Once you hate someone, everything they do is offensive.
Internet wisdom
The Duchess sat at a vanity looking into her reflection. The glass cast a greyish tint over the room she could see in front of her, which was the room over her shoulder. Her hand was still on the brush she had been running over the surface of her whitish-blonde locks, freshening the long but narrow rope of hair down to its curlicued end. Those fingers were light on the engraved silver handle; she had become distracted by how strangely her nose and eyes and mouth all expanded together in a confused way after too long, morphing into someone she didn't know or had forgotten. It was funny how it could do that after she stared too long, and yet other times she could catch herself at the end of a long hallway in a distant mirror for just a split of a second, and wonder with startled surprise who that girl was. But it was always herself.
The Duchess had but one portrait of herself that she liked—there were many—one that she felt encapsulated her sense of self better than any other. The artist had painted sitting next to her before a large panel mirror and working from the silver surface rather than the breathing copy. There was something about the symmetry of her face that way.
"So," said the cultured voice from the other end of the room. She could just catch the tip of the Count's pointed shoe from where he'd slung his leg carelessly over the back of a sofa in an easy lounging way—he was always in this place or that, reclining, luxuriating, and always with an effortless pose, as though he was there to be studied and exemplified for his smooth social mores. The Count had a different opinion when she remarked on it, but that was another matter. He did not care about his reflection one way or the other, but she knew from having studied him that he was one of those rare people whose "fearful symmetry" graced them with precise sameness, inside the mirror or out.
She made her shoulders, her arm, and then her neck turn around in the chair to look at him directly, rather than by way of the looking glass. He arranged himself smoothly into a standing position and took twelve slinking steps toward her in his hard-bottomed shoes, heel to toe. They made a solid and reassuringly real sound against the floor, shoes that belonged to a man who did things and finished what he did with confidence, forever at his ease, natty and watchful, precise and significant. He couldn't help it if he'd tried.
"Are you really going to speak to her?" the Count went on. He was smiling faintly, sardonic and amused at some secret joke, and at first she wasn't quite sure she was in on it, but his expression didn't turn to the mocking, and she felt a rush of communal spirit between them both. The clipped, plummy velvet voice that came out of him belonged singularly to someone with his particular sort of nose, she decided; singularly as well were the flat seamless superiority of his brow or the half-lidded, thoroughly unimpressed way he gazed upon the world, surmising and predicting, or perhaps expertly palming any surprise he might have felt at curious turns of events.
"I suppose I have to," replied she as the Duchess turned back, then she did look at his reflection and made a textbook moue, at which he grinned companionably. Really she should have said she ought to, but she really had to, was the trouble. She liked that he found the whole thing amusing, somehow it gave her room to exaggerate, and she felt like being a bit ridiculous.
"Ah, Dutchy," he said, and took another drag on the cigarette cradled between his square-tipped fingers. "Dear old girl, what am I going to do with you."
"Ohshutup," she said, more an affectionate impression of an old actress they were both rather fond of, than anything with conviction. "I do wish you'd stop calling me that, you're the only person who does and it's very silly." She presented her wrist with a smooth grace and arched one eyebrow to look over the bracelet she'd been playing with.
"All of my friends call you that," he redirected airily. The Count had many friends, and the idea of a whole swath of people calling her by some nickname he'd designated for his own amusement seemed faintly hilarious, but the Duchess pressed on, her smudge of pride with a slight halo about it.
"Only because you make an example of it, and I can't say I know why."
"It's endearing," now he was looking at the glow beneath the ashen end, "And fun to say. Dutchy, Dutchy, Dutchy. Isn't it a nice word? I sometimes imagine myself shouting it into a crowd of people and all of them turning to look at me yelling Dutchy and then all craning round to find some nonexistent fellow in clogs. Duchess is such a common long word." He described her this scene fairly often, changing minute details, acting it out as a one-man show, always with a smile.
"But it's a title," she said firmly, looking at him in the mirror with a certain gravity in her eye, and he shrugged placatingly; now there was an arch smirk meant only for himself.
