Dancing with Bears by Michael Swanwick Page A

bound for, madam?” Darger politely queried.
    “Monsieur de Plus Precieux and I are going to church.”
    So saying, Zoësophia swept down the last few stairs, took the astonished Surplus’s arm, and led him away.
    Though the town was small, there were enough people on the street— and they extremely curious about their exotic visitors—to discourage frank conversation. Children followed the couple, whooping. Adults openly gawked. So, although far more pertinent questions urged themselves upon him, Surplus merely said, “However did you manage to convince the Neanderthals to let you go out without a guard?”
    “Oh! Whatever else they may be, the Neanderthals are still male—and it will be a sorry day when I cannot convince a man to let me have whatever I want from him. Also, with the prince indisposed, I am the embassy’s highest-ranking member.”
    “Perhaps, then, you could arrange for our brawny friends to throw open the treasury-box. You and your Sisters in Delight have run up debts which—”
    “Alas,” Zoësophia said negligently, “my authority has limits. Prince Achmed made very sure of that.”
    The church (or cathedral as such were called here) was a handsome log building surmounted by an Orthodox cross. The interior was all a dazzle to Surplus. Partly this was due to the richness of its decoration, the extravagant number of lit candles and the pervasive smell of beeswax that made the air heavy and sultry, the unearthly beauty of the choir’s chanting, and the strangeness of a religious rite carried out entirely behind the iconostasis, so that it could not be seen by the faithful. But, chiefly, it was Zoësophia’s presence that distracted him.
    It was a weekday and most of the congregants were black-clad crones who, being blessed with younger women in the house to be worked like serfs, could indulge their piety. Several women to the very front were being held up by solicitous friends or relations, and from this Surplus surmised that they were the new widows, praying for the strength to get them through the coming memorial services. So intent were all on their prayers that Zoësophia and Surplus managed to slip in with only a hostile glare or two thrown quickly their way. Nevertheless, to Surplus’s eyes, his companion stood out among them like a swan in a flock of grackles. Moreover, as they took places in the back of the church, rather than releasing his arm, she pressed herself more tightly against him, so that he could feel the warmth of her hip and one breast, and that, too, was distracting.
    They had not been listening to the service long when, to Surplus’s absolute amazement, Zoësophia backed into a niche at the rearmost of the church and pulled him after her, where they could not be seen by the congregation.
    The niche was small, and there was not entirely enough room for two people to avoid intimate contact. Surplus was so intensely aware of Zoësophia’s body as to be somewhat short of breath. She placed her kerchief-covered mouth by his ear and murmured, “I know that you are drawn to me. I can see it in your eyes. And in other places as well.” Her gloved hand passed slowly down his body, stopping at the fly of his trousers. “Perhaps you have also noticed that I find myself powerfully drawn to you in return. But as you know”—her voice caught in a marvelous oral simulation of a blush—“our feelings for each other cannot be consummated. For reasons you well understand.”
    Surplus whispered back, “You surprise and delight me, O Flower of Byzantium. To think that one such as I…Well, I am quite overwhelmed.” Which was not entirely true. Surplus understood perfectly the power his unusual form had over the imaginations of adventurous women. But he knew better than to say so. “Nevertheless, I must turn our conversation to less pleasant matters.”
    Finger by finger, Zoësophia’s hand closed about Surplus’s swollen member in a manner which, even through the interposing