Seraphina(31)

Her face fell, and for a breathless moment it felt like time had stopped.

She stared, bug-eyed, and was silent so long that I began to doubt whether I had really seen what I had seen. Maybe it had been a trick of the light, or I was so desperate for kindred that I had imagined it. I lowered my arm and covered it back up, ashamed.

“I don’t believe it,” she said at last. “There are no others. This is some sort of trick.”

“I promise you, it’s not. I am, um, what you are.” She had avoided the word half-dragon; I found myself absurdly embarrassed to say it.

“You expect me to believe you have a tail?” she said, craning her neck to get a look at my backside.

“No,” I said, embarrassed by her gaze. “Just scales on my arm and at my waist.”

Her mouth curled into a sneer. “You feel terribly sorry for yourself, I suppose.”

My face grew hot. “It may not be as dramatic as a tail, but I—”

“Yes, yes, poor you. You must have trouble sitting down, and need your clothing especially made so it looks like you have a proper human body under there. You must have lived an impossibly long time thinking you were alone in the world. Oh no, I’m sorry, that’s me.”

I felt as if she’d slapped me. Whatever I’d expected, it wasn’t hostility.

She glowered. “None of this explains how you spy on people.”

“It’s unintentional. I have visions. Typically, no one in my visions is aware of my presence.” I left it at that. She didn’t need to know I could see her at will; let her think she was special, popping into my head unbidden, uniquely able to perceive me.

I would not deliberately look in on her again. I’d learned my lesson.

Some of the bitterness in her expression dissipated; apparently my mental quirks were not as irksome as my scales. “I have something similar,” she said. “A very, very short-range predictive skill. It is essentially an uncanny ability to be in the right place at the right time.”

“That’s what you meant by your stomach?” I hazarded.

She laid a hand on her padded belly. “It’s not magic; it’s more like indigestion. Typically, its instructions are vague or simple—turn right here, avoid the oysters—but I had quite a keen one that I could find the owner of those invisible eyes.” She leaned in toward me, the lines beside her mouth deepening with her scowl. “Don’t do it again.”

“You have my word!” I squeaked.

“I can’t have you stomping about in my head.”

I thought of Fruit Bat and Jannoula and felt some sympathy. “If it helps, I only see people from above, like a sparrow might. I can’t read thoughts—I’d know your name otherwise.”

Her expression softened slightly. “Dame Okra Carmine,” she said, inclining her head. “I am the Ninysh ambassador to Goredd.”

All the ire seemed drained out of her at last. She rose to go but paused with her hand on the door latch. “Forgive me if I was undiplomatic, Maid Dombegh. I react poorly to surprises.”

Poorly hardly covered it, but I said, “Of course,” and handed back her book, which she’d left on the spinet bench.

She fingered the leather spine absently, shaking her head. “I must admit, it boggles the mind to learn that your father, whose dearest mistress is the law, should have flouted it so egregiously in carrying on with your mother.”

“He didn’t know what she was until she died in childbirth.”

“Ah.” She stared into the middle distance. “Poor fellow.”


I closed the door behind her and looked at my quigutl timepiece. I could squeeze in a little sleep before morning if I got right to it. I turned restlessly and threw off my blankets for an hour, excited and unable to turn off my thoughts. How could I ever sleep again?

Fruit Bat, climbing trees in Porphyry, was just like me. My brother Loud Lad piped upon the rooftops of Samsam. Nag and Nagini raced across the sands somewhere; mighty Pandowdy lolled in his swamp. Fierce Miserere fought brigands, malevolent Jannoula plotted, and the rest of the garden denizens walked this world and were mine. Scattered and peculiar—some of us skeptical and bitter—we were a people.

And I was at the hub of this enormous wheel. I could bring us together. In a way, I already had.





Of course, I couldn’t run off in search of my people. I had a job. Viridius was demanding late nights and early mornings. I barely had time to tend my garden properly; taking Fruit Bat’s hands and locating him was out of the question. I promised myself I would go looking for him later, once Treaty Eve had come and gone. Fruit Bat kept his part of our agreement and gave me no trouble, although his black eyes scrutinized my face when I visited, and I suspected any rustle in the shrubbery was him, following me around the garden.

A dearth of sleep and a bruised, puffy nose made for a crabby music mistress, which made the days drag by in turn. My musicians weren’t bothered; they were used to Viridius, whose crankiness knew no limits. The master himself found me amusing. The more I snarled, the jollier he got, until he was almost giggly. However, he did not insist that I attend any more soirees, or try to pin down a time for me to meet Lars, the mechanical megaharmonium genius. He tiptoed around me; I let him.

I still had to finalize the programs for General Comonot’s welcoming concert and the entertainments for Treaty Eve. Comonot was to arrive five days before the anniversary of his treaty. He wanted to experience a bit of what we Goreddis call Golden Week: the cluster of holy days beginning with Speculus, the longest night of the year. It was the season for reconciliation and reunion; for grand acts of charity and grander feasts; for circling the Golden House and praying that St. Eustace keep his hands to himself for another year; for watching the Golden Plays and going mumming door to door; for making grandiose promises for the coming year and asking Heaven for favors. It just so happened that Queen Lavonda had made peace with Comonot during Golden Week, so the treaty was commemorated too with Treaty Eve, where we stayed up all night, and Treaty Day, where we all slept it off. That marked the beginning of the new year.