"But tell me," he said as if she hadn't looked at him that way, "Are you going to speak to her, or keep up some elaborate charade of not recognizing her or something?"
"I don't know," she said in a thoughtful voice, and dug about noisily into the dressing table drawer, delving for her signet ring and brooch.
"Take her down screaming," he said, adjusting his cuffs. "I bet you'd do it, too, you're on the slight side, but a ringer probably." She stared at him in the mirror, and he expanded slightly. "I bet you are; probably tear out a few handfuls of hair or scratch out an eye." The Duchess worked her tongue around her back molars to stop herself laughing or even smiling a little. "And I would distract everybody, saying—'Oh look, it's that thing you all adore so singlemindedly,'" and he said this while pointing at a rather ugly lamp in the corner.
The Duchess assessed her mood at that moment, and decided that at this point in time she did not like the Queen of Diamonds, which felt oddly incomplete.
"What has she done to you, anyway?" He tilted his head at her in the mirror and she tried to remember which direction he was really going. "What is the truly inexcusable thing about her?" He sounded genuinely curious; the Duchess did not need long to consider.
"She's the worst sort of person there is."
"A lady novelist?" he said, just to be contrary and random, looking at the ceiling. If she'd felt cleverer at that moment she might have grinned back at him and said something outdoing him funny; it did delight him modestly sometimes to spar with her in a humorous way, pretending as though he didn't know she had a whiff of a sense for comedy, and wasn't it quite shocking for a lady of her station to speak with such vulgarity?
"A hypocrite."
"A hypocrite," said the Count while still looking at the ceiling, and she thought she heard a hint of judgment mixed with his patience, "To be sure."
The lady at the mirror felt the irresistible impulse to launch into a recitation on her enmity but sensed what his response might be, and then came a helpless kind of anger or shame that she could neither articulate nor tease out for closer examination just then.
"When is the opening?" said the Duchess is a calm voice, powdering lightly at the space of throat down behind her ear.
"Seven," and he was frowning at an errant waistcoat thread, then growled, or hmmed, which might have been odd from anyone else, but not him.
"You'll stick with me?"
"Indeed, yes," plucking at a button, noting and planning. "I'll even send for you, we'll sup at table d'hote before—it's short notice," he added shirtily at her look, and she spread her fingers out placatingly. "Ah, well, be well," he said in a kind, definitive voice, raising a flat palm in his familiar salutation, and stepped his solid steps out of the room.
Of an understanding they were not—she frequently laughed aloud when courtiers put the question to her, though there were attempts at a delicacy of phrasing. When she had first met the Count, indeed the stray thought that she would probably marry this man passed her mind. But their evolution skipped past any inkling of harmonious domesticity and tended to stray toward something like a performance, swinging often between teasing, sarcastic companionability, and lies put toward the increasingly complex fiction of their ludicrous entertainment. She had once suggested the notion that they were like siblings rival, but his veto had been swift and keen.
"No, no, us? A singularly dreadful thought, believe me," and looked halfway between outraged and amused. The Duchess did not agree, and kept the label in her mind, cataloging their cheap and usually brief or even halfhearted altercations to compare them to what she knew of the more glorious wars between brothers and sisters.
This platonic closeness aside, even if he had met her in the church, the Duchess reckoned a hypothetical union wouldn't last long.
"Of course I've already worked out how I'd kill you, I've known for ages," he had exclaimed in mock indignation to her once, "My God, woman, are we the best of friends or not?"
Well, yes, obviously, that was only the truest fact there was, but what was the point of keeping a thing like that a secret? She'd made a dismissive hand gesture at the very idea.
"It would be an elaborate plot involving a thrice-forged will, an explosion at a buggy whip factory, a chase through the tunnels at a secret headquarters on a tropical archipelago, a half dozen tax dodges, and cracking the axle cap on your carriage," had been his answer, taking a long drag of cigarette and blowing pale blue rings, "Also a zeppelin chase, because I can't imagine you without one. This tableau would be drawn out in a series of adventures strung precariously together, diverting to their best advantage, and even then I'd probably wind up letting some footman simply break an ankle, but only because I'd want your thoughts on the whole affair. What's the point of murder if you can't reveal your ingenuity to them, or especially if they don't understand it at all? Having someone just go oh, I say, blargh and be dead is so boring, I'd rather have them admire and appreciate all the work I've put into it."
