Charles Stross - Different Flesh

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Different Flesh

Soiree at Schloss Twilight

The five of them gathered together on the stone balcony that jutted from the western wing of the

ballroom, high above the formal gardens of the Schloss Twilight. The dancers whirled on into the

evening behind them, unaware of the passage of time outside their dream of music and motion. Bishop

Morden looked over the crumbling balustrade at the hedges and flower beds below. One of the stuffed

penguins caught a slanting ray of light and seemed to wink at him; he shuddered, briefly genuflected to

the five poi nts, then turned away.

"Would you care for an aperitif?" asked Lady Stael, expectantly. "I am aware that the servants cannot be

relied upon today, but -- "

The Bishop smiled uneasily and sidled away from the edge of the terrace. "No my dear," he said, "I fear

for my digestion! Perhaps an infusion of gentian would be of help, but for the time being I am distraught

with worries that I would not care to inflict upon your gentle head: and they have sorely aggravated my

colic. Perhaps, however, our noble friend the Paramage -- "

Lady Stael stared at him; her eyes raked him with a peculiarly matronly expression of disdain that sat ill

with her appearance of blossoming youth, making her look like something preserved beyond its time.

"The so-called Paramage and his disreputable colleagues are here at the bidding of my fate, to honour an

appointment made some seventy years ago," she murmured. "If they should ask for refreshments, why, I

should have to ensure their satisfaction! But they are not welcome, you understand. Unlike yourself."

"My apologies, madam," said the Bishop, sweating under his stiff collar. "I was unaware -- "

Lady Stael turned and stared past the Bishop. He followed the direction of her gaze. A table of filigree

and shadow graced the far end of the balcony, concealed from the dancers in the ballroom by the thick

velvet drapes of the curtains. Five chairs were drawn up around it. One was occupied by a strange

gentleman whose appearance was that of a ruinous ruffian or cutthroat; a man who by rights should

grace her dungeon rather than her balcony. The brim of his hat was drawn low across his eyes, and it

was ob vious that there was room-a-plenty for any number of dark thoughts behind his shadowed brow.

Next to him sat Jack-Jones the Paramage, a saturnine man of middle years who wore his beard in the

archaic manner of a castillian noble. His expression was jovial but his hair and his pale blue eyes were

glacial, even when he laughed. And finally, occupying a seat so close to the curtains that he almost

blended in with the shadows, was a figure that Jack-Jones had not introduced. This person was swathed

from head < P> o foot in a black and odiferous robe, such that the Bishop could hardly blame Lady Stael

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for not desiring him on her premises. He looked like a hedge-priest and he smelt, not to put too fine a

point upon it, like Death.

"It is sometimes said," Lady Stael muttered, "that the presence of guests is a trial sent by the Lord to test

our wits and our witticisms. If that is the case then I am afraid I am sore wanting, for whenever I

confront these three desperadoes all badinage flees! Perhaps it bears upon the evening ahead. Your

holiness, I do not wish to sit with these alone, and I would surely not wish to presume upon your

patience, but -- "

The Bishop smiled and bobbed his head. "But why, if that is the case, do you come out here to take in

the sunset?" he asked. "Surely there is a ball behind us, and no shortage of guests who would willingly

trip away the darkness with the lady of the household come Heaven or Nightmare! Why come out here?"

He watched her face closely. The Bishop was not a young man -- there were very few such still alive --

and he had done many strange things before he took the cloth, yet there was a kernel within Lady Stael

that, should it crack, he feared to see. She had lived within her shell for a long time; and she had steeped

herself soul-deep in a bitterness like that of cyanic almonds, until her facade of youth was a mockery.

Her husband had not been seen for many years, not since he set off on his crusade in search of the

unsighted lands of the anti-arctic: and yet still she remained loyal to his memory and maintained

appearances.

She breathed deeply. "I am not a young maiden any more, Marcus, however I might preserve this flesh I

inhabit. Please don't presume upon my innocence. Presume by all means upon my chastity -- certainly,

in the absence of my lord and master -- but not upon my naivete! Without the Paramage all life might

have fled this soul long ago. I owe him this appointment, upon the unburied body of my past lives, but I

shall not be coerced into enjoying it! For I know what game that man has brought his friends h ere to

play, tonight."

