Ingenious pain, Andrew Miller [little red riding hood ebook .txt] 📗

'Lord!' says Featherstone. 'Candles enough in there to light the whole of Bristol.'

About laughs. 'At last we have impressed you! But how far you made us come.'

The palace swallows them. The envoy says: 'Stay close! I lost the youngest son of an earl here once and have not seen him since.'

Two men with diamonds in their shoes are wrestling at the foot of the stairs. The travellers ascend, glimpsing themselves in the abundant mirrors, their faces flushed. About says: 'One could grow oranges in this heat!' Squatting at the base of a marble pillar, a dozen Kalmuck women watch the strangers pass. One points at Mary; the others lower their eyes, mumble. A Mongol officer, black-eyed, skin tight as an apple, nods his head to the envoy. The envoy waves his gloves, hops over a pair of sleeping wolfhounds and runs up the next flight of stairs. A gob of wax drops on to the Reverend's sleeve. Dyer is next to him. How pale he looks. That leg is troubling him again.

'Take my arm, Doctor. Or we shall be lost Hke that other fellow!'

Servants scurry past with trays, the bottles steaming and ghstening with the snow they have been pulled from. One servant carries a fish, big as a piglet, slips, lets go of the tray and launches the fish into a dive through depths of yellow air. The envoy asks directions from a child who stands eating candied rose-petals beside a door through which a hundred, two hundred ladies and gentlemen are sat at cards. 'Tout droit,' says the girl. The envoy kisses her and dives among the card tables, waving the others on without looking back. On the walls, expensive and ignored, slung in cumbersome gold-leaved frames, are paintings from another world. Ruby limbs, bloody heroes, profligate gods; princes with their attendant angels, all unsmiHng; and through a background window, a glimpse of hot brown hills, the red tiles of Tuscany.

From some of the tables, between rounds of Ombre or Boston, a powdered face looks up at the newcomers, smirks, whispers, loses interest, goes back to cards.

In this room, tables are laid out with delicacies for the players' refreshment. Sterlet from the Volga, veal from Archangel, beef from the Ukraine, pheasants from Bohemia. Icy jugs of gluckwa, orgeat, almond-flavoured ratafia. 'These melons', says the envoy, coming to the end of the table, 'are from Bukovina.' He dips a finger into a bowl of caviare, licks off the glittering eggs, summons a flunky who disappears and returns.

The envoy says: 'We may go in now. Try to be interesting.'

To the Reverend it seems they have entered the rehearsal room of an opera company, yet the gold is not painted, nor are the diamonds glass. Like all the rooms they have passed through, it is too bright, too exquisite, too crowded with the purchases of Russian agents who scour Europe with their deep purses. So many fine things, any one of which, alone, would have been remarkable. Together they are like the piled booty of a Khan; toys of power.

In the centre of the room a woman is leaning over the billiard

table. There is the sound of struck ivory as she makes her shot, then she looks up at the strangers, her blue eyes, her blue gaze, travelling from face to face

Amid the chatter, the polite and boorish laughter, floats a voice, distinctly, exotically English.

'. . . every third night at bedtime eight grains of Calomel, yes indeed, and eight grains powder of crab's claws . . .'

The woman at the table speaks French with a German accent. She says: Who have you brought me tonight?'

The envoy bows heroically. 'Your Imperial Majesty, I have brought you Dr Dyer from England. Dr Dyer, and his companions.'

Dyer steps forward, bows. The Empress, in an English sentence clearly learnt by rote, says: 'You honour us by coming so far. We are pleased to welcome you to our city.'

Somewhere among the hunchbacks, the bored dwarves, the maids of honour, the gentlemen of the bedchamber, the Englishman is still talking.

'. . . then I recommend an eighth of a grain of tartar emetic and, upon waking, a dose of Glauber's salts . . .'

The Empress turns, the crowd parts. The Reverend has already guessed who they will see; he has heard the voice once before, in Brussels. Dr Dimsdale, sleek and plump, glides to the Empress's side, already a favourite. The room watches, grows hushed. The gentlemen, the sombre-suited foreigners, regard each other; a long, intelligent exchange. In Dimsdale's eyes, a cool relish of his victory; in James Dyer's eyes, a look of incomprehension, as if the guiding genius of his life had suddenly, inexplicably betrayed him.

Someone giggles. In schoolroom French, Dimsdale says: 'And what is your opinion of Glauber's salts, Mr Dyer?'

The Empress claps; the whole room claps. It is as if the court has never heard such wit, such flare.

What is that? It is an orrery, is it not?' It is.'

It must be a particular favourite of yours, Doctor, for you to have brought it all this w^ay.'

'I have had it years together.'

'A charming piece. I suppose that is the Sun, and these the planets?'

The room is feebly lit. James Dyer is by the window, the orrery on the table beside him. The window is not shuttered. A light snow is falling. In the street below, sleds and carriages are bringing home the last of the card players, the revellers, from the Winter Palace.

'I believe, Doctor, that the girl has lit the stove in your room.'

There is no answer. The Reverend thinks: I will merely rile him if I stay. He must digest his disappointment alone.

He goes to the door, then, unable to suppress the instinct to console, he says: 'The envoy assured me there was much to be done here by a man with real ability. Much to be had. I trust you will not think your trip entirely wasted.'

There is a movement at the far end of