thought you’d want to stay here in the town for convenience’s sake.”
“I will not have time even to dine with Don Masimiliano,” said Roland in a severe voice. “I am to be taken to the person at once for a preliminary survey.”
“She’s been staying with us,” admitted Emilia. “With Jorge on a mat outside her door every moment that she’s in her room.”
“Windows?” snarled Roland. “What about the windows?”
“They have very heavy gratings, Senor Mirabeau. Quite impenetrable, I assure you.”
“Senora, if you had seen some of the things I have seen.” He shook his head gloomily to let us know that he had seen the worst that life in Chinanga afforded.
“Well, why don’t we get along there now?” Domenico offered.
We strolled along the cobbled street to the Sandifor house, the official delegation in the fore, we unofficial hangers-on following close behind. A tall iron gate admitted us to an acre or so of garden with orange trees and orchids. The house bulked beneath its tiled roof; an outside staircase led us to an upper floor where we found the manservant, Jorge, curled in stupified slumber before a metal-bound door. His bulky form stirred as Emilia took out a large black key, and he woke enough to move aside as she started to insert it into the lock. The key was taken from her by the chaperone before she could turn it.
“If you don’t mind,” Roland smiled. “I believe this is my affair from now on.”
“Not quite,” smiled Mrs. Gallimar. “It would be fair to say, our affair. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?”
“Really!” The chaperone was outraged. “I am a licencee of the Bureau of Public Morals!”
“And I am the Viceroy’s personal representative. Shall we go in together?”
Which, after a lengthy simmering glance, they did.
Left in the corridor, the Sandifors looked at one another in awe. “What was that she said to him?” asked Domenico.
“I have no idea,” his wife replied.
“A quotation,” I murmured from behind them. “A question once asked in a similar connection. ‘Who will chaperone the chaperones.’ ”
“Oh,” he replied. “Do you suppose we should wait here for them?”
Emilia shook her head. “I want to see what’s happening.”
She had spoken all our thoughts. We went quietly into the room. Mrs. Gallimar and Roland stood side by side, their backs to us. Before them, sitting on one of the luxuriously padded window seats, a young woman sat reading. She looked up when the two stepped forward.
I was astonished. So astonished I could not move. It was as though I had looked into my own face in a slightly distorting mirror. My hair. My eyes. She looked less like me than Beloved had, but she resembled me in ways Beloved did not. I knew who she was. She was the one I had been seeking. Elladine of Ylles. Who else could she be?
Roland sank to his knees before her. I moved to one side so I could see his face. He was looking at her hair, at her feet, at the delicate rose of her cheeks. At her eyes. The swell of her breasts, like petals belling before spring wind! I saw his eyes flicker. The smell of her! I saw his nostrils dilate.
“You must be the virgin,” smiled Mrs. Gallimar with a slightly sceptical tone.
For a moment the young woman could not or would not answer. Then she murmured, “Indeed. At the moment I must be. Are you the Viceroy’s representatives?”
“I am the Viceroy’s representative. This gentleman is Roland Mirabeau, licencee