The Bishop was taken aback at this invective, directed by a member of the fair sex at a gentleman of

whom, although he had little direct knowledge, he had heard much. "Surely it is not as bad as that?" he

asked, unwisely treading upon her sensibilities. "Has he made any improper adv -- "

"He has not," she said icily. "It is merely his presence, and all that it implies! On this night of all nights,

to be trapped on a crumbling balcony with such a man! The indignity!"

The Bishop sighed. "My Lady," he said, "do you not remember the teachings of Our Lord? That self-

consciousness is the greatest sin, for the unconscious mind does know things of which we are unaware,

so that we would live lives enchained within the dungeons of our psyches were we not to expose it to

each other in agape? That, therefore, to hold to this grudge solely on behalf of his perceived guilt for a

crime not yet -- "

" -- You have not heard it from his own lips!" she exclaimed, falling silent with a sudden vehemence that

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spoke louder than her words. "From the lips of the Paramage, I mean; far be it from me to impute doubts

as to your interpretation of Our Lord's Message!"

"Pardon me then, my Lady," said the Bishop, touching his rosary to feel the holy pentagon. "Would it

not then be worthwhile for me to discern the truth for myself, from the lips of the man whom you assert

is making this demand upon you? And perhaps, in so doing, lead another lost soul into the light?"

She sighed, and suddenly he perceived the evanescent quality of youth that her husband Lord Stael must

have discerned in her when he married her so many years ago. "You are right and true as always,

Marcus: your Holiness. I should not lose my temper over such ... trifles. If the world is indeed coming to

an end, tonight of all nights, it is unfitting for me to reach the extent of my life as a middle-aged

harridan ... "

"How many years have you been lady of this demesne?" asked the Bishop, softly. He turned and stared

out at the shadows lengthening across the lawn below.

"Four decades past," she said quietly. With a gloved hand she gathered up the ice-blue skirts of her gown

and turned towards the table. "And I was thrice reborn when he married me: firstly as a sailor of no

consequence upon the Sea of Yang, then as a -- woman -- who met with an untimely end, and then into

my present skin. Three lives, Bishop: is that all there is to this universe? Come, let us join the gamers.

You are right as usual, it would not be correct for me to be inhospitable to my guests on this night of all

nights."

She extended her arm and the Bishop took it, escorting her across the mossy flagstones of the balcony

towards the gaming table at which the wizard and his companions waited. Behind them, the dancers

whirled to the strains of a chamber orchestra; they whirled as the rays of the setting sun lanced through

the tall glass windows and fell across the parquet for the last time; they spun like tops across the

polished floor as the sands trickled out through the smallest aperture of all, as the great and universa l

orrery ran down.

As they approached the table the Paramage glanced up. He paused in mid-sentence, his mouth open as if

entrapped in the incantation of some mystic function, and then he began to smile. As he smiled, the two

vacant chairs moved silently, turning to accommodate their approaching occupants.

"Good evening to you, my Lady," said Jack-Jones. "Is that not Bishop Moran you bring to our table? I

must admit I was half-expecting him. A delight, I'm sure!" He stood and extended a hand; behind him

the rogue and the cowled sacerdote rose to their feet..

Lady Stael extended an arm, and the Paramage bent to kiss her wrist. As his lips brushed the black

velvet of her glove a shot rang out from beneath the balcony, followed by a moan of utter despair and

loathing. The wizard and the lady froze as the hooded monastic turned to stare across the garden. "The

servants are playing Muscovian Roulette," he said, his voice bereft of all intonation. "The cook appears

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to have won. That is his wife's lament." There was a second shot, and the moaning ceased instantly. < P>

"Who will clear the dishes, then?" asked Lady Stael.

Jack-Jones smiled again. "That is hardly a problem," he said. "Come, my Lady! Eat, drink, be merry --

for tomorrow we will most certainly not be around to die."

The Bishop sat down uneasily. As he did so, the chair slid towards the table as if an invisible footman

stood at his back. He grasped the arms, feeling carved lion-faces press into his palms. "Would that I

could be so certain, your Excellency. If perhaps I have understood your prophecy correctly -- "

"Call me Jack, please!" said the wizard; "and I may call you Marcus, perhaps? My Lady, you are radiant

tonight! The earrings of amber are so fine; am I correct in perceiving that those are tiny salamanders

trapped within?"

