Mortal Love by Elizabeth Hand Page A

brocade. This was pushed to one side, so that he could glimpse an ancient water closet, its porcelain reservoir suspended from the ceiling and a length of silver chain hanging above the wooden commode.
    â€œHoly cow,” said Daniel. “George Meredith pissed here.”
    He could stand upright only in the very center of the room, where the roof peaked; inside the loo he had to stoop uncomfortably in front of the toilet. Still, this gave him a good view of the porcelain tank, which depicted the crystal domes and spires of Alexandria Palace in full Dying Empire mode. When he pulled the chain, the explosive roar of water rushing through the exposed pipes deafened him, and he backed out quickly, tripping on something.
    â€œWhat the hell?”
    It was a shoe. A woman’s shoe. A very expensive woman’s shoe, to judge by the minimalist curve of black leather affixed to a deceptively fragile-seeming spindle of polished chromium. He picked it up and studied it—where exactly did the foot go?—then turned to find someplace to put it.
    The wardrobe? Its wooden door was slightly ajar, a fragment of velvet wedged in a corner. He tugged at the handle, and with a faint thump the door opened. Daniel whistled softly.
    It was like Aladdin’s cave. Or Madonna’s. On one side hung floor-length dresses of burned velvet and satin and pale gray eelskin, black lace sheaths fringed with feathers or sewn with scales, shimmering peignoirs so fine they looked as though they would melt on the tongue. There was a gown made entirely of orange cock-of-the-rock plumage and another of hummingbird feathers woven into what looked like a spiderweb dewed with seed pearls. The other side of the wardrobe held shelves overflowing with knickers, brassieres, tap pants, merry widows, corsets and corselets, camisoles and stockings of gold mesh, sleek leather gloves and lacy fingertip sleeves liberated from ball gowns. At the very bottom, nestled among fluid coils of apricot satin and a marten stole, lay a single shoe: the mate of the one he held.
    Daniel stared at it all in amazement. Who on earth could it belong to? Sira? He felt himself flush, imagining her in that or that or . . . well, any of it. He glanced cautiously over his shoulder, then leaned forward, burying his face in the voluptuous mass hanging in the wardrobe. He had a flash of that primal sexual rush he’d experienced as a child, opening his mother’s lingerie drawer and sinking his arms up to the elbows in silk stockings and garter belts.
    Of course his mother hadn’t owned a moleskin brassiere with the fur on the inside. And nothing his mother owned had ever smelled like this—opium and new leather and beeswax, musk and sea wrack. He pushed aside several gowns, curious to see just how much space there was inside.
    It seemed immense. The stained-glass windows sent a cathedral glow over everything; he could make out more shelves at the very back, and what looked like a heap of glass globes on the floor. Their curves shone with glints of deep red and purple and blue, and for some reason these fascinated him even more than the confectionery clothing. He glanced back again, then took a step inside.
    For a moment he stood, one foot upraised, waiting to see if it would hold his weight. But the wardrobe must have been made of solid oak: he heard nary a creak as he took another step, bending his head as hangers and trailing sleeves grasped at him. He made sure the door behind him stayed open—he’d read the right sort of children’s books—and was just reaching for one of the shining glass balls when he heard someone coming up the stairs to the landing outside.
    â€œOh, fuck,” he breathed. He turned, peach-scented folds of chiffon falling across his face. If it was Sira, she’d think he was some sort of furtive fetishist, which would only puzzle her: why hadn’t he ever mentioned it? If it was Nick . . .
    He sucked in his breath: