I put my glass down on the low wall at the edge of the terrace. 'Life's too short/
'My father's life was too short/
I said nothing.
'My father died and I wanted something, and you told me that it wasn't revenge. And you were right. Revenge is trash. Worthless. But why? What was it I needed instead?'
I shook my head. 'I was only trying to spare you the effort. Revenge is a waste of time and-'
'No/ she said, looking at me directly. 'It's a displacement activity. It's something you can lock on to and do because you can't do the thing you really want to do/
I had grown impatient. 'And what might that be, Medea? Do you know?' I asked.
'I do now/ she said. Thuring killed my father. I needed something, and it wasn't payback. It was what he took from me. I needed to know my father. If I'd ever had that, then I'd never have given Thuring another thought/
She was right. It was so obvious, it chilled me. I wondered how many other, similar, obvious mistakes I had made in my life with my head so full of certain knowledge and my heart so numb.
I looked back at the pugnaseum, and saw Midas's cerise jacket handing where she had left it, draped against the inside of one of the windows like a trapped butterfly.
'I can give you what you want/1 said, 'in part, at least. If you really want it/
I summoned my astropath, Vance, and requested that he made the preparations. He suggested that evening might be a good time, when things were quieter, and so I asked Jarat to serve a light dinner early to leave the evening clear, and to leave out a cold supper in case we were hungry once we were done.
At seven, Medea and I went to the reading room above the house's main library. I gave Kircher specific instructions that we were not to be disturbed. Most of the household had retired early to private study or relaxation in any case.
Psullus, the rabricator, was in the library, repairing some bindings that were fraying at the spines.
'Give us a while/1 said to him.
He looked unnerved. Infirm with a progressive wasting disease, he virtually lived in the library. It was his private world and I felt cruel ousting him from it.
'What should I do?' he asked cautiously.
'Go sit in the study, watch the stars come out. Take a good book.'
He looked around and sniggered.
My library was at the heart of Spaeton House, and occupied two floors. The lower level was divided by alcoves of shelves and the upper gallery was supported by those alcoves, giving access to further shelving stacks lining the gallery walls. Soft glow-lamps hung from slender ceiling chains and cast a warm, golden light all around, and the panelled reading lecterns along the centre of the ground floor were fitted with individual reading lamps that generated little pockets of brighter blue luminescence.