She smiled coolly and withdrew her hand. "They are not amber but glass, and the occupants are not

reptiles," she said. "They are the embalmed brains of my first-born twins, who came into this world

rather too early. I shall not bear any others," she added, "but it gives me a certain comfort to wear them

from time to time. I fancy I can hear them whispering to me ... "

The cowled priest nodded understandingly, and an odour of tomb-rot swept from his hood. "That is a

meagre encouragement, but a real one," he said. "As one who has never sown or reaped the seed of the

loins, it behoves me to congratulate you upon your partial success. There was once a time when

motherhood was cheap and lives were short: but no more!"

He retreated from the balustrade, sat down and rearranged his cowl. The Bishop was intrigued, and

somewhat chilled, to realise that not once had the man's face come into view. There was a great geas at

work on Lady Stael, if his senses were informing him correctly: and this secretive monk was part of it.

The rough-looking man in the wide-brimmed hat and the leather suit sat down. He had remained silent

during the introductions, but now he tilted his face up and looked at his hostess. His jaw was unshaven

and his eyes were expressionless. "I am pleased to meet you," he said slowly. "My friend, his Excellency

Jack-Jones, instructed me to come to this place to facilitate the coming event. I am deeply appreciative

of such an -- "

"But what's your name?" Lady Stael interrupted.

The ruffian grinned with the fey expression of one who knew all the cards in the game of life. "I am the

Last Gambler," he said. "I teach the statistics of uncertainty, those of the honourable Thomas Bayes in

particular. Would you care for a lesson?"

The Lady recoiled, her cheeks flushing bright red. "Certainly not!" she said furiously. "Unless you can

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tell me the odds upon my husband being alive and returning to wreak justice upon such as yourself!" She

turned away suddenly, so that only the Bishop glimpsed the film of tears that lay across her eyes as she

stared at the distant hills.

"That and other things can I estimate," said the Gambler softly, his undertone directed at the hooded

monk. "But methinks the Lady would not be of a mind to thank me for it." He reached to the table and

raised a tulip-stemmed glass to his lips. Red liqueur caught the setting rays. "Shall we begin?"

"Begin what?" asked the Bishop distractedly. His attention was directed upon Lady Stael, towards whom

he felt more concern than he knew to be right and proper. She was, he decided, very beautiful, especially

when she shaved her scalp so that only a thin patina of gold fuzz caught the light, setting off the

magnificence of her decolletage.

The Gambler produced a deck of peculiarly large cards, and laid it flat upon the table-top. He sat back,

contemplating it. "Has anyone explained to you why we are gathered here tonight?" asked Jack-Jones.

The Bishop shook his head. "I fear not," he said benignly. "Am I to understand that this is something

more than a friendly soiree, on the occasion of the ball given by her Ladyship in honour of the end of the

world?"

The Paramage smiled enigmatically.

"It is more than that," said the hooded figure. "For tonight is the twilight of the universe, as the worms of

rebirth multiply through the fabric of incarnation. It is an evening for truth and consequences, for naked

ambition and lust laid bare to reveal the chance of stillborn futures; an evening for the revelation of

doom. And we who are gathered here tonight all have a role to play -- yourself, your Holiness, and her

Ladyship too -- for this was the only event that was foreordained."

"What do you mean?" Sudden icy fear rooted Marcus to his chair and liquefied his guts. He looked up as

Lady Stael glanced back at him. Her face resembled a shattered mask of anguish as she met his eyes.

"False pretences, Bishop Moran," she whispered. "I pray you will forgive me, but I could not bear to

face this ordeal alone! Not only is one of these three men responsible for the end of the universe, but

another has the ability to revoke such a cosmic judgement as has gathered all the threads of time through

this one knot-hole, and poised the blade above it. Yet they will not tell me who, or why, or how to avert

this fate, until I judge with my own wits and emotions as to which of us, and why, might desi re the

ending of eternity itself! And so I brought you along, for if this world should end at midnight you too

will end with it; and if you can advise me fearlessly and correctly, as in the past ... why, then we might

survive."

Her face went ashen as the Last Gambler reached out with a certain panache and turned the top card on

his deck face up. It was not a card with which Marcus was familiar; it was neither playing card nor tarot,

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of either major or minor arcana with which he was familiar. Instead, drawn in the finest of water-colours

upon the parchment was a round and luminous cloud with a stem beneath it like a flowering cactus, or

perhaps a toadstool. Superimposed above it was a strange artefact, a cylinder with stubby wing s

attached; it glowed with a light reflected from the strange cloud. Inscribed at the top of the card in gold

leaf were the runes

E = mc2

"Let the game begin," he said decisively. "I have been informed of the variant Rules for this case, and

the appropriate authorities will be watching this table to prevent any turpitude. I challenge -- Jack-Jones."

