CHAPTER THE EIGHTH

No Rest for the Virtuous

I wonder sometimes whether the Furies were venting their wrath on Carlyle that night, since Providence had ordered them to leave me be. In my experience the Furies are a fairer portrait of Fate than any smiling angel. They are not good, not merciful. The sufferings they sow are not steps toward some incomprehensible Good; rather, in this kingdom where the virtuous must suffer, at least the Furies make the wicked suffer more. This I can believe in, Fates who spin and mark and cut our threads of life and hide no benevolence behind their shears; some other goal, perhaps, but not benevolence. I know enough of what we mortals mean by “Good” to know that I have never seen it. I do not deny the Plan—a world without a Plan would not have spared Apollo’s killer only to grant me Apollo’s legacy—I simply refuse to be party to the optimistic hubris which labels the Goal behind that Plan as “Good.”

“Carlyle, Carlyle, Carlyle. What are we to do with you?”

Not even Thisbe’s bedroom was private enough for her purposes tonight. She chose the flower trench, the grass at once alive with evening’s chorus and dead in the absence of the child whose golden smile transformed night to day. Carlyle followed her close, not by choice, for Thisbe still held Carlyle’s scarf like a mother lion carrying her cub.

“I’m sorry,” Carlyle began. “I was here searching for clues about Bridger, I didn’t mean…”

“Carlyle,” Thisbe interrupted, softly, “it’s time to stop lying.”

Carlyle gulped air, even raised a pointing finger ready to justify herself, but her conviction melted into the tremors of a sob. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I shouldn’t lie, not to you. You’ve shared Bridger with me, the most important secret in the world, and I couldn’t even tell you…”

“Couldn’t tell me what?” Thisbe released the sensayer, facing her with arms crossed but eyebrows pleading. “What couldn’t you tell me?”

“I was sent!” Carlyle broke down, her whole frame deflating as she confessed. “To protect you, mostly to protect you. After your last sensayer killed themself, the Conclave guessed there might be a secret reason, some kind of secret pressure on your bash’. I was sent to find out what.”

“The Conclave guessed?” Thisbe repeated. “Collectively?”

“Yes. Well, no, not the whole Conclave.”

“Julia Doria-Pamphili,” Thisbe supplied.

“Julia sent me, I… that’s what I do, I take on tricky cases where other sensayers have… fallen… before.”

Thisbe sniffed. “A professional spy?”

“No! No, I didn’t come to spy, I came to protect you!”

“By eavesdropping from inside Mukta?”

The Cousin winced. “I needed to know the truth. And you needed to tell me, all of you, Cato especially. Could I have gotten you to share the secret any other way?”

Thisbe’s sigh could be no heavier. “I never expected to hear ‘the ends justify the means’ from a sensayer.”

“Sometimes they do! Not often, but when the gain is so much bigger than the harm done, yes, they do. The harshest sensayer sessions are often the most productive, it’s amazing, you should try it too.” Carlyle tried a deep breath to steel herself, but it collapsed into a sob. “I learned that again today.”