It must be said now that George was not a stupid young man. On the contrary, when he was not getting in his own way he had a great aptitude for cleverness. But he was, perhaps to his own misfortune, overwhelmingly used to getting what he wanted. His grandmother had tried her hardest to keep him cloistered throughout his upbringing, and her best tools for this had been flattery and bribery. And after fleeing her grasp and following his father, George had wound up at Otterman’s, where his superior skills had given him a great deal of leverage. So far in his life he’d experienced very few obstacles, and it was only natural for him to think that he deserved such easy treatment through some innate quality of his own.
In the third week with Silenus he began to suspect he deserved a lot of things he wasn’t getting. First and foremost, he felt he deserved an explanation. Had he not risked his life for the troupe? And had he not turned his back on a lucrative and cushy career in order to join them? The least his father could do was tell him what they were really doing.
But Silenus did not. In the final of their three weeks, George’s father became more distracted than ever, spending more and more time in his office, and seeming more and more frustrated whenever he emerged. The only time George could ever talk to him was right after their nightly performance. And though George knew better than to ask outright about the song, or his memory of the barrow, or the men in gray, he began to ask innocent questions or make leading comments that he thought just might entice some truth from Silenus.
“I hope they make it home all right,” George said after one performance, gesturing to the audience. “Are they sensible enough for that?” To this, Silenus only shrugged.
“Are the acoustics of this theater too poor for the Chorale?” he asked after another. “Will it be too muffled, maybe?” This question was met with a terse order to mind his own business.
“Has anyone ever died after one of your performances?” he asked after their final performance, on Friday. “The shock seems like it might be too much for the weak of heart.”
“No!” shouted Silenus. “But you just might be the first if you ask another of these goddamn questions! I told you, three weeks, and with no rounding up. You’ve got a handful of days left. Let’s see if you can spend them in quiet, hmm?”
George, humiliated, looked around. The entire troupe was watching him. He flushed magnificently and muttered an apology.
That night he was so angry that he could not even sleep. He changed out of his pajamas and into some winter clothing, went downstairs, and headed out into the streets for a late-night stroll. He knew it was much too cold, and going out was rash, but he did not care.
He grumbled to himself as he kicked his way through the slushy streets of Hayburn. He had been a fool to come with them, he told himself. He had been a fool to withhold the truth about who he was, and his relation to Silenus. And he’d been a fool to take their orders and abuse without ever sticking up for himself. The more he dwelled on his problems the more poisonous and malicious they seemed. Eventually he began to suspect that the true purpose of the Silenus Troupe was to make life very hard for one George Carole.
But then he stopped and looked up, and realized he’d gone perhaps a little too far.
He had no idea where he was. It was very dark, and there was no one out. And even though he’d been here a week, he’d done nothing to study the layout of the city.
He began to walk toward where he thought the hotel and the vaudeville house were. But as he did the night sky turned dark and bruised, promising snow. When the first flakes drifted down he groaned and began looking for shelter. Yet there seemed to be nothing open, and soon the air was thick with white.
George trotted down an alley into a surprisingly large courtyard, and looked around in vain for some cover. The snow intensified until all he could make out was a frozen fountain and a lone streetlamp in the courtyard, which turned the falling snow into a magnificent pearl of radiance. Then he noticed a shutter for a coal cellar, and in his desperation he pried it open and slipped inside to sit on the mound of coal below.
If George had been paying attention he would have thought the courtyard a very curious place: the buildings around it were very tall and the walls facing in had no windows, and the fountain in the center featured four people riding chariots. The sculpted figures faced out toward the corners of the courtyard, and their cheeks were ballooned as if blowing enormous gusts into the sky. If George had seen the fountain he’d have thought it a strange addition to this very drab and empty courtyard, but as it was he simply sat on the coal with the shutter open, waiting on the snow and cursing himself.
It was then that George’s exceptional hearing again alerted him to something abnormal: from the sound of things, the snow was lessening outside until it became a slight trickle. But then, if he listened closely, the roar of the flurry seemed to still be going on somewhere around him. He poked his head through the shutter and saw that it had not stopped snowing; rather, it seemed to have stopped snowing only in the courtyard. When he looked to the four passageways leading out, he saw the snowstorm continuing just beyond. It was as though the snow stopped just where the courtyard began.