The hooded sacerdote leaned across to Marcus and whispered, in a voice as dry as any crypt; "Jones

must now tell his tale, with total honesty and truth. When your turn comes, you too must do so. It is

imperative, no matter how painful it might be, to tell the truth. The order -- " the cowl twisted for a

moment, so that Marcus caught a glimpse of dark, hooded eyes in a shadowy, gaunt face -- "is

determined by the cards. For if chaos is to teach us a lesson of life, how else are we to learn it?"

His words were punctuated by an unearthly shriek. In the gardens below a peacock was spreading its

plumage in iridescent display, to reflect the tattered glory of the fading sunlight. Marcus started, then

quickly looked to Lady Stael for guidance. She sat bolt-upright, as if welded into position by the stays of

her strapless gown. A diamond glittered from one finely-sculpted nostril, but her white skin outshone it

against the ice-blue taffeta of her corsetry; and for an instant she seemed to personify fem inine

perfection in his eyes, to be the substance and ideal of all that he desired to possess and protect and

exhibit and dominate in life. He wondered how he had ever taken such a turning as to become a Bishop,

so that she was simultaneously inaccessible to and intimate with him, being as she was a prominent

member of his flock. He held his breath, as if she was chiselled from ice and a single false, hot gust

might cause her to melt away before the heat of his single dreams. Remembering the ordinal comman

ment, Know Thyself, he forced himself to look away. You are here to help her in her moment of

weakness, he berated his libido; not to take advantage of her vulnerability!

He directed his attention to Jack-Jones the Paramage, who appeared to be sweating. And so he should,

for if the hooded one was correct the stakes depending upon his truthfulness ran higher than his

reincarnate soul.

"Speak," said the Gambler. "It is time we heard the truth from your lips. Enlighten us; his Holiness -- "

he raised an eyebrow at the Bishop -- "is dying to know how the current predicament arose. And who

knows? Perhaps if you speak truthfully, we shall live to see the dawn."

Jones grimaced slightly, and raised his glass to his lips. It was a tumblerful of stroeh, a fiery spirit from

Dansk; he sipped it gingerly, then replaced it on the table and sat back.

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"Very well then," he said; "you have asked, so I suppose I must tell you all! Very well. I was not present

for much of this, and I have little first-hand knowledge of the major actress in this drama, but for the

sake of enlightenment let me tell you about Imad the Insane, who was once my student, and about the

Countessa Danielle, and what they did. And then, perhaps, the meaning of the current situation will

become clear."

Raw and Tenderly

A long distance away, in both space and time, there was a mis-guided youth named Imad who

apprenticed himself to the magus named Jones in order to search out Truth Absolut. Imad was young

and had no memory of his previous existences; he was gangling and thin and pale-faced, and there was

about him the shifty expression of one who spent too much time in libraries, after the fashion of the

ancients. Unfortunately this did not give Jones cause for concern, for in those days he had yet to receive

the ad ditional soul that gave him his extra name and his reputation for infallibility. Instead of sending

the youth packing, he gave him tasks to accom-plish -- the mild services of the postulant -- and took it

upon himself to give Imad the tools of wisdom with which to learn his trade. The fact that Imad later

misused them horribly was not Jones's responsibility, for by that time the youth had long since

absconded: but nevertheless Jones was galled by the whip of hindsight and, resolving not to permit

events to continue unhindered, sent an Eye to watch over his runaway tutee.

This is what he saw:

Imad nearly died in the Marches, hanged as a poacher and a horse-thief and anything else they cared to

accuse him of. The fact that he was travelling afoot was beside the point, for there was no notion of a

fair trial in that harsh land of exiles and river-barons. The villagers who apprehended him as he dozed by

the highway one afternoon bore him up to the gates of the small and ruinous castle, and were already

preparing a celebratory rope for his gullet when the knight of the demesne and his soldiers rod e back

from the hunt and interrupted the lynching.

