Willem sighed, no longer caring that the master builder would mistake it aswhat? Willem being overwhelmed by the emotion of the moment? How could a man so old be so crushingly naive?
“I am prepared to step aside,” Inthelph said. “I am old, and have worked hard for too many years. I have an interest in wine, you see, and well…”
“Master Builder, I-“
Inthelph waved him off, smiled, and said, “Please don’t refuse me, Willem, I won’t know what else to do. I can’t bear the thought that you might turn your back on me the way Phyrea has. I wanted you in her life to bring her back into mine, not so that she could take you with her.”
Willem sighed again and cast about for a chair. He found one and sat, elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He couldn’t help thinking of Devorast and his perfect, calm self-assurance. And Willem had surrounded himself with just the opposite. Phyrea seemed to be an entirely different person every time he saw her. The master builder was a scared, insecure fool.
Maybe I belong in this family after all, Willem thought.
50
20Alturiak, the Yearof the Shield (1367DR) Second Quarter, Innarlith
Of course,” his fat mother said, “in Cor my r, it’s all but impossible for anyone to rise above his station the way my Willem has. To think, he’s been here onlyoh, my stars, has it been nine years? nine years, and he’s a member of the ruling body.”
Phyrea smiled and tipped her head graciously to one side while the ghost of the old woman said, And all he had to do was sell himself on the cheap to a bunch of crusty old men who’ve raised him like a pig.
“You must be very proud,” Phyrea said.
Thurene grinned so that Phyrea thought her head would split in two and everything above her upper lip would fall to the floor behind her. She put her teacup down on the saucer in front of her with a faint click. Something about the sound made Phyrea’s skin crawl.
Why are you wasting your time? the man’s voice said.
He stood directly behind Willem’s fat mother, staring down at her as though he was about to strangle her. Phyrea, startled by the ghost’s sudden appearance, almost dropped her own teacup. The hot brown liquid sloshed over the side and burned her hand, leaving it red and sore.
“Oh, my,” Thurene gasped.
“It’s all right,” Phyrea said, and placed her cup on her own saucer. She wiped the still-hot tea off her hand with her other palm, ignoring the linen napkin that sat on her lap. She saw Thurene eye the movement, and the old woman’s gaze lingered on the hem of her dress, which Phyrea was sure she found too shortscandalously so. “I’ve had worse injuries.”
“I can’t imagine,” the old woman said, confused. She didn’t believe her. “Can I get you anything?”
“Of course not,” Phyrea answered.
The ghost continued to stare down at her. Phyrea looked him in the eye. He smiled back at her, his face as cold as stone She could see the painting on the wall behind him: a badly-rendered portrait of Thurene herself. The artist didn’t add the blotchy liver spots and the wispy patches of hair at her temples that made her look more like a man than a woman. He was kind to her chins as well. The translucent violet apparition glanced over his shoulder at what Phyrea was looking at, and his smile became an annoyed scowl.
Thurene turned, stiff and slow, in her chair, also curious as to what Phyrea was looking at. She didn’t see the ghost standing behind her, and when she turned back to Phyrea she was smiling.
“Willem commissioned that, of course,” she said, brimming with pride in her son.
Phyrea had to swallow the bile that rose in her throat.
“And you’re quite certain you’re well,” Thurene said.
“No,” Phyrea replied, all falseness gone from her tone. “I’m not the slightest bit certain of that. I’m not. You know what I used to do, before I met a certain man?”
Thurene shook her head, nervous, scared even, but drawn to Phyrea’s intensity as much as her words.
Phyrea picked up a paring knife from the silver tea tray on the low table between them. Thurene’s eyes fastened to the little silver blade and followed it. With her other hand Phyrea lifted her skirt, showing even more of one firm thigh. She knew that Thurene could see at least the first few in the row of little scars, some still not entirely healed, that marked her otherwise perfect skin. She held the blade to her thigh, but didn’t cut, at least not right away.
“Oh, my, no,” Thurene breathed, but Phyrea could tell she really wanted her to do it. The old woman wanted to see it. “Phyrea…”
Do it, theghost of the man said.
Phyrea looked up at him, ignoring her mother-in-law. She let her eyes linger on the scar on his face, the scar in the shape of a Z. He sneered at her.
“You want me to,” she whispered. want you to, yes, the ghost said. p›
At the same time Thurene gasped, “Goodness, no!”
But if you cut, the man said, his lips moving but not in time with the words that echoed in Phyrea’s head, keep cutting. Cut and cut and cut until you’re one with us at last.
But not here, the voice of the old woman intruded. “Phyrea…”
Phyrea looked around the dull, dimly-lit sitting room for the old woman, but the apparition was nowhere to be seen. All there was to see was expensive but unremarkable furniture, art that showed an utter lack of taste, and all the little things that made the house more Thurene’s than Willem’s. It was an old woman’s house.
“It makes me feel something,” Phyrea said, turning back to Thurene.
“Phyrea, please, I”
Phyrea pressed down on the knife and the hot wetness of the blood was the first sensation, followed only after Thurene’s shocked gasp by the pain.
“It isn’t bad, but it hurts,” Phyrea whispered.
Yes, the ghost of the man whispered, it hurts.
Phyrea watched as the man faded away, drifting into nothingness like a wisp of steam.
“For at least the space of a heartbeat,” Phyrea said, her eyes closed, “all you think about is the little stab of pain and not the horrible, bloated beast of a woman that’s sitting across from you, the pretty but frivolous man you’ve sold yourself to like a whore’s whore, and the sad, pathetic ruin of your own life.”
She opened her eyes again and laughed in Thurene’s horrified face.
“Wouldn’t you prefer it back in Cormyr?” Phyrea asked. She held up the pairing knife and a few drops of blood clung to the blade. “If you went back there, you might live out the rest of your life like a sow in a pen, spared the slaughter by a farmer gone sentimental.”
Thurene swallowed, which caused her chins to waggle in a ridiculous way. Her skin was so heavily powdered it was impossible for Phyrea to be sure, but it appeared as though she’d gone pale.
“Willem doesn’t know I do that to myself,” Phyrea said then licked her own blood from the blade, reached down, and cut a sliver of pear. Thurene gagged, a hand at her throat, her eyes wide. “Pear?” Phyrea offered.
She held the slice of ripe fruit out to her mother-in-law, who shook her head and shrank away.
“You s-said,” Thurene sputtered, “you said… you said that you did that… before you met my Will”
“I said nothing of the kind,” Phyrea interrupted. “It’s not your pathetic son who’s very presence makes me feel as though there may be some hope for our miserable, porcine existences.”
Phyrea placed the slice of pear on her tongue and held it in her mouth, sucking the juices from it until it sizzled. With the tip of her finger she drew up the little smear of blood that oozed from the cut, and licked it off with the tip of her tongue. Thurene gagged again, but Phyrea enjoyed the salty tang of her own blood as it mixed with the tart sweetness of the pear. As she chewed, she pulled the hem of her dress down until it almost touched her knee.
“Phyrea, I” Thurene started, but choked to a stop when the door opened and Willem walked in.