Then the wind rose and a figure appeared in the passageway, heading into the courtyard. George dropped the shutter until it was open just a crack, and peeked through.
When the figure passed through the veil of snow George saw it was a short, thick man in brown pants, a checked orange coat, a weathered cap, and a yellow silk scarf. His skin was a deep, golden brown, and his hair a dark black. He entered the courtyard and looked around languidly, and went and stood before a corner of the fountain to wait.
The wind whipped about again and a second person entered the courtyard from the next passageway. This one was a tall, thin woman with long black hair that curled into many thick ringlets. She wore a heavy seaman’s coat that had been patched in many places, and a light blue skirt that trailed behind her until the hem was dirty. Her skin was pale, but it had a faint coloring to it that almost made her look gray. She stood at the next corner of the fountain and gave the man in the orange coat a somewhat cold smile, which he did not return.
Then the wind rose once more and a third person entered from the third passageway: a huge old man, broad in the shoulders and with gnarled purplish hands. The skin on his face was a translucent bluish pink, and his hair and beard were frost-white and trailed down around his waist. He was dressed in a thick brown suit, and his enormous boots thudded as he crossed the courtyard. When he came to his corner of the fountain he smiled at the others. They reluctantly nodded back.
And then the wind rose one final time, and a fourth person entered, only this one was very different from the rest. As the figure came running in out of the snow George wondered if it was a dwarf of some kind, as it seemed so small, but when it came into the light he saw it was a short, mousy girl of about eighteen, dressed all in green. Her hair was a brilliantined gold, and her cheeks were apple-red as though she’d spent hours in the sun. She had large, green eyes and a timid mouth, and she seemed very dispirited to be there. When she took her place before the fountain the other three frowned at her. The old man in particular gave her a glowering look that seemed akin to one of hate.
George thought them a curious group, on the whole. Probably the most curious thing about them was that even though they’d walked in from a powerful snowstorm, all four of them appeared perfectly dry, and not cold at all.
“Well,” said the man in orange, “we are all now here. Finally,” he added, and shot the girl a black look. “I should hope we would all be a little more punctual. But it is not my time to direct this meeting, so I yield its direction.”
“Yes,” said the old man. “To me, I believe. It is my meeting, and my possession, and I shall decide when it begins and when it ends. Or does anyone object?”
“This is your doing?” said the woman in the seaman’s coat. She gestured to the sky. “It was a great inconvenience to us all. Or to me, at least. It’s irritating enough to have to part with my works to attend this meeting, let alone under these conditions.”
“It is my doing, yes,” said the old man. “It shall be discussed, and described. So there are no objections? No objections of worth, I mean?”
“No,” said the man in orange. “There are obviously no objections. Let us get started, so we can all return to what we were doing.”
“Excellent,” said the old man, and he motioned to the snow above. “As you can see, I have started by pulling the waters from the distant shores of the north. I have siphoned them up from around enormous ice floes. I have gathered them carefully from glittering fields of frost. I have chased and corralled them in the frozen clouds above. And then I have driven them south, threading them through mountain passes, summoning up pounding pressures when the land fell flat, letting my quarry balloon out over the countryside in a magnificent spume of white. It is an admirable storm, an absolute blizzard. It falls a little strangely, I must say—it tugs itself toward this city, as if it has its own mind. But it is no matter. It will embrace the land, gather the homes and the farmland into its folds and pull itself around them all. Roofs will groan under the weight of fresh snow. In the morning those that live here will awake to find the world completely changed. The very earth will be lost to them. No leaves, no flowers. No nasty tangles of roots or vines.” At that he shot the little girl a very nasty look. She did not seem to see; she simply stared forlornly into the stone slab at her feet.
