Veri

How can it feel so hot in here when frost obscures the outer window panes? I have had the fires put out. No candles burn - though I must leave some light in the place or I shall go mad, the gas lights shall have to do. (I have not yet felt up to having the walls of my sanctuary torn apart for the sake of these electric lights Meres prosthelytizes.) The servants say nothing, but the shawls and jackets they have put on speak well enough. The house is not warm, it is only I that burn with a raging fire that will not cease. I have called in a physician, who asserted I bear no illness he can see, yet I felt as though his fingertips should bear scorch marks from their touch to my flesh. It is all in my mind, then, some metaphysical ailment, and still I feel it seething below my skin as blood brought to boil. I suppose someone could have lain a curse on me - but I should have noticed such a charm being applied, the magics of this place and time are such pitiful remnants of the older arts.

I suppose I shall just have to wait until it passes, and see what relief I can find while I wait. How tedious. I have already gone out, but the air felt no more chill, only damp, ashy, clammy. Remaining in my own rooms, with the wait staff best trained to my needs, is my best chance of relief. It is not an excellent wait staff, but I have hired and fired and cursed and coaxed for some time now, and they generally suffice. I instructed Michaele to do whatever he could think of to cool the place, and he has been surprisingly apt. I am met in each room with a cool breeze, whether from a window opened or a discrete servant with a fan. Rugs and carpets have been removed, that my feet may tred on the cool wood and tile floors. In some distant corner, someone plays a zither or dulcimer, some light stringed instrument, that trickles a light chiming through the air. There are ices and lemonades set out on tables here and there - I lift a small crystal bowl of minted ice, taking small bites of it as I pace the rooms. If I walk at just the right speed, the air carries away some of the warmth from me, without my body building up excess heat through its efforts. Silk is cool but traps too much warmth now, I am wrapped in a light and gauzy robe from my last visit to Azal’s palace in the desert - I shudder to think of the burning hell that place would be to me at a time like this! Certainly, England’s climate is far from ideal - I often remind the others how pleasant we have found Venice to be - but it is temperate enough here that I rarely find more than slight discomfort at the temperature. The damp, though, seeps into one’s bones… though I would be grateful if it would do so now!

A slim girl draped in gauzes of the palest blue floats down a passageway, the fabric fluttering as she moves, causing soft breezes to whirl around her. Not a bad effect, but I am in no mood for acknowledging the presence of anyone, so I let her pass in silence. A scent of cool mint and crisp lime follows in her wake, a sound of rustling as snow across a frozen lake.

As I pass into the next room, a light mist settles over me - ah! of course, it is the sprinkler pipes set to keep the tropical room humid for the orchids and birds. It is evening, so the room has been allowed to cool somewhat, most of the lamps and devices for heat put out or set low for the night. It is still quite warm in here, but that sudden touch of water shook my intangible fever a little at least. I meet the eyes of a servant waving a fan from a corner, and nod.

She lowers the fan and takes a single step toward me, curtseying and casting her eyes down. “My lord?”

“Have a cool bath drawn for me - in the tiled bathing room, and no heat put on in the room.”

“It shall be done.”  She slips away on silent slippered feet, and I take a long breath of the damp air. The delicate spice of an orchid in bloom drifts into my lungs, and though it is a warm scent, its sharp edges are enough to keep the sensation crisp instead of cozy. Meres would know which particular flower it was, but I do not, so shall have to do with a bit of mystery in my evening. Far preferable to having to actually speak to someone.

I awake with a start, cool water splashing against my face with the sudden motion. I had not intended to doze off in the bath - and am surprised I have done so, for the water is quite cold, and the air in the room colder still. The porcelain tiles retain cold quite well, and with no fire or warmer left in the room, the only source of warmth is me - and that is little enough by now, I am sure, my skin has taken on the lightest cast of blue. I suppose it is unwise of me to subject this weak flesh to such dramatic changes, but I could hardly do otherwise tonight, the burning I felt would have driven me half-mad. It seems to have gone now, I feel almost comfortable, aside from the shriveling of my skin at the extended time left in the water. Reaching for a towel, I rise, slowly stepping up out of the bath onto the blue and white patterned tiles. The towel is thick and pleasant, a pale blue gentle to the eyes as the plush material is to the skin. Truly, it is the little details that make a place satisfyingly comfortable. Leisurely dressing myself in padded silk slippers and a fresh robe, I leave my hair damp, letting it fall cooly about my shoulders and back. A window must be open nearby, a slight breeze passes my cheek and makes me shiver just enough that the light clothing makes me feel cozy.

