Free Winterlong by Elizabeth Hand Page A

was that boy who had injured her. In a rage I sprang to hit him.
    My head banged against the edge of the altar. I fell back grunting. Above me the faces of Miramar and Doctor Foster and Fancy folded together in concern.

2. Convergence of a number of separate and independent probabilities
    “J UST STAY STILL AND drink your valerian,” ordered Doctor Foster. “Here, Benedick: give this to Raphael.”
    “Thanks, cousin,” I said, taking the steaming mug Small Benedick held out to me. I waited until he skipped back to Doctor Foster before grimacing and drinking the awful stuff.
    To my mortification, they had brought me to Doctor Foster’s infirmary. Actually the anteroom of his chambers, dignified by the term infirmary only by virtue of a warped wooden shelf sagging beneath a row of very old glass bottles. Inside of them one glimpsed homunculi swimming in the cloudy spirits, or the clenched fronds of bizarre plants, the preserved limb of a carnivorous betulamia. I had fortunately never seen these used in any treatment, indeed had never known him to treat us with anything except tincture of opium or chamomile tea (for pain or overstimulation), or sops of wine or an infusion of valerian (for everything else).
    “I’m all right,” I said. I glared at Small Thomas and Benedick and the other very young children sniggering at me from the other side of the room. They sat at Doctor Foster’s feet. My forehead felt bruised where I had knocked it against the altar, and there was that familiar dull throbbing that often followed worship, from inhaling hempen smoke. Doctor Foster nodded, stroking the coiled yellow hair of Fancy in his lap.
    “Yes, well, drink it anyway and try to rest. I gather you weren’t going to the Conciliatory Masque, so there’s no need to rush out of here.” He smiled, tossing back his hair (graying at the temples and starting to grow a little thin on top, despite frequent applications of lilac water and honey). He shifted so that more of the children could lean against his legs, and cleared his throat. Doctor Foster liked to talk and liked to have an audience. Too old to be engaged by Patrons, he was still too clever to meet the usual fate that elders meet, little more than slaves to their younger cousins. Instead he had parleyed his gift for storytelling, along with his (mostly imaginary) healing abilities into a position at the House Miramar that was, if not precisely honored, still eyed affectionately by Miramar and the rest of us. We older pathics had lost our appetite for his tales— stories for boys and stories for girls, he called them—preferring the real intrigues of our constant round of masques and the intricate couplings that accompanied them. Still it was soothing to lie upon the swaybacked couch beneath a catskin comforter, breathing the sweet fumes that rose from his narghile as he related old tales of the City of Trees and the tragic love stories that were the Paphians’ favorite entertainment.
    “… and so the aardmen took him, and Lilith Saint-Alaban gave herself to them in exchange for his life; but the aardmen killed him anyway, and her too; and their son Small Hilliard died in a rain of roses.” Doctor Foster sighed. I started, realizing I must have drifted off again.
    Not that it mattered. All his stories ended the same way: tragically, with beautiful Paphian boys and girls kidnapped by geneslaves or devoured by lazars or enslaved by Ascendants and Curators. It made life seem a somewhat more comforting prospect in comparison; except that as we got older we learned that most of the tales were true.
    “Now a story for boys, ” demanded Small Thomas, pinching Fancy as he shook his curls at Doctor Foster.
    Doctor Foster drew from his narghile and stared at the mosaic ceiling, as though he read there some strange history. “What story?” he said at last.
    “My story!” said Small Thomas.
    “Raphael’s story!” said Fancy, kicking him and hugging Doctor Foster. “Please,