“But that is not all that I will do. Once the storm spends itself I will gather my coldest, purest, iciest streams of air. They are playful, curious things, delightful little creatures. I will set them on these lands, allowing them to bob and weave through the towns, or snake between the naked, fragile trees, or dance over the frozen rivers. They will nose out gaps in homes and coats and squirrel away inside, chilling bone and nose and ear. They have wandered for so long up north, my dear little breezes. How good it will be for them to stretch themselves out for a time! And when they come rippling and bounding over these hills, the snow here shall not melt. No, under their tiny, invisible feet, it shall become more and more compact, freezing the mud, the groundwater, the mightiest rivers. In a way, the storm above is but a white carpet rolled out for my dearest pets.”
“Dear to you,” said the woman in blue, “but not to others. To me they are vicious, nasty things, and I cannot bear the sight of them.”
“That is your opinion,” said the old man, “and you may speak it when it is your turn, but that is not yet.”
They were silent at that. The old man glared around at them and nodded. “Well,” he said. “That is all I have to say. These are the full intents of my possession.”
The other three considered what he’d said.
“It is not very original,” said the man in orange.
“What!” cried the old man. “It is very original!”
“I believe you loosed your pets last year, as well,” said the woman in blue. “Didn’t you?”
“Well, yes! But this time my breezes have been feeding themselves on the iciest currents imaginable! It will be a winter these people have never known! When they are old and trembling, they will tell their children’s children of this winter! As they should. Is there anything more perfect than the blank crush of so much snow?”
“We all have our preferences,” said the man in orange.
“Yes, but some are pure and perfect, and others boring,” said the old man.
“You and your storms…” said the woman. She shook her head. “I have spoken before of the clean purity of a chilly, sharp breeze I can bring in from the seas, but you will never understand.”
“No,” said the old man. “That is weak, and boring. It is a compromise, a shadow of a true love. I dislike it greatly.”
“Does that mean, Boreas,” said the man in orange, “that the blizzard and the release of your breezes is the full extent of your possession?”
The old man blinked to hear his plans so glibly described. “Well. Yes.”
“You are blinded by your obsessions,” said the woman in blue. “How carefully I arranged everything before your possession… I remember the clouds I pushed together in the eastern seas—frigid, heavy things of thick crystals, and once they spent themselves I used their spending to send thin arms of them spiraling off to graze these countries. Leaves grew gold and fiery red upon the tree, and the frailer foliage withered. And everyone remarked at what a beautiful season it was. Now they are all gone, buried beneath foot upon foot of dull, empty ice.”
“Your works were absurd,” said the old man. “They were weak and delicate. This land needed a great gust to blow all of your foolishness away.”
“Eurus’s works are her own business,” said the man in orange as the woman opened her mouth to respond. “Your possession will wane soon, Boreas, as does everyone’s. We all have our loves, and they are almost always lost when the possession changes hands.”
“Yes, but you must admit that hers are more absurd than most, Notus,” said the old man.
“Why?” said the woman in blue. “I demand an answer. I know the meeting and the possession of this season belongs to him, but he cannot simply insult at his will. I demand satisfaction.”
They turned to the old man. “Well, Boreas?” said the man in orange.
The old man smiled nastily. “The answer is very simple. The reason her preferences are so absurd is that she uses them to seek the love of these people.”
“That is not true!” said the woman.
“It is,” said the old man. “You wish for admiration, for worship. You are as bad as she is,” and at that the old man turned his gaze to the girl in green.
The man in orange and the woman in blue did likewise, glaring at her. Though each of them seemed to hold little regard for any other, the little girl bore the most disdain.
The girl in green looked up at the others and shrugged. “I do not make anyone love me,” she said.
“We all know that is not true,” said the man in orange. “They sing of you more than any of us. They rejoice for you, laugh with glee at the sight of you.”
“But I did not make them do anything,” said the little girl. “They rejoice of their own accord.”
“That is a lie,” said the woman. “You have fooled them. With your tricks. With your blooms and greenery. They cannot see the deep beauty of a leaf the color of rosy fire. They do not love the kiss of frost.”
“Nor the hot embrace of a storm’s blast,” said the man in orange.
“Nor mounds of snow like icing, or the bleak perfection of flats dusted with ice,” said the old man. “This is true. You have always courted their favor.”
“No,” said the little girl. “I only temper.”
“Temper?” exclaimed the old man. “What do you mean?”