None of these things were serious, but she ventured to believe that had they contracted in some unholy abomination of matrimony, one of them would wind up dead in the most affectionate way, perhaps even with a twinge of wistful regret, before the bridal tour was over; either that or he'd shrug and leave her at the altar so she could go arm in arm with his best man or something. He had made allusions to some pretty young lady now and again, anyway, and perhaps by now he was quasi-soon-to-be-engaged to her, but he did not seem to be in any great rush for it, and the Duchess was not a woman who concerned herself with these things beyond a customary politeness, anyway.
What she prized about the Count was that he was a loyal friend, and he played the piano well. In that first characteristic he took a stately pride, with noble honesty that he placed his friends very highly and wasn't one to leave an old egg or a dear crumpet in the lurch. He had sat at her bed during uncomfortable but not particularly dangerous illnesses, waved aside with warm conviction her melodramatic and hoarse declarations that she was dying, and entertained through hyperbolic national gossip or by reading aloud instruction manuals to various kitchen appliances with impressive gravitas whilst she was indisposed over a washbasin.
The Count's colorful skill at the piano was a more sinful pride or vanity, but he had every good reason to show off his talent and taste, which were pretty staggering. The Duchess thought of herself as a decently-informed connoisseur of the ivories, but he wended his way through contrapuntal concertos and variations before launching into the twisting trills and arpeggios of strange new etudes she had never heard. Her usual rooms at his place lay on the side of the house closest to the sitting room, and when her windows were open in the summer she could drift in and out of afternoon doze while he practiced.
She liked his house; it was big, and it sat on a peninsula sticking out onto a lake. It was tastefully decorated, wonderfully suited to hosting weekends in that grand tradition that people with large houses carry on so well, and anyway how else should they spend their time? She could not imagine him moving from room to room to ensure that they all got used up in equal measure; the Count did not seem to much care for his home, or much care about anything, sometimes, but she wondered how much that was real and how much he found the aristocratic life to be plodding and dull.
He had met her at the train station in Etlucindes, looking so aggressively, insolently bored despite, or perhaps with, the shuffle of intriguing faces and secret stories all around them, that she had drawn up a scooping handful of snow and stuffed it into one of his great-coat pockets right there. He had fended her off so she'd got several doses of the stuff at her collar in retaliation even with her umbrella open in time, but at least he had smiled the whole time to his house. After so many days sitting in posh white furniture and gazing out the windows all alone, she was glad to have to walk, but equally glad not to have to carry any luggage.
"Well, how was it?"
It had been the usual train ride up; too many cars, not enough clear nights for star-gazing beneath the observation glass, but one of her maids had brusquely nodded and left the berth when she'd said something she'd thought was funny, and the Count demanded to hear it now.
"No," said the Duchess, "Probably it wasn't very good after all." He stopped in the middle of the street and stared her down. "Fine," said the Duchess. "I told her I was going to look for my missing watch, but I could never find the time." She felt his half-lidded gaze keenly and nearly looked away until he chuckled, genuine, and the proper sense came back into her. The Count had a slow smile sometimes, one that creeped like molasses and deepened into satisfaction and approval, and he cast it down onto her now.
"The trouble with you and jokes," he replied as they turned a brick corner along the esplanade arm in arm, "Is that it takes a while for one to realize that you are joking when you are—something in the timbre of your voice that suggests you're still in that deathly serious mode you inhabit too closely." They passed loverly couples standing in intimate discourse under a vine-tangled lattice by the badminton courts, and he went on, "Don't fight it; you're too much like a deep-sea fisherman eager to chuck it all off and farm after years of nasty rows with the harbormaster."
She breathed in and waited.
"He'd seen too much wharfare for one lifetime," and she swatted at him with the back of her hand as he tripped a few steps forward, laughing.
