He wanted so badly to go in and put his arms around her, because he knew that she had spent many hours suffering like punishments, and that she was a lonely girl. But he was in New Atlantis, and there were proprieties to be observed. First things first. Gwendolyn's townhouse was only a few blocks away. Hackworth rang the bell, determined to observe all of the formalities now that he was a stranger in the house.
"May I ask what your visit is regarding?" asked the parlourmaid, as Hackworth spun his card onto the salver. Hackworth didn't like this woman, who was named Amelia, because Fiona didn't like her, and Fiona didn't like her because Gwen had given her some disciplinary authority in the household, and Amelia was the sort who relished having it. He tried not to confuse himself by wondering how he could possibly know all of these things.
"Business," Hackworth said pleasantly. "Family business."
Amelia was halfiway up the stairs when her eyes finally focused on Hackworth's card. She nearly dropped the salver and had to clutch at the banister with one hand in order to keep her balance. She froze there for a few moments, trying to resist the temptation to turn around, and finally surrendered to it. The expression on her face was one of perfect loathing mixed with fascination.
"Please carry out your duties," Hackworth said, "and dispense with the vulgar theatrics."
Amelia, looking crestfallen, stormed up the stairs with the tainted card. There followed a good deal of muffled commotion upstairs. After a few minutes, Amelia ventured as far down as the landing and encouraged Hackworth to make himself comfortable in the parlor. He did so, noting that in his absence, Gwendolyn had been able to consummate all of the long-term furniture-buying strategies she had spent so much time plotting during the early years of their marriage. Wives and widows of secret agents in Protocol Enforcement could rely on being well cared for, and Gwen had not allowed his salary to sit around collecting dust.
His ex-wife descended the stairway cautiously, stood outside the beveled-glass parlor doors for a minute peering at him through the gauze curtains, and finally slipped into the room without meeting his gaze and took a seat rather far away from him. "Hello, Mr. Hackworth," she said.
"Mrs. Hackworth. Or is it back to Miss Lloyd?"
"It is."
"Ah, that's hard." When Hackworth heard the name Miss Lloyd, he thought of their courtship.
They sat there for a minute or so, not saying anything, just listening to the ponderous ratcheting of the grandfather clock.
"All right," Hackworth said, "I won't trouble you talking about extenuating circumstances, as I don't ask for your forgiveness, and in all honesty I'm not sure that I deserve it."
"Thank you for that consideration."
"I would like you to know, Miss Lloyd, that I am sympathetic to the step you have taken in securing a divorce and harbour no bitterness on that account."
"That is reassuring to know."
"You should also know that whatever behaviour I engaged in, as inexcusable as it was, was not motivated by rejection of you or of our marriage. It was not, in fact, a reflection upon you at all, but rather a reflection upon myself."
"Thank you for clarifying that point."
"I realize that any hope I might harbour in my breast of rekindling our former relationship, sincere as it might be, is futile, and so I will not trouble you after today."
"I cannot tell you how relieved I am to hear that you understand the situation so completely."
"However, I would like to be of service to you and Fiona in helping to resolve any loose ends."
"You are very kind. I shall give you my lawyer's card."
"And, of course, I look forward to reestablishing some sort of contact with my daughter."
The conversation, which had been running as smoothly as a machine to this point, now veered off track and crashed. Gwendolyn reddened and stiffened.
"You— you bastard."
The front door opened. Fiona stepped into the foyer carrying her schoolbooks. Amelia was there immediately, maneuvering around with her back to the foyer doors, blocking Fiona's view, talking to her in low angry tones.
Hackworth heard his daughter's voice. It was a lovely voice, a husky alto, and he would have recognized it anywhere. "Don't lie to me, I recognised his chevaline!" she said, and finally shouldered Amelia out of the way, burst into the parlor, all lanky and awkward and beautiful, an incarnation of joy. She took two steps across the oriental rug and then launched herself full-length across the settee into her father's arms, where she lay for some minutes alternately weeping and laughing.
Gwen had to be escorted from the room by Amelia, who came back immediately and stationed herself nearby, hands clasped behind back like a military sentry, observing Hackworth's every move. Hackworth couldn't imagine what they suspected he might be capable of-incest in the parlor? But there was no point in spoiling the moment by thinking of galling things, and so he shut Amelia out of his mind.