“I try to do the least,” said the little girl. “All three of you have your favorite creations. Wet storms, and frost, and barren flats. They are extremes. I prefer moderation, mildness. A light shower, a placid wind. A cool heat, if I can find one to shepherd. I do not care for a hard touch, for a symphony in the sky. I prefer to be gentle. Is it my fault if most of them love that more? If the flowers and fields exult due to this?”
“Yes,” said the man in orange.
“Yes,” said the woman.
“Most absolutely, yes,” said the old man. “They reject my works most of all. They reject them outright, do you hear? I spend weeks forging the gentle crush of snow, sculpting pure clouds of gray. Yet they have forgotten my name, all of our names, but they remember yours. Because you have spoiled them.”
“Because you have deceived them!” said the man in orange.
“Because you have nothing to give,” said the woman. “I will not be able to say so in the next possession, so I shall say it now. It is because you are an unoriginal creature, one with no inspiration, no passion. You cannot think of anything to make for them. So you give them nothing. And by pure chance they have taken to it, and love it. And now they ignore us. Because of your foolishness.”
George had not really understood much of what these people were discussing up until now. They seemed an odd bunch, and possibly mad, though they had the demeanor of kings and queens. But he recognized cruelty when he saw it, and perhaps due to all the indignities he felt he’d suffered at the hands of the troupe he could not help but sympathize with the girl. So when he could no longer bear it he thrust the shutter open, clambered out, and shouted, “That’s enough!”
All four of them stared at him in surprise. The old man nearly fell over. As George stood up, black little clouds came roiling out of his clothes. He looked down and saw he was covered from head to toe in coal dust. Nevertheless, he walked to stand in front of the girl and face the other three.
“Who,” said the man in the orange coat, “are you?”
“I won’t have you talking to her this way!” he said. “What’s wrong with you all?”
“Where did you come from?” asked the woman. “How did you get in here?”
“Were you hiding in that cellar?” said the old man.
“Well… yes,” said George, embarrassed. “But that doesn’t matter! I heard all those horrible things you said! And to a little girl, of all things! Is everyone in this city so terrible? And she so underdressed for this weather, too!”
The three people exchanged glances. Even the little girl was watching him queerly.
“How did you get into this courtyard?” asked the old man. “How can you even notice it? This place is not for you, young man.”
George shrugged. “I… just ran in here out of the snow.”
“You ran here, of all places?” said the man in orange. “And at such a time?”
He glanced around himself. Now that he was standing in the middle of the courtyard, he noticed that it did seem a very unusual place. While he’d seen how large it was when he first ran in, it now felt like he could walk toward one of the walls and yet never actually reach it. And the buildings did not pen them in at all; rather, it felt like there was entirely too much sky here, and at any moment they might slip off the ground and tumble up into the atmosphere.
“What are you?” asked the woman.
“What am I?” said George. “I’m a… a pianist.”
“A pianist?” said the man in orange incredulously.
“Yes,” he said. “But… but I won’t have you talking to her this way. I won’t. It’s not right.”
The three people nodded, taking this in. They seemed satisfied by what he’d said.
“I say we kill him,” said the woman.
“Yes,” said the man in orange.
“I agree,” said the old man.
George gaped at them. “What?” he said.
“It’s the only fitting thing to do,” said the man in orange. “Who will be the one to do the deed? I nominate you, Boreas, as you have the most experience with this.”
“I shall be happy to,” said the old man, and he began rolling up his sleeves. He stepped forward, and somehow he seemed even taller than before, tall enough that his head should have scraped the sky when he walked. George began backing away, terrified.
“Wait,” said the little girl.
The old man stopped. “Wait?” he said.
“Yes,” said the girl. “Just wait.”
“Why should I wait? He has invaded our private meeting space. He has listened to the Laying of Intents. He has seen us, when we have gone unseen for centuries in these countries. This is unacceptable.”
“But he didn’t know what he was doing,” said the little girl. “And he knows nothing about us. He simply ran here to find shelter from the storm.”
“Which is all the more questionable,” said the man in the orange coat. “How could he see this place? How could he notice it, or us? What is he, indeed?”
“And is he to be believed?” said the woman. “He says it happened by pure chance, but he could be lying.”
