Beautiful Blood

As Rosacher made to leave, the cardinal waved at the countertops and asked what was the purpose of all this equipment.

“It’s Mister Mountroyal’s hobby. Ever fooling around with chemicals, he is. He taught me a few tricks and when I have a spare minute or two, I like to come in here and fiddle.”

Rosacher excused himself and, once alone in his office, seated at his desk, he pondered the problem that the cardinal presented. Not that the problem was severe. Over the years he had discovered that the Church’s state of decay was greater than he had assumed and he doubted they had a taste for a military engagement with a militia very nearly the equivalent of their own—there were other areas into which they could expand with little or no resistance. They might make a show of force and send more fat-assed emissaries to admonish and threaten, but as Rosacher read the situation, that was all they would do. Still, the cardinal’s presence posed an opportunity for Rosacher to strengthen his position. It would take less than a day to prepare the actor who played the fictitious Mr. Mountroyal to deal with Chiano, but Rosacher intended to delay the cardinal’s departure as long as he reasonably could, the better to explore the possibilities. After thinking the matter through, he summoned the office worker who had shown the cardinal into his laboratory.

“I believe Mister Mountroyal told you never to bring visitors to me,” Rosacher said. “Some people find my disfigurement off-putting.”

“Sorry, sir,” said the office worker, who was still in his twenties and already bald on top except for a smattering of pale red strands combed across his scalp. “I was flustered. I’ve never been so close to a cardinal before.”

“And how did you find it?”

“Beg pardon, sir?”

“Being so close to him. Was it thrilling? Did it cause you to feel faint? Did it have a transfiguring effect? Has your faith in the Church been restored?”

“Oh…no, sir.”

“Something must have triggered your reaction.”

“I suppose…”

“Yes?”

“The size of his ring, sir. The stone. I suppose that was what did it.”

“Nothing else influenced you. No other impressions?”

“Well, sir, the main thing I noticed he breathed heavy when he walked…and he had a most peculiar body odor.”

“The odor of saintliness, no doubt,” said Rosacher. He slapped his desk, a decisive gesture. “All right. Try not to let it happen again. Now…” He leaned back and put his feet up on the desk. “I want you to see to Cardinal Chiano’s needs. Keep a record of everything he orders from the kitchen, what he drinks, and how he passes his time. If you do a good job, I won’t report your error in protocol to Mister Mountroyal.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.”

“One thing more. I want you to assign our most attractive available male escort to be the cardinal’s personal servant for the duration of his stay.”

“A man, sir?”

“It’s just a feeling I have,” Rosacher said.

+

During the construction of the House and for several years thereafter, a period in which the business of the place began the transition from prostitution to actual religion, Rosacher maintained his living arrangement in Hangtown with Martita; but as time passed he spent more and more time away from home. Though he still found Martita attractive—and how could he not?—he did not love her, nor she him. While mab was a great leveler, all but eliminating jealousy among its users (why should one covet another woman, a bigger house, finer clothes, when one already possessed perfection?), it could not counterfeit or induce strong emotion. And thus, the bonds of infatuation having weakened, Rosacher and Martita took other lovers, yet continued to cohabit on an intermittent basis and remained great friends.

One morning, as Rosacher prepared to walk out to the ledge to contemplate and perhaps find a solution to a pressing problem, he stood before the mirror, adjusting his hat so that it shadowed his ravaged face, a habit he rarely shirked, even in Hangtown where such injuries were common…on that morning, then, Martita came to stand at his shoulder and said in a glum voice, “You know, you haven’t changed a bit since you got here.”

He laughed, gesturing at his scarred cheek and neck. “You’re not serious?”

“Aside from that, you look the same as you did the day you walked in. What’s it been? Nearly ten years? And here’s me, turning into an old woman.”