4 - a reader reads while being read

Mr. Call shadowed them until they arrived at the platform for the Pinnacle’s sky carriage, the lift that was restricted to all but members of the Curia, their heirs, and a select few trusted aides. Mr. Call apparently lacked the clearance to board the sky carriage, and so Demi waved at him cheerily as Mr. Darby herded her toward the platform. He would take another route to the Pinnacle, and join her father’s security detail when he got there.

(She managed to pry this information from Clarence Darby before they arrived at the platform, so she had an opportunity to thank Mr, Call and bid him a proper goodbye. Nothing at all that had happened thus far had been his fault. He was a guard and had spent the afternoon guarding her. She was grateful for that. Mr. Darby was again alarmed by her direct interaction with Mr. Call. He seemed relieved when they parted company with the bodyguard, but that relief was not destined to last long.)

Demi and Mr. Darby arrived at the platform just as one of the carriages was about to depart, and Demi scurried to make it, quite startling Clarence Darby, who scrambled to catch her. She made it into the carriage safely, and due to a wild hustle, the equerry managed to make it as well.

Demi had idly hoped to slip away from him during the ride to the Pinnacle by catching the departing carriage before he could make it on. She didn’t have any grand ideas of running off on her own, she would have simply liked a little time by herself, so she could process all that had happened and all that was likely to happen before the day was out.

Mr. Darby had displayed heroic athleticism in an attempt to catch her, a skill that was definitely against his type. Demi could only reflect that he feared the repercussions he would face if he lost track of the Serraffield heir even for a few narrow minutes.

He straightened his tie and his hat, and while hanging onto a bar, greeted the other occupant of the car, and then gestured very politely for Demi to take a seat. She did, and then he took one directly next to her.

Demi’s breathing was more labored than she would have liked as the result of such a short run, so she fished in her bag to pull out her inhaler, and puffed on it, just to be on the safe side.

As she did, she couldn’t help but think about her heroic battle to keep her bag.

I wonder if they would have even let me keep my inhaler if I hadn’t put up a fight, she thought to herself.

Surely they would have, since a severe attack would put her worryingly adjacent to death, but there was always the chance that they would not. Concern for her look, for her silhouette, might have trumped the regard for her health and safety, particularly if someone else, say Mr. Darby, had been tasked with holding onto her inhaler until she needed it.

That would have put an immense amount of hard control into Mr. Darby’s hands, which might have been the point.

Fortunately, that alarming scenario had not come to pass, and Demi herself was in possession of the inhaler, along with all of the other things she had somehow managed to fit into her shoulder bag.

After using her inhaler, she tucked it pack into her bag and put the bag on the seat next to her.

The sky carriage was part inclined elevator and part suspended cable car, going the first leg of its journey against the steep earth of the mountain side, and the last leg of it in the free air. Demi had only ridden it twice before in her entire life, both times in the company of her mother. It was the preferred way for Lords of the Curia to access the Pinnacle, and as such, it had been built with luxury in mind.

The seats of the car were comfortably upholstered leather, with deep cushions and substantial back rests. The seats themselves were heated, and Demi’s behind was grateful for this feature, because the carriage itself could get chilly, despite the double insulation and the heaters built into the car. During the ascent to the Pinnacle, the temperature outside dropped nearly seventy degrees Fahrenheit.

In addition to the leather seats there were small side tables of polished wood inlaid with marquetry, secured so they wouldn't move even as the carriage did. The carriage was paneled on the inside with rich cherrywood, and there were louvered shutters that could be drawn down over each of the large windows, should the passengers decide they didn't care for the scenery. There were even iced drinks available from cunningly concealed refrigeration units, and hot drinks from what was either an electric tea pot or a coffee maker. All the carriage lacked was a dedicated attendant, and Demi understood that the omission was one in the interest of privacy. Many confidential discussions were held in these secured carriages, because they were so exclusive.

There was only one occupant in the car other than herself and Mr. Darby. It was a very serious looking man in a very serious looking three piece suit. He had long fingered hands with bony knuckles, and dark hair shot through with silver. She could discern this easily because his head was bent over his reading, in which he seemed to be fully engrossed. Apart from glancing up at her when she entered the car, he paid her no further attention.

But once she had investigated all of the things inside the sky carriage, she paid him quite a lot of attention.

It wasn't only that he was distinguished-looking and handsome in a severe sort of way, with a neatly trimmed beard and carefully combed hair. He looked like the sort of person who might have been the dean of a college, a person that a body calls ‘professor,’ or else. In short, he looked as if he also wore three piece pajamas and consulted the Oxford English Dictionary with regularity. Everything about the way he looked was precise and just so. It was an affect that she found charming.