The three of them nodded, and the old man continued rolling up his sleeves.
“No,” said George. “No, honestly, I just came here by accident.”
“Stop,” said the girl. “Let me search him, and see what I can find. I will see if he is lying.”
“The group has voted,” said the old man. “He is to die, and I shall kill him. Don’t let it trouble you. I will make it painless enough.” He took another step forward. His knuckles crackled like thunderstorms, and his brows settled down around his eyes like drifts of snow at the feet of mountains.
“You cannot kill him if I claim patronage,” said the girl.
The old man stopped short at that, and the other two gasped.
“Patronage?” said the man in orange. “Are you serious? You would do such a thing?”
“For someone you do not know?” said the old man. “For a stranger?”
“You cannot trust him,” said the woman.
The little girl held up her hand, and they were silent. She took George by the hand and gently turned him, and her small, rosy fingers were warm and soft. Then she walked in a circle around him, her bright green eyes tracing him up and down. Her gaze was very sharp and fierce, and George soon felt uncomfortable, as though he were naked and she were seeing every inch of him and he could do nothing to stop it.
“There is something different about him,” said the girl.
“Different?” said the woman. “He looks unexceptional to me.”
“Perhaps it is a trap,” said the man in orange. “Maybe there is some danger hidden within him.”
“There is something hidden within him, yes,” said the girl, surprised. “And… I do think it dangerous, but not for us.”
“Then you cannot lay patronage with ease of mind,” said the woman. “Not if he could be dangerous to anyone. There are few shames greater than a beneficiary who acts poorly.”
The girl continued peering at him. Then she shook her head. “No. I do not see that potential in him, either. Yes. Yes, I think I will. I will lay patronage.”
The old man looked at her gravely. “None of us have laid patronage to any man in many, many years. Are you sure you wish to do this?”
“As he says, he is an artist. And I am allowed to claim myself a patron for whom I wish,” she said.
“But he could be a nothing!” said the old man. “A tuneless clinker, a silly hack!”
“How can you be his patron if you have not even heard his music yet?” said the woman. “Even the lesser winds may be shamed by this! Are you serious about wishing to claim patronage for this… this boy?”
She looked at George, thinking, and smiled. “I am.”
The man in orange nodded unhappily. “Well. Then we cannot speak against that. The pianist has your patronage, and so shall live. Though I cannot see how he could ever be of use to you.”
“I’m sure you can’t,” said the young girl.
“Are we finished here?” said the woman. “It has been an exciting diversion, but we have our lands and our flocks to tend to.”
“True,” said the old man. “The storm spends itself, and now I must drive what remains elsewhere. I will close the meeting as it now stands.”
“Be sure you keep to your intents, Boreas,” said the woman. “When your breezes are done playing, round up every last one of them. I once found one loose to the west of here, long after your possession had passed from you, and I have not forgotten it.”
The old man stuck his nose high in the air and walked down the passageway and into the snow. The wind rose and he seemed to vanish. The woman looked at the rest of them, nodded, and walked down the eastern passageway. As she broached the veil of snow the wind seemed to take her as well.
The man in orange looked George over and gave him an unpleasant smile. “I hope for your sake that fortune is in your favor, boy. We are patron to very few, since many that we admire come to unpleasant ends. And should you shame us, I doubt if anyone will bother to hold Boreas back.” Then he turned and walked down the southern passageway. The wind rose and the veil of snow twitched, and he was gone.
Immediately the snow fell in a thick sheet all throughout the courtyard. George gasped in shock as the flakes started collecting in the back of his collar. The young girl tutted and cocked her head, and it tapered off again.
“He didn’t need to do that,” she said.
“How did… how did that happen?” asked George. “Wait, where did they go? Are they coming back?”
“Calm down,” she said. “You’re safe, for now. And I don’t think he means what he said.”
“Who were they? Why… why were they going to kill me?”
“They are artisans, of a sort,” she said. “Or maybe shepherds would be a better description. We meet here to discuss what we plan to make, and do. What we say here is extremely private, so they were distressed to find you’d overheard. But I realized you were here by accident, boy. It was not your fault you heard what you did.”
