Stone Mattress: Nine Tales(33)

There’s a space to the left of the renowned authoress, and Jorrie slides herself into it. Her hand locks on to Tin’s arm. Her head pokes forward, in an attitude of rapt listening. Is she going to pose as a fan? Tin wonders. What’s she up to?

“Book Three,” says Constance W. Starr. “Frenosia first appears in Book Three. Not Book Four.” She takes another bite and chews imperturbably.

“Oh, of course, Book Three,” says Naveena. She gives a nervous titter. “And Mr. Putnam said, he said you’d put him into the series. When you were out of the room, getting the tea,” she says to Reynolds. “He told me that.”

Reynolds’s face has hardened: this is poaching on her territory. “Are you sure?” she says. “He always denied specifically …”

“He said there were a lot of things he never told you,” says Naveena. “To spare your feelings. He didn’t want you to feel left out because you weren’t in Alphinland yourself.”

“You’re lying!” says Reynolds. “He always told me everything! He thought Alphinland was drivel!”

“Actually,” says Constance, “I did put Gavin into Alphinland.” So far she hasn’t acknowledged the presence of Jorrie, but now she turns and looks at her directly. “To keep him safe.”

“This is inappropriate,” says Reynolds. “I think you should …”

“And it did keep him safe,” says Constance. “He was in a wine cask. He slept for fifty years.”

“Oh, I knew it!” says Naveena. “I always knew he was in the series! Which book is that?”

Constance doesn’t answer her. She’s still talking to Jorrie. “But now I’ve let him out. So he can come and go whenever he likes. He’s not at risk from you any more.”

What’s the matter with Constance Starr? Tin wonders. Gavin Putnam, at risk from Jorrie? But he’d been the rejecting one, the harmful one. Is there vodka in that water glass?

“What?” says Jorrie. “Are you talking to me?” She’s squeezing Tin’s arm, but not to keep from laughing. Instead she looks frightened.

“Gavin is not in that f*cking book! Gavin is dead,” says Reynolds. She’s beginning to cry. Naveena takes a small step towards her, but then moves back.

“He was at risk from your ill will, Marjorie,” says Constance, her voice level. “Coupled with your anger. It’s a very potent spell, you know. As long as his spirit still had a flesh container on this side, he was at risk.” She knows exactly who Jorrie is: despite the gold flakes and the bronze powder, she must have known from the first minute.

“Of course I was angry, because of what he did to me!” says Jorrie. “He threw me over, he kicked me out, like, like an old …”

“Oh,” says Constance. There’s a frozen moment. “I didn’t realize that,” she says at last. “I thought it was the other way around. I thought you’d wounded him.” Is this a face-off? thinks Tin. Is this matter and anti-matter? Are the two of them going to explode each other?

“Is that what he said?” says Jorrie. “Shit, it figures! Of course he’d say it was my fault!”

“Oh my God,” Naveena says to Jorrie, sotto voce. “You’re the Dark Lady! Of the Sonnets! Could we maybe talk …”

“This is supposed to be a funeral,” says Reynolds. “Not a conference! Gavin would hate this!” None of the other women shows any sign of having heard her. She blows her nose, gives a furious, red-eyed glare, then walks away towards the bar.

Constance W. Starr sticks the remains of her sandwich into her water glass; Jorrie stares at her as if she’s mixing a potion. “In that case, I’m honour-bound to release you,” Constance says finally. “I’ve been under a serious misapprehension.”

“What?” Jorrie almost screams. “Release me from what? What are you talking about?”

“From the stone beehive,” says Constance. “Where you’ve been imprisoned for such a long time, and stung by indigo bees. As a punishment. And to keep you from hurting Gavin.”

“She’s the Scarlet Sorceress of Ruptous!” says Naveena. “This is so wicked! Could you tell me …” Constance continues to ignore her.

“I’m sorry about the bees,” she says to Jorrie. “That must have been very painful.”

Tin grips Jorrie’s elbow and attempts to pull her back. It wouldn’t be out of the question for her to jump into tantrum mode and kick the old authoress on the shins, or at the very least start yelling. He needs to extract her. They’ll go home and he’ll pour them each a stiff drink and he’ll calm her down, and then they can make fun of this whole thing.

But Jorrie doesn’t move, though she lets go of Tin’s arm. “It was very painful,” she whispers. “It’s been so painful. Everything has been so painful, all my life.” Is she crying? Yes: real, metallic tears, sparkling with bronze and gold.

“It was painful for me too,” says Constance.

“I know,” says Jorrie. The two of them are gazing into each other’s eyes, locked in some kind of impenetrable mind-meld.

“We live in two places,” says Constance. “There isn’t any past in Alphinland. There isn’t any time. But there’s time here, where we are now. We still have a little time left.”