But it wasn’t only that.

All of that was very interesting in itself and might have held her attention for the balance of the journey alone, if not for the book he was reading.

There, directly across the car from her, held in those hands with the bony knuckles marked by a spiderweb of old, thin scars, was her favorite book in the entire world.

It was a book that she had read dozens and dozens, perhaps hundreds of times. He was reading it so seriously that she could find no fault with him. He seemed to be in his own world, immune to interruptions, swept away by the forces that drove the narrative ever onward.

If that wasn't serendipity, then dipity of all kinds was nonexistent altogether.

The book that held him in thrall (and held her in thrall, watching him read) was a decades old romance, a bit of popular fiction written by an author who had enjoyed considerable celebrity in the past, but who was now relegated to only vague acknowledgement and some scant academic interest. In this day and age, the author was better known for the strange circumstances of her life than for her works themselves. The knowledgeable generally regarded her as an oddity, so far as Demi understood. Those less well acquainted with novels of the mid twentieth century regarded her not at all.

Which was their loss, honestly. The book was sparkling, passionate, agonizing — wonderful, absolutely wonderful. It was painful and true in all of the best ways. Reading it made her feel alive. It made her feel loved.

It made her feel as if she were not alone.

That was a feeling that she sorely needed, these days.

That was why finding this gentleman reading her secret treasure made Demi’s heart thrill, as if she'd just made a life-long acquaintance who would remain dear to her heart always.

She thought: your heart understands mine.

She thought all of these things without ever having spoken a word to the man who was reading. That was, essentially, how her mind operated.

It didn't matter if no one else in the world understood how splendid the Swallow was, because here was another person who read it and truly understood it. She felt as if she were the last remaining native speaker of a forgotten language who had suddenly found her tongue alive in the mouth of a stranger. Now she had someone to talk with, someone to debate with, someone to argue with.

It was bliss that no amount of discomfort at her circumstances could dispel.

And she didn't for a moment entertain the thought that his ardor for the novel might be cooler than hers, for how could such a thing even be possible.

Now, all that remained was to properly make his acquaintance.

She glanced down at her shoulder bag, as it sat on the seat beside her. This bag was full to bursting with all of the items that Demi would have taken to a desert island, and the Swallow was surely the most important of them all.

The bag itself had been fashioned in imitation of the cover of the first printing of the book the man held in his hands, the Swallow. Demi could barely contain her glee, and it spilled out of her in wriggles as she tried to keep her seat. Surely he would also appreciate how splendid her bag was. It was one of her most prized possessions.

Because she was so overcome with her delight, Demi was, despite her best intentions, squirming like an over enthusiastic puppy, her feet tapping lightly against the floor of the carriage in a jaunty repeating pattern.

I have found a new friend. I have found a new friend. Everything is wonderful. I feel like I could sing, her feet tapped out again and again.

It was remarkably rare to find someone else who had even heard of the Swallow, let alone read it, let alone was reading it at this exact moment. The reader himself was rarer still, a somber older man with a firm mouth and thin lips. The lines on his forehead spoke of anger, frustration, displeasure. They were relaxed as he read. He had moved outside himself and into the pages of the story.

Her heart was glad to see that he enjoyed it. The Swallow was sometimes dismissed as a book for silly young girls, a romance that was in no way grounded in reality, filled with dramatic confessions, derring-do, and any number of cliches flipped and turned around every which way. That was why it was so strange and thrilling to see a grown man, a man of the world, patiently reading it as a way to pass the time.

For he was certainly a Lord of the Curia. Demi could discern that even if she did not recognize him. The fact that he was on the sky carriage alone was a strong predictor of his status, and Mr. Darby had called him ‘my lord,’ as they had entered the carriage, although the man had not responded. He had not even given a token response. Either he thought Mr. Darby beneath his notice, or he was so engrossed in his novel that he hadn't even heard the equerry’s deferential greeting.

Possibly both.

Demi could sympathize. The Swallow was an engrossing read.

It was not a perfect novel, and even in her youth and passion she recognized this. Sometimes it was strangely funny when it perhaps ought to have been poignant. Sometimes scenes dragged out interminably, chasing their own tails in seemingly endless introspection. Sometimes the descriptive prose was so dense that it was difficult to navigate, as if it were a peat bog that could swallow unwary readers and preserve them for anthropologists as yet unborn. It was a fanciful novel — filled with fancies and whimsy and dandelion fluff — but it also carried dread in its belly, dread and despair, and a terrible sense of loneliness. But despite all of these flaws and many more besides, Demi loved it. She loved it because it was truthful and funny and brave and painful. It was beautiful because it was imperfect. It made her chest tighten with joy, and it also made her heart ache.

