The Power and the Glory

Book 1 Chapter IX: Event Horizon

For this is a heavy matter,
And the truth is cold to tell;
Do we not know, have we not heard,
The soul is like a lost bird,
The body a broken shell.
-- G. K. Chesterton, The Ballad of the White Horse

That went rather well, all things considered, Abihira thought with forced optimism. At least he didn't run away screaming.

Irímé's reaction was certainly better than she expected. He had neither fled from her as if she was about to perform necromancy on him, nor thrown a fit and publicly accused her of being a serial killer. At some point during the millennia since necromancy was outlawed people had come to associate it with murder, and to claim all necromancers were serial killers. It was a frankly ridiculous idea. They were practically opposites; one caused death and one reversed it -- or sought too. Abihira had mentally prepared enough excuses and arguments to fill a lengthy book. Of course it would turn out that she didn't need any of them. If she hadn't thought of any excuses, Irímé would probably have interrogated her as if she was a criminal on trial.

As it was he just stared at her through eyes large as dinner-plates. He made a choking, gasping sort of noise that left her worrying he was about to have a heart attack. But then he took a deep breath and visibly forced himself to calm down.

"Oh," was all he said.

He stayed silent for the rest of the performance. He continued to look as if he'd just witnessed something horrifying, and he sat so still he almost looked like he'd been turned to stone. When the opera was over and they left their box to rejoin Abi's parents Irímé was still deathly pale.

It was just as well that his mother and her parents were too busy talking their various friends and acquaintances to pay much attention to their children. Hartanna, deep in conversation with a duchess, hardly spared Abi a glance when she approached her.

"Irímé has a headache," she said, making the first excuse she could think of. "We'll leave now."

"Of course. Whatever you want," Hartanna said in the absent tone that showed she wasn't listening to a word. She'd have said exactly the same if Abi had announced her intention to jump off the opera house roof. She went right back to her conversation without thinking any more about Abi or anything she'd said. "I couldn't believe it when I heard. Imagine, spending so much money on such an ugly bracelet! Do you know, I'm sure it isn't even real gold."

Abi rolled her eyes and went back to Irímé. He was still standing just outside the door to their box, so deep in thought that he hardly noticed anything around him. Her ladies-in-waiting stayed at a polite distance, with nary a hint of curiosity on their faces. Abi knew better than to believe it. No doubt they were listening with all their might and main so they would have plenty to contribute to the servants' gossip. For the first time a disagreeable possibility struck her. What if their conversation wasn't as quiet as she thought it had been? The last thing she needed was for the entire household to hear she was a necromancer. What the servants knew, everyone knew sooner or later.

It had been years since she last eavesdropped on the staff's conversations. Now it looked like she'd have to start listening at every chance she got, until she was sure of what they knew or didn't know.

"Come on," she said to Irímé. "We're going home."

It was a testament to how shaken he was that he didn't even protest they should wait for their parents to leave.

Leaving the building was easier said than done. Everyone who'd been at the opera took the opportunity to catch up with their friends or make new acquaintances. The hallways, the stairs, the foyer, the pavement outside; everywhere was full of people deep in their own discussions. Abi grabbed Irímé's hand and pulled him through the gaps in the crowds. Her ladies-in-waiting followed as best they could.