Later that evening, she stood half-obscured by a heavy red drapery lined and trimmed with gold. Few threw recognizing glances her way outside of the capital, and certainly she did not expect it here, but there was better relish in these social gatherings if she could easily fade into the background—a spotlight could only heighten the need for a smooth expression and stern brow. The Duchess was glad the Count was well in high form this evening, and though she knew he probably longed to ease himself among the assembled courtiers and admirers to try to glean something interesting, he was content to settle in with her and wink ostentatiously as the crowd hushed.
"Friends, art lovers, and students of life," a woman's tremulous, starry-eyed voice was saying toward the front of the room, "I am so honored and grateful to have you all with me here, for tonight we recognize one of the great illustrators of our time as she unveils a new series. This is an historic moment in our culture, a moment perhaps some of us were born for. Do please help me to give a proper welcome to an artist with a beautiful soul, Her Majesty the Queen of Diamonds—"
An impressed collective gasp, a cry punctuated by several girlish squeals, went up in the front rows over applause, as the woman herself appeared and mouthed thank you, thank you, while blushingly tilting her head this way and that, bent slightly at the waist, one hand turning in a shy wave. The Duchess could see the Count move into an ironic slouch against the archway and felt tremendously nervous for some reason. A muscle deep in her lower back had begun to ache and feel twisted, and her heart was beating too quickly for simply standing in a doorway.
"It's actually called a collection, I think," said the Queen when she could be heard, and the Duchess could feel her cheeks grow warm, "A series is something else—" The woman who had spoken first was flitting her hands at the Queen, apologizing profusely, "Oh, don't be silly! I hardly know what I'm talking about, don't listen to me go on!" Everybody laughed, and the Queen tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. "I am so happy to share this with you all, I know you've been waiting, and I have been a bit awful lately, but I've been busy, and we are nearing the off-season, which means the snow will be gone soon, but at least we'll get to enjoy our beautiful home without too many tiresome tourists mucking about," and everybody laughed again, "It breaks my heart to think of my Etlucindes in anything but its most wonderful glory, and I think you all know that only happens when real Etlucindians are here to truly appreciate every secret facet of such paradise."
The Duchess mused on the condition of the Etlucindian treasury and wondered if the Count had winnowed out the yearly revenue of holidaygoers' spending from some acquainted bureaucrat, nearly missing the Queen's oration on the subject of her latest collection.
"It is always a huge pleasure to draw for fans, and it is my favorite thing to hear when I inspire others. I hope my artwork in some small way brings you happiness. Someone told me just the other day that they crave my artwork, that they felt what I do hits them deep inside, at the very core of them," the audience was murmuring among themselves, a few people were nodding, their expressions pious, and the Count put on a particularly devout face to mimic a grievous case near one of the forelights, "And I think most of you know that means so much to me, that these silly little pieces bring joy and light to someone out there who can do the art world far better justice than I. So without further ado," and someone pulled a curtain back as she stepped aside to more approving gasps and oohs to reveal a series of stylized paintings. The Duchess stood on the balls of her feet to get a better look while the woman went on to describe her process for each; the Count rolled his eyes and flipped his cigarette end over end.
The Queen of Diamonds was famous for the cyclical nature of her widely popular portraiture—she ran through a series of muses and lingered on some, eventually cast others aside after a time. This opening would not be the introduction of anything new; it was the same pair she'd been portraying for ages now, the same man and the same woman, only in different outfits and with a slightly altered style, though whether it was for good or ill the Duchess couldn't say.
In quieter moments she could give the Queen some credit. She did take what could be rather jejune faces and put them in the most hum-drum of domestic arrangements (or obscene ones depending on her waxing tastes), but something in the line and shadow was appealing; there was something comforting about familiar characters redesigned and reimagined, as though one were looking through an endless series of windows capturing literal still lives.
But then there were paintings like the last—dark scenes of wrathful, hate-filled women with bleeding knives sliding between their articulate fingers, their plump faces twisted and clenched, grasping in white-knuckled fists the hair of decapitated former lovers, berserk dark burgundy drenching the end of the canvas. Noxious moments of consuming rage splattered those canvases.