She almost always cried over it. That was the sort of book it was.

At her side, Clarence Darby was busy scratching away notes on his PDA. She did not think he was likely to provide intelligence about the man who sat across from them. To be fair, that would have been difficult even if he were not distracted. They couldn't very well have a secret discussion about the other passenger’s identity right in front of his face.

But Demi wanted the opportunity to get to know him. She wanted to know what he thought of her book. She was as curious as a cat, and so therefore resolved to introduce herself to him as soon as the right moment presented itself. That moment would come. She was certain.

While she was studying him intently, he at last seemed to perceive that she was watching him, because he looked up from his book, and his eyes found her. They were dark, and very heavy. That silent look made the blood rush right to her head and she flushed as she tried desperately to give the impression that she was absolutely captivated by the scenery outside. It wasn't the right time to introduce herself. Of that, she was positive.

She felt like she was having a heart attack.

Fortunately, after studying her silently for a moment, he turned his attention back to his book. She continued to stare out at the scenery for several more seconds, until she decided the coast was clear, and then commenced watching him again.

He seemed to be reading a very old edition indeed. His hands concealed part of the cover, but the book looked very much like it had come from the Swallow’s original print run. If he had an original printing, then he likely wasn't a first time reader, but a dedicated fan. The first few print runs of the Swallow had been small, and the books were in high demand as collector’s items.

The book he was reading looked well-loved, as if it had been handled many times, as if it had been read many times.

It was a little strange to see a person reading a priceless original edition when the book was still in print. Even if he owned a first or second edition, that was the sort of thing most people kept at home, in a private collection.

The man across from her seemed to be treating the book he held as if it were quite ordinary for him to read it. He wasn't treating it as if it had no value. On the contrary, he was holding it carefully and reading it well, the way a book ought to be read, without damaging the spine or dog-earing the pages.

But it was still queer. She didn't think she would have had the wherewithal to drag a first edition around with her, had she owned one. She would have kept it safe, in a place of honor, and probably brought it birthday cakes whenever the publication anniversary date rolled around.

Wealthy people are certainly strange, she thought to herself. It did not escape her that she herself was included in this generous observation.

As she was considering this, he looked up again unexpectedly, and she again pretended to look out the window, turning so quickly that she knocked her forehead against the glass. She winced in pain, making a sound that was between a squeak and a whimper. She felt cockeyed and a little dizzy from the bump, and covered her head with her hands.

She felt that he watched her briefly, his brows drawn together, then returned to his book.

This time she pulled her bag into her lap, so he would see it when he looked at her again. If he understood the reason she was studying him, then he might strike up a conversation on his own, and therefore spare her the difficulty of searching for the right moment. Surely he was as lonely for a good talk about this excellent book as she was.

Thinking about this conundrum had driven all of her worries about her coming arrival at the Pinnacle completely out of her head.

She wasn't thinking about meeting her father, or Lord Lysander, or being put on display for a faceless audience. She was instead completely focused on figuring out how to begin a conversation with this forbidding man who read romance stories.

She studied where he was in the book and tried to imagine what scene he was reading. When he did notice her and decided to speak with her, she wanted to make sure she didn't accidentally reveal anything he didn’t know already.

There was a very small chance that this was the first time he had read the Swallow. He might have been gifted this precious copy, or started with another of Belmont’s works and only just arrived at this crowning jewel. All readers ought to have the pleasure of unraveling the mysteries of the novel themselves, she thought.

He was too far in for it to have been secret sharing in the heavy rain, but it might have been the midnight picnic.

As she was watching him, again he looked up at her, and this time she steeled her nerve and held his gaze. Her bag was on her lap. He would see it and know.

They stared at one another silently for several seconds.

Then his eyes dropped to his book again.

Demi was experiencing a profound feeling of anticlimax when a chime sounded through the car and caused her to jump.

It was the announcement that they had arrived at the Pinnacle.

And before she knew it, Clarence Darby was hurrying her along again, as he was always hurrying her along. They were out of the sky carriage and onto the platform before she could think of what to say. She glanced over her shoulder once to see the serious man in the serious suit close his book and tuck it under his arm, and then she was chased out of line of sight by Mr. Darby.

Demi sighed.

She and the serious man would have to talk things over about the Swallow another day.