"No. It looks like she needs a friend."
"A friend?" She must have realized her voice had gone shrill, because she broke off and forced out a laugh. "If I need a friend, I'll buy a spaniel. What I can't buy is a man."
"True." Though she'd tried to buy men on many occasions. "So why are you interested in this Spark Lord?"
The rummaging sounds resumed, plus the clatter of hangers and the opening/closing of the drawers built into the closet. "I've never met a Spark," Gretchen said as she rifled through her wardrobe. "It's one of my lifelong dreams." She faked another laugh. "You know what a horrid social-climber I am."
"This Spark isn't social, she's a sociopath. The type who bursts people into bloody giblets just so she can make a dramatic exit."
"But she won't do that to me," Gretchen said. "It wouldn't make sense."
"I don't think Dreamsinger cares whether her actions make sense. She's a few candles short of a black mass, if you catch my meaning. Either that, or she just acts like a crazy woman to intimidate us lesser mortals. I'll admit that's a possibility. All Sparks act unbalanced: sometimes benevolent, sometimes homicidal. Ruling by both love and fear-Machiavelli would approve."
Gretchen stuck her head out of the closet again. Still naked from the neck down, she had on a black suede cowboy hat and long diamond earrings. "You talk as if you know all about the Sparks," she said.
"No one knows all about the Sparks; but my governor grandma studied them as best she could. Asking other governors for information… gathering reports on where particular Spark Lords had been seen… what they did… whom they associated with…"
"It's a wonder the Sparks didn't kill your grandmother for snooping."
I shrugged. "They expect such behavior from governors; they even approve. The more a governor learns about Spark Royal's capabilities, the less that governor is likely to cause trouble."
"Because the Sparks are unpredictable and have outrageously powerful technology?"
"Exactly."
Gretchen disappeared back into the closet. "Rumor has it they're backed by extraterrestrials."
"Yes," I agreed, "rumor has it."
"High-up races in the League of Peoples."
"Supposedly."
"You don't believe it?"
"The League claims to oppose the murder of sentient creatures. It's supposed to be their most fundamental law-not to take life deliberately or through willful negligence. So why would they support a bunch of killers like the Sparks?"
"Mmm." Something went ‹SNAP› in the closet: an elastic waistband, a garter belt, some kind of fastener. Gretchen said, "Maybe the League needs the Sparks for special services."
"What special services?"
"I don't know-necessary work that's beneath the League's dignity. Emptying chamberpots… slitting throats… going to bed with crazy Uncle Hans so he won't bother anyone else."
I laughed. "The League of Peoples has a crazy Uncle Hans?"
"Everyone has a crazy Uncle Hans." Her voice was muffled, presumably by a garment being pulled over her head. "Seriously, darling, everyone has a kleptomaniac aunt, or a cousin who plays with his peepee in front of guests. Perhaps Spark Royal looks after the League's embarrassments. In exchange, the Sparks get fancy weapons and armor and gadgets to keep those embarrassments under control."
"So Earth is a prison planet and the Sparks are the guards?"
"Not guards, darling. Baby-sitters."
Gretchen came out of the closet, a traveling case in one hand and her clothes swirling. The greatest swirl came from her dress: a warmth of forest green that stretched with eye-fetching cling from throat to waist, then flared out below to eddy around her ankles. For tramping outdoors, the hem was almost too low: one wouldn't want it dragging through the mud. But Gretchen had also donned knee-high buckskin boots with platform soles, not ridiculously high but enough to keep her gown clear of the muck. Another swirl above her waist came from a woolen shawl the color of burgundy, pinned at the neck with a silver ankh. She'd abandoned silly hats in favor of a thick green band that held her red hair back and wrapped warmly around her ears… all in all, a more practical outfit for traipsing through slush than I would have expected.
"Well?" Gretchen asked, flashing her dimples.
"Ravishing as always. I didn't know you had outfits for leaving the house."
"Silly billy. I have outfits for everything."
"But you don't go out, do you?" I tried to meet her eyes, but she pretended to be busy, picking nonexistent lint off her sleeve. "Why now, Gretchen? What do you want with Dreamsinger?"
"I told you, darling, I'm such a flighty social-climber-"
"Don't lie," I interrupted. "If you have some harebrained idea you can get something out of a Spark Lord-if you think you can charm or outwit her-you don't know who you're dealing with. Dreamsinger is nowhere near sane. If you make her angry, Gretchen, she'll kill you. Maybe the rest of us too."
"Darling," Gretchen said, "I don't make people angry. I don't make you angry, do I? I'm just curious to meet someone truly important."
She swirled from the room without letting me answer. Without even pausing to freshen her makeup one last time.
Uneasily, I followed her out.
13: A NIGHT FOR REVELATIONS
Titania said nothing as she held the front door, but she did something odd with her whiskers: a diagonal weave, right-side-up/left-side-down, then vice versa, back and forth several times. I had no idea what it meant in her species… maybe surprise, maybe a smirk, maybe some lobsterish emotion with no human equivalent.
Gretchen ignored it completely-she linked her right elbow in my left, wrapped her free hand around my arm, then surged off into the darkness. (I, of course, was carrying her traveling case. It wasn't light.) The way she pressed her body against mine could easily be mistaken for passion. Few people would have recognized the effort of a housebound woman driving herself outdoors by sheer momentum, clutching me for moral support. I could feel her shiver, though she was thoroughly wrapped against the cold.
It would have been cruel to push her away, but I still considered it as we approached the gate. I hated the thought of my friends seeing Gretchen barnacled to my side. They'd met her once, when she threw a special soiree for them ("Phil, introduce me to all your widdle chums!"), and it had been every bit the nightmare you'd expect. Gretchen played La Grande Hostesse, determined to flaunt her wealth and pedigree; Pelinor and the Caryatid had embarrassed themselves by trying to act "sophisticated"; and Myoko and Impervia had radiated such pure contempt all evening, it was a wonder they hadn't blistered the paint off the walls.
As for Annah, I cringed to think of her seeing Gretchen cling to me. Gretchen groping my sleeve. Gretchen talking her baby talk, or gushing about some party she'd held for the Duke of This and the Viscount of That.
Unquestionably, Gretchen would gush. She'd gush and twitter and fondle my arm in front of everyone. And I'd have to bear it. Not only did we need Gretchen's boat, but I found myself in that state of endure-anything politeness that descends like a portcullis when you've separated yourself mentally from an old flame but haven't yet told her you're leaving. You'll suffer any cloying demand for affection, you'll be punctiliously attentive, because it's your penance for what you soon intend to do.
I wondered what Annah would think when she saw Gretchen all over me. I just hoped she wouldn't burst into tears of betrayal.