"Of course, works like these," said the Queen of Diamonds, "Show that life can be ugly as well as beautiful. They are an expression, an examination—"
"But judge not—" murmured the Count near the Duchess' ear.
"Remarks may be submitted to the ministry of arts and culture," said Diamonds in rather a different tone of voice than what she had started with.
Midst the hazy thrum of conversation and public dissection of each scene's meaning, a hostess bore forth a customary token of gratitude for the Queen's having been so kind as to show her new pieces. Two members of the local arts and culture society stepped forward to present an award, and the Duchess watched a pantomimed scene begin to play out. The man on the left held out the brass object, while the one on the right explained to Her Majesty what it was for, despite having laden her with previous awards in openings past. Diamonds smiled and bowed prettily, and the question came about: to which painting was this award in regards? She could feel the Count suddenly perk up next to her and shift his weight forward. The gentleman with the bowtie gestured to the final bloodied print, and the chap with the tie pin pressed the award into the Queen's hand while gesturing to another design to praise its color palette but suggest that perhaps its angles would be better suited to a different perspective.
"What d'you mean?" she heard the Queen say rather indignantly. Tie Pin attempted to backpedal, but the damage was already done, and Diamonds continued, "You don't have to look at it if you don't like it, you know, I certainly didn't ask for your opinion."
"Well, it's just that…" she heard the man say before lapsing into splutters and looking to his fellow member for assistance. Of course he wasn't much help, for he said something along the lines that perhaps when Her Majesty had tried her hand at chiaro scuro more thoroughly, then in the future, the society might well—
The Queen of Diamonds seemed to consider the brass lump in her hand for a moment, then wound up and chucked it so hard that the man toppled backward into his comrade, both of them taking down the hostess with them like a trio of geese lobbed out of the sky by a stray engraved goblet. She stood like a column of fire, shouting at the top of her lungs, and the mood in the room churned. Quickly she was flanked by admirers alternately scolding the men and woman on the floor for upsetting Dear Majesty and cooing in Diamond's direction that it wasn't her fault, these people just didn't appreciate and understand her the way they did, taking her by the hand and attempting to coax her out of her tantrum.
"How utterly rude to assume that I wanted your criticism, and anyway, what do you know," she said sternly and in a loud, clear voice, her hands akimbo and facing the crowd, a few of the ones too near her stepping back timidly to avoid the worst of it. "You don't get to tell me what I do is right or wrong, it's my artwork and I'll do as I like! This is a finished piece and therefore not open to your suggestions or help, and if none of you can behave respectfully about someone else's artwork, you can go to Hell!"
Things went on in this general vein for some time, the Count stretching upward to see over the crowd and grinning delightedly that the evening hadn't been for naught after all. The hostess finally untangled herself from the mass on the floor and attempted, somewhat desperately, to placate the Queen, but the woman and a handful of her more devoted followers squeezed through another doorway and into the passage beyond, still a raucous throng of voices shouting admonition and praise in a confused hum.
"Well," said the Count after a moment, "For a while there I was afraid she'd learned how not to make an ass of herself in public."
The Duchess shook her head, and they managed to duck out while no one was looking.
"Why do you suppose those people still throng about her when they know there's a good chance she'll threaten to have them all hanged by the end of an opening?"
"Perhaps they think she knows best just because she's in charge. Loyalty is an odd thing, isn't it." It had been a decent supper after all; the Count paused beneath the gas lantern outside the club door to cradle his cigarette against the wind, the blue steam streaming out from it in a long thin line that whipped down the street and faded. A man stood rustling a newspaper in the darkness by the steps—he couldn't quite get it straight, and he was making quite a lot of noise; the Count kept squinting into the darkness as though he knew the fellow, but couldn't make him out.
"I wonder if they excuse her by telling themselves she has an artistic temperament," said the Duchess, rolling her muff around her hands and looking up at the windows overhead. "Perhaps they like that in a ruler, gives them something interesting to distract them."