"What is going on?" demanded the lord. "Who is this man?" His shadow fell across the villagers, who

cowered in abject terror before his mounted might. Imad, his arms twisted behind him in the grip of two

peasant lads, gulped and stared fixedly at the mounted warrior clad all in chain mail, with his lance at his

side and six armoured riders behind him.

The village hetman blinked stupidly, then knelt. Behind him, the two peasants pushed Imad face-down.

"He be a stranger, y'r highness," said the hetman, still holding the coarse noose in his hands. "Caught'm

lurkin' by th' fields, 'e was. Up ter no good, 'll warrant."

"But what has he done?" asked the knight, idly fingering the pommel of his saddle. His eyes were dark

and utterly unreadable. Insects creaked in the background, but not a man dared move.

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"Rr ... nuthin' yet, y'r highness. But 'e was goin' ter!" The hetman was agitated. "There be a demon in

'im! 'E's a stranger round 'ere, see!" His Lordship looked bored.

"I understand. You." He pointed at Imad with an armoured finger. "What have you to say for yourself?"

Imad couldn't see, but he could hear when he was being addressed. And he knew what was likely to

happen, should he fail to speak in his own defence.

"I've done nothing, your Lordship," he said desperately. "I'm just a journeyman of magic, learning my

trade at country fairs! I haven't done anything! Please -- "

All of a sudden, the peasants who were holding him down released his arms. He scrambled to his knees

and looked up, meeting the eyes of the knight for the first time. The warrior stared down at him

pitilessly, one hand gripping his lance as if challenging Imad to outrun his steed.

"A magician," said the knight, slowly. "Well, well ... " He pointed an iron finger at Imad. "My

apothecary died last month," he said quietly. "You will take his place, won't you?"

Imad looked at the hetman, who was still fingering his noose, and nodded violently. "Anything you say,"

he blurted. "Anything at all!"

"Good." The knight didn't smile. "Welcome to Castle Capeluche. I hope you enjoy your stay."

Imad was happy to escape with his life, but less pleased with his new accommodation. A flea-ridden

straw tick in an outhouse within the courtyard was his closest approach to privacy; that, and a workroom

with cluttered benches, a stuffed crocodile hanging from the rafters, and such a profusion of dusty herbs

and simples as to make his nose sting and his eyes water. After his arrival he was acquainted with his

post by one of the men-at-arms, and then ignored by everybody except the cook -- who cursed him r

oundly when he enquired after victuals.

"But what am I to do?" he asked in confusion. "What are my duties here?"

The dark-skinned chef fixed him with a beady stare as he honed his cleaver upon a leather strop. "Keep

out of way," he said. "See tower? Lord Capeluche keeps wife locked up there. Her father, he come to

war soon. Very bad thing; Lord Capeluche very angry, want death spells, demons, big loud curses.

Meanwhile, best not let self be seen."

He put down his cleaver and rotated the spit. The truncated torso of a small pig sizzled and dripped fat

into the fireplace. "Lord Capeluche not like women," he hinted darkly, his voice drowned in the

crackling of the flames. "He had vision, told him they all evil. Look at village -- see any wives, huh? He

sent them away. Don't cross him. He wears skin of enemies under his armour."

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Imad looked at the spitted pig and swallowed. Saliva filled his mouth, even though when he looked

closer the roast didn't look much like a pig at all. In such a backward area as this, it was unwise to

enquire too closely about the dietary habits of the residents. He turned away as the chef rolled the spit

again. "Is there a library here?" he asked slowly. "A place with books?"

The chef nodded. "Other tower," he said. "Has old guy's books, what-his-name -- he cast spell here

before he dead. Warn you -- not to tamper with Lord Capeluche's place. Don't get them mixed, huh? Bad

for you."

"Thanks," said Imad without any real feeling. His fingers were itching. Real books? he wondered: in a

place like this? Imad was an ob-sessive bibliophile, pursuing his habit to extremes. He was also a

magician. He resolved that he would not attempt to escape until he had seen this library; who knew what

he might discover?

Leaving the kitchen he walked across to the far tower. It was decrepit, the window-slits boarded with

rotted timbers and the thatching on the roof turned grey-green with age. Although Lord Capeluche's

guards patrolled the walls, none so much as glanced down at him as he pushed open the door to the

abandoned turret and went inside. Their attention was focused on the other tower, their master's boudoir,

and the wild forest beyond the walls.

