Jenna Starborn (20 page)

I could not help a small smile from forming on my face. “As I understand it, such imperfections can be readily corrected by surgeons in clinics on several nearby worlds,” I said helpfully. “Melanie Ingersoll and Mr. Taff had an extended conversation on that topic just this evening.”

“Hunh!” he said again, even more forcefully, even less delighted at my reply, for he surely thought I would take that occasion to compliment his looks or at least his personality. But I was not happy with his treatment of me this evening, and I saw no reason to please him with my behavior. “That's answered me very well, I think! Just don't ask me for any valuation of your assets in the future, for I might be disposed to respond in kind.”

“I never ask questions unless I want a true answer,” I said calmly. “And I only seek an opinion when I value the person who might give it. I have a very clear picture of my face, my figure, my intellect, and my other ‘assets,' as you call them. I do not need you to point out my flaws in order to become aware of them.”

Now his face softened, and he watched me with something like warmth in those dark eyes. “I would not necessarily be cataloging your flaws—unless you had just done something to irritate me,” he amended. “I could list your virtues as easily.”

I knew I should not say it, but I did anyway: “Then someday you shall do so,” I said. “Not here and now, however.”

“No, for I—” he began, but was interrupted by the sound of a door opening behind us.

“Everett? Are you still talking in the hallway?” called the voice of Bianca Ingersoll. “The wastrels are getting restless and questioning the very existence of your promised treat.”

“In a moment! A little problem to clear up here.”

“Well—do hurry. I don't know how long I can placate them,” she said, and withdrew into the library.

Grinning, I had turned to leave, but he shifted position to block my escape. “Your ordeal is not yet ended, Jenna Starborn, nuclear technician,” he said, leaning forward just enough to let me know he intended intimidation. Yet he was smiling, so I was not alarmed. “While my guests are here, I expect you to join us in the evenings for dinner and such amusements as we are able to agree upon.”

“I cannot imagine that my presence will significantly add to anyone else's enjoyment of the evening, and it certainly will not add to mine,” I said rather boldly. “I wish you would excuse me.”

“It may serve to educate you about how little you need to envy those who, by the law of society, may be considered more exalted than you, or at least more fortunate,” he said.

“I do not envy them even now.”

“And it may serve to educate them about the quick wit and resourcefulness of those they are used to considering inferior,” he said, grinning now. “I refer of course to your brilliant and audacious use of weaponry in our late military encounter.”

“Such education cannot serve to endear me to them, however, so their enjoyment of my company is likely to be even more impaired.”

“I, however, will enjoy your presence at these gatherings,” he said decisively. “And that should be reason enough for you to attend.”

I made a brief deferential nod of my head. “Very well. I shall do as you ask. I will not participate in any more games, however, but will merely sit quietly observing the foibles of you and your guests. Will that content you?”

“It will do perfectly,” he said, and without another word, turned and strode toward the cellar.

I stared after him a moment, then shook my head in amazement. An abrupt, changeable, difficult, and altogether unpredictable man—and yet he fascinated me. Merely to be in the same room with him—to see his live flame ignite the slumbering souls of the ridiculous creatures he chose to surround himself with—made my own soul catch fire. I would join their revels, as he asked, since he asked it of me. Even though I must watch his flirtation with the cold, gorgeous Bianca Ingersoll, still I might watch him; and fool that I was, this seemed a treat and a blessing to me.

All of this I recorded in my diary, every word that I could remember, every impression of the evening. “Oh, Reeder,” I whispered as I concluded, “with no encouragement at all, I could fall in love with this man.”

T
he next few days passed in similar, though rather less spectacular, fashion. During the days, I managed to keep mostly clear of the grand company, adjusting the generators in the basement and only circling the lawns when I was fairly certain the others were not outside. They were not the athletic sorts who would engage in some kind of energetic outdoor play—at least the ladies were not—so I only had to worry about encountering them as they assembled for some excursion elsewhere—to town, for instance. This they did almost every afternoon, for they were easily bored and the amusements offered at Thorrastone Park were relatively limited. Once or twice I caught a glimpse of their Strattens and Vandeventers leaving or arriving, but I was always far enough away that I did not even need to wave.

In the evenings, we had dinner followed by some sort of electronic entertainment. One night, Mr. Ravenbeck showed a holofilm in the library and we all crowded in to watch. It was some paltry romance which made the women sigh and the men groan; I did not think it very worth watching, but at least it obviated the possibility of any interaction with Mr. Ravenbeck's guests, and that made it a welcome diversion to me. I appeared to be the only member of the female sex who found it silly, however, for I discovered Mrs. Farraday and Janet Ayerson in tears once the room lights came back on, and even Ameletta seemed moved by the story. The Ingersoll women, of course, were all openly sobbing, Bianca Ingersoll leaning on Mr. Ravenbeck's chest to do so. Melanie Ingersoll was wiping her eyes and hunting frantically in her pockets for a tissue, when Joseph Luxton came to his feet, pulling a handkerchief from the back recesses of his jacket. I saw Melanie form a pretty look of gratitude on her face, but she was unable to bestow it upon Mr. Luxton—for he stepped past her to offer the cloth to Janet.

“Crying over something like this,” he said in his sleepy, seductive voice. He softened the words with a smile. “I would think there would be so much else to cry over.”

My thoughts entirely. Certainly Janet instantly wished she had been able to contain her emotion, for suddenly she was the cynosure of all eyes. The handsomest man in the room showing a slight kindness to one of the most invisible females in the manor? It was almost shocking. Even I felt a moment's disapprobation, and I believed she was every bit his equal.

“Th-thank you,” she said, stammering somewhat over the words, and taking the handkerchief. “Perhaps it is easier to cry over things that do not really matter. The other tears are too difficult to shed.”

