to be heard.
They leave the Drop and spend some time in a place somewhat more interesting.
“I fear I’m not as good a companion as I might be,” Nimble says, with the lights of Paris spread out before them.
“Oh, I’m sure you are,” says Tub, his short legs dangling in space.
Nimble shakes her head. “No. Quite often Millicent will call to me, and I will suggest some new game that we might play to lighten her mood. But it does not work as it did when she was younger and I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t you talk with her?”
“Oh, we talk constantly,” Nimble says, brightening. “When I am there, that is, which is not so often nowadays. We talk about things she enjoys doing, and how we might dress me next, and what games we might play, and stories…”
“She sounds lonely,” Tub says.
“But I was made so that she might never be lonely. At least, that’s what Mr. Athelstane said.”
“When I’m sad I don’t feel like playing games.”
“Sad,” Nimble says, tasting the word. “Yes.” She stops and thinks about it. “I do not know that I have ever been sad. Until now.”
“Why are you sad?”
“Millicent is lonely. I have failed.”
“Why is she sad?”
Nimble is unsure what Tub means, and then she realizes: if failing Millicent makes
her
sad, then something must likewise be causing Millicent to be sad. So…so if Nimble were to fix her failure…then…then she will
not
feel sad. And if
Millicent
is sad, then…then…
“This is so confusing,” Nimble says, the light within her heart-box dimming just a little. “Mr. Athelstane told me nothing of this.”
And she is surprised, then, to find that Tub has carefully reached over and is gently patting her hand.
“Millicent…”
Nimble reaches down to the darkened bed. A faint whisper-and-click unfurls a cold, brass finger, and she trails a knuckle down her friend’s soft white cheek. Dark hair drapes across one closed eye.
“Millicent…,” she says again.
The child stirs, then opens her black eyes. “Nimble.” She mumphs a little, then says, heavy-lidded, “I didn’t call to you.”
“I didn’t know I could do it, either.” Nimble smiles. “But here I am.”
Millicent sits herself up, blankets falling from her shoulders. Her nightgown shines pale blue in the breath of moonlight that slides past the drapes. “Why are you here? Is something amiss?”
Nimble sits herself on Millicent’s bed and takes her friend’s small hands in her own. “There is someone I would very much like you to meet. A friend.”
“A friend?”
“Tub? Would you come in please?”
Something takes a hesitant step on the other side of the room, in the dark. Millicent wipes her eyes, trying to see past sleep. One more step brings it into the light.
It would have the form of a primitive fertility goddess—squat, round, nude, and heavy—if it weren’t male. Broad hands, thick arms, feet wide and fat with splayed toes. Little tufts of hair on the shoulders, a single, crazed tuft of hair sprouting diagonally above one of its bulbous ears. It looks out at Millicent from small, dark eyes made smaller beneath a drooping brow. Its mouth is as wide as its neckless head, and two tusks jut upward from behind a wet lower lip almost as if to hitch on the thing’s heavy eyebrows.
It raises a handful of stubby fingers and waves.
Millicent shrieks and tumbles backward out of bed.
“I…I’ll go,” it says, with a voice as thick and heavy as a tropical river.
In another room Mama murmurs and goes back to sleep.
Nimble raises a hand. “No, Tub, wait.” Nimble gets up from the bed and tippy-toes around to the other side, where Millicent is gathered in the corner, peering over the tops of her knees, past the bed, to the ogre by the window.
“Millicent,” Nimble says evenly. “This is Tub. Tub, this is Millicent. Millicent, Tub is a very good friend of your father’s.”
Millicent looks up at
They leave the Drop and spend some time in a place somewhat more interesting.
“I fear I’m not as good a companion as I might be,” Nimble says, with the lights of Paris spread out before them.
“Oh, I’m sure you are,” says Tub, his short legs dangling in space.
Nimble shakes her head. “No. Quite often Millicent will call to me, and I will suggest some new game that we might play to lighten her mood. But it does not work as it did when she was younger and I don’t know what to do.”
“Don’t you talk with her?”
“Oh, we talk constantly,” Nimble says, brightening. “When I am there, that is, which is not so often nowadays. We talk about things she enjoys doing, and how we might dress me next, and what games we might play, and stories…”
“She sounds lonely,” Tub says.
“But I was made so that she might never be lonely. At least, that’s what Mr. Athelstane said.”
“When I’m sad I don’t feel like playing games.”
“Sad,” Nimble says, tasting the word. “Yes.” She stops and thinks about it. “I do not know that I have ever been sad. Until now.”
“Why are you sad?”
“Millicent is lonely. I have failed.”
“Why is she sad?”
Nimble is unsure what Tub means, and then she realizes: if failing Millicent makes
her
sad, then something must likewise be causing Millicent to be sad. So…so if Nimble were to fix her failure…then…then she will
not
feel sad. And if
Millicent
is sad, then…then…
“This is so confusing,” Nimble says, the light within her heart-box dimming just a little. “Mr. Athelstane told me nothing of this.”
And she is surprised, then, to find that Tub has carefully reached over and is gently patting her hand.
“Millicent…”
Nimble reaches down to the darkened bed. A faint whisper-and-click unfurls a cold, brass finger, and she trails a knuckle down her friend’s soft white cheek. Dark hair drapes across one closed eye.
“Millicent…,” she says again.
The child stirs, then opens her black eyes. “Nimble.” She mumphs a little, then says, heavy-lidded, “I didn’t call to you.”
“I didn’t know I could do it, either.” Nimble smiles. “But here I am.”
Millicent sits herself up, blankets falling from her shoulders. Her nightgown shines pale blue in the breath of moonlight that slides past the drapes. “Why are you here? Is something amiss?”
Nimble sits herself on Millicent’s bed and takes her friend’s small hands in her own. “There is someone I would very much like you to meet. A friend.”
“A friend?”
“Tub? Would you come in please?”
Something takes a hesitant step on the other side of the room, in the dark. Millicent wipes her eyes, trying to see past sleep. One more step brings it into the light.
It would have the form of a primitive fertility goddess—squat, round, nude, and heavy—if it weren’t male. Broad hands, thick arms, feet wide and fat with splayed toes. Little tufts of hair on the shoulders, a single, crazed tuft of hair sprouting diagonally above one of its bulbous ears. It looks out at Millicent from small, dark eyes made smaller beneath a drooping brow. Its mouth is as wide as its neckless head, and two tusks jut upward from behind a wet lower lip almost as if to hitch on the thing’s heavy eyebrows.
It raises a handful of stubby fingers and waves.
Millicent shrieks and tumbles backward out of bed.
“I…I’ll go,” it says, with a voice as thick and heavy as a tropical river.
In another room Mama murmurs and goes back to sleep.
Nimble raises a hand. “No, Tub, wait.” Nimble gets up from the bed and tippy-toes around to the other side, where Millicent is gathered in the corner, peering over the tops of her knees, past the bed, to the ogre by the window.
“Millicent,” Nimble says evenly. “This is Tub. Tub, this is Millicent. Millicent, Tub is a very good friend of your father’s.”
Millicent looks up at
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