“Most of the other rooms have windows,” I said, as much to myself as him. “And I can always see the sky through them. They’re inside Arcadia and Arcadia is inside that room, so . . . that’s the only real place, isn’t it?”
“Or that room is the only place that isn’t real. Does it matter?” He caught a piece that had drifted up from the floor and twisted it between his fingers.
I leaned forward. “What was that box?”
“What box?”
I poked his head. “You know, the one I picked up and then you bore down on me like all the Furies rolled into one.”
“Oh, that box.” He stared at the fire, still twirling the puzzle piece in one hand. “I don’t know.”
“More of your philosophy?”
“No, when I . . . first was, they told me that if I opened the box, it would be the end.”
Upon the box were written the words “AS WITHIN, SO WITHOUT.” That was a Hermetic saying: was the box too, like the house, a Hermetic working?
“The end of you?” I asked slowly. “Or Arcadia?”
“They did not specify, and shockingly, I did not put their warning to the test.” He smiled up at me and slipped the puzzle piece into my hand. “This world’s already seen enough Pandoras, don’t you think?”
I looked at the puzzle piece. It showed stones, and lying against them either a rose petal or a drop of blood. Or perhaps a flame.
“What’s this?” I asked curiously.
“It’s part of this house, so who knows?” The firelight glinted in his eyes as he looked up at me.
I rolled my eyes. “You are entirely too pleased with your own sayings sometimes. I suppose you even have a quip prepared for your death?”
“Are you planning to find out?”
I trailed my fingers through his hair. His scalp was warm and dry beneath my fingertips. It startled me, as it still did sometimes, that he was solid and alive; that this wild, unnamable creature was not a phantom but sat still beneath my hand. That the demon who ruled all our world was mine.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Have you come up with any reasons why I shouldn’t?”
He sat up straighter and kissed me. I leaned forward, kissing him back, until I lost my balance and we both tumbled to the ground, with me landing on top of him.
All around us, loose puzzle pieces flew into the air as lightly as feathers. Once airborne, they did not fall but began a slow, stately swirl about the room, like a formal dance. From the corner of my eye, I saw the ragged portion that Ignifex had assembled was dissolving too, little castle bits lifting up into the air, their collective meaning forgotten. Something—half memory, half guess—niggled at my mind.
Then Ignifex reached up to touch my face. I leaned down to kiss my husband, and thought no more of puzzles.
I wanted to forget. I wanted so much to think only of Ignifex, to make his house into my home. Most of all, I did not want to remember I was on a mission to avenge my mother and save my world.
But more and more, I thought of Astraia. And Mother, and Father, and Aunt Telomache. I thought of Elspeth’s wormwood smile and the one time I had spied her weeping. I thought of all the other people in the village, who must always be afraid that this year the tithe wouldn’t work; of the Resurgandi, who had labored for two hundred years and put their trust in me; of Damocles and Philippa and the people screaming in my father’s study.
Who was I, to consider my happiness more important?
“You’re solemn today,” said Ignifex one morning. We were in a large room with white marble floors and walls covered in ivy. The ceiling was all tree branches, with one window at the center. Under the diffuse circle of sunlight pooled a thick red rug; we had brought books and a pot of tea, but instead of doing research, I ended up resting my chin on a pile of books and staring at the ivy, while Ignifex sipped tea and stroked my hair.
“It’s autumn,” I said. “I can see the trees turning through the windows.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.
“It’s going to be the Day of the Dead soon,” I said.
“Sounds gruesome.”
“It’s a festival.” I looked at him over my shoulder. “The only one that gentry and peasants share. We celebrate Persephone going down to Hades for the winter, they remember Tom-a-Lone getting his head cut off by Nanny-Anna. Everybody makes grave offerings, then there’s a great sacrifice to Hades and Persephone, and that night there’s a bonfire and they burn a straw Tom-a-Lone dressed up in ribbons.”
I had always loathed the trip to the graveyard. Astraia and I were bundled into our best black outfits, stiff with ribbons and lace, and we would kneel for an hour as Father and Aunt Telomache burned incense and recited endless prayers together, their faces nauseatingly pious. Astraia would sniffle through the whole affair, while I would stare at the carved words “THISBE TRISKELION” and carefully not ask Father why he didn’t just make love to Aunt Telomache atop the grave and have done with it.
“Charming way to honor a god,” said Ignifex.
“Well, he’s already dead. He needs a pyre.”