Free The Puppet Maker's Bones by Alisa Tangredi

oldest of your kind that I have met is four hundred years old. But our lifespan potential might be longer than that. We do not know. We do know that we don’t live forever.” Mr. Trope made a show of examining his gloved hands.
    “That is impossible,” said Pavel.
    “I assure you that it is not.”
    “What you are saying is insane,” insisted Pavel.
    “Beliefs and facts are beginning to get confusing, aren’t they? You see yourself in the mirror every day, Pavel. What do you think?” Pavel did not know how to answer this man. He accepted what Prochazka and Nina told him and everyone else. That he was stunted. He accepted that was reality.
    “Tell me. What do you know about art?” asked Mr. Trope.
    Pavel was getting impatient with Mr. Trope. He seemed to keep changing the topic, or choosing roundabout ways of getting to the point. Pavel’s annoyance grew, and he shifted again in his seat, crossing one leg over the other as he answered Mr. Trope with a shortness that revealed his impatience.
    “Not much. I like some of it well enough.”
    Mr. Trope rubbed his gloved hands back and forth over one another.
    “Have you ever heard of a Putto?” Pavel had no idea to what Mr. Trope was referring, but that feeling of being taunted returned to him.
    “I admit to toying with you about mention of the erotic arts, young love and marriage,” Trope continued. “I suppose I wanted to see how you would react. My hope was that you would be one who is unaffected by the subjects. How regrettable that I was wrong, and for that I’m sorry.”
    Pavel felt his face flush. Mr. Trope had admitted to toying with him. About love. He sat, waiting for him to finish.
    “You may not fall in love, Pavel. Your kind cannot marry. You cannot engage in the erotic arts.”
    Pavel felt himself getting upset and he started his rhythmic breathing again, the way his parents had taught him, concentrating on the grain of the oak desk in front of him, the worn spot on the rug below his feet, the rug pattern itself of unicorns running among trees, surrounded by small winged children. An odd pattern for a floor rug, more appropriate to a tapestry, he thought. He allowed his focus to return to Mr. Trope, who had continued speaking, his tone quite serious. It sounded as if Mr. Trope was issuing an order.
    “Not only is it dangerous, but it is forbidden. Consider yourself informed. You are not, under any circumstances, to engage in any act of physical love with another. The consequences of that are quite severe.”
    Pavel stared at the horrible man. First Mr. Trope told him his parents would die soon, then he told him he could never love or marry. According to Mr. Trope, Pavel was to live for countless years. Alone? The idea was impossible to grasp. Mr. Trope continued.
    “Some of your kind join the Church. We suggested that as a possibility to your parents.” Pavel realized why Nina was crying that morning and why Prochazka was talking about the Church.
    “More as a way of discretion, I should suppose,” said Trope. “As you experienced yourself as a boy, people like us can often draw the attention of others even when attempting to avoid it. Someone who never gets sick? Who stays young? These people are often fodder for religious hysteria or superstition. Where better to avoid that than within the walls of a church? You can travel from congregation to congregation every decade or so.”
    Pavel succeeded in controlling his breathing enough that he felt he could respond.
    “I can assure you, I have no intention of joining the Church.”
    “No, I suppose you would not,” said Trope.
    Pavel gestured his hand around the office where they sat.
    “What about you?” asked Pavel. “Is this your ‘monastic’ existence? Handling the business affairs and acquiring wealth for others like us?”
    “Yes, I suppose it is.”
    “And how old are you, if I may ask,” said Pavel.
    “Two hundred fifty-seven on my last birthday, though the date of my birth