Free Winterlong by Elizabeth Hand Page B

Doctor Foster!”
    I pulled the comforter to my chin and tucked my long braid around my neck. Doctor Foster exhaled a plume of smoke and began.
    “I remember the day Raphael came here. Sixteen years ago; the same day that Trahern High Brazil performed his inspired Akolasian gambade for the Curators, and as a result of their overly enthusiastic ravishments died; but it was an extraordinary thing to see all the same.” He sighed at the memory.
    “Raphael’s mother was a beautiful girl, a child really—no older than you are now—” He inclined his head to me. ‘Miramar wanted to take her in, she was so lovely; but I discouraged him, she had been among the lazars for too long. But she was a Paphian, Saint-Alaban we thought, because of her eyes; so many of them have green eyes. She had two children with her, twins—”
    “Twins!” said Thomas. He was very young and had not heard all this before.
    “Twins,” Doctor Foster repeated solemnly. “Raphael and his sister. We bought them both—you all know how rare twins are, and these were extraordinarily beautiful.”
    “The Saint-Alabans say twins are holy,” said Small Thomas. He was thinking of the Masque of Baal and Anat performed at Saint-Alaban each Autime.
    Doctor Foster snorted. “Yes, well.” He turned back to me and smiled. I dropped my eyes as the children looked at me, and pretended to pluck at a stray thread on my chasuble.
    “So did she die?” urged Fancy.
    “The mother? Oh, yes, of course. Probably the aardmen lad followed her to our door and were just waiting, hoping they’d get all three of them. Miramar thought I was heartless to push her back out again, but—” He shrugged. “I thought we could take a chance on the babies, they seemed free of contagion. And at first they both seemed fine. After a few months the boy—” He pointed the mouthpiece of his narghile at me. “Raphael: he started talking. But the girl never did.”
    He paused, one hand dropping to pat Thomas. “She was a head-banger. Frightened the Patrons. I did all I could.”
    He gestured vaguely at the shelf of physics. I silently thanked the Magdalene that he had never had to do anything for me. He shook his head. “But she wouldn’t behave. We finally sold her to the Ascendants.”
    Benedick sniffled at this. More than one Patron had recently complained of his truculence in the children’s seraglio.
    “Still, the boy was fine,” Doctor Foster continued, tugging Benedick’s braid reassuringly. “After his bedwarming he drew more Patrons than any of us: a true Son of the Magdalene!”
    He ended suddenly and fell to staring at his pipe, his fingers still laced about Benedick’s braid. When it seemed apparent that there was no more story forthcoming, the children started to yawn and fidget. I amused myself by making cruel faces at Benedick until he looked about to cry.
    From the pendulum chamber several stories above us came the faint tonging of the hour: well after the children’s bedtime. Like Sieur Maggot in a play, Miramar’s head suddenly popped around the corner of the door.
    “Doctor Foster!” he scolded, clapping his hands so that the long azure cuffs of his robe swished against each other. “Wicked Doctor Foster. Come, children! Fancy, you know better than this! Benedick, Magnus Stoat will be joining you after breakfast tomorrow—”
    Clucking and chirping like peevish sparrows they left calling goodbyes to Doctor Foster and Miramar and myself as they scurried to where the waiting elders met them in the hall and carried them upstairs to the nursery. Doctor Foster gave them a desultory farewell and nodded off in his chair. Miramar remained smiling in the doorway.
    “Is your head better, cousin?” he asked me.
    “Yes, uncle,” I said, suddenly nervous. I had almost forgotten the reason why I had stolen this evening at home. Now it came back to me, and my voice cracked as I said, “Miramar—I—could I speak with you?”
    He nodded and motioned for me