by Gisèle Baxter (and again)
At seven, Melora shook Fuchsia awake from a very deep sleep. She was curled up around a pillow in a corner of her mother's immense bed, wearing one of her mother's billowing nightgowns, and despite sharing the bed with Gertrude, who sat up late reading, and several cats lolling on the duvet and birds perched on the headboard, she had fallen almost immediately asleep. For a moment when she woke up, she thought she was a child again, and she felt she was at home and very safe. Then the intervening years flooded back into their place in her consciousness and she felt an ache of anxiety. Melora had located a dark blue dress Fuchsia had not worn in at least fifteen years. The train needed some repair, and it had been one she had tended to worry, picking at the pearl beads around the neckline. However, it fit quite well, and a broad brocade scarf hid the worst of the damage. With reasonable expertise, Melora put some of her hair up, and brushed the rest down her back. Fuchsia reflexively straightened: she looked her rank again. She sipped at the edges of a cup of coffee, then followed her mother's lady in waiting down the corridors to the secretary's office. Approaching, she heard her mother's voice, punctuated occasionally by the poet's "Yes, Ladyship." When she entered the room, she saw Bellgrove there, also Irma Prunesquallor in an immense feathered hat.
"The point is, we don't have a laureate," Gertrude was saying.
"With permission, Ladyship," the poet began.
"You're the secretary now. You have no time."
Something in the haggard expression of the poet confirmed this. Gertrude turned to Bellgrove and went on, "But we need a laureate; it is one of the most important posts."
"Madam, I am flattered," Bellgrove began, "but -- "
"Not you," Gertrude interrupted sharply. "Surely one of your senior pupils could produce the necessary poems. I want you to hold a contest. It doesn't really matter if the winner is the best poet; try to choose someone who seems to have some enthusiasm for writing so he'll be able to produce the needed material."
"Yes, madam. And who will judge it, and what will be the prize?" Bellgrove ventured.
"The prize is being Laureate of Gormenghast; isn't that enough? As for the judge, surely there's a literature master among you. This needs to be done quickly." At this point, she saw her daughter, and nodded. Melora looked longingly at her betrothed. Gertrude went on, "All right then, what's my schedule and when does it start, Mr. Secretary?"
The poet took a deep breath and read off the list of daily duties, which were set to commence at nine o'clock. Gertrude knew them well enough that she only half listened, and kept glancing towards Fuchsia, who still stood near the door, wondering why the Bellgroves were both there, and deciding Irma must have been up at five in order to be ready. Finally, Gertrude said to her daughter, "You used to write poems, didn't you?"
"Sometimes," said Fuchsia in her small voice.
"I do know you draw in the margins of maps, which sometimes isn't the best of ideas if they're actually to be used for anything," said Gertrude. "Perhaps you could judge the contest."
Fuchsia's eyes grew wide; she had hardly expected this morning meeting to produce an immediate return to obligations.
"It would give the thing some weight," Gertrude went on. "To have the laureate chosen by a member of the royal family. I find most poetry tiresome; I prefer stories."
"Do I have a choice?" Fuchsia asked.
"I didn't call you here to argue," said Gertrude. "We'll talk about it later. Headmaster Bellgrove, please announce the contest in all classes today."
Meanwhile, the doctor sat at his dining room table, drinking very strong tea and wishing he did not feel like a violin string stretched to snapping point, wishing also that he was not hobbled by a broken ankle so he could go riding or at least take a brisk walk, wishing his house was not surrounded by guards, wishing his unwelcome though not exactly irritating guest was gone though not exactly that he was... oh well. He wondered about Fuchsia and how she was responding to her reabsorption by the castle. Behind him, in front of the big, gilt-framed mirror over the buffet, Steerpike was going through the apparently endless process of making himself presentable in a suit that seemed to have been through the wars. He had pressed the shirt and starched the collar; he had vigorously brushed his coat and trousers; he had polished his boots. Now he was working his hair back into a smooth flat surface so that none would spring back up or out of place when he tied it at the nape of his neck. He wore the mask that covered the worst of his facial scars; the dressing under his inflamed eye was just visible. This long process suddenly over, he stared dispassionately at himself, then sat down at the table and began filing his nails.
At this point Prunesquallor wanted to scream; even Irma never made this much fuss over her appearance. And yet he understood it, so he said nothing.
