Free Polystom by Adam Roberts Page B

do, that she was not acting in an appropriate manner, that she needed to pull herself together. But before he reached the door he was imagining both sides of the argument.
What have I done wrong?
he imagined her asking him.
In what ways, specifically, have I erred?
It wasn’t
like
that, Stom told himself. It wasn’t that he could say ‘you have over-stepped the mark in this or that regard’, or ‘this offends me’ or ‘that is unacceptable.’ It was more a question of her overall demeanour; her attitude, of her refusal to live the life demanded by the code that governed the whole of civilised life in the System. It was a sort of dumb insolence. And anyway (he was clenching his fists so hard that the muscles in his forearms were starting to ache) – and anyway! It wasn’t his responsibility to explain all this to her! Even if he could, even if he
could
lower his mind to an actuarial listing of specific instances, it would be inappropriate for him to act that way. It would be beneath him, in a very tangible sense. Couldn’t she see that? She was the maladjusted child of a lesser branch of blood. He was the Steward of Enting! His family line was one of the oldest, as well as the most distinguished, in the System. Presumably she had understood that, presumably that was why she hadagreed to marry him in the first place. It was
her
job to accommodate him, and
not
the other way around. If he were to settle down beside her and start listing all the things she was doing wrong, it would be demeaning not only to himself but to everything he represented. He had given her a particular gift by marrying her! He didn’t insist upon any sordid exchange-value propriety, of course, but surely she understood what it meant to be married to somebody so well bred? He
could
stoop, turn himself into an accountant of proper and improper behaviour; he
could
demean himself by turning into schoolteacher and take her step-and-step through the correct way of acting. But if he did that sort of stooping, he would make himself less worthy of her love in the first place!
    Couldn’t she see that?
    He knocked on the door of the Print Room, but there was no answer. Opened the door to find Beeswing sitting at the window. Somehow his resolve dripped away through him, like drainwater running down the pipe of his spine. She looked extraordinarily beautiful, her pale skin glazed with the windowlight, her eyes intensely focused on the outside, a weird and spiritual stillness in her posture. He joined her by the window, searching with his own eyes for whatever it is that has captured her spirit so completely. He couldn’t see anything special in the view. The light was grey, although it was a bright grey, and clouds scattered through the sky like suds. He looked out over the familiar view, the lawn of the garden falling and rising like green sighs, the orchard and a glint from the roofs of the glasshouses. The forest gloomed over to the right, but Beeswing’s eyes were on the sea, restless and full under the spring air, its surface further off (this was just visible) tickled by occasional showers.
    ‘My dear,’ he said, awkwardly. ‘What are you looking at?’
    ‘The sea,’ she said.
    ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The sea.’
    There was a pause, and then she said: ‘I’ll go there.’
    ‘It wouldn’t be a good idea for us to take the boat out in this weather,’ said Stom. ‘It looks bright, I know, but the spring winds are surprisingly vigorous, and sudden rain makes sailing treacherous, even for an experienced sailor like me.’
    ‘I didn’t mean,’ she said, dreamily, as if not addressing him, ‘with you.’
    It took a moment for this to sink in. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said.
    But she didn’t reply to this. He stood up. ‘Now look here,’ he said. ‘This won’t
do
, you know. It really won’t. What do you mean by that, by saying you’ll go away?’
    ‘I don’t belong here,’ she said, in the same dreamy voice.
    ‘Of course you