“Just tell me.”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s about remorse. Self-hatred. An outbreak of self-hatred. It says you’ll be dead in two months if you cross over. Suicide.”
The princess laughed. Relieved, she stepped over the threshold. “Then they’re too late,” she said. And then she looked back through the open doorway, suddenly afraid. The atrium stretched into the shadows, lined with cabinets and family portraits. Here and there she could see glimpses of frescos, tapestries, and carpets through the open doorways bordering the hall; she had lit all of the lamps before she went and run quickly through each room, passing her hands over the marble busts, touching the spines of her favorite books, inhaling, suddenly resensitized, the fragrances of her lifetime in those rooms: dust, hashish, cedar, and old stone. Suddenly resensitized, she had seen as if for the first time the beauty of a ewer of cut glass. She had batted it to the floor, and it had broken into a thousand parts. “What’s that?” Raksha Starbridge had cried. He had been looting the kitchen cabinets for food, looking for money in the pockets of her husband’s suits.
But as she hesitated on the threshold, it was as if she were searching for reasons to be afraid. As soon as she stepped into the outside corridor, then she was no longer superstitious. In that one moment she shed the whole impossible burden of her marriage, laying it down inside the door where she had picked it up the only other time that she had crossed that sill, the day she had warned the old man. She felt like a child again. And though the old man had always been gentle, and though she had cried until her eyes were sore the day she heard that he was dead, and though he and her brother had been the only two companions she had had to help her carry the burden of that house, still she left the old man’s memory there too. She ran down the outside corridor towards the elevator banks, suddenly remembering what it had been like, her wedding procession along that same hall, up from her mother’s apartment on the thirty-fourth floor. As she ran, the empty months fell away, as if even the memory of them could not exist outside the perfumed atmosphere of her husband’s house. She remembered how it had been before; more than that, she felt it in her body. At Starbridge Dayschools she had been eighth in her class, winning prizes in physics, mathematics, archery, and law. She had written a thesis in silver ink, using a whole arcane vocabulary of knowledge. So long ago—now, running down the corridor towards the elevator, the only word she could remember was syzygy .
Raksha Starbridge hurried after her. Sick of him, disgusted by his ugliness, she ran fast, trying to lose him in the empty passageways. At the elevator banks she kept her finger on the button, hearing the bell ring somewhere far below. But no one came. Once she heard one of the express cars at the end of the row rattle past her, ascending rapidly, but it didn’t stop. Out of breath, she leaned against the metal doors. The corridor was dark here, the carpet dusty, the walls faded and stained. A statuette of Angkhdt the God of Light crouched in a niche above the button for the elevator, his tongue a small electric bulb. Loose in its socket, it flickered miserably.
Raksha Starbridge appeared at the turning of the passage. “These are all broken,” he announced. “We’ll have to take the service car from the floor below.” But at that moment the door she was leaning against opened, revealing a gnomelike operator, perhaps the same one who had taken her upstairs on her wedding day. Then he had bowed almost to the floor and made an elaborate dance out of the gestures of respect, for she had been dressed in purest white, with a necklace of flowers from the bishop’s own garden. But now he peered at her with eyes full of hostility. Astonished, she stared back at him, expecting him at any moment to drop his eyes and bring his
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s about remorse. Self-hatred. An outbreak of self-hatred. It says you’ll be dead in two months if you cross over. Suicide.”
The princess laughed. Relieved, she stepped over the threshold. “Then they’re too late,” she said. And then she looked back through the open doorway, suddenly afraid. The atrium stretched into the shadows, lined with cabinets and family portraits. Here and there she could see glimpses of frescos, tapestries, and carpets through the open doorways bordering the hall; she had lit all of the lamps before she went and run quickly through each room, passing her hands over the marble busts, touching the spines of her favorite books, inhaling, suddenly resensitized, the fragrances of her lifetime in those rooms: dust, hashish, cedar, and old stone. Suddenly resensitized, she had seen as if for the first time the beauty of a ewer of cut glass. She had batted it to the floor, and it had broken into a thousand parts. “What’s that?” Raksha Starbridge had cried. He had been looting the kitchen cabinets for food, looking for money in the pockets of her husband’s suits.
But as she hesitated on the threshold, it was as if she were searching for reasons to be afraid. As soon as she stepped into the outside corridor, then she was no longer superstitious. In that one moment she shed the whole impossible burden of her marriage, laying it down inside the door where she had picked it up the only other time that she had crossed that sill, the day she had warned the old man. She felt like a child again. And though the old man had always been gentle, and though she had cried until her eyes were sore the day she heard that he was dead, and though he and her brother had been the only two companions she had had to help her carry the burden of that house, still she left the old man’s memory there too. She ran down the outside corridor towards the elevator banks, suddenly remembering what it had been like, her wedding procession along that same hall, up from her mother’s apartment on the thirty-fourth floor. As she ran, the empty months fell away, as if even the memory of them could not exist outside the perfumed atmosphere of her husband’s house. She remembered how it had been before; more than that, she felt it in her body. At Starbridge Dayschools she had been eighth in her class, winning prizes in physics, mathematics, archery, and law. She had written a thesis in silver ink, using a whole arcane vocabulary of knowledge. So long ago—now, running down the corridor towards the elevator, the only word she could remember was syzygy .
Raksha Starbridge hurried after her. Sick of him, disgusted by his ugliness, she ran fast, trying to lose him in the empty passageways. At the elevator banks she kept her finger on the button, hearing the bell ring somewhere far below. But no one came. Once she heard one of the express cars at the end of the row rattle past her, ascending rapidly, but it didn’t stop. Out of breath, she leaned against the metal doors. The corridor was dark here, the carpet dusty, the walls faded and stained. A statuette of Angkhdt the God of Light crouched in a niche above the button for the elevator, his tongue a small electric bulb. Loose in its socket, it flickered miserably.
Raksha Starbridge appeared at the turning of the passage. “These are all broken,” he announced. “We’ll have to take the service car from the floor below.” But at that moment the door she was leaning against opened, revealing a gnomelike operator, perhaps the same one who had taken her upstairs on her wedding day. Then he had bowed almost to the floor and made an elaborate dance out of the gestures of respect, for she had been dressed in purest white, with a necklace of flowers from the bishop’s own garden. But now he peered at her with eyes full of hostility. Astonished, she stared back at him, expecting him at any moment to drop his eyes and bring his
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