(no subject)
Tonight they play the Seventh Letter, and the theatergoers throng to their seats under the hushed thrill of the forbidden. Bohemians, eager to experience art unbounded by the Ministry’s rules, whisper with revolutionaries about the tyranny of censorship, while spies and scholars speak in terms equally as rarefied. A Lady in Lilac, enthroned in her box, watches one visitor depart as another arrives: an Epicene in Ivory.
"Tell me," she says, "why you’re here."
The Epicene leans upon the railing, and turns to her, eyes sparking with companionable mischief. “Why else, except for the pleasure of your company?”
"Perhaps we’ll talk more, afterwards. Of love." The corners of her mouth lift in a smile less cautious. "But let us speak first of, hm, Love. Here at the time of the Feast - what does Love mean to you?"
"Ah, there’s the smile I was looking for. And such a smile! Bright as a Correspondence-flare. Bright as the daughter born to the Sun."
A chuckle spills from the lips of the Lady in Lilac. “I have been complimented by the very best, this past Feast. You, sir - madam, are a worthy addition to my company of flatterers.”
"You flatter me in listening," the Epicene says. "I saw you last Feast, too, didn’t I? How long have you been beneath, dearheart? "
"Not long. I prefer the Surface. I am given dispensation to travel, to learn a certain art taught only in the country of the High Lakes. I return to serve as a mistress of ceremonies. As you know. I don’t miss London, but I am fond of its inhabitants. Some of its inhabitants." She leans forwards. "You have changed the subject."
"Perhaps, perhaps. Tell me about the High Lakes."
"In Asia - Tartary, or China. I’m not certain. I travelled with a guide, not a map. A hostile place, the Surface. Colder than the Neath, and so exposed. But I miss it. I always feel cramped down here, now."
Below, the play goes on, the Messenger dragged, the Dragons in judgment. Even the Sun is in chains. The Dragons recite the lovers’ crimes: Betrayal of Messages, Undelivery of Words, Vile Breeding, Conspiracy in Darkness, and Unlicensed Love.
Screams echo from the stage - ear-bleeding screams, screams of rage, screams of hunger.
The Lady in Lilac turns from the action. “Now,” she says. “Love.”
"Love," agrees the Epicene. "If you ask me about love … Love is light. Love is what makes life possible. The healer, the savior, the last touch of the sun. The seed cradled in darkness under the earth, soon to crack and bloom. It isn’t easy - why should it ever be easy? - but it’s worthwhile. It’s beautiful. It lets us look out from ourselves, lets us enjoy the world in the variety of its people, and hear the music of so many chords stringed to the same instrument. And my heart is a house of myriad rooms, some well-appointed, some long abandoned, but I will always keep a light on."
"A romantic," the Lady remarks drily. "I like romantics. No, don’t look like that. I admire your optimism. I think it’s even possible you’re right. I wonder if the Traitor Empress would agree, or the Hand of Aten, or the King with a Hundred Hearts. Perhaps they would."
She makes a note in a book bound with shark-leather.
"Thank you. I will make you an offer in turn. If you can find me in the Forgotten Quarter, I will give you the tattoo of your choice."
Their interview over, she calls out for the next intrigue. The Epicene bows and curtsies and kisses her hand; a smile dances along the down-turned face.
A tattoo, is it? There’s an idea. The last touch of the sun …