The Magnificent Bastards

II | The Dagger and the Chalice-1

II | The Dagger and the ChaliceThe first thing Satyena noticed about the humble flat was that it was humble, humble in almost every sense of the word except for the plethora of paintings and books, books which crammed shelves and spilled over tables (which were themselves supported by books), paintings which covered nearly every inch of the walls and leaned in corners like cheval glass mirrors. It was the paintings that struck her the most, with their scenes of romantic interludes between men and women and their graceful studies of the female form—images which would have been burnt summarily, along with their owners (to say nothing of the artists) amongst the witches, but which had found safe harbor here among the men, although it was possible these were illicit and that it was only these two who dared to break the edict.

“You must be weak from your ordeal, please, sit,” said Jeremiah. He cleared a scattering of books from the couch. “I’ll fetch Jasper.” He moved to leave the room but paused. “You must be thirsty.”

He went into the kitchen and poured her a glass of water. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

“I’m not hungry,” she said. She seated herself slowly, tentatively. “Two, maybe three days. Ever since Sister Samain wrested control of the coven from the Council. Thank you ...” She took the glass from Jeremiah, still looking at the paintings. “They’re all done by the same hand, aren’t they?”

He took off his wide-brimmed hat and studied them. “The same eye. Sometimes Jasper’s hand shakes uncontrollably and I have to steady it with my own. Other times I am his hand, and he tells me what to do.” He laughed a little. “He says that I am an artist, just as he. But even I know it’s the eye that sees, not the hands.”

She continued staring at them. “No, I don’t think that’s true. These pictures have lines of grace ... look, see how the fingers are elongated, and tend to curve up or down depending on the position of the body. They dance upon the canvas ... surely you can see that. I think you paint them together, Jeremiah.”

He swung the strap of the respirator over his head and set it on a mantle. “I’m just his hands.” He moved to leave the room again.

“Just? But hands are for feeling,” she said.

He paused at the entrance to the hall. “And they’re for killing, too.” Then he disappeared into the dark.

And she thought, It’s the heart that kills, Jeremiah. The hard one by slaying others ... and the soft by slaying itself. Then she pushed it from her mind.

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