He stood looking at her carefully.
"Is this about the military reports from the south?" he asked quietly, sidling up to her and taking her arm to move out of the man's earshot.
"No," said the Duchess, looking at his lapel instead of his eyes and feeling perceptibly that the whole world was slipping between her fingers. "No, I'm—I'm only… I wonder at how all these people flock to her in spite of the way she treats them."
"Maybe they're all idiots," he offered, looking about the clean white marble buildings with mild distaste.
"I don't think she's so awful all of the time, she isn't her sister by any stretch—perhaps her conniptions are rare, or even justified," said the Duchess. "But it doesn't seem fair that someone in the world can be so full of contradiction, and it only seems to serve her better, to be endeared and beloved stronger than ever, not particularly feared or subverted.
"I try to live my life as well as can be managed," she went on, "But I try—I try—to be aware of my shortcomings. Perhaps I excuse myself the most horrible aspects of my character by deluding myself into believing that mere awareness of those flaws is enough to somehow mitigate them, but—"
"But what?"
"I don't know."
They walked the rest of the way back to his house in silence.
The badminton courts were finally opened the next day, and the Duchess took a leisurely walk down to see them. The Count had seen her off by way of the breakfast table, and they were both glad for a few hours alone—she to reflect, and he to get down to the business of tuning the grand piano in the larger downstairs study.
Only a handful of couples were out on the courts; Diamonds had been right in her assessment of the holiday seasons. A brunette with her hair piled atop her head into a lovely cushioned bun stood nearly motionless on the court while her partner, a handsome young dark-haired man wearing spectacles, dashed this way and that, desperately trying to return each of her passes without inconveniencing her, such was his willingness to sacrifice on behalf of her and her lawn dress.
With few spectators about and the games in rigorous stride, the Duchess waxed philosophical. There were times—days, weeks, even, when she found it easy to dislike or loathe the Queen of Diamonds. It happened, naturally, like a pop or a snap, deep inside her. She would see something to remind her and immediately recognize the visceral sense of shock, or dismay, mixed with a curious flavor of sadness.
She hated her, that was true: she felt it often. There was a great hypocrisy within—that person declared herself in love with the whole world, claimed to see beauty in even the most common things, then turned her cheek at the slightest nay and estopped any input her royal highness could not bear to cope with. It irked the Duchess to see it, and yet it carried a glory, a kind of satisfaction to observe such foolish misadventures from a wise enough distance.
The Count had once told her that there was a word for that sort of thing.
"What, epicaricacy?" she had said innocently, and he'd rolled his eyes at her and called her pretentious.
He did that sometimes, to her annoyance, most recently when she'd had occasion to explain, on a purely academic level of interest, the rules behind split infinitives.
'Writers must learn to not split infinitives' had been her rule and its broken example.
"You really must learn to not be so ridiculous," had been the Count's deadpan reply, and she'd always felt just a bit self-conscious about using them afterward.
That was the problem—seeing it and analyzing it was different than seeing it and allowing herself the indulgent luxury of abhorrence without preamble. Having met the disgusting behavior head-on with the Count beside her, her odium of the woman seemed a silly girlhood rivalry, shriveled, irrelevant, and unimportant, though it never felt so small when she was alone to sit and think, when it came easily and flowed long.
The young dark-haired couple finished their set. From the way the young woman kept glancing away from the man toward the benches, it was obvious what was going on—she nearly wanted to smirk and stop them for a chat, but kept it carefully in check; not to mention there was some awkwardness or social stutter hanging over the pair. She watched them, watched the girl's pretty eyes flash all about the place like a nervous bird, acknowledged the polite bow with a grave nod as they passed her.
Sometimes Her Grace could admit to herself that ages and ages ago, she and Diamonds might have been friends—had nearly been friends, in fact. These episodes didn't last long, and she wasn't sure if the unidentifiable emotion she felt—whether regret or relief—was one that lasted, or only surfaced in the back of her mind when she felt her grievance at its strongest. Probably it would not have been a lasting friendship anyway, but it was strange the way this cropped up from time to time. There was no salvaging it now, she firmly felt, no point in extending an olive branch—she had invested too much energy in it, and with her disposition, she'd be forever questioning and calculating whether there had been anything genuine behind a peace accord. Besides, there again was that sense of satisfaction—or was it superiority? Was she the better ruler? Did her citizens even like her?
