It would take time, of course, to persuade her that this was a marriage decreed by fate. She believed him to be his other and would be vengeful when he disabused her of this fiction. But he would bring her around in time. He had to. He had intimations, even in this blithe city, of intolerable things: whispers of oblivion that made the foulest Oviate he'd ever dredged up look alluring. She could save him from that, lick off his sweats and rock him to sleep. He had no fear that she'd reject him. He had a claim on her that would make her put aside all moral niceties: his child, planted in her two nights before.
It was his first. Though he and Quaisoir had attempted to found a dynasty many times, she'd repeatedly miscarried, then later corrupted her body with so much kreauchee it refused to produce another egg. But this Judith was a wonder. Not only had she made surpassing love with him, there was fruit from that coupling. And when the time came to tell her (once the irksome Oscar Godolphin was dead, and the line for whom she'd been made stopped), then she would see the perfection of their union and feel it, kicking in her womb.
Jude hadn't slept, waiting for Gentle to return from another night of wanderings. The summons she carried from Celes-tine was too heavy to sleep with; she wanted it said and done, so she could put her thoughts of the woman away. Nor did she want to be unconscious when he returned. The idea of his coming in and watching her sleep, which would have been comforting two nights before, unsettled her now. He was the egg licker, and its thief. When she had her possession back and he was gone off to Highgate, she'd rest, but not before.
The day was creeping up when he finally returned, but there was insufficient light for her to read much on his face until he was within a few yards of her, by which time he was wreathed in smiles. He chastised her fondly for waiting up. There was no need, he said; he was quite safe. The pleasantries stopped here, however. He saw her unease and wanted to know what was wrong.
"I went to Roxborough's tower," she told him.
"Not on your own, I hope. Those people can't be trusted."
"I took Oscar."
"And how's Oscar?"
She was in no mood to prettify. "He's dead," she said.
He looked genuinely saddened at this. "How did that happen?" he asked.
"It doesn't matter."
"It does to me," he insisted. "Please. I want to know."
"Dowd was there. He killed Godolphin."
"Did he hurt you?"
"No. He tried. But no."
"You shouldn't have gone up there without me. What on earth possessed you?"
She told him, as plainly as she knew: "Roxborough had a prisoner," she said. "A woman he buried under the tower."
"He kept that little kink to himself," came the reply. She thought there was something almost admiring in his tone, but she fought the temptation to accuse him. "So you went to dig up her bones, did you?"
"I went to release her."
Now she had every scrap of his attention. "I don't follow," he said.
"She's not dead."
"So she's not human." He made a curt little smile. "What was Roxborough doing up there? Raising wantons?"
"I don't know what wantons are."
"They're ethereal whores."
"That doesn't describe Celestine." She trailed the bait of the name, but he failed to bite. "She's human. Or at least she was."
"And what is she now?"
Jude shrugged. "Something ... else. I don't quite know what. She's powerful, though. She almost killed Dowd."
"Why?"
"I think you're better off hearing that from her."
"Why should I want to?" he said lightly.
"She asked to see you. She says she knows you."
"Really? Did she say from where?"
"No. But she told me to mention Nisi Nirvana."
He chuckled at this.
"Does it mean something to you?" Jude said.
"Yes, of course. It's a story for children. Don't you know it?"
"No."
Even as she spoke, she realized why, but it was he who voiced the reason. ,
"Of course you don't," he said. "You were never a child, were you?"
She studied his face, wishing she could be certain he meant to be cruel.
"So will you go to her?"
"Why should I? I don't know her."
"But she knows you."
"What is this?" he said. "Are you trying to palm me off on another woman?"
He took a step towards her, and though she tried to conceal her reluctance to be touched, she failed.
"Judith," he said. "I swear I don't know this Celestine. It's you I think about when I'm not here—"
"I don't want to discuss that now."
"What do you suspect me of?" he said. "I've done nothing. I swear." He laid both his hands on his chest. "You're hurting me, Judith. I don't know if that's what you want to do, but you are. You're hurting me."
"That's a new experience for you, is it?"
"Is that what this is about? A sentimental education? If it is, I beg you, don't torment me now. We've got too many enemies to be fighting with each other."
"I'm not fighting. I don't want to fight."
"Good," he said, opening his arms. "So come here."
She didn't move.
"Judith."
"I want you to go and see Celestine. I promised her I'd find you, and you'll make a liar of me if you don't go."
"All right, I'll go," he said. "But I'm going to come back, love, you can depend on that. Whoever she is, whatever she looks like, it's you I want." He paused. "Now more than ever," he said.
She knew he wanted her to ask him why, and for fully ten seconds she kept her silence rather than satisfy him. But the look on his face was so brimming she couldn't keep her curiosity from putting the question on her tongue.
"Why now?" she said.
"I wasn't going to tell you yet..."
"Tell me what?"
"We're going to have a child, Judith."
She stared at him, waiting for some further explanation: that he'd found an orphan on the street or was bringing a babe from the Dominions. But that wasn't what he meant at all, and her pounding heart knew it. He meant a child born from the act they'd performed: a consequence.
"It'll be my first," he said. "Yours too, yes?"
She wanted to call him liar. How could he know when she didn't? But he was quite certain of his facts.
"He'll be a prophet," he said. "You'll see."
She already had, she realized. She'd entered its tiny life when the egg had plunged her consciousness down into her own body. She'd seen with its stirring spirit: a jungle city, and living waters; Gentle, wounded, and coming to take the egg from tiny fingers. Had that perhaps been the first of its prophecies?
"We made a kind of love no other beings in this Dominion could make," Gentle was saying. "The child came from that."
"You knew what you were doing?"
"I had my hopes."
"And didn't I get a choice in the matter? I'm just a womb, am I?"
"That's not how it was."
"A walking womb!"
"You're making it grotesque."
"It is grotesque."
"What are you saying? How can anything that comes from us be less than perfection?" He spoke with almost religious zeal. — Tm changing, sweet. I'm discovering what it is to love, and cherish, and plan for the future. See how you're changing me?"