Alex makes her way to the elevators, a route now made familiar from Savvy’s button-cam footage.
The white-gloved lift attendant does not challenge her, but merely steps silently aside as she enters and presses the button to close the doors. A red arrow appears on the display, facing down.
The journey appears to take even longer than Savvy’s, and there is a gradual drop in temperature as they descend. Luckily, she has abandoned low-cut sleeveless dresses in favour of something more casually insulating – a simple blouse and slacks, a light-wool cardigan, flat-soled shoes (sensible, should she need to run). She’s fairly sure that this will not be an occasion where she will need to impress anyone with her feminine mystique.
The doors open directly onto a large apartment, polished wooden floors, assorted paintings, their varnish darkened and cracked with age, and the same crimson and cobalt tapestries. A table laid for dinner reflects the light of a log fire and several large candelabra. The woman is sat at the table’s head, and there is a place set opposite her with an empty chair. Alex hears the lift doors close behind her.
“I’m so pleased you could make it,” says the woman. “You know, I saw you there, at the dinner, a lamb among the wolves, and thought I’d do my bit to rescue you from the tedium. Men can be such boors.”
Alex takes her seat.
“Well,” she says, “I’d kick myself if I passed up the opportunity to get to the bottom of this.”
The woman smiles politely.
A white-gloved servant appears at her side, mutely offers to pour the wine, and she nods. She watches the crimson liquid swirl into the glass. He moves to the other side of the table to repeat his duties for the host.
“You’re not the Marquise de Lefatigué,” Alex says. “You can’t be. The original one, I mean. Charlotte.”
“Did I ever say I was?” Her host sips her wine, a little frown creasing her smooth-skinned forehead.
“Well, not directly, but … in the library … the family recipe, you …” Didn’t say any such thing. “And at the maze. The labyrinth. You mentioned the King and Queen of Bohemia, Newton, Leibniz, like you were implying that you’d actually…” What? Met them? But again, reviewing the woman’s words, she finds she has read into them, filled in the background with her own superstitious context. She feels such a fool.
“Don’t worry, my dear. I say a lot of things, even when there is no-one there to hear them. The prerogative of being a widow.” She chuckles. “Someone has to keep me company, even if that’s just myself.”
“What about the family, then? I was told that the house had been sold to the foundation when the Lefatigué line was extinguished.”
“As indeed it was. There shall be no more little marquises.” She gestures up to a three-quarter figure portrait sat above the fireplace: a slightly supercilious middle-aged man in eighteenth-century dress, white wig and gloves, military coat and accompanying sword. “My husband’s esteemed bloodline is no more – we had no sons or daughters to carry on the name, sad to say. Doesn’t seem fair, does it?” The starter arrives – the same soup that was served at the previous evening’s dinner, by the look and smell of it. “If the Marquis were still alive, perhaps there would be hope of an heir; I’m sure the randy old goat could squeeze out one last wriggler for posterity.” She mimes a squirming spermatozoon with her little finger and laughs, a melodious tinkling sound, like wind chimes. “But no, there’s just poor post-menopausal me, I’m afraid. Herr Rheingold lets me live on here, as a sort of caretaker, so your informant was only slightly mistaken.”
“But, I checked, on—”
“Wikipedia? Yes, it is quite handy, being able to edit one’s own history. I dare say our family is not a popular enough topic for the veracity of my edits to invite challenge. Admittedly, it was an act of pure vanity. I was ashamed. How far we had fallen. I did not want people to know my current fate.”
Mysteries solved. Alex feels almost disappointed.
“So how long has The Soc—how long has the foundation been coming here?”
“Oh, for some years, now – I forget how many. They were looking for somewhere a bit more exclusive for their annual retreat, I think, somewhere with a bit more history and class that was off the beaten path. A crass bunch, to begin with, but you know what these nouveau riche can be like; new money is rootless, and reaches out for the trappings of tradition and culture. I like to think we’ve had some influence on them over the years, rubbed off a few of their rough edges and uncouth ways. My husband was glad to oblige them. The money was most needed at the time as our funds were almost dried up. The life of a diminished aristocrat can be most trying; what was once an expression of your status, wealth and power becomes a crumbling liability to be constantly maintained, renovated, eating away at your bank balance. I dare say it’s the same in your stately homes. Either you rent yourself out, become a theme park, or you gracefully descend into ruin. How is your soup?”
Actually, it is growing on her; the strange umami taste is still much to the fore, but she feels nourished, reinvigorated.