At eight o'clock sharp they presented themselves at the secretary's office, accompanied by the guards and a servant who pushed the doctor in a wheelchair. By this point, Gertrude was dealing with the engineers over cost issues involved in demolishing the damaged tower and removing the large amount of ensuing rubble. Fuchsia was by the window, twisting the fine fringe on her scarf around her fingers and staring outside. As the doors opened, Gertrude loudly told the engineers to come up with a better strategy by three o'clock and deliver it to this office; the secretary was about to remind her that at three o'clock she had to be somewhere else, when she cut him off and dismissed the engineers.
"This is an informal meeting," she began. "Various loose ends resulting from my discovery that I do in fact have a daughter, still alive and here in Gormenghast, need to be tied up. The public ceremonies will be postponed until they can be performed properly. First of all, I do want to say that I am very grateful that Lady Fuchsia was rescued so quickly and efficiently, and I am certain she is as well. Dr. Prunesquallor, your initiative at immense personal risk in undertaking collaboration on a plan I would not have sanctioned had you asked for permission any earlier than you did cannot possibly be underestimated. I am awarding you Gormenghast's highest honour, and have elevated your family so that you are now ranked first among the gentry. As I said, there'll be a proper public ceremony of investiture later, but Lady Fuchsia will give you the medal now."
The extremely bleary-eyed poet had not slept; he had spent hours trying to find out what Gormenghast's highest honour was, and then where the medal in question had been stored. The item had last been worn almost eight hundred years ago, and was in a mouldering box in one of the attics. Now, polished up and wrapped in velvet in a little carved wooden box inlaid with iridescent shells, it sat on the desk, and he handed it to Fuchsia, who had been standing by the window staring very hard at the floor. She approached the doctor, smiling with a certain amount of restraint.
"Shall I get up?" Prunesquallor wondered.
"No, please, don't," Fuchsia insisted, and she dropped into a crouch in front of him, staring straight up into his eyes with no restraint at all. Her hands were shaking as she pried the lid off the box and removed an immensely ugly metal figurehead of some unidentifiable, vaguely catlike beast, suspended on a length of thick chain. She hung this around his neck, embraced him fiercely and began to cry. The doctor felt an incredible urge to cry himself, and when she released him he retained one of her hands and indicated she should remain standing beside him.
"You don't need to make a speech," said Gertrude. "You will at the public ceremony. Keep it brief; the invocation is six pages long. And remember to wear the medal."
There was a general intake of breath as Gertrude approached Steerpike, who stood somewhat behind and to the left of the doctor. He had watched the proceedings so far dispassionately, avoiding Fuchsia as much as she avoided him, though he had permitted himself to join in the general applause at the awarding of Gormenghast's highest honour to the doctor. Now he bowed formally and kept his head inclined though this probably pushed the pain up to seventeen or eighteen.
"Straighten up," said Gertrude. "I told you this was an informal meeting." She actually winced slightly at the sight of his eye, but kept her composure and locked him in an enervating staredown for several moments, then said calmly, "All right then, Mr. Steerpike, what do you think I should do with you?"
"I have absolutely no opinion on the subject," he replied tonelessly. "It would be pointless."
"You're quite right there. I offered you no guarantees, deciding instead to take you at your word, and as far as I can tell, your word was what it claimed to be in this instance. This changes virtually nothing of my opinion of you, but, as I've said, I am grateful to have my daughter back safely. Since I offered you no guarantees, I owe you nothing. However, I am giving you your life; I am revoking the sentence of death."
Gertrude paused to let this sink in. Everyone in the room heard Fuchsia catch her breath and she gripped the doctor's hand so hard he grimaced visibly. Steerpike made no response at all beyond a scarcely perceptible widening of the eyes but this was mostly an attempt to cope with what was now virtually unbearable pain.
"Your crimes cannot be erased or forgiven," Gertrude went on, and her calm was a mask; she was choking down something. "You are a traitor and a murderer, and cannot remain in Gormenghast; I banish you from this castle for the rest of your natural life, and will not even permit you burial within its boundaries. You have no citizenship nor any rights within its walls. You may live among the Outer Dwellings, but no closer. Do you understand?"
"Yes, madam," he said.
Something unexpected twisted at the corner of the countess's mouth, and she averted her glance towards her daughter. "Fuchsia, come over here," she directed.
Fuchsia disentangled her fingers from the doctor's and went to join her mother. Steerpike finally permitted himself to look directly at her and she returned the look with a shyness he had not seen in her for several years. Gertrude looked critically from her daughter to this traitor she had spared condemnation, and she said very deliberately, "I'm going to ask you a question, and it's a rhetorical question, not a request. Would you take her with you?"
