"I just want to understand."
"I know that," Mr. Patrise said gently, "and there is nothing more becoming to want. But would you ever be satisfied with an answer? I could give you all the keys I have, and you could still suspect I had left out the one key key. Now Bluebeard, on the other hand, gave out the master key first thing.
"Here is something you should recognize, Hallow: the True Blood is psychically bound to dominant modes of thought-in plainer words, slaves to fashion. This once was part of their power, when their culture was all the culture on Earth, and we huddled under trees because the sun and the rain made us afraid. The Truebloods said to the hominids, Do things in the way we tell you, and we did, because they were more frightening still."
"Trees," Doc said. "Elves are supposed to be tree people, in the old stories."
"Congratulations, Hallow," Mr. Patrise said, with what sounded like real pleasure.
"Eventually the Truebloods went away, and after-oh, who knows how long-we started to forget that they had been real. But we kept the inspiration: we continued to do things by rules, whether or not the rules made sense, to act as the group did, even when the group was insane, to enjoy making a pattern and watching the crowd squeeze into it. In time we technologized the process, industrialized it, networked it. It was, if you like, our magic."
Doc said, "And when the Truebloods came back?"
"They were bewildered at first by what they saw. There are hints that they did not recognize us as human-they thought we were some otherworldly species that had colonized the Earth.
"As anyone may in such a circumstance, many of them panicked. That led to the fires. To open warfare, in many places. Eventually you will learn about that… about Asia, and Africa, and the Silent Zones."
Why will IP Doc thought without saying.
"I often wonder," Mr. Patrise said, "what they saw in television that made them decide it must be erased utterly. Not that any of this saved them. They could not simply impose their rules on a race that changed its hemlines and heroes with the turn of the seasons. They were no longer the arbiters; they were just one more designer label. And as I said at the start, they were vulnerable themselves to the mass demand, as are all societies that rule by code and force. They began to ride motorcycles, pose with guns, wear stiletto heels and wide-shouldered suits and four-in-hand neckties. They can no more fight this than humanity can, so they must try to do it better than we do."
Mr. Patrise tilted his head, just slightly, and fixed his eyes on Doc's. "Suppose I told you that you could have any of them you wanted: a Highborn, Rhiannon or Stane Belle, the Kings of Elf-land's daughters, on their knees in front of you, dressed in spider gauze and cold iron chains, begging you to-"
"Stagger said the cold iron thing doesn't work," Doc said, trying to keep the image from getting any clearer.
Mr. Patrise looked surprised. It was not a typical expression for him. "Stagger Lee is a fine technician, but he will never be a great enchanter. Do you know why, Hallow?"
Doc almost said no, then waited. He had the feeling Mr. Patrise really wanted an answer. "Iron… doesn't have power over the Truebloods. But some of them believe it does."
"As I was saying, Hallow… they can be bound. Even b\ us. And why should that matter so?"
"I don't know."
"Because they are not mortal," Mr. Patrise said, his voice dead calm. "We are. Whatever we choose to be in life, that life ends. Whatever our condition, however hateful the ser\ iee we are yoked to-one day it will end, and we know it. Not so for them."
"All right," Doc said, his throat tight, "but, it's still not something I want."
"What you might desire and what you might do are two different things, Hallow. But I think you mean what you say. Making it very important that you know such power exists." Patrise went to a service table behind the desk, poured two small glasses of brandy. He handed one to Doc. "The first night we met, I told you to wait a while and ask me if I knew you. You haven't asked."
Doc sipped the drink and said nothing.
Mr. Patrise rolled his brandy glass, took a swallow. "There will be a party for the winter solstice-dress-up, naturally. Will you be sure to tell Ginevra that she is invited, and to visit Boris for a fit-ting?"
For days before the solstice party the staff were hanging ribbons, holly, ivy-"No advance warning where the mistletoe goes," one of the maids said happily-and setting out candlesticks.
Boris Liczyk provided Doc with a long-tailed cutaway coat of green broadcloth with velvet lapels, narrow trousers, and calf-high brown boots. The shirt was gauzy and ruffled, the tie a broad ribbon. At first he thought it was a repeat of his Halloween mad killer's outfit; but with the coat in place, he recognized the look from pictures in books. It was going to be a Charles Dickens Christmas.
He adjusted his tie and braces and went downstairs. Below, all the lights were out, and candles lit; hundreds of candles, in sconces and holders of iron and brass and glass, so many that their individual flickerings merged into an even, buttery light.
"Good evening, sir, good evening," Boris Liczyk said from a dim spot at the foot of the stairs. He was wearing a white curled wig and a butler's uniform that looked black in the light but must be blue: Boris was very insistent about who could and could not wear black. "You are dressing well tonight, sir. There's someone waiting for you." He gestured with his rod of office.
Ginny was wearing an off-the-shoulder dress of heavy satin in a deep, iridescent red. It outlined her body closely to the waist, then fell in a fluid cascade to the floor. Around her throat was a red velvet choker with a black cameo, and her black, black hair was curled and swept high.
Doc felt himself want her, that instant. He bowed, crooked his arm. She curtsied and took it.
All the regulars were there, naturally; Carmen Mirage in a black lace gown powdered with gold, Kitsune Asa in a pink kimono extravagantly embroidered with cranes in flight, Matt Black and Gloss White in rather less formal costumes that Ginny explained were two dancers from the Paris Moulin Rouge, as drawn by Toulouse-Lautrec.
Alvah Fountain's dreadlocks fell neatly over his high wing collar to the lapels of a steel-blue tailcoat; his handling of the coattails got him an ovation just sitting down at the piano. Phasia wore a white-on-white Empire gown, and a triple rope of black pearls.
The party wasn't, in fact, just Dickensian. It was about-elegance, Doc supposed was the right word; some high Victorian and some Regency and a touch of Edwardian. Doc greeted everyone, enjoying the play formalin.- of bows and "Enchanted" s and nods and winks. At Ginny's insistence he danced with Carmen, and Phasia, and struggled through a group dance without too much embarrassment. But mostly he stayed with Ginevra, and that felt very good.
About ten, Cloudhunter (who was dressed as elven nobility from an illustrated edition of Dunsany-it was so unlike anything real Truebloods wore that no insult could be implied) asked Doc aside. They went into an alcove, where Patrise was sitting, in ruffled shirt and violet coat, holding his silver-handled stick.
"We have a message," Patrise said. "A possibility of tracking down Whisper Who Dares. Do you think we should follow it?"
"You mean, right now?"
"That is what I'm asking."
Doc thought. "Is this going to be another-another like List time?"
— No."
"There's nobody else Involved. Nobody innocent."
"Not that I know."
"Then the hell with him for now," Doc said.
Patrise's fingers played with his cane top. "1 Agree, Hallow. It's too fine a party, too rare a night. Have you slept well?"