Father and daughter were allowed to converse for a quarter of an hour, really just queuing up subjects for future conversation. By that time, Gwen had recovered her composure enough to reenter the room, and she and Amelia stood shoulder-to-shoulder, quivering in sympathetic resonance, until Gwen interrupted.
"Fiona, your-father—and I were in the midst of a very serious discussion when you burst in on us. Please leave us alone for a few minutes."
Fiona did, reluctantly. Gwen resumed her former position, and Amelia backed out of the room. Hackworth noticed that Gwen had fetched some documents, bound up in red tape.
"These are papers setting out the terms of our divorce, including all conditions relating to Fiona," she said. "You are already in violation, I'm afraid. Of course, this can be forgiven, as your lack of a forwarding address as such made it impossible for us to acquaint you with this information. Needless to say, it is imperative for you to familiarise yourself with these documents before darkening my door again."
"Naturally," Hackworth said. "Thank you for retaining them for me."
"If you will be so good as to withdraw from these premises-"
"Of course. Good day," Hackworth said, took the roll of papers from Gwen's trembling hand, and let himself out briskly. He was a bit surprised when he heard Amelia calling to him from the doorway.
"Mr. Hackworth. Miss Lloyd wishes to know whether you have established a new residence, so that your personal effects may be forwarded."
"None as yet," Hackworth said. "I'm in transit."
Amelia brightened. "In transit to where?"
"Oh, I don't really know," Hackworth said. A movement caught his eye and he saw Fiona framed in a second-story window. She was undoing the latches, raising the sash. "I'm on a quest of sorts."
"A quest for what, Mr. Hackworth?"
"Can't say precisely. You know, top secret and all that. Something to do with an alchemist. Who knows, maybe there'll be faeries and hobgoblins too, before it's all over. I'll be happy to fill you in when I return. Until then, please ask Miss Lloyd if she would be so understanding as to retain those personal effects for just a bit longer. It can't possibly take more than another ten years or so." And with that, Hackworth prodded Kidnapper forward, moving at an extremely deliberate pace.
Fiona was on a velocipede with smart wheels that made short work of the cobblestone road. She caught up with her father just short of the security grid. Mother and Amelia had just materialized a block behind them in a half-lane car, and the sudden sensation of danger inspired Fiona to make an impetuous dive from the saddle of her velocipede onto Kidnapper's hindquarters, like a cowboy in a movie switching horses in midgallop. Her skirts, poorly adapted to cowboy maneuvers, got all fouled up around her legs, and she ended up slung over Kidnapper's back like a sack of beans, one hand clutching the vestigial knob where its tail would have been if it were a horse, and the other arm thrown round her father's waist.
"I love you, Mother!" she shouted, as they rode through the grid and out of the jurisdiction of New Atlantis family law. "Can't say the same for you, Amelia! But I'll be back soon, don't worry about me! Goodbye!" And then the ferns and mist closed behind them, and they were alone in the deep forest.
Carl Hollywood takes the Oath;
stroll along the Thames;
an encounter with Lord Finkle-McGraw.
Carl took the Oath at Westminster Abbey on a surprisingly balmy day in April and afterward went for a stride down the river, heading not too directly toward a reception that had been arranged in his honor at the Hopkins Theatre near Leicester Square. Even without a pedomotive, he walked as fast as many people jogged.
Ever since his first visit to London as a malnourished theatre student, he had preferred walking to any other way of getting around the place. Walking, especially along the Embankment where fellow-pedestrians were relatively few, also gave him freedom to smoke big old authentic cigars or the occasional briar pipe. Just because he was a Victorian didn't mean he had to give up his peculiarities; quite the opposite, in fact. Cruising along past old shrapnel-pocked Cleopatra's Needle in a comet-like corona of his own roiling, viscous smoke, he thought that he might get to like this.
A gentleman in a top hat was standing on the railing, gazing stolidly across the water, and as Carl drew closer, he could see that it was Lord Alexander Chung-Sik Finkle-McGraw, who, a day or two earlier, had stated during a cinephone conversation that he should like to meet him face-to-face in the near future for a chat.
Carl Hollywood, remembering his new tribal affiliation, went so far as to doff his hat and bow. Finkle-McGraw acknowledged the greeting somewhat distractedly. "Please accept my sincere congratulations, Mr. Hollywood. Welcome to the phyle."