sat down on the snow and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes, which burned with all she'd seen, and with the tears that were about to come.
"Child."
She raised her head, and started to look around.
"What did you promise?"
She looked no further.
"It wasn't my fault," she said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "I just said@'
"It was you?" the beast replied, cutting her short. "Oh Lord, oh Lord, what have I done?"
She felt the beast's hands on her body, and without warning she was spun around. She finally saw his features plainly-his long, patient face, his golden eyes, his fur, thickening to a mane in the middle of his skull, sleek as a beaver's pelt on his brow and cheek and chin. His teeth were chattering slightly.
"Are you cold?"
"No, damn you!"
She started to weep softly.
"All right, I'm cold," he said, "I'm cold."
"No you're not. You're afraid." The gold in his eyes flickered.
"What's your name?" he said.
"Maeve O'Connell."
"I should have killed you, Maeve O'Connell."
"I'm glad you didn't," she said. "Who are you?"
"Coker Ammiano. Soon to be infamous. If I'd killed you, you wouldn't have done this terrible thing."
"What was so terrible?"
"You spoke at the marriage. That was forbidden. Now there'll be war. The families'll blame each other. There'll be bloodshed, Then when they realize it wasn't them, they'll come looking for the culprit, and they'll kill us. You for what you did in there, me for bringing you here." Maeve pondered this chain of disaster for a moment. "they can't kill us if they can't find us," she said finally. She glanced back down the slope. Just as Coker had predicted, the fighting had indeed escalated. If it was not yet war it would be very soon. "Is there another way?" she said.
"One," he replied.
She scrabbled to her feet. "Take us there," she said.
Over the decades, Buddenbaum had assembled a comprehensive list of fictional works in which he appeared. to date he had knowledge of twenty-three characters he had directly inspired (that is to say a reader of the book in question, or a viewer of the play, if they knew him, instantly recognized the source), along with another ten or eleven characters that drew upon aspects of his nature for comic or tragic effect. It was testament to the many facets of his personality that he could step onto the stage as a judge in one piece and as a procurer in another and have both portraits judged accurate.
He took no offense at being exploited in this fashion, however scandalous the work or scurrilous the part. It was flattering to be a seed for so many creations, especially for one as certain to remain childless as he. And it amused him mightily that when these artists, in their cups, confessed to their homage, they invariably spoke of how much raw human truth they had discovered in him. He suspected otherwise.
Know it or not (and in his experience artists knew very little) they were inspired by the very opposite of what they claimed. He was not raw. He was not true. And one day, if he was cautious and wise, he would not even be human. He was a fake through and through, a man who had traveled the trails of America in a dozen different guises, and would wear another dozen before his business was done.
He did not blame them for their credulity. Every art but one was a game of delusions. But oh, the road to that Art was hard, and he was glad to have his list of alter egos to divert him as he made his way along it.
He even had some of the fruitier dialogue ascribed to him in these works by heart, and it pleased him to recite it aloud when there was nobody within earshot.
As now, for instance, trudging up the forested flank of this damnable mountain. A speech from a pseudo-historical tragedy called Serenissima:
"I have nothing but you, my sweet Serenissima. You are my sense, my sanity and my soul. Go from me now, and I am lost in the great dark between the stars, and cannot even perish there, for I must live until you still
"Child."
She raised her head, and started to look around.
"What did you promise?"
She looked no further.
"It wasn't my fault," she said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. "I just said@'
"It was you?" the beast replied, cutting her short. "Oh Lord, oh Lord, what have I done?"
She felt the beast's hands on her body, and without warning she was spun around. She finally saw his features plainly-his long, patient face, his golden eyes, his fur, thickening to a mane in the middle of his skull, sleek as a beaver's pelt on his brow and cheek and chin. His teeth were chattering slightly.
"Are you cold?"
"No, damn you!"
She started to weep softly.
"All right, I'm cold," he said, "I'm cold."
"No you're not. You're afraid." The gold in his eyes flickered.
"What's your name?" he said.
"Maeve O'Connell."
"I should have killed you, Maeve O'Connell."
"I'm glad you didn't," she said. "Who are you?"
"Coker Ammiano. Soon to be infamous. If I'd killed you, you wouldn't have done this terrible thing."
"What was so terrible?"
"You spoke at the marriage. That was forbidden. Now there'll be war. The families'll blame each other. There'll be bloodshed, Then when they realize it wasn't them, they'll come looking for the culprit, and they'll kill us. You for what you did in there, me for bringing you here." Maeve pondered this chain of disaster for a moment. "they can't kill us if they can't find us," she said finally. She glanced back down the slope. Just as Coker had predicted, the fighting had indeed escalated. If it was not yet war it would be very soon. "Is there another way?" she said.
"One," he replied.
She scrabbled to her feet. "Take us there," she said.
Over the decades, Buddenbaum had assembled a comprehensive list of fictional works in which he appeared. to date he had knowledge of twenty-three characters he had directly inspired (that is to say a reader of the book in question, or a viewer of the play, if they knew him, instantly recognized the source), along with another ten or eleven characters that drew upon aspects of his nature for comic or tragic effect. It was testament to the many facets of his personality that he could step onto the stage as a judge in one piece and as a procurer in another and have both portraits judged accurate.
He took no offense at being exploited in this fashion, however scandalous the work or scurrilous the part. It was flattering to be a seed for so many creations, especially for one as certain to remain childless as he. And it amused him mightily that when these artists, in their cups, confessed to their homage, they invariably spoke of how much raw human truth they had discovered in him. He suspected otherwise.
Know it or not (and in his experience artists knew very little) they were inspired by the very opposite of what they claimed. He was not raw. He was not true. And one day, if he was cautious and wise, he would not even be human. He was a fake through and through, a man who had traveled the trails of America in a dozen different guises, and would wear another dozen before his business was done.
He did not blame them for their credulity. Every art but one was a game of delusions. But oh, the road to that Art was hard, and he was glad to have his list of alter egos to divert him as he made his way along it.
He even had some of the fruitier dialogue ascribed to him in these works by heart, and it pleased him to recite it aloud when there was nobody within earshot.
As now, for instance, trudging up the forested flank of this damnable mountain. A speech from a pseudo-historical tragedy called Serenissima:
"I have nothing but you, my sweet Serenissima. You are my sense, my sanity and my soul. Go from me now, and I am lost in the great dark between the stars, and cannot even perish there, for I must live until you still
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