“So as I say,” the woman continues, “my late husband sold us off to them, and just like that” – she snaps her fingers – “we went from landed gentry to lodgers in our own home. Well, I did, as the old goat passed on not long afterward. The sale was more or less his last act – his last but one, I should say: found stiff in one of his mistresses. Told him viagra would be the death of him.” She makes a little noise of enjoyment as she sips her soup. “It really is good, this, isn’t it? Do you like it? Personally,” not waiting for Alex to answer, “I would not have sold. The family title is mine, you know, my mother’s, and hers before her. So it was our marriage that had ennobled him, just a gauche, petit arriviste from the provinces. And it was my fault, really. I left the finances, the running of the estates up to him – he had been so keen to relieve my pretty little head of all such mundane worries, as if it were an act of chivalry! And by the time I realised that he had so mismanaged everything – with his horses, his whores, his gambling debts – we were practically bankrupt, and we had no choice but to sell. At which point, it turned out, I had little legal say in the matter. Always read what you’re signing, my dear! And never put heart before head” – punctuating these last two pieces of advice with a conductor-like flourish of her soup spoon. “But such is woman’s lot. Too trusting.” She smiles and looks a little sad. “Of course, it has not always been this way.” She takes up her wineglass again, but doesn’t drink. “The first societies were matriarchal, you know. And for millennia, property passed through the female line – as it does still, in some few cultures. This was because God was once a woman.
“You see, for a long time primitive humans did not understand the connection between sex and procreation. Sounds odd, doesn’t it? But it’s obvious, when you think about it, for the signs of pregnancy are not evident until months after the short-lived act responsible for it. And so by the time the baby came, it was considered a miraculous occurrence, a form of parthenogenesis – probably where the idea of the Virgin Birth came from. Woman was seen as the origin of all life, a sacred being, worshipped as a goddess. It was not until the advent of the patriarchal religions that her role was superseded and her status degraded. From priestesses and queens to housemaids and baby machines.” The woman drinks, dabs a red stain from her mouth with her napkin and laughs. “But that’s enough with the history lessons, I think. Are you ready for the next course?”
They make their way through a small bowl of some sort of spiced lamb dish vaguely like a goulash, all the while the woman continuing to dominate the conversation, opining on this or that, reminiscing and relating more fascinating little anecdotes, but the general theme of which, Alex realises, is sex, in the broadest sense.
“I can’t say I miss it, especially – the act, I mean. But I do miss what it did for me – what I could use it for. But you know all about that.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Oh, please don’t be. I’m a great admirer, you know, what you’ve achieved there. Got him dangling off your little finger, haven’t you? I bet he hasn’t the first clue.”
A shiver goes up Alex’s spine. “About what?”
“Who you are, my dear. Why you’re here.”
“And why is that?”
The woman gives her a look. The servant shuffles in with a silver tray, the next course hidden beneath a domed lid, and sets it in the middle of the table.
“Tell me, what do you think of them?”
“Who?”
“Why, men, of course.”
“I … what do you mean?” asks Alex.
“It’s not a hard question, is it? What do you think of them?” Again continuing before Alex has chance to answer, “Personally, I’ve always thought that they could be better utilised. They’re like little boys, really, aren’t they? Even as adults. All that machismo and aggression, all that rutting energy and can-do attitude. Wanting to build things, conquer and discover things. To move fast and break things.” She laughs. “And for what? Faster cars, taller skyscrapers, bigger rockets – the first to get to Mars! For fuck’s sake. A dead planet! Please excuse my Anglo Saxon, but it angers me. All that they are doing to Gaia.” She drinks again, then grimaces, but whether at the wine or the thought is unclear. “But what if you could harness that, hmm? Think what we could achieve.”
“We?”
“Well, women. Who else? The drones just need a queen. That’s all they’re good for—did you know that, about bees?”
“Know what?”
“Well—oh, you’re going to love this! So, once a year, the Queen flies off to start a new colony, and the male drones from all around flock to her, vying to fertilise her. And with each one, his seed deposited, she snaps off his poor little organ, and he drops away! Dead!” She snaps her fingers, her middle finger smacking the ball of her thumb with a surprisingly loud thwack. “And it’s on to the next in line. It’s quite the little gang bang!” She giggles almost girlishly. “Because you see, that is their sole purpose: the male drones exist only to procreate. They don’t pollenate, don’t harvest honey, they don’t feed the young, they don’t fight – the female worker bees do all that. And once mating season is over, any male drones left hanging around the hive are booted out to starve. Ruthless, really. And just how it should be!”
She gives another melodious chuckle. More wind chimes.
“But here I am babbling away. Again! Anyway, shall we move on to the main?”
And the woman removes the lid from the tray to reveal a roasted human male head.
Tidelands is a weekly sci-fi/fantasy serial that publishes every Friday, emailed straight to your inbox. All instalments are free, but you can support my writing by taking out a paid subscription, or buying ebook or paperback editions of the collected instalments.