“How on Earth did you get mixed up with them?”
She frowned sadly. “I did not get mixed up with them. They are my family.”
“Those people were your family?” he asked. “They didn’t look anything like you, or treat you well at all.”
“Families are complicated. Especially when one is the favorite, which is unfortunately the case with me. And I’ll run the next meeting, and they always treat the successor very poorly, perhaps to be preemptive. One just has to bear it, I suppose.” She gave him a sharp look. “A more important question is, who are you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m George,” he said, and stuck out his hand.
She looked at it, then up into his face, but did not shake. “What are you doing here, George?”
“Well, I’m… I’m lost,” he said. “I’ve been having the worst day, and I went out for a walk to cool off… But then I didn’t know where I was, and it started snowing, and I ran in here for cover and… and I don’t even know how to get back to my hotel.”
She pursed her lips as she thought. “Which hotel would it be?” He told her, and the girl cocked her head again, but this time it was like she was listening to something. “I know where it is,” she said.
“You do?”
“Yes. I’ve been there before.”
“Can you get me there?”
She smiled. “At some point in time, boy, I have worked myself into nearly every nook of this city, and many more beyond it. I know quite a few places. This one should be no trouble.” She gestured to him and padded off down the western passageway, and George followed.
As they neared the veil of snow it seemed to recede until the snowfall had halted on the street before them. The girl took no notice, but George stopped and looked up at the sky. It was as if some gust of wind was parting the clouds directly above them like a curtain, freeing the way ahead of snow. He was about to say something when the gust apparently moved too far away and flakes began to patter on his hat. He ran to catch up with the girl, who had moved down the street.
“This is odd snow,” he said. “It’s extremely spotty here. But maybe it’s like that out here. Everything seems different.”
The girl looked at him out of the side of her eye. “This is your first time out in the world, isn’t it?”
“No,” said George, offended. “I’ve… simply been traveling more than I’m used to.” There was a pause. “Is it so clear?”
“Very. You need to be on your guard more.”
He sighed. “It feels like I’ve been doing nothing but making bad decisions lately. I feel so silly.”
“It can be easy to get by in the world,” said the girl. “At least, it is if you remember one thing: there is the way things appear to work, and then there is the way things really work. You must train your eye to discern between the two. Though I feel that you’ll need very little training.”
George laughed unhappily. “Do you? It seems I’ve been doing a terrible job of it so far.”
The girl stopped and whirled around on him. He had to quickly come to a halt and nearly ran into her.
“Back in the courtyard. How did you find the way in?” she asked. “How did you see us?”
“How?” said George. “I don’t know. I just did.”
“But that never happens. I can’t remember the last time that happened.” She squinted at him again, studying his every inch as though searching for something. She seemed very confused by what she found. “I can almost glimpse it,” she said to herself as she examined him. “But it is very elusive… It is so faint, so fundamental that I can barely even notice it.”
“Notice what?” said George.
The girl stood back and looked at him, slightly impressed. “There is something different about you, boy,” she said. “Something you must have picked up at some point in time. It is inside you, somewhere. And I don’t know where it came from, but I think it to be very, very old. Even older than me. I can hear it, I believe… Singing, very softly…”
George suddenly recalled that strange memory he’d experienced during Silenus’s performance: the darkened barrow, and the squiggle of light, and the voice chanting in the dark, waiting to be heard…
“I believe you will have no issue seeing how the world really works,” said the girl. “Doors that are shut for others may be open to you. And for that I pity you, for not all doors lead to places one wishes to go.”
Then she turned and continued walking down the street, the little bubble of clear sky following her as she went.
George caught up to her and said, “Why are you helping me?”
She thought about it. “Because you were kind when you did not have to be,” she said. “I don’t think you understand how rare that often is. Why did you stand up for me?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “It just seemed mean, what they were saying to you. I’ve seen a lot of meanness recently, and I didn’t want to see any more of it.”
“What you did was very brave,” said the girl. “You were facing things far greater than you, whether you knew it or not. What’s brought you here, boy?”
“My father,” he said. “Silenus. He leads our performing troupe.”
The girl stopped when she heard that. “Silenus, you say?”
“Yes. Why?”