"If she agreed to go, yes," Steerpike replied levelly.
Gertrude turned to her daughter. "Well, Fuchsia? Would you go into this exile?"
"Yes," Fuchsia said promptly.
Gertrude frowned. "All right, then, I have a question for you, and yours is not rhetorical; it is a request. You are the second inheritor of the line; I would ask you to honour your obligations to Gormenghast and remain within the castle walls for at least one quarter of every year and participate in its life and rituals. The rest of the time you may go where you will, only I would rather you didn't go quite as far as your brother."
Fuchsia stared very hard at the floor during this speech, and was so achingly conscious of everyone in the room she felt her ears and face start to burn, but after a pause, she cleared her throat, looked up and said softly but very clearly, "Mother, you know exactly how far and where I would go. And you know I'd go if you were to abolish my rights. But," and here she hesitated, closed her eyes briefly, found her strength again and continued, "I would like to be able to return. I never thought I would say that but in spite of everything this place has done to me, it is my home, and Titus will realize eventually that it's his home too. However, I don't want to come back because you want me to honour my obligations to Gormenghast. I don't want to come back just to be Lady Fuchsia Groan and participate in all the wretched rituals and wear horrible ceremonial clothes all the time. I want to return if you, as my mother, want to see your daughter."
"But the point is," said Gertrude, "you do want to go."
Fuchsia nodded.
Gertrude smiled, a small tight enigmatic smile accompanied by a slight toss of the head, and she said, "At least you might consider assisting in the choice of a new laureate."
"I might consider it," said Fuchsia.
Recovering her stern serious expression, Gertrude returned her attention to Steerpike. "If my daughter is to accompany you, there are a number of things she needs to get ready. You, I assume, travel more lightly. However, I won't throw you out while you're injured. You may remain one week, under guard. Now I have the business of the day to attend to so this meeting is over. Fuchsia, I want a word with you about this laureate business. Otherwise, clear the office. Squallor, one of the consequences of vouching for people is that then they become your responsibility."
The doctor decided to use the late morning to learn how to move himself about on crutches. Once back in his house, he communicated this intention to a servant, then wheeled himself across the parlour to the buffet and unstoppered a decanter. He told the guards to go see what was on tap in the pantry and gestured Steerpike towards the broad chesterfield.
"Normally," he said, "I am a stern advocate against drinking in the morning, but her ladyship's early meetings tend to have a certain effect on people. Have a brandy."
Steerpike swallowed the brandy in one go. He unfastened his stiff collar, unhooked his coat and eased himself down, resting his head on the brocade cushions Irma had embroidered. He carefully removed his mask to avoid disturbing the dressing under his eye, then rested a hand over where the pain was worst.
"I could have that painkiller now, doctor," he said, but before Prunesquallor could open his black medical bag, Steerpike had lost consciousness.
When he woke up the room was dim in the last of the afternoon light. The dressing on his eye had been changed, a not unpleasant numbness implied that he had been given some sort of drug, and he was half covered with a blanket, half with what appeared to be shaggy black fur. This familiar silklike matting he traced with one hand to Fuchsia, who sat on the floor by the chesterfield, very still, her sketchbook on her lap. Setting the book aside, she reached up and drew his hand down over her face, then kissed his palm and the inside of his wrist, very lightly, and then she turned around and looked down at him seriously.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"Doctor says I won't lose my eye." The numbness was quickly wearing off; perhaps this was what had awakened him.
"I wasn't given an opportunity to thank you properly."
"Not needed. If you hadn't told Prunesquallor where I was, I might never have known. I simply thought you'd gone back."
"Did you?" Fuchsia asked sadly. "And you just accepted that and carried on regardless?"
"No. I thought perhaps then it was time for me to leave the castle, which just means I second-guessed your mother. But for the first time in my life, I felt inert. There was nothing more to be done. And where would I go, anyway?"
"Did you ever, just once, perhaps by accident, stand still and think, I want her back, I wish she would come back?" There was something in her tight little voice of the strength she had summoned to face down her mother in front of everyone.
He closed his eyes. "Don't ask me things like that."
"I have the right! I can admit to you that I could not have stood it if my mother had after all ordered your execution this morning, which she had the right to do before those laws you know as well as she does, probably better. I could not have stood it even if you thought I'd deserted you and you just came back to bargain some way back into the castle and resumption of your schemes. Believe me, your secret will be safe with me. But I want the truth out of you if I'm to leave this place with you."
