It’s not working, Cecelia thought in the worst moments. No one will ever come; no one will ever figure it out. If they were going to, they’d have gotten me out by now. And I can’t go on like this for years and years; it would be better to go mad and not know any more. She fought herself on that, in the motionless silence, screaming curses at her fears as she had never allowed herself to scream in real life. For a short time the discovery that she had remembered so many expletives that ladies were not supposed to notice amused her. A fine talent for curses, she thought. But it was useless. No one could hear them. She forced herself back to the dry bones of accounting (tons of hay, price of oats and bran, the cost of bits and saddles) as her hope dwindled. How long?
Then one wakening she found herself flooded with emotion. Not the usual fear, but joy so strong she could hardly believe she did not leap from the bed. What—? A smell, a rich, natural scent, overlay the room’s usual sterility. Leather, conditioning oil—not quite the smell of a saddle, but certainly one associated with riding. Horse and dog. Cautiously, afraid to respond now because someone might withdraw that aroma, Cecelia sniffed.
“It’s so sad to see her this way,” said a voice. A voice she knew from before; she struggled to put a name to it. Young, female, not family—who was this? “She loved the out-of-doors so—”
One of the voices she heard often. “I’m sure they did everything they could.”
“Oh, of course.” A pressure against her cheek, and the scent grew stronger. Her mind drank it in gratefully. Leather, oil, horse, dog, sweat: a hand that had been outdoors? No, a hand alone wouldn’t carry that scent. A glove would, she thought. A young woman wearing gloves? Why? Gloves weren’t in fashion, unless she’d been mired here so long that fashion had changed again. “But I don’t understand why I couldn’t bring flowers. She always loved flowers, especially the aromatic ones. It smells so—so sterile in here.”
“Strong scents interfere with the room monitoring,” the attendant said.
“Oh, dear.” The young woman’s voice sounded mischievous. “And here I came straight from the track. Should I have showered?”
“No, because you’re just visiting. The blowers will clear it out shortly. Now I’ll leave you—just a half hour, please, and check at the main desk on your way out.”
“Thank you.” As Cecelia listened to the familiar soft noises of the doors, the hand never left her cheek. Then, at the final distant click of the outer door, it did. Into her right ear, the same voice, softened to a murmur. “Cecelia, it’s Brun. Bunny’s daughter. Dad wanted me to visit you; he couldn’t believe what happened.”
Bubbles. Brun. For a moment her mind tangled the two names, then she remembered, with utter clarity, their last conversation.
“If you have anything left at all, it’s olfactory. I saw your nose flare with this—” The smell came back, and Cecelia rejoiced. “I’m going to try some things—smells—and see if you can respond. That was my glove—I rubbed it all over two horses and the stable dog today—”
I knew that, Cecelia thought. She could hardly focus on what Brun was saying; she wanted to cry, scream, and laugh all at once. The familiar beloved scents faded, replaced now by a fruity tang.
“Apple,” Brun said. “I’m not supposed to have food in here, I think it’s because they don’t want you to smell it. I think they know you can.” Cecelia struggled to move something, anything, and felt a firm pressure on her arm. “You twitched an eyelid,” Brun said. “If you can do it again, I’ll take that as a ‘Yes.’ ” Cecelia tried; she could not feel if she succeeded, but Brun gave her another squeeze. “Good. Now I’m going to pretend you can hear me, because my aunt said sometimes people in comas could hear—”
Of course I can hear, Cecelia thought angrily. I just did what you asked me to do! Then she realized that Brun might be dealing with another kind of monitoring. She had to make this look like an innocent visit.
“So,” Brun went on, “I’m going to tell you about the last hunt, after you left. You know, I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be the fox—” A sharp stink of fox entered Cecelia’s brain like a knife, clearing away the fog of anger. “Foxes are so cunning,” Brun continued. “Clever beasts—I’ll bet ours are smarter than Old Earth foxes ever were. But it must be scary. Down there in the dark holes, hearing the hounds coming out the gate—” This time a smell of dog, and another squeeze.
Cecelia struggled to comprehend. Brun was trying to tell her something, something important, but she was too old, too tired, too confused. Foxes? Hounds? Foxes in dark holes . . . like I am, she thought suddenly. With the hounds up there somewhere . . . she could almost feel her mind coming alive now, and hoped that no brainwave monitor was on her at this moment.
“Anyway, there was this kid who decided that the hunt was unfair to foxes. Too easy for us, too hard for them. His first season; he’s one of the Delstandon cousins, I think. So he decided to help the fox. He understood that hounds followed the scent, so he figured if he made a false trail, we’d waste our time and the foxes would have a day off.” The alternation of fox and dog scent fit with this story; Cecelia wondered where it would lead. “But to get the fox scent, he had to find foxes himself—a den—and you can imagine what happened when Dad’s huntsman found him lurking around a den.”
Cecelia couldn’t, but she concentrated on breaking Brun’s code. The huntsman had been signalled with the glove again; she recognized that particular mix now, as well as the constituent scents.
“I thought it was kind of funny, protecting the foxes from someone who wanted to protect them—” Again the stink of fox. “But I guess that happens sometimes.” Now a different smell, woodsy and soothing. Change of topic? “I was thinking back to the island—”
Yes. Change of topic indeed. Cecelia found her memory of the island fragmented; she hoped Brun wouldn’t depend on something no longer there.
“It was such fun camping there when I was a child. Now I don’t know if I’ll ever feel the same way about it.” This time the smell was oily, dangerous yet attractive. Not leather: metallic plus oil plus some chemical. Abruptly she recognized it. How had Brun smuggled a weapon in here? Or was it just a cloth saturated with the smell of gun oil and ammunition? It meant danger, she was sure of that.
As she realized that, she heard the door opening. “I wish I knew if she even heard me,” Brun said, in a different tone, almost petulant. “My aunt says sometimes they can, but she doesn’t do anything.”
“I need to check the monitors,” the attendant said. This was the one who liked to gossip.
“Do you think she hears anyone?” Brun asked.
“No, miss. The scans don’t show anything; the doctors think she’s completely comatose. I just need to check this—” Cecelia felt pressure on her head, then a sparkle ran through her brain, bringing up a vivid picture of her own gloved hands clasped on her knee. Someone was whistling “Showers of Orchids,” a song she had not heard or thought of in decades. Then it was gone, and the voice overhead said, “That’s all right then. The supervisor thought I’d better check.”
“What?” asked Brun.
“Well . . . I suspect it is all that smell of horse you brought in. It seems to have clogged the monitors or something.”
“Sorry,” said Brun, not at all contritely. “Mum said to come today, and I almost forgot. Didn’t have time to clean up first or anything.”
“You’re another horsewoman?”
“Not like her. To tell the truth, I’m fonder of the jockeys than the horses.” The attendant chortled. “But I always pat the horses; the trainers like that.”