“But why should anyone cry at all?” Mr. Ravenbeck demanded. “Let's play some happy music, so everyone is smiling again.”

So that evening ended with a sort of impromptu dance, though neither Janet nor I participated in it. Mrs. Farraday did one stately turn around the room with Mr. Ravenbeck (their calm demeanor at wild variance with the almost abhorrently lively beat of the music), and Ameletta danced several times with each of the men. The little blonde girl only came up to their navels, but she had a great deal of style and skill, and she enjoyed herself so much that her delight reflected back on her partners, who each begged her for another turn. Yes, she was a little flirt, and I could not help thinking of her unprincipled mother, wondering what tendencies this little one might have inherited; but what harm could she come to in such a setting, with such guardians around her? Janet and I watched her enjoy herself, and we smiled.

The fourth night of the Ingersolls' stay, Mr. Ravenbeck had planned a new entertainment, which we discovered when we all trooped into the library upon his request. But there were no monitors set up, no holoscreens, no special toys immediately visible.

“Looks like a great deal of fun,” Mr. Fulsome said, glancing elaborately around. “Should have thought of this myself.”

“I hope you do not expect us to amuse ourselves with conversation, Everett,” Bianca said, smiling, though her voice held an edge. “I think we've quite exhausted our available topics over dinner, and I for one can't think of a single additional malicious thing to say about anyone I've ever met in my life.”

“My dear Bianca, I'm sure you underestimate yourself,” Mr. Ravenbeck said genially. “But don't worry. I don't expect any of you to tax your conversational abilities any longer. This night you shall have an opportunity to listen instead of speak.”

“Oh, of course, that's always so much more interesting,” said Mr. Taff. Even his amiable voice sounded ironic.

Mr. Ravenbeck pointed toward the ceiling, which, I assumed, was meant to indicate his study on the level above us. “Just for tonight, I've subscribed to one of the online psychic services. It's very expensive, by the way, though I was able to convince myself that nothing was too good for my guests. We can each go in there, one at a time, and ask our clairvoyant consultant the questions that—shall we say—trouble our hearts. I've been told the accuracy rate is remarkably high. Of course, I was told that by the saleswoman with whom I conferred this morning, but I suppose that is no reason not to believe it.”

Mrs. Ingersoll looked up from where she was sitting, a book open on her lap. “Oh, but they
are
accurate!” she said with great earnestness. “I have had my aura scanned many times, and I was always amazed by how completely the computer program analyzed my personality and predicted my future. Quite eerie, I assure you, but fascinating.”

This was the longest speech I had ever heard the Ingersoll matriarch make, and her testimony obviously had some effect on the others. Her two daughters-always fairly impressionable-looked intrigued, and even the men looked curious, or at least willing.

“Is it a computer program, then, or is it a remote link to a psychic based elsewhere?” Mr. Taff wanted to know.

“Both, I believe,” Mr. Ravenbeck replied. “There is a scanner attached to the computer, and it reads your face and presumably takes in other data, which is fed to the psychic on the other end. Using this physical evidence, and asking you a series of questions, the psychic herself—or himself, I am not sure which gender we have secured-will then do a reading for you. You may also ask it specific questions and receive clear answers—or so I am told. I have never indulged in this particular parlor game before.”

Mrs. Ingersoll was on her feet. “Well, I am quite ready to try it now!” she said. “Shall we draw lots? Or may I volunteer to be first?”

“You may of course be first,” Mr. Ravenbeck said graciously. “The rest of us will devise some method of deciding who shall follow in what order.”

“And the monitor is set up in a room upstairs?”

“I will show you the way,” he said, and escorted her out the door.

“Well! I must say, this seems very unlike Everett,” Bianca said, sinking gracefully into a chair and propping her head upon her hand. She was wearing a bodysuit of indigo velvet sewn with sequins; with her pale hair, she looked like the first intimation of dawn over a stormy sky. “Romantic almost, don't you think? I cannot see him caring too much about someone else's opinion, or putting too much stock in a computer's predictions about his future.”

“Still, if it's as accurate in its analysis as your mother suggested,” Mr. Taff said in a somewhat excited tone of voice, “I would find it very hard to discount what such a psychic might have to say.”

Mr. Fulsome shrugged. “Simple enough to do,” he said. “Physical scan gives your basic height, age, weight, condition. Actuarial tables supply some of the possible outcomes. Fact that you're buying the service at all means you're probably wealthy and idle. And the questions you ask”—he shrugged again—“bound to give away all sorts of clues.”

“I won't ask it any questions, then,” Mr. Taff promised.

Bianca laughed. “Well, I will! I have things I want to know! And I'll be sure and ask it a few qualifying questions before I pose the real ones, just to see if I can really trust its answers.”

“Oh, yes, that's what I'll do too,” Melanie decided.

“Wonder what your mother's asking,” Mr. Fulsome said. “Seemed to be pretty eager to go in and talk.”

“Why, she's asking about her daughters' futures, of course,” Bianca replied flirtatiously. “What else would she want to know?”

Conversation continued on in this meaningless way for the next hour or so as, one by one, the guests left the room to consult the computeraided medium. After Mr. Ravenbeck had deposited Mrs. Ingersoll before the psychic screen, he had returned to help decide who should go next, and who should follow that lucky individual. Mr. Ravenbeck thought perhaps the company should go alphabetically, which pleased Bianca but was not agreeable to Melanie, whose name fell so much later than that of half the company. Then Mr. Ravenbeck proposed to set forth a series of riddles, and whoever answered the first one correctly would go next, and whoever answered the second one would follow, and so forth. But everyone rejected this as being too taxing. Going by age was clearly ineligible, since Bianca would not want to admit to being older than anyone in the room, even her sister, and letting Ameletta choose would obviously be an exercise in disaster.