"I did not ask you to share my exile," he said in an echo of that official voice she detested. "I said if you were willing to go, I'd be happy to have you along."
Impulsively she clamped her hands down on his shoulders. "I don't want this damnable negotiating language. I want to know. Honestly. Did you want me back? Do you want me along?"
This hit the right nerve and he pushed himself up, eyes wide open and exploded in a loud angry voice she had never heard, "Yes! And yes! All right?" The wrench of pain was finally unbearable and he bit down on it so hard his eyes watered and she wrapped him in her arms so tightly he could feel her heartbeat against his face.
**********
About a week after Fuchsia's rescue, Gertrude sent word to Prunesquallor's house that she wanted to see Steerpike, at four o'clock that afternoon, in her sitting room. She had dismissed Melora for the day, telling her to go continue helping Fuchsia in her interminable process of packing, and as always in complaining about this process, she gave the girl something, this time a small stack of books and a beautiful cashmere shawl, to add to the luggage. Melora always seemed to enjoy a trip to the attic anyway.
When the messenger arrived, the doctor was updating his medical journal, and his doubtful guest was reading. It was an unusually warm day, and both men were uncharacteristically in shirtsleeves. The doctor made the necessary promises and summoned the guards, was informed that his presence was not required in a way which convinced him this was to be a private interview, and returned to the parlour to find Steerpike still reading absorbedly.
"The Countess wants to see you. Four o'clock sharp," Prunesquallor announced.
"Is today the official banishment, then?" Steerpike did not look up, and turned the page deliberately.
"I have no idea."
Setting the book aside, equally deliberately, Steerpike rubbed his hands back over his face, yawned broadly and stretched; he had been reading since eight o'clock in the morning, and it was now early afternoon. "I've never been outside the castle, except for official purposes, on the official grounds," he said, staring directly at the doctor. "Did you know that?"
"Few of us have," the doctor replied. "Let me have one more look at your eye, then you'd better get ready to go over."
The gash itself was healing well, and the stitches had come out of the scar, which was probably permanent although it was on the scarred side of his face, so less obvious than it might have been. The eye itself was still slightly inflamed, but the pain had dulled considerably, and Steerpike considered it ironic that this relatively minor wound had been so painful while he had little conscious memory of the chest wound that had almost killed him, although Fuchsia had told him he was unconscious or delirious for several days. He only remembered the long vague terror of internal bleeding that had for the first time in his life made him cautious.
He borrowed one of the doctor's better white shirts for this expedition, and put on the best of the suits Fuchsia had salvaged from his trunk: a very plain black one he had worn around ten years ago. It hung a little more loosely on him than it had but still looked appropriately elegant and neat. The day was a little too warm for both a jacket and waistcoat, but the occasion demanded considerable formality. At half past three, he took his place among the guards and crossed the courtyard from the doctor's house to the inner castle and the headquarters of the Groan household. He had assumed he would meet the Countess in the secretary's office, so was surprised to be directed towards the family quarters, and to stop outside what he realized was the Countess's room.
One of the guards rapped at the door.
"Send him in," the familiar voice called out.
The guard pulled open the broad double doors, and Steerpike entered the room, keeping his gaze fixed on Gertrude to avoid the temptation to stare around this bizarre chamber he had seen only once, almost eighteen years ago, and then surreptitiously. He made the required deep precise bow, greeting her formally: "Countess Gertrude." Gertrude stared at the top of his head for a moment, then glanced a dismissal towards the guard, who closed the door.
"Straighten up and sit down," she told Steerpike.
He was aware that the room had perpetually open windows high up on its walls but he felt an intense wave of claustrophobia pass through him. Fuchsia's surroundings always had the torn-apart quality of the playroom about them; there was room to run around. The doctor's house was opulent but orderly. There wasn't an inch of this room that wasn't hung with something: velvet and textured silk and vines and old wood and carved stone and paintings and bird-perches. He was uneasily aware of the birds, and of course the cats. He opted for a small velvet-covered bench, and pushed aside books and cushions to sit. Gertrude lowered herself into an armchair. One of her birds settled on her sleeve. A cat started tracing loops around one of his legs and he reflexively picked it up although he inwardly shuddered at the thought of white fur on black cloth.
"Prunesquallor says you're well enough to travel," Gertrude began, eyeing him critically but also watching the cat.
"Yes, your ladyship," Steerpike said, for lack of anything better to say, and wondered why she couldn't simply have sent over a directive. He searched his memory of the Gormenghast laws but could think of no ritual of formal banishment (he could think of several concerning execution but had trained himself to think of those dispassionately, especially of late). Exiles were simply told to go and they went.