She frowned. “I’ve heard of him.”
“You have?” asked George. “What have you heard?”
“Only whispers,” said the girl. “And vague ones at that. But I have heard that he is a very powerful man, and not to be trifled with, not even by my kinsmen. And we are very powerful in our own right.”
“But why?” asked George, awed.
“I can’t say for sure,” she said. “He passes under my skies very rarely. But when he does, all my clouds nudge toward him, and the drops of my rains suddenly slant to fall at his feet, just a bit. No one would ever notice it but me. It always seems like he is carrying something… heavy with him. Very heavy. Heavy enough to be the heart of all the world.”
“How could anyone carry anything like that?”
She smiled. “You have already forgotten what I told you.”
“I have?”
“Yes,” said the girl. “That there is the way the world seems to work, and then there is the way it really works. Come on,” she said, and led him farther into the blizzard.
Eventually the hotel emerged from the swirling snow ahead. She looked it over, and nodded. “This must be where he’s staying,” the girl said. “There is a pull here. I have felt it only when Silenus was near. It makes sense—Boreas complained that his storms drew themselves to this city, as if they had minds of their own. But you and I know the truth, don’t we?”
“I don’t know,” said George. He stared at one lit window, imagining it to be his father’s. “I feel like I don’t know anything.”
She smiled sadly. “Well. You should know that I am your patron. You stood up for me when it did you little good. And you should know you have a good heart, boy, and I will not forget that. I find you very curious, and I think I will watch you closely. If you ever need me, you can simply call my name. If I am close, I will come to you.”
“But I don’t know your name,” said George.
The girl leaned close to whisper into his ear. She smelled of jasmine and moist earth, and hay and freshly cut grass. When she whispered the word he felt a warm breeze slide across his cheek, and to his ears her breath had the sound of gentle rain.
“Oh,” said George. “I think I’ve heard of you before.”
“Like I said, I am the most popular of my kin,” she said. “Whether I like it or not. It does pain them so. But we are a squabbling sort.” Then she leaned back in, and placed a cool kiss upon his cheek. “You bear my blessing now, George. It is a small thing that may do you some good, but I am not sure if it will be enough for what you may encounter. I was once told Silenus is a hunted man, and that he deals with peoples powerful and hidden even to me. I cannot guess at what you will see or where he will take you. But should you call, I will come if I can.”
“All right,” said George. He rubbed his cheek. “Thank you.”
She smiled. “Goodbye, boy,” she said, and padded back down the street.
George watched her as she left. He had never been kissed by a girl before. As this first kiss had occurred under such strange circumstances, George was not sure if this numb, floating sensation was normal. And for some reason he thought of Colette, and felt ashamed. It was as if that chaste kiss was a betrayal of her, even though she’d shown him little affection so far.
Then the wind rose in the little street, and a flurry of flakes seemed to surround the girl, and she was gone. The bubble of clear air collapsed, and snow again began to fall on George’s hat. He jumped up the steps and ran inside the hotel.
It took George a long time to get clean. He was covered in coal dust, and icy water had soaked into his coat and socks. When he finally managed to remove and clean his sopping clothes, he’d spent nearly every bit of energy he had. He lay down on the bed, confused but eager for sleep. Yet no sooner had his head touched the pillow than a knock sounded at the door.
He opened it to find Stanley and Silenus standing in the hall with a lantern shining in Stanley’s hand. “Where the hell have you been?” asked Silenus.
“What do you mean?” asked George.
“We knocked here nearly an hour ago and there was no answer.”
“Oh,” said George. But he was not inclined to tell his father what he’d seen; Silenus had been keeping so many secrets that George thought it only fair to have a few of his own. “I was… out.”
Silenus cocked an eyebrow.
“I was delayed by a very interesting conversation with a stranger,” George added primly.
“If you say so,” said Silenus. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”
George nearly despaired at the idea of venturing out into that weather again. “What? Why?”
“Your three weeks are up, kid,” Silenus said. “It’s time for you to know.” He turned and began to walk down the hall with Stanley close behind.
George struggled back into his clothes and followed them. “To know what?” he asked.
Silenus said, “How the world was made.”