time to myself and then expire very beautifully, alone, in a black robe, with everyone praying over me and being solemn. But then I found out about the face paint you all have to wear,” she added fretfully, “and that wasn’t my aesthetic. You can’t drape yourself over your cell and fade away beautifully in face paint— Does this count as a conversation? Am I breaking your penance? Shake for no and nod for yes.”
“Good!” she said, when Gideon mutely shook her head no, sucked completely under this mad, bubbling riptide. “I love a captive listener. I know you’re only doing this because you feel bad for me. And you do look like a nice kid. Sorry,” she added hastily, “you’re not a child. But I feel so old right now. Did you see the pair from the Fourth House? Babies. They have contributed to me feeling ancient. Tomorrow I might feel youthful, but today’s a bad day … and I feel like a gimp. Take off your glasses, please, Gideon the Ninth. I’d like to see your eyes.”
At the juxtaposition of Gideon with obedient many people would have rocked with laughter and gone on chuckling and gurgling for quite some time. But she was helpless now in the face of this extraordinary request; she was helpless at the thin arms and rosebud smile of the woman-girl in front of her; she was utterly helpless at the word gimp. She slid her sunglasses off her nose and obligingly presented her face for inspection.
And she was inspected, thoroughly and immediately. The eyes narrowed with intent, and for a moment the face was all business. There was something swift and cool in the blueness of those eyes, some deep intelligence, some sheer shameless depth and breadth of looking. It made Gideon’s cheeks flare, despite her mental reproach to Slow down, Nav, slow down.
“Oh, singular,” said Dulcinea quietly, more to herself than to Gideon. “Lipochrome … recessive. I like looking at people’s eyes,” she explained suddenly, smiling now. “They tell you such a lot. I couldn’t tell you much about your Reverend Daughter … but you have eyes like gold coins. Am I embarrassing you? Am I being a creep?”
At the head-shake no, she settled back more into her chair, tilting her head to the seat back and fanning herself with the frivolous hat. “Good,” she said, with satisfaction. “It’s bad enough that we’re stuck in this burnt-out old hovel without me scaring you. Isn’t it fantastically abandoned? Imagine all the ghosts of everyone who must have lived here … worked here … still waiting to be called, if we could figure out how. The Seventh doesn’t do well with ghosts, you know. We offend them. We’re worrisome. The old division between body and spirit. We deal too much with the body … crystallising it in time … trapping it unnaturally. The opposite of your House, don’t you think, Gideon the Ninth? You take empty things and build with them … We press down the hand of a clock, to try to stop it from ticking the last second.”
This was all so far over Gideon’s head that it sat somewhere out in space, but there was something soothing about it anyway. Gideon had only ever been clotheslined this way with Harrowhark, who explained herself seldom and as you would only to a very stupid child. Dulcinea had the dreamy, confiding manner of someone who, despite spouting grade-A horseshit, was confident you would understand everything she was saying. Also, as she talked she smiled widely and prettily, and moved her lashes up and down.
Thus hypnotised, Gideon could only watch with a mouth full of teeth as the blue-eyed necromancer laid one slight, narrow hand on her arm; her skin stretched thin over very marked metacarpals, and wrist bones like knots in a rope. “Stand up for me,” said Dulcinea. “Indulge me. Lots of people do … but I want you to.”
Gideon pulled away and stood. The sunlight dappled over the hem of her robe in rusty splotches. Dulcinea said, “Draw your sword, Gideon of the Ninth.”
Grasping the smooth black grip beneath the black nest of the knuckle bow, Gideon drew. It seemed as though she had drawn this damn thing a thousand times—that Aiglamene’s voice had taken permanent residence in her head now, just to keep up the charade. Draw. Lean on the right foot. Arm bent, not collapsed, naked blade angled at your opponent’s face or chest. You’re guarding the outer side of