"You're to leave the day after tomorrow," she went on. "Scratch it behind the ears; they like that. Can you be ready?"
"Yes," he said. He could feel the cat's throbbing purr against the side of his hand.
"I wanted to talk to you before you go, Steerpike," said the Countess. "I want to make certain you understand the terms of your exile, and there are a few issues we need to clarify, since it is my profound hope never to see you again. First of all, do you know why I've permitted you to live in the Outer Dwellings? Think about it; I'm curious to know how intelligent you really are."
"You don't trust me out of the sight of the castle," he replied promptly. "More practically, since your daughter has elected to join me, you don't want her to travel too far."
"I don't trust you, full stop," said Gertrude. "Though I believe you have treated Fuchsia well. Otherwise, I would have forbidden her to follow you."
"With your permission," Steerpike said carefully, "if I had not, she would not." He let the cat climb up onto his shoulder.
"Let's have some tea," Gertrude suggested, and she leaned forward to pour from an exquisite heavy iron pot with a carved wooden handle into small cups painted with birds and flowers. She handed him one, and his arm shook as the cat jumped down, but he managed to keep the cup steady. The tea was very green and scaldingly hot. The countess drank thirstily, then asked, "How old are you, or do you know?"
"I'm thirty-three. I'll be thirty-four in the winter."
"Do you have any recollection of your family?"
He considered this. He had certainly not consciously thought about these people for decades, and had told Fuchsia he preferred not to talk about his background. This, however, was not a circumstance in which he could claim such reticence.
"I remember my mother quite clearly," he said, "largely because she was with me until I was apprenticed. I think my father died when I was quite small; at any rate I can't remember him. I don't know their names. I imagine they're dead by now."
"And how old were you when you were apprenticed?" Gertrude went on, placidly but keeping her gaze direct. She held out a tray of cakes and he took one; she set one on her sleeve and let the bird peck at it.
"Six," he replied, and only now was it a struggle to keep the bitterness from his deliberately toneless voice.
"But you could read and write when you entered Prunesquallor's household," she pointed out.
"My mother taught me something of it. Otherwise I taught myself. I found out where the few books of any sort were kept below stairs and I spent a lot of time among them when I was supposed to be asleep, or (I have to admit) doing a lot of the things I was apprenticed to do." While he let her digest this speech, he got through the rather crumbly cake she had given him, holding it carefully over a napkin. The room was warm and humid; a strand of his hair worked its way out of place and fell over one eye.
Gertrude stared up the dark red walls of her room, towards her birds, towards the window where she could always see the colour of the sky. Her expression did not change but she let out a long breath, then she picked up the teapot and refilled their cups, and proffered the cake plate again.
"I was born with one purpose: to marry the Earl of Gormenghast. I was told this as soon as I could understand language. I did not want to marry him; he was years older than me and seemed impossibly distant, and his sisters gave me the creeps, frankly. But I was the only daughter of what was perhaps the only eligible noble family, and his father was determined to perpetuate the line through a son. I was sixteen when Fuchsia was born. You cannot begin to comprehend my disappointment in having had a girl, because I had hoped, that business done, I'd be let alone. When Titus was born, I felt I had my life back. Of course I didn't, thanks to you." Gertrude's gaze grew harder, and yet she almost smiled. "But do you know, Steerpike, you and I are really quite similar sorts of animals. We're both predators of a fairly ruthless variety, and we'll protect our interests with tooth and nail but there's something very shrewd about us: we go about it carefully."
At this point, Steerpike felt he had permission to relax. He smiled his cold smile, and said to her, "Do you remember that I said I should have been your son?"
"I could not have produced a son like you. Not with my husband. Perhaps it's just as well; I rather think you would have been treasonous even if born into the Line. Which brings me to my next point," said Gertrude, and she rose, crossing the room to examine some plants that were dying on a low shelf; she frowned and made a mental note to have them watered and moved outdoors.
"Where the Line goes from here," Steerpike suggested.
"Yes. Well, of course if Titus returns it continues through him. If he doesn't, then Fuchsia becomes heir. Keep this in mind: no marriage of hers to you will ever be recognized in Gormenghast, and no children of hers by you will ever enter these walls. You won't regain your position that way. If Fuchsia inherits, she will either marry within her rank or the line will die with her." Gertrude made most of this speech looking back over her shoulder. Now she frowned again as a thought occured to her. "Do you have children already inside the castle? You're old enough; you must have had other mistresses."
