Nightside the Long Sun

“Because orpines, which only sound like orchids, have another name. Country people call them live-forevers; and when I thought of that other name, I said, more or less to myself, that she had not; and you agreed. Then when Blood suggested that she might have stolen the dagger that killed her, you burst into tears and I knew. But to tell you the truth, I was already nearly certain.”

Orchid nodded slowly. “Thanks, Patera. Is that all? I’d like to be alone for a little while.”

Silk rose. “I understand. I wouldn’t have disturbed you if I hadn’t wanted to let you know that Blood’s agreed that your daughter should be buried with the rites of the Chapter. Her body will be washed and dressed—laid out, as the people who do it say—and carried to my manteion, on Sun Street. We’ll hold her service in the morning.”

Orchid stared at him incredulously. “Blood’s paying for this?”

“No.” Silk actually had not considered the matter of expenses, though he knew only too well that some of those connected with the final offices of the dead could not be avoided. His mind whirled before he recalled Blood’s two cards, which he had set aside for the Scylsday sacrifice in any event. “Or rather, yes. Blood gave me—gave my manteion, I should say, a generous gift earlier. We’ll use that.”

“No, not Blood.” Orchid rose heavily. “I’ll pay it, Patera. How much?”

Silk compelled himself to be scrupulously honest. “I should tell you that we often bury the poor, and sometimes they have no money at all. The generous gods have always seen to it—”

“I’m not poor!” Orchid flushed an angry red. “I been pretty flat sometimes, sure. Hasn’t everybody? But I’m not flat now, and this’s my sprat. The other girl, I had to—Oh, shag you, you shaggy butcher! How much for a good one?”

Here was opportunity. Not merely to save the manteion the cost of Orpine’s burial, but to pay for earlier graves bought but never paid for; Silk jettisoned his scruples to seize the moment. “If it’s really not inconvenient, twenty cards?”

“Let’s go into the bedroom, Patera. That’s where the book is. Come on.”

She had opened the door and vanished into the next room before he could protest. Through the doorway he could see a rumpled bed, a cluttered vanity table, and a chaise longue half buried in gowns.

“Come on in.” Orchid laughed, and this time there was real merriment in the sound. “I bet you’ve never been in a woman’s bedroom before, have you?”

“Once or twice.” Hesitantly, Silk stepped through the doorway, looking twice at the bed to assure himself that no one lay dying there. Presumably Orchid thought of it as a place for rest and lust, and possibly even for love. Silk could only too easily imagine his next visit, in ten years or twenty. All beds became deathbeds at last.

“Your mama’s. You’ve gone into your mama’s bedroom, I bet.” Orchid plumped herself down before the vanity table, swept a dozen colored bottles and jars aside, and elevated an ormolu inkstand to the place of honor before her.

“Oh, yes. Many times.”

“And looked through her things when she was out of the house. I know how you young bucks do.” There were twenty bedraggled peacock quills at least wilting in the rings of the ormolu inkstand. Orchid selected one, then wrinkled her nose at it.

“I can sharpen that for you, if you like.” Silk got out his pen case.

“Would you? Thanks.” Revolving on the vanity stool, she handed the peacock quill to him. “Did you ever try on her underwear?”

Silk looked up from the quill, surprised. “No, I never even thought of it. I did open a drawer once and peep into it, though. I felt so bad about it that I told her the next day. Do you have something to catch the shavings?”

“Don’t worry about them. You had a nice mama, huh? Is she still alive?”

Silk shook his head. “Would you prefer a broad nib?” Orchid did not reply, and he, contemplating the splayed and frowzy one before him, decided to give her one anyway. A broad nib used more ink, but she would not mind that; and broad nibs lasted longer.

“Mine died when I was little. I guess she was nice, but I really don’t remember her very well. When somebody’s dead, Patera, can they come back and see people they care about, if they want to?”

“It depends on what is meant by see.” With the slender blade of the long-handled penknife, Silk sliced yet another whitish sliver from the nib. He was accustomed to goose and crow quills; this was larger than either.

“Talk to them. Visit with them a while, or just let them see you.”

“No,” Silk said.

“Just no? Why not?”

“Hierax forbids it.” He returned the quill to her and snapped his pen case shut. “If he did not, the living would live at the direction of the dead, repeating their mistakes again and again.”

“I used to wonder why she never came to see me,” Orchid said. “You know, I haven’t thought about that in years, and now I’ll think about Orpine, hoping that Hierax will let her out once or twice so I can see her again. Have a seat there on the bed, Patera. You’re making me jittery.”