Inexpensive but passable white wines in hand, they head for the refreshments table. As they near the crowd surrounding it, Jorrie stiffens. “With the third wife, look! There she is!” she says. She’s quivering all over.
“Who?” says Tin, knowing all too well. It’s the gorgon What’s-her-name – C. W. Starr in person, recognizable from her newspaper photos. A short, white-haired old lady in a frumpy quilted coat. No glitter powder on her; in fact, no hint of makeup at all.
“She doesn’t recognize me!” Jorrie whispers. Now she’s bubbling with merriment. Who would recognize you, thinks Tin, with that layer of stucco and dragon scales on your face? “She looked right at me! Come on, let’s eavesdrop!” Shades of their childhood snooping. She tugs him forward.
“No, Jorrie,” he says, as if to a poorly trained terrier. But it’s no use; onward she plunges, straining at the invisible leash he’s failing to tighten around her neck.
Constance W. Starr is clutching an egg salad sandwich in one hand and a glass of water in the other. She looks beleaguered and wary. To her right must be the bereaved widow, Reynolds Putnam, in chaste blue and pearls. She is indeed quite young. She doesn’t look overly afflicted, but then, time has passed since the actual death. To the right of Mrs. Putnam is Naveena, the fetching young devotee who’d broken down while delivering her funeral oration. She appears to have recovered completely, and is holding forth.
But not on the subject of Gavin Putnam and his deathless verbiage. As Tin attunes himself to her flattish Midwestern speech, he realizes that she’s effusing over the Alphinland series. Constance W. Starr takes a bite of her sandwich: she’s probably heard this kind of thing before.
“The Curse of Frenosia,” Naveena is saying. “Book Four. That was so … with the bees, and the Scarlet Sorceress of Ruptous walled up in the stone beehive! It’s such a …”
There’s a space to the left of the renowned authoress, and Jorrie slides herself into it. Her hand locks on to Tin’s arm. Her head pokes forward, in an attitude of rapt listening. Is she going to pose as a fan? Tin wonders. What’s she up to?
“Book Three,” says Constance W. Starr. “Frenosia first appears in Book Three. Not Book Four.” She takes another bite and chews imperturbably.
“Oh, of course, Book Three,” says Naveena. She gives a nervous titter. “And Mr. Putnam said, he said you’d put him into the series. When you were out of the room, getting the tea,” she says to Reynolds. “He told me that.”
Reynolds’s face has hardened: this is poaching on her territory. “Are you sure?” she says. “He always denied specifically …”
“He said there were a lot of things he never told you,” says Naveena. “To spare your feelings. He didn’t want you to feel left out because you weren’t in Alphinland yourself.”
“You’re lying!” says Reynolds. “He always told me everything! He thought Alphinland was drivel!”
“Actually,” says Constance, “I did put Gavin into Alphinland.” So far she hasn’t acknowledged the presence of Jorrie, but now she turns and looks at her directly. “To keep him safe.”
“This is inappropriate,” says Reynolds. “I think you should …”
“And it did keep him safe,” says Constance. “He was in a wine cask. He slept for fifty years.”
“Oh, I knew it!” says Naveena. “I always knew he was in the series! Which book is that?”
Constance doesn’t answer her. She’s still talking to Jorrie. “But now I’ve let him out. So he can come and go whenever he likes. He’s not at risk from you any more.”
What’s the matter with Constance Starr? Tin wonders. Gavin Putnam, at risk from Jorrie? But he’d been the rejecting one, the harmful one. Is there vodka in that water glass?
“What?” says Jorrie. “Are you talking to me?” She’s squeezing Tin’s arm, but not to keep from laughing. Instead she looks frightened.
“Gavin is not in that fucking book! Gavin is dead,” says Reynolds. She’s beginning to cry. Naveena takes a small step towards her, but then moves back.
“He was at risk from your ill will, Marjorie,” says Constance, her voice level. “Coupled with your anger. It’s a very potent spell, you know. As long as his spirit still had a flesh container on this side, he was at risk.” She knows exactly who Jorrie is: despite the gold flakes and the bronze powder, she must have known from the first minute.
“Of course I was angry, because of what he did to me!” says Jorrie. “He threw me over, he kicked me out, like, like an old …”
“Oh,” says Constance. There’s a frozen moment. “I didn’t realize that,” she says at last. “I thought it was the other way around. I thought you’d wounded him.” Is this a face-off? thinks Tin. Is this matter and anti-matter? Are the two of them going to explode each other?
“Is that what he said?” says Jorrie. “Shit, it figures! Of course he’d say it was my fault!”
“Oh my God,” Naveena says to Jorrie, sotto voce. “You’re the Dark Lady! Of the Sonnets! Could we maybe talk …”
“This is supposed to be a funeral,” says Reynolds. “Not a conference! Gavin would hate this!” None of the other women shows any sign of having heard her. She blows her nose, gives a furious, red-eyed glare, then walks away towards the bar.
Constance W. Starr sticks the remains of her sandwich into her water glass; Jorrie stares at her as if she’s mixing a potion. “In that case, I’m honour-bound to release you,” Constance says finally. “I’ve been under a serious misapprehension.”
“What?” Jorrie almost screams. “Release me from what? What are you talking about?”
“From the stone beehive,” says Constance. “Where you’ve been imprisoned for such a long time, and stung by indigo bees. As a punishment. And to keep you from hurting Gavin.”
“She’s the Scarlet Sorceress of Ruptous!” says Naveena. “This is so wicked! Could you tell me …” Constance continues to ignore her.
“I’m sorry about the bees,” she says to Jorrie. “That must have been very painful.”
Tin grips Jorrie’s elbow and attempts to pull her back. It wouldn’t be out of the question for her to jump into tantrum mode and kick the old authoress on the shins, or at the very least start yelling. He needs to extract her. They’ll go home and he’ll pour them each a stiff drink and he’ll calm her down, and then they can make fun of this whole thing.
But Jorrie doesn’t move, though she lets go of Tin’s arm. “It was very painful,” she whispers. “It’s been so painful. Everything has been so painful, all my life.” Is she crying? Yes: real, metallic tears, sparkling with bronze and gold.
“It was painful for me too,” says Constance.
“I know,” says Jorrie. The two of them are gazing into each other’s eyes, locked in some kind of impenetrable mind-meld.
“We live in two places,” says Constance. “There isn’t any past in Alphinland. There isn’t any time. But there’s time here, where we are now. We still have a little time left.”
“Yes,” says Jorrie. “It’s time. I’m sorry too. And I release you as well.”
She steps forward. Is this a hug? thinks Tin. Are they embracing, or wrestling? Is there a crisis? How can he help? What sort of female weirdness is going on?
He feels stupid. Has he understood nothing about Jorrie, all these decades? Does she have other layers, other powers? Dimensions he never suspected?
Constance has pulled back. “Bless you,” she says to Jorrie. The white parchment skin of her face is glittering now with golden scales.
Young Naveena can scarcely believe her luck. Her mouth’s half open, she’s biting the tips of her fingers, she’s holding her breath. She’s embedding us in amber, thinks Tin. Like ancient insects. Preserving us forever. In amber beads, in amber words. Right before our eyes.