----- ----- -----

A solo flute melody drifts in from some other room, and I feel my body relax into the sound. Sweet and low, just a little melancholy. I pull the robe closer around me, and shiver pleasantly. A cup of something warm to drink would be ideal now, I take a step toward the door---

And my foot slips out from under me, the water from my hair having puddled on the slick tile floor. I crash to the tiles without a cry, but the pain is no less for my silence, it explodes from my hip up my spine and I feel it in my teeth and my fingertips. Curse this frail flesh! Never do I find comfort for a moment before it’s torn away from me again. Am I fated to find only pain in this world, which once promised such pleasures?

A servant, having heard my fall, appears at a respectful distance, waiting just outside the open door. I sigh heavily, not yet bothering to get to my feet. I am being overdramatic about this, it’s only a silly slip on a wet floor, yet it does seem at times that even the forces of nature are determined to keep me trapped in misery. It is hard not to obsess when the pains are constant, slight though some may be. “I am all right. Have tea brought to my bed chamber. And the house may resume its normal temperature - though gradually.” The girl bobs and disappears.  Slowly, slowly, I rise to my feet. My knees begin to make slight tearing sounds, my bones feel far too heavy for my scant energy to manage them. Yet I will not be carried about my own home as a complete invalid. When visiting or travelling, certainly, when the mood strikes, for it is silly to over-exert myself unnecessarily, when there are persons and objects in place to alleviate me as well as adequately elevate my perceived status. But within these walls, no, I will not be slung about by manservants as though a cripple or an old man.

As I stand, my eyes fall upon my feet - the slippers are not high, and only partially hide the tracery of blue-black lines that writhe and twist from the soles just past my ankles. I quickly look away, not wishing to think on such reminders, nor look at such hideous blemish, but the image remains in my mind all the same. As stains left by the smoke after a fire’s passing, as broken veins that haven’t the strength to carry lifeblood, the discoloration is darkest at the bottom, and eventually fades upward. Whether it is the burn of a body plummeting downward at speed, or the poison of walking in a place toxic to the self… it matters little what caused it, there is nothing that will remove it now. (I have consulted with Azal, and though he can devise ways to discreetly cover the blemishes, there is nothing that will permanently hide or cure.) Does it seem a little farther up my calves than it was before..? No matter. Have I not just been fretting over how endless these physical troubles are? When one ends, another begins, and so shall it ever be.

In my bed chamber, a low fire - barely more than coals - glows unobtrusively from the grate. The windows are closed, and though only light sheets cover the bed, there are warmer blankets folded at the foot, should they be wanted. The room is quiet, but for the occasional crackle and pop from the fireplace. If I listen hard enough, I can still hear the flute at a farther distance, faint as a dream half-remembered. A small celadon pot and matching cup rests on the small table beside the window, a cushioned chair drawn up beside it. I pour myself a cup, and hold the cup below my face for a long moment, closing my eyes and feeling the steam press against my face, nuzzling soft as a kitten, warm as a breath. Inhaling slow and deep, I find it is a subtle green tea, with just the lightest touch of jasmine, perhaps just a little mint.

I sit down in the chair and sip the tea slowly, staring blankly at the low-burning coals, then out into the dark night. Little can be seen, between the fog and the murk that drifts endlessly through this city, but the increased warmth of my room has melted the frost away, and the street lights burn their pallid holes in the dark air.  My window is far enough from the street that no sound of it reaches me, but I can make out the motion of dark shapes of man and carriage. I wonder idly if any of the cloak-wrapped shadows belong to persons I know - most walk with a purpose, a home to reach or appointment to keep, though some stroll in company or in solo idyll, despite the freezing bite of the air. Moving toward some hope, or away from some dread…

Ah! It seems I do know one of the mysterious forms after all, for someone has gained admittance at the gate, and is crossing the small garden before the front door. Yes, it is Meres, there is no mistaking him now. I have watched that stride a thousand, thousand times…

A few sips of tea later, and he sits at the table across from me, a second cup coaxing the night’s chill out of his hands. I have had the fire stoked a little higher, and his familiar face is warmed by its glow. He has been to some old chapel where he plans to hold his next soirée, and is going into some detail telling me of his plans, but I hardly listen, for it is clear enough that it is not the real thing on his mind. Several times in the space of ten minutes, I see him drop a hand to his side, patting at a jacket pocket, checking that its contents are still in place. I let him wear out the decoy topic on his own, taking polite interest but responding only perfunctorily.

Eventually, he stops mid-sentence and laughs, setting his cup on the table and leaning back, looking directly into my eyes. “Of course, dear Veri, you are right, I waste both our time with this. How is it you can chide me so adeptly without a word?”

I roll my eyes and let a smile touch my lips. “Do I know you so little, that I should need to put effort into it? I can read you like a book, as the saying goes.”

“But you do enjoy books.”

I cannot help but laugh. “Yes, I do, so you have some good fortune in the end after all. Now, come, what is on your mind this evening?”

“It is connected to the chapel and the party, I wasn’t entirely avoiding the topic. But, there I go again. I’m afraid it’s not really an adequate topic for a conversation though.” He reaches into the pocket he has been worrying, and pulls a dark stone from it, a little smaller than his hand, fitting comfortably within it. It reflects the firelight sharply, its edges slightly dulled by long years but clearly capable of being sharpened to a razor-edge. Its surface is highly reflective, and I can see there are markings of some sort on it, though they are unclear at a glance.

What is clear, is the sudden chill that comes over me as he sets this thing on the table between us, as though a wave of cold travelled with the sound of its slight weight falling against the wood. And here I was nearly at a comfortable temperature at last…

“I suppose asking you what it is would be pointless?”

“Unfortunately. I found it in the chapel - though clearly that wasn’t its place of origin, it’s far too old. I haven’t had a chance to make a study of it, this is the first I’ve looked at it since picking it up.”

...though not the first you’ve thought of it, clearly. And I would have reacted the same, there is something about it that draws me as well. But it’s tainted somehow… The power is too faint to be distinct, but I feel a small tug of desire for it, while also recoiling from having it too near me. I wonder which urge was the intentional one, and which is my subconscious reaction against it? “Azal?”

He nods. “I had planned to see him tomorrow about some !__random party thing__! in any event, I shall see what his thoughts are. Whatever charms were imbued within or created by it, time seems to have worn away too far for me to get much from it. Seeing it in a better light, I might make out some of the carving, but even there, Azal will stand a much better chance of reading it than I.”

“You’re concerned about it.”

He falls silent a moment, considering. His graceful fingers lift the stone, turning it slowly, letting the firelight catch its facets and incisions, casting sparks of scarlet and cream and vermillion out from its shadow. “I could not have passed it by, nor could I have left it there. If a thing sets itself to be in my path, and especially to be retained by my person… yes, I am concerned about it. I can’t imagine it holds much power now, but I am certainly curious to know what its purpose was set to be.”

“Mmm.” I refill my cup from the pot of tea, absorbing the scent anew.

Meres chuckles softly, shaking his head in self-deprecation. “You are right, I’m certain it’s silly, it is only a stone. But it is a thing carefully crafted by someone’s hands long ago, you know my weakness. I should like to know the story of this strange little artwork so out of it place and time.”

“Of course you would. And I see no harm in so doing. I am merely tired by the thought of all the effort and time you and Azal shall spend in researching the language and the depth of the carving and the style of the character formation and…”

He laughs, waving a hand to cut me off, his other hand sliding the stone back into his pocket. “Yes, yes, you know my weaknesses full well, and I know they bore you. I shall not trouble you with this one any more. Would you have something to eat? I have had a rather long walk this evening, and find I need something a little more substantial than tea.”

“Certainly. Let us go into the library though, I do not feel I shall sleep for a time yet. And I should like to have you look at the paintings that just arrived for the room, I cannot seem to decide which to position where.”

“I shall be delighted.” Meres stands, and steps beside the table to offer me his arm.

His assistance, I will accept, even within my home, for I can rest easy knowing that his judgement of me is always kind. I realize that I do indeed feel comfortably warm again, and I am certain the effect is not solely from the tea.

I ignore the chill on my side as his jacket brushes against me - silly thought, it is only an old stone, there is little effect it can have on me.