The Fool and the Invitation
After the betrothal, I asked her if she would sit with me as her Mother went to a new task, her Father’s joke about the Patriarchy still reverberating in corners of the dining hall where elderly congregants were cleaning and packing up leftovers. Out the slender windows, the Moon was just rising, a tilting sliver low and distant on the horizon.
She sat there, looking stern and tall but slightly amused while she waited for me to formulate my question, a smile hidden in the penumbra of her irises.
“I suppose I shouldn’t ask,” I said, “it would make more sense not to question any of this. I’m thrilled, obviously. Overwhelmed… maybe over-awed? But I still wonder why. Why you don’t question it. I can’t help but I fear that you will, and my only certainty is that it would kill me if you did.”
My finger tapped ellipses on the tablecloth as I continued.
“I don’t really understand all of this out of the blue. You mentioned my father’s kindness as a reassurance, even as you called him dull almost as a joke. But… either I’m my father or I’m not,” I continued, “If I’m so like him, then I might be thoughtful and empathetic, but also boring. If I’m not then, regardless of charisma, I could be a jerk. Either way, from any perspective other than my own, don’t you deserve someone without caveats?”
The candles flickered as the door turned and waved at an exiting cart.
“I see. Then what must you think of me?” she asked with a smile. “‘Such a pliant daughter!’ Or maybe prone to flights of fancy? Likely careless? Perhaps changeable? And if I am, what a risk for you as you are, already fascinated, or infatuated.”
She leaned forward and looked deeper into my eyes than I liked. “Oh? More than that, you think? We’ll see.”
“But to feel like you might die?” she laughed. “If you’re afraid, well, this choice is full of peril, though turning back would be worse.”
“Maybe you should have considered that before you kept that firebird feather. While we’re supposing, I suppose that’s a lot to ask a fool who thinks he’s thoughtful. There is risk. Since you say you might die, you must think I’m worth it.”
The candles flickered again and the eight shadow arms of the candelabra seemed to writhe and raise a ward of protection.
“The way you look at me. Almost as if I’d already killed you. I’ll let you off the hook. You needn’t worry, my love. The danger is not in me, not in my heart, and not in my certainty.”
She laughed again and rested her fingers on my hand. “After all, aren’t the rarest vintages in dark and unremarkable bottles? And don’t collectors dust them off reverently and speak in hushed tones even as they replace them in the cellar? The metal of any truly precious ring’s setting is worth a fraction of the price of the jewel. Perhaps I just want something dull to complement my radiance?”
“That’s almost it. Yes. After all, even the finest vintage would go sour in a golden flask.”
“Most importantly, it’s not your father, but mine that sets the balance in this equation. Not because he demands it, but because I am wise enough to see him in you. Because I want what my Mother has, and she recognizes your worth. Even now I know what you can be, what can be revealed. How? From the transformation that has already been set into motion. Don’t you remember? It happened many years from now, when we cast the incantation together.”