Free The Visitor by Sheri S. Tepper Page A

stories. Rashel says she’s gotta sisser, then she’s gotta sisser. C’mere, sisser. Less go out onna porch.”
    Dismé looked around. No one seemed to notice what the man was doing, which was to put his hands on various parts of her and try to get them under her clothing. At that point, another man came up behind him, pushed the drunken man away from Dismé and sent him away in the grip of two BHE guards.
    He then returned to Dismé. “I apologize for that oaf,” he said. “My name is Ayward, by the way. Professor Ayward Gazane. College of Sorcery.” He lowered his voice. “That ass who was attacking you needs a flogging. Public drunkenness is prohibited, as I’m sure you know, but he’s a Turnaway git, which means he ‘gits’ innumerable second chances not available to the rest of Bastion.” He smiled, making her smile, his long, bony face grave and concerned beneath its crown of curling, slightly graying hair, his slender figure inclined toward her, his voice gentle. During therest of the afternoon, he stayed at her side, and she was grateful for his attention, the first she had received from a man since her father died.
    Rashel, whose own reception at the gathering had given her food for much profitable thought, rode home beside her sister without noticing Dismé’s flushed face or shining eyes.
    The next day, Ayward Gazane sent a note, which Dismé intercepted before Call-Her-Mother could see or dispose of it, and thereafter, they met in the college park, drawn to each other as two fireflies in a darkness, wandering the graveled paths through long, honeyed afternoons full of interest and enjoyment of a completely proper kind.
    In truth, Ayward was not strongly sexed, and the young Dismé would only have been confused by any overt approach. She had grown through loss and confusion into a girl who lived almost entirely inside her head, taking refuge in the places she created there, not so much repulsed by others’ reality as unable to perceive it. Her only other male friend had been the son of one of True Mother’s friends, a little boy whom she had played with in the park. Ayward threatened her composure no more than that five-year-old boy had done, and she came to believe she loved him.
    That was before Rashel noticed something different about Dismé, followed her to a couple of her trysts with Ayward, found out about the courtship—if that is what it was—and told her mother all about it.
    â€œYou’re too young, Dismé!” Cora was firm. Since Father died, Dismé had called her Cora, and Cora had given up trying to change this form of address.
    â€œBut Cora, all we do is talk with one another…”
    â€œEnough! He’s years older than you are. No, Dismé. This can’t be allowed, it’s most improper.”
    Rashel had been less tactful. “You’re too plain and too stupid to interest Ayward Gazane for very long! I mean, look how you’re dressed! Like a rag-woman. He’s a professor, an important asset to the Regime, and I want him for myself.”
    Rag-woman was probably accurate, as Cora had chosen Dismé’s clothes ever since Val was bottled. The next morning, Dismé was told to pack her things, as she was being sent to her Aunt Genna’s home in Newland. She had barely time to get the Latimer book out of its hiding place and conceal it beneath her cloak before she was packed off in a hired wagon.
    Once there, she received letters from Ayward. The first one said that he was coming to get her. The next letter said he would come carry her away, in secret, before Rashel could stop him. The third letter said he would wait for her until she was old enough to marry without her mother’s permission, since “that was the major stumbling block.” His fourth complained that he didn’t know what to do about Rashel. He felt he was being ensorceled by her, hag-ridden,