Mr. 03-01 and his colleagues soon set to work unpacking the astronomical instruments, and, once they had, they busied themselves taking the latitude and longitude of our situation so that they might better calculate the parallax described by the Transit of Venus across the face of the sun, and, following that, might with more accuracy triangulate with others’ observations of the same phenomenon, and arrive at last at a calculation of those awesome distances between our Earth and its roasting benefactor.
When I was not laboring with Dr. 09-01 over my lessons or observing the calculations made by Druggett and Mr. 03-01 for the purposes of surveying the site, I sat with my mother, who strove even in this mean setting to retain some semblance of her royal bearing, though all of us were hot and beset upon by mosquito-flies. Bono, Dr. 09-01, and I took to slapping them in rhythm, and Bono, having slain one, ran about the tent, pinching it between his fingers and crying, “Mark this, Gitney! Mark this: Another trophy to hang in your academy! Post-haste, record the wingspan!”
My mother laughed at his jest, and seemed to agree that Cheldthorpe was a prancing fool; yet she did not shun any opportunity to converse with His Lordship; nor did she make an unfavorable impression upon that lively individual, having all the graces of intellect, as well as the beauties of her person, at her command. She did not avoid him when he returned, slicked with sweat, from the hunt; she did not excuse herself when over wine by the campfire His Lordship told his tales of what the day had brought. I saw by her gaze that she did not find his person unattractive.
I could well determine that Mr. 03-01, far from disapproving of this match — conducted though it was in a situation far removed from propriety — was desirous of its success, perhaps even more ardently than either of the actors in the drama.
One evening when I passed by Mr. Gitney’s tent, I heard him speaking of this to my mother; and I paused, listening, as on the other side of the bare canvas, he said quietly, “I’ve been pleased to remark that you and His Lordship have struck up such a friendship.” There was a silence while he waited for my mother to respond. She did not. He continued: “What is the . . . nature of your friendship?”
“It is a friendship, nothing more.”
“Are the sentiments on your part genuine? Or do you entice him for gain?”
She laughed. “This interrogation is absolutely outrageous.”
“I have no objection to Your Highness using your charms and wiles for your own private ends. I only ask that you do whatever you can to foster his continued involvement in our philosophical household.”
My mother said lazily, “There is a professional title for what you are doing.”
“Touch his hand. The back of the wrist. Breathe too closely to his face. All marks of desire. We have found that affection causes the pupil of the eye to dilate involuntarily.”
“Sir —”
“I am not jesting. This flirtation is a boon, an unexpected gift. Foster it, Mademoiselle. Do you understand?”
Something was dropped within the tent. They moved on the grass. Startled from my reverie, I slipped onwards.
I wish she had spoke to me, and told me what it was that budded there in the clearing by the lake.
When I was not near the clamor and drollery of Bono and Dr. 09-01, I found myself Observant, like an eye, and could feel no more than that — was sensible only of my gaze upon my mother and His Lordship as they met and bandied about their pleasantries. Each night, I lay awake, waiting until I heard her retire to her mattress to sleep before I allowed myself slumber. I listened through the canvas as she whispered long hours with His Lordship, though words I could not divine, merely the hissing sibilants of collusion and intimacy.
I could not but note that Lord Cheldthorpe suffered my mother to address him not in the forms of humility, as a servant should, pleading, “Your Lordship”; rather she “My Lord”-ed him as might a princess. This was further mark of his regard.
So anxious was Mr. 03-01 to secure Lord Cheldthorpe’s favor, that one evening, when the company had drunk a great deal, he invited the assembled to dance, looking particularly to my mother and His Lordship of the New Creation. The two of them dancing could not have presented a more charming scene, turning as they did upon the greensward, with the blue gloaming seeping through the pines behind them and the empty sky above, lit by the frisking fireflies against the black trunks; they could not have performed their steps more elegantly, or spun more sweetly, even when the music sped to a furious pace, skittering wildly, so that it could not have offered a reasonable beat to any but a raging Corybante dance-horde, drugged and frenzied before rending the flesh of fleeing men.
“Octavian,” said my mother. “My dear? Might you observe the beat? You rush.”
I stopped playing and set the violin down from my chin.
“You needn’t cease, dearest,” said my mother. “I merely request that you maintain an easier beat.”
Lord Cheldthorpe took up her hands again. They waited. I played a few squawling fanfares. I said, “I fear the humidity has untuned me.”
My mother turned to me. I watched to see the mask, and if it would lift. “Octavian,” she said coldly, “don’t be a child.”
There was a silence.
“But,” said 09-01, “he is a child.”
“He has never been a child,” my mother said, “and I see no reason he should begin now.”