Stephen had rather wanted to talk with Henry Winter at length, if for no other reason than to cement his hopeful deduction that Henry's recent wedding had well and truly laid to rest the remnants of old animosity concerning the woman who was now Mrs. Winter. Unfortunately, there had simply been no time for conversation. Stephen had brought little
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All things considered, Henry didn't consider it politic to admit he had reason to believe it hadn't been as horrible for Stephen as it had been for himself and Camilla--terrible or no, it was completely overwhelming, far more so than any normal human could stand. "I think she's thought better of the idea, now," he added. "Camilla and I both let her know it really wasn't something she ought to be sharing. Though I have to say that if that's how she experiences the world all the time...well. I'd go mad, myself, and I should think almost anyone else could say the same." Once upon a time he'd craved those semi-divine senses, but now, having experienced them (twice), he was quite happy to remain a dull plodding human.
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"She wanted to share it," he said, after a moment. "And I certainly didn't protest trying it. I think many would want to at least sample the senses of the--not divine, I suppose, but the immortal. Having sampled them, though, I now think most others should not. Also, as I said, if that's indeed how she experiences things all the time, I'm amazed she's got any judgement at all." Some of the things he and Camilla had done--well, they'd always wanted to live without thinking, and for a time they'd most certainly done it.
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The sensory amplification that Susan's experiments sought to confer, though -- that was something Stephen indeed deemed far from horrible. It was something he expected anyone would want, something he himself still wanted, a craving only a series of past lessons in addiction could keep at bay.
"Maddening, yes, but wonderful, did you not find?"
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He shook his head, resting a hand on Xipe Totec's head. "And the dangerous thing about Susan is that I think she would give it again, if any of us asked. I'm certain she won't give it to anybody else, but I'm not so sure she understands either the nature of addiction, or just how very alien her senses truly are to the rest of us."
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"I think she might," said Stephen. "God help me if I should ask her. What she could make of me then I should not like to contemplate."
A pause, then a query he did think it relatively safe to pose:
"What did Camilla think of it?"
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He didn't answer the question for a moment. "What she feels about it now, I can't say," he said. "I think that for the most part her reaction was the same as mine--it was beautiful, at the time, but she seemed just as disturbed as I, when it wore off. I don't think any part of her craves a repeat." Camilla was much too tranquil for that sort of thing; also, unlike him, she had no native personal inhibitions. She chose to abstain from certain actions, whereas Henry was in many ways very repressed, determination to do whatever he wanted notwithstanding.
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Stephen had thought about it, of course. He knew precisely how he would frame the request. It would be all to do with science, and objectivity. It would be a clever and convincing lie -- if he resorted to such a request. He had made up his mind he would not.
"Why should Camilla be unmoved by that which tempts us?" he wondered, as much to himself as to Henry.
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"Camilla does not crave," he said aloud, answering Stephen's question rather than speculating on the potion itself. "Not in the way most people do. There are things she wants, some of them quite strongly, but I think that for her, one experience with that would be enough." The similarities to the bacchanal would almost certainly sway her more than it was swaying him; she knew it would be a terrible idea and didn't want it.
"I once wanted, very badly, to lose all control," he added, half to himself. "Just to see what it was like to know complete abandon. As you say, it really can't be healthy, but that doesn't stop the primitive self wanting it. Did you go outside at all, while you had those senses? The night is beautiful in a way I had never imagined; there was nothing to cloud my mind, to distract me from the present moment. Once the fear and discomfort brought by its departure had passed, I felt for the next day like I had been taken away from impossibly clear air, and shut up in a stale, dusty box. I think the real price of such a thing is having to give it back."
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Henry's words, though, made him wish he had gone outside, to look through telescopes, and hear the sounds of night birds, and -- oh, any number of things.
He was quiet, then.
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"It really is unfortunate," he said at last, "that such senses surely are so very bad for us. Susan did us no favors, though she wanted to, and thought she was. For most people even a taste of that could be addictive, common sense notwithstanding. Camilla and I were fortunate, in that we didn't run across any people, anything that could have caused harm. On the grounds at least no one can die, but I'm not sure I like to think of what could happen to a person so...so blissed-out, to use the hippie term...on that potion." If he told himself that, it helped ease that want, but it couldn't banish it entirely; it was an irrational want, and though it was very minor, it was all the more noticeable for that. "Perhaps it might be better that you didn't go outside, especially that night. God knows what might have happened."
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"What might have happened?" He coughed with the last of the laughter. "We intended to conquer Europe, as I remember. Shaun would have assisted with a cricket bat. One hopes we would not have made it off school grounds."
He coughed again, and wiped his eyes.
"Sweet Mother of God, it beggars the imagination."
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He wasn't really joking, either; there were quite a few people here who could have done some really terrible things, had they gone off-grounds that night. "You and Susan and Shaun with his cricket bat. "And what would you have done with it, or did you even plan that far?"
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Meanwhile, he himself could have no notion what kind of experience Henry spoke from ...
"I believe we must all have had different intentions. Shaun, for example, would have liked to keep this part of the world safe from zombies," he said, sobering a little. "I do not know whether he had been endowed by Susan with the sort of sensory powers you and I had been speaking about, or whether it was merely the unrelated enchantment operative on a broader scale; whatever the case, I expect his ability to tell the difference between zombie and innocent bystander may have been somewhat impaired. Myself, I have been known to harbor certain political allegiances, particularly in my youth." He made it sound like a harmless throwback to 19th-century enthusiasms (which, in a sense, it was).
"Surely Camilla at least could have posed no one any danger?" Henry was physically imposing enough that he could do some damage.
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His expression went neutral. "In her own way, she's very dangerous," he said, thinking of the ravine, of her going with him to check Bunny's dying pulse. "All the more so because no one would suspect it of her."
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"Those are the most dangerous sort," he agreed gravely.
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