The Duchess sat, stunned that her own mind would even offer up such a question. She'd never operated under anything other than the assumption that she was at least a bit amazing, especially since she was in charge, and to even consider the idea seemed queer. Worrying about others' opinions was absolutely no more worth her expense than it was to flail about in quicksand, and it wasn't as though she could simply ask right-out—it would seem weak in itself. Now she felt nearly plagued by it, and it seemed an impossible thing, to go back the way she came and pretend she did not feel self-doubting.
She watched the pair meander along the walkway before they disappeared onto the street. Certainly the Queen of Diamonds did not spare her a second thought these days; she probably had better things to do, or possibly she wasn't even aware that a conflict existed, or if she did, she did not care. Perhaps that made it all the easier to keep on in this way with impunity, thought the Duchess.
"Did you tune to your heart's content?"
"Assuredly. Tea?" Gently he shook the pot at her.
"Is that the Lethian blend?"
"Of course—why do you ask?" The Count sat up to look at her.
"Nothing, really, it's just a bit bitter for me."
"It's not so bad once you get used to it."
She took a moment to tie up her umbrella and set her gloves on a table before speaking again.
"How was this year's harvest, by the way?"
"As good a year as any. Shall I pour your some?"
"You do know that stuff is addictive, don't you?"
He shrugged.
"I do wish they wouldn't make it," she said, shuffling through the biscuits on the tea tray and picking one with raspberry jam. "I can't imagine drinking it is good for you after too long."
"You say that as though I'm cooking poppies and running a den out of this house, it's a local custom and a wonderful delicacy—you are far too concerned about something that's been weakened and mixed with pekoe. Have some."
She condescended for a cup.
"Do you know what's weird?"
He looked as if he were about to flippantly suggest some characteristic or trait belonging to her, but instead gazed at her in expectant politeness. The Duchess brushed her hand over the satin couch cushion next to her.
"Well?"
"Realizing that the brain named itself."
Duchess looked over and couldn't quite tell if the Count's stare was one of deep thought or disbelief that she had just uttered that sentence—she baffled him sometimes. It might have been put more elegantly, but his silence had partly made her want to say oddities at him just to see how he would react. But it was true, wasn't it? The brain named itself, which made her think of a dark space and suddenly a starburst of light coalescing into a vague something. How had the something appeared? Where had it been before? Sometimes just before she fell asleep she imagined what it would be like if she could see a moving, perfectly timed image symbolizing her own brain's thoughts, and that image would flicker like a bit of firelight, and it would represent her brain seeing itself, seeing her thoughts as they focused on seeing her own brain, registering perhaps surprise or amazement at seeing itself, and seeing itself seeing itself. It only made sense for a perfect split second, and then she'd lose it and it would just be a string of meaningless words.
"And also the fact that we are essentially composed of tiny particles that're all joined up together into something that knows that it's tiny particles joined up together."
He sat silent, and she sensed a joke at her expense.
"I'm perfectly serious!" She turned, but did not glare at him. "Don't you ever wonder about things like that?"
He gave it consideration, and she was actually surprised when he did speak.
"I suppose when I do, it's on a much larger scale," he said, not unkindly. "Whether there are scenarios that spring up around us all the time, and if they keep moving independently forward in the choice we never chose. If I decide to play a concerto instead of a waltz, is there a Me who has gone ahead with the waltz and wonders how things could have been different if he'd played the concerto? Perhaps there's only a set number of those closed situations, or one gigantic universe full of nothing but those other choices, and that's all there is. Times and times and times, versions of ourselves threading out ad infinitum. Are we really ourselves, or are we simply extensions or copies like spokes on a wheel, only connected in some tenuous way to originality?"
Sometimes the Duchess thought she didn't understand the Count at all.
