Free Flowers From The Storm by Laura Kinsale Page A

the corner. She spoke to the shambling form that sat up there. The two of them prattled incomprehensibly for a minute, then the Ape got up and shuffled out of the room.
    She set the candle on the windowsill, turning toward him. It was intolerable to be seen by her in this state of abject humiliation, this utter enslavement; he closed his eyes and feigned sleep, willed it all away—
    wake bedroom; dogs, name, self, WORDS! Words understand, words speak —this crazy dream
     

    would be over.
    “Ervoh,” she murmured. “Wilthwak?”
    She touched his shoulder. Shame made him set his jaw and turn away from her; pride made him clench his fists and jerk once, hard, at the bonds.
    The ringing noise startled her; she pulled her hand back and looked down at him nervously. He felt a certain satisfaction in her alarm and stared at her with insolent malevolence.
    She smiled tentatively. “Wasign fucshun,” she said. “Brotanifiti serees.”
    She held up a paper. In the candlelight, the ink was dark and clear.
    YES!
    Yes, yes, yes , he wanted to shout. You heard me, you understood; I’m here !
    But he did nothing. Suddenly he was afraid to move, afraid that he would frighten her away after trying to do it an instant before. She became precious, priceless, a jewel beyond measure; he could not, couldnot hazard doing anything wrong now.
    He realized he’d begun breathing too fast. He corrected that, contained himself. With a conscious effort, he relaxed his arms and opened his fists, resting his bound hands back against the bed. He looked into her eyes and risked a short, emphatic nod.
    “Sign fusha,” she said, with a little stress. “Yes?”
    Yes , he thought. Yes . He thought he might say yes , and then didn’t chance it. Cautiously, he nodded again.
    “Sighn,” she said. “Sighn fu shon.”
    Sighnfushon. Fushon sign . The words went around in his head, sign fun, fuhn sighn, sign funsignshon, mix tumble, two dice, wheel… dizzy .
    “Sign funshun,” she said again, kneeling beside him, rattling the paper.
    He looked at the symbols. He knew what the series made, he understood its meaning—
    And the revolving words fell, dropped into the cup, settling.
    Sine function.
    Of course.
    Sine function . He gave a faint, bewildered chuckle. The candlelight guttered, casting pulsing shadows on her face as she knelt, prim cap, siren lashes, virtue, Miss .
     
    He wet his lips. “Sine,” he said hoarsely.
    “Yes!”
    “ Yes .” The word came explosively, as if he had to push it through, to break a wall. “ Sine , yes.”
    She smiled. It was like morning in the shadows; it razed his heart; he found himself in love, in an agony of passion.
    “Sine… func… tion,” his beloved said.
    Child, not child, silly prim, not child repeat.
    “Secant,” he grated. “Cosecant.”
    “No. Sine.”
    “Tangent. Cotangent. Angle.” Easy. Mathematics, trigonometry . “Parallel axiom; congruence, co-planar lines, perpendicular lines.” God, geometry was easy; why hadn’t he remembered how easy?
    He tried something hard. He gripped the chains above his wrists, fighting to say it. “ Ah …” It was so painful; he knew it, it just wouldn’t come. “Ah… she. She ! Cuzz-mad.”
    He loved her. He didn’t want her ever to go away and leave him alone in this place.
    She tilted her head quizzically. “Who?”
    His open fingers barely brushed hers. He moved his hand to the limit of the chain and stroked his thumb gently up and down the side of her palm. He gazed into her eyes, trying to say it that way. Every word was agony to accomplish: cling twist slide away silvery fish grab —shove through the wall. “ Name !” It burst out of him. “ Name ! She?” He gripped her hand, squeezed it once.
    She smiled again. “Maddy.”
    Yes, that was it. Maddy. Maddy girl. Maddy. “ Mm —,” it came out, and he gritted his teeth in frustration.
    “Maddy,” she said.
    He nodded. He was afraid that wasn’t enough, that she wouldn’t know