Free Aestival Tide by Elizabeth Hand Page A

margravine as she got unsteadily to her feet.
    â€œThat’s a remarkable cure,” said Shiyung, her voice a little slurred. “Amazing. Nothing else has ever worked. You —” She pivoted and pointed at Ceryl, the tip of one long finger resting on the pharmacologist’s nose. “You are a miracle. Come.”
    â€œCome?” Ceryl stammered.
    The margravine nodded. “I hereby appoint you my Personal Pharmacist and Healer.”
    â€œBut—”
    The margravine wiggled her fingers in Ceryl’s face. “Oh, please—don’t be obsequious. I can’t bear it when they’re obsequious.” She shook her head, wincing, then turned to the door. “But I must get back to the others! There was a rumor of a strike by the Amazonian staff—I must make them feel needed again—”
    She extended her hands toward Ceryl, closed her eyes and murmured a blessing in which Shiyung’s own name figured prominently. Then she reached for the doorknob. When she hesitated Ceryl swallowed and took a wary step backward.
    â€œA word of advice,” whispered Shiyung. She cracked the door open. “Hire your own Personal Taster before you move. You’ll need one up there.”
    The margravine’s new Personal Pharmacist watched in disbelief as Shiyung floated back into the hallway, her headache transmitted to Ceryl. From her desk Giton’s holoed image stared at her accusingly.
    That had been six months ago. She still hadn’t spent more than a few days in her new appointments. She was terrified that the Orsinate would discover she was nothing more than a low-ranking pharmacologist who sold quack remedies and bootleg narcotics to the other menial toilers on Dominations. Even with her promotion, there was no way she could afford her own food taster. Whenever possible she avoided her duties in the pleasure cabinet—which consisted mostly of attending parties and dispensing cures to hungover cabinet members—and fled back to her old workchamber. Ceryl Waxwing’s apartment on Thrones remained empty. Now she watched uneasily as the gynander stared out the grimy little window.
    â€œWhat’s that?” Reive pointed outside as Ceryl rummaged in her tiny refrigerator for food.
    â€œThe dome.” Triumphantly she held up a jar of dulse jam and some crackers. “Hah! I knew I had something—”
    The gynander continued to gaze out the window. “The sea’s out there?” she asked, trying to clear a spot on the glass.
    Ceryl handed her the food and looked away, embarrassed. “I guess so.”
    â€œOh.” Crumbs fell to the floor as the gynander pressed her face up to the glass. “Right there? Right outside your window? The ocean?”
    Ceryl cleared her throat and pretended to read a monitor on her desk. Perhaps this had been a bad idea after all. This morph had no manners whatsoever—imagine mentioning the ocean to a stranger! Ceryl fiddled with her monitor, glancing sideways at the morph. She’d be wasting her credit and, worse, her time. At the thought of another night plagued by bad dreams she sighed and rubbed her temples.
    The gynander ate noisily but without further conversation. Finally she dropped the empty dulse tin and wiped her hands on her pantaloons. Ceryl watched her with distaste.
    â€œAll right,” the gynander pronounced. She cast a last curious look at the window. “Please tell us of your troubles.”
    â€œI—I’ve been having these dreams.”
    Reive nodded solemnly, as though she had never heard the words before.
    â€œNightmares,” Ceryl went on quickly. “I—they’re not the sort of dreams I can talk about easily at an inquisition when there’re others around. I’m—in the pleasure cabinet,” she added. She tapped nervously at her monitor. “You understand…?”
    The gynander nodded. “It is, perhaps, a treasonous