Damien Broderick - Strange Attractors

struggling. Her gloved fingers crept about a gold cross, pendent on her neck; most unwillingly, my
eyes left that bewitching countenance, and sought the object of her
gaze.
A pair of nether limbs! as high even as the knee, clad only in some
diaphanous hose, with a glancing sheen! No stays, either; a gown, very
plain, in some silver fabric; a garment of thick fur, trailing negligently
from one arm; jewels, and a silvery reticule. Every other creature
appeared to have risen to her feet, in affright, but this young woman
sat, her face expressing a tolerant boredom — perhaps the merest suggestion that she could have wished her memory more clear. She showed no wonder at the costumes around her; at the long-waisted
Spanish farthingale (as in an Elizabethan portrait), whose blonde,
very youthful wearer stood blanched and rigid; at the lady, very tightly
laced, and dressed in hues more brilliant than I could have believed
possible, who now tottered to the sofa and laid herself down, taking
care that her voluminous petticoats and enormous sleeves were
elegantly disposed. Closing her eyes, she held a small vial, unstoppered, to her nostrils; venturing to peep, and discovering the same scene, she applied the vial once more, and again closed her eyes, with
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Yvonne Rousseau
a somewhat pathetically hopeful air.
The fifth young woman had heavy-lidded eyes, and a consequential air, strangely sweetened by the most delicately straight of noses —
the very perfection of that straightness investing her whole person with
an interesting air of fragili ty. Dressed as if for a portrait from Charles
the Second’s reign, she had at first clapped an oval mask to her face,
and ostentatiously displayed an open fan; now, however, she took a
more extensive survey of her companions, whom she plainly considered dowdies and frights. I might have guessed, from their air, that all of these women had just awoken (as I thought myself to have done)
into an unaccountable situation; but this lady suppressed the appearance of bewilderment more rigorously than any of the others, and behaved as if she thought herself at a masquerade, where the gentlemen were tardy.
With purest alarm, I now beheld her advancing straight towards
me; and not advancing straightforwardly, but curtseying as she came,
flirting with her fan, making enormous play with her eyes, displaying
all m anner of surging motions and attitudes, while yet she never
looked me in the countenance, conveying by her regardless m anner
that my insignificance descended even beneath invisibility.
I blushed hotly, and started back from the window, instantly
recalled to a sense, both of my hatlessness, and of my ill-bred
behaviour in standing and staring as I had done.
A voice spoke behind me. ‘She can’t see you, M r Lockwood. Those
windows are only looking-glasses, if you view them from the other
room.’
I faced about; and the speaker, having closed the door behind him,
advanced, dark-haired and wearing dark clothes, into the sombre
room. A complete stranger! of my own height, but of very slight build,
and with no trace of whisker on cheek or chin. His face was careworn,
yet eager; he moved with a quick, nervous stride, and spoke unexpectedly high — yet the pitch seemed native, not the result of any access of emotion or weakness. His dress was very plain, and the cloth only
some kind of jean — a short jacket, such as country fellows wear, with
slim trousers, over which were worn a kind of boots, rather like
Hessians; but from top to bottom of his jacket-front there ran a curious strip of metallic braid, resembling a ladder; similar strips decorated the sides of his boots; even his trousers seemed furnished not with falls, but with another metallic strip, almost concealed by overlapping fabric. These were unaccountable embellishments!
‘They can’t hear us, either; and we can hear them only if I throw this
M r Lockwood’s narrative
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switch.’ He made a gesture as meaningless as his words; he carried no
switch, nor any other kind of whip.
Uncertain whether he was menial or master, I bowed slightly, and
hazarded a ‘Sir!’ — w'hereat he started, looked hard at me, and seemed
to take a rapid inner decision.
‘Perhaps you had best call me Francis, M r Lockwood.’
‘Well, Francis.’ I paused, postponing any demand to see the gentleman of the house; even relieved that I had, after all, no considerable person to deal with, in my present disorder — no one deserving of a
‘M r’ and a surname. ‘It’s winter!’ I suddenly burst out, indicating the
offending garden. ‘And in the middle of the night!’
Colour leapt into the fellow’s wan, somewhat delicate face; one
hand passed in an involuntary smoothing motion over the close-
cropped dark head; he was embarking upon the apology that my
accusing tone so ridiculously demanded!
‘There was no avoiding it — a risk, I admit, but at least part of this
scene simply had to seem unaccountable. To have anything resembling it among your memories would be to create a mere unprofitable hybrid; it would mean the end of any genuine M r Lockwood.’
The m anner suggested