Within the tower, everything was dark. A thick layer of dust coated the broken furniture; leaves had

drifted in, and something scuttled away in sudden panic as Imad tugged the boards away from one of the

windows. With added light, the scene that met his eyes was dismal. Although it looked unpromising and

he was still unfed, Imad climbed the tightly-spiralling staircase to the upper floor and shoved his way

through the first door he came to.

A roosting bat flashed past his head, squeaking in panic; he instinctively reached out and plucked it from

the air. It lay in the palm of his hand, twitching slightly as he examined it; he'd broken one of its delicate

wings with the speed of his reflexes and now it was no more than an ungainly air-shrew, damaged and in

pain. So small, and yet so natural, he thought as he closed his fingers around it and squeezed it gently

dead. Then why do I feel incomplete, when creatures such as this need noth ing more in life? It was an

unanswerable question, so Imad forgot about it and passed through the doorway instead, closing another

more insubstantial portal in his mind at the same time.

Inside the room Imad found a small fortune in books lining the walls. There were no vermin, although

numerous small skeletons littered the corners of the library; the former occupant had been efficient. Bat

droppings streaked the spines of some of the tomes and stained the floor white, but there was no

significant damage -- so Imad browsed for an afternoon, taking in the chronicles and metagrammars and

methodologies of the unknown librarian who, judging by the depth of dust, had been dead far longer

than Lord Capeluche's apothecary. This is priceless, he thought after a while, when he looked up and

realised how low the sun had drifted in the heavens. I could have travelled for years and not come upon

such a collection! I must apply myself and study ... there will be clues with which to enhance my

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understanding ...

He sighed happily and left the library, taking with him a chap-book written in a crabbed hand. When he

closed the door he renewed the decade-old wards that had destroyed the rodents. It will be good to study

by candle-light again, he thought. He completely failed to wonder why it was so easy for him to rebuild

a charm intended to kill, but that insouciance was completely characteristic of Imad; it was, in effect, the

reason why Jones the Paramage had driven him forth. Imad, unless he grew out of it , was gifted with all

the makings of an excellent sadomancer -- an aptitude for destruction and pain -- and his master had

taken exception to this. But now by accident or destiny he had come to the right place, for Castle

Capeluche was full of pain.

That evening, a mute slave-child came for him. "What is it?" Imad asked, irritated at being accosted by

lamplight as he sat reading at his cramped apothecary's desk.

The child opened his mouth and pointed. "Oh," said Imad. "You want me to come? To his Lordship?"

The child nodded, his eyes stretched wide with fear. Imad yawned. "Very well," he said. "Lead me."

The tongueless boy turned and walked out into the night. Imad followed, not pausing for a cloak; it

occurred to him that his new master was not of a disposition to be impressed by delay. The boy led him

across the yard towards the motte on which stood the central tower, then up the side of the steep hill to a

heavily-barred door. This he gestured at.

"I am to go in? Alone? Very well." He pushed on the door, and it opened inwards, smoothly and silently.

Within the hill, Imad found himself in a tunnel where the smell of damp was pervasive and the only light

was shed by a single guttering cresset mounted on one wall. Pulling the sally-port shut behind him, he

walked forward expectantly. There was a stench in the air that he found distinctly invigorating, for it

made him think of iron. The corridor turned and there were barred doors to either side, but Imad

followed his nose and presently came to a landing where stone steps spiralled up towards the cellars of

the tower above.

"Magus," said Lord Capeluche, "I have a task for you."

Imad turned round. The knight was standing stock-still, his back against the wall beside the door; he

must have been watching Imad's progress for some time. He wore a strange suit of pale leather, and a

huge sword slung across his back. "Yes, my Lord?" said Imad alertly.

Capeluche stared at him from the shadows. His eyes glittered like chips of black glass as the flames leapt

and fell back from the smoking torch. "I had you sent here in order to show you what becomes of those

who dismay me. You might care to look inside the cells as you leave, magus."

"Thank you sir. Is there anything else?" asked Imad, his throat itching terribly from the oily smoke.

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DifferentFleshDifferentFleshSoireeatSchlossTwilightThefiveofthemgatheredtogetheronthestonebalconythatjuttedfrom hewesternwingoftheballroom,highabovetheformalgardensoftheSchlossTwilight.Thedancerswhirledonintotheeveningbehindthem,unawareofthepassageoftimeoutsidetheirdreamofmusicandmotion.BishopMor...

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Charles Stross - Different Flesh

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