"No." Steerpike began to examine the spines of the books on the bench beside him; he found this conversation overly prying but utterly fascinating as an access to the implacable Gertrude. "In that regard, I was as innocent as she was."
Gertrude arched an eyebrow. "I see," she said. "I don't want to know any more about that. I fear for her. If any harm comes to her that you can in any way be faulted for, you will pay. I cannot ask you to love her, although she does love you. I only ask that you treat her with whatever kindness you're capable of and with respect, and in return, I will permit you to live within the boundaries I have set. Now you may go."
Maintaining a level but slightly ironic gaze, Steerpike stood up; Gertrude gave him an especially hard look as she accompanied him to the door.
"Is there any particular time the day after tomorrow that you want me to leave?" he wondered.
"Early. First light, before the day guard comes on duty. The doctor may accompany you as far as the Outer Dwellings; Fuchsia will join you in a week."
He made another deep bow. "Then I thank you for your hospitality, Countess Gertrude."
"Remember what I've said," she replied.
All the way back to the doctor's house, in the unusually sultry and still blazing late afternoon, Steerpike smiled tightly to himself. When he entered the house, his eyes were blazing and one hand was clenched so tightly behind his back that the nails dug into his palm. He wrenched off his coat and hung it carefully over the back of a chair in the parlour, where Prunesquallor was seated at his desk writing letters.
The doctor glanced up at the return of his guest, and said calmly, "If you would care to break anything, I will point out all available objects. No, please don't consider my violin: I realize the effect her ladyship can have on people and will not pry into the nature of your conversation and despite my agreement with her on several points of your past conduct, I do understand. However, I would really rather you did not break my violin." He had followed the direction of Steerpike's gaze, but realized now that the young man had no intention of smashing anything, though he did catch his breath briefly when Steerpike picked up the instrument. But he merely rested it under his chin, closed his eyes, and drew the bow lightly across the strings a few times, then began a short piece the doctor had been working on in his rehearsal group. He played with skill and precision, with perfect concentration, and the doctor set down his pen and listened attentively. He played several pieces, all of which the doctor recognized either from the incidental music played at official functions or from his own repertoire, and when at last he stopped evening had come on and the room was dark, so he could not see that Prunesquallor had been weeping when he opened his eyes and gently placed the instrument down. He switched on a lamp in the corner, resumed his usual chair and picked up the book he had been reading.
"Where did you learn to play?" the doctor asked when he could trust his voice.
Steerpike glanced up. "Like many things, I figured it out when no one was looking. Oh: and you'll be rid of me the day after tomorrow, quite early."
**********
On a leaden morning with the air full of thunder and the promise of summer rain, Prunesquallor and Fuchsia accompanied Steerpike outside the castle walls. Their pace was determined by the doctor, who hobbled along on his crutches, and made several remarks about his unfitness for adventure in his old age. Steerpike wore a long coat, and carried his one fairly large bag slung over one shoulder.
"How will I find you?" Fuchsia asked.
"I'll leave word with the fortune-teller." He glanced upwards at the castle, and his mouth briefly twitched into a bitter smile. "Oh, word will get back here, don't doubt that."
"Then I'll see you in a week," she said.
He nodded, then turned to Prunesquallor. "Good-bye, Doctor. I suppose in a way we all got what we wanted from this adventure. And give my parting regards to the Countess."
Then he glanced once more at Fuchsia, turned and started towards the Outer Dwellings.
"If you end up back inside the castle, I don't want to know," said the Doctor. He considered this possibility, which neither he nor Fuchsia saw as beyond the realm of possibility, then quite involuntarily he grinned, then studied Fuchsia in her velvet dress and somehow saw her now as someone more at home in the carver garments she had adopted in her exile. "Are you really going? Are you leaving Gormenghast?"
"Of course," Fuchsia said, her eyes fixed on the precise point of the horizon where she would last see Steerpike, where her own journey would begin in one week. When he crossed that point she looked straight into the doctor's eyes and hers were glowing.
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Copyright 2001-04 by Gisèle Baxter; all rights to original narrative, characters and characterizations reserved. Do not reproduce without permission.
About the author: G.M. Baxter makes her living teaching university-level literature and composition courses on a contractual basis; in her spare time she writes fiction, watches movies and designs stuff (she knits and is learning to sew). She currently lives in Vancouver.
Last updated 2 August 2003 by G.M. Baxter.