Made fire like a string of burning thread, first attempt. It’s actually easier than the other version of the pouvra and takes less concentration. Drew everyone’s names in the air to show off my own language’s alphabet until Vorantor insisted I get down to work. Everyone annoyed with Vorantor, including his own mages. Cederic not-so-secretly amused.
Well, I did sleep, eventually, and woke clutching this book against my chest, just in time to hide it under my pillow when the servant came to rouse me. She was aghast at the vomit, which did smell horrible, and brought in a couple of other servants to clean it up and bring me water and some soft, tasteless food—they think I’m ill. I didn’t correct that misapprehension. I couldn’t face the mages again. I’ve never felt so low in my life. I was certain they were all going to be killed because I couldn’t master that one tiny thing that was so crucial to the kathana’s success, and every time I closed my eyes I still saw that woman’s face, only after that nightmare, sometimes it was Sovrin, or Audryn, or one of the other Darssan mages. I ate a little, then set the tray aside and curled up facing the wall, my hand on this book under my pillow.
The door opened, and a moment later Cederic said, “You are not asleep. And you did not tell me everything. What happened when you were with the God-Empress?”
I rolled over to look at him. He was dressed in the white robe and black trousers he still wears to work in even though, as Terrael had told me, he’s entitled to wear red as Kilios (Vorantor’s people wear brown and gold, and they always look as if they’re going to a party compared to the simple Darssan uniform). “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.
He came closer until he stood next to me. “Whatever happened is making you ill,” he said quietly, “and will continue to do so as long as you allow it to fester inside you. Tell me.”
So I sat up and told him everything, keeping my eyes on my clasped hands, managing not to break down when I described the collenna master’s murder. I think I glossed over the thing about the th’an because I was still overwhelmed, or he didn’t think it mattered, because he didn’t seem interested in that. He listened silently until I was finished and looked up at him finally. He wasn’t looking at me; he was staring out the window, his jaw clenched and his face impassive. “Tell me I’m wrong about all this,” I said. “Tell me I’m wrong that everyone’s safety depends on me.”
He shook his head. “You are not wrong.” He looked down at me and said, “Lie back,” and put the tips of his first and middle fingers in the center of my forehead and pushed a little. I lay back on my pillow, wondering what he had in mind, but he walked away and leaned on my dressing table the way he had on that table when I translated the Eddon book. “This is not a burden you should bear, but I cannot take it from you,” he said. “But I may be able to ease it.”
He came back to my side and reached for the neck of my shirt, opening it slightly to expose my throat. “This will make you sleep, and will keep you from dreaming,” he said, “and it may also clear your mind to make your task easier. Do not go wandering tonight, Sesskia. That is not a request.”
I nodded, and felt the tips of his fingers brush my chin as I did. He pressed up on my chin, baring more of my throat, and I felt the lightest pressure as he traced th’an on my skin, there and then across my forehead. I immediately felt sleepy, the good kind of sleepy where you’ve worked hard all day and your muscles are relaxing, and the last thing I felt before I dozed off were his fingers brushing against my cheek.
It was nearly dark when I woke, rested and happy as I haven’t been in days—weeks—and with the nightmares a distant memory, sad, but something I could deal with. I sat up, which drew the attention of a woman sitting on the floor next to my wardrobe, who hopped up and bowed to me repeatedly. She explained, in between bows, that she would bring me food and it was the Kilios’s instructions that I not disturb myself. Though I did use the chamber pot in the kiorka as soon as she disappeared; I doubt Cederic meant me to exercise superhuman control over my bladder. I ate sitting up in bed, and now I feel sleepy again, but I wanted to write all this down before falling asleep again. I owe Cederic a debt.
Now that I’m thinking more clearly, I realize that I took on too much responsibility for what is ultimately the God-Empress’s evil. It’s true that she expects results out of the kathana, and it’s true that as soon as I master my th’an, we’ll be able to perform it, which means that it’s also true that everything depends on me. But it’s not true that that means I hold everyone’s lives in my hand. It’s not true that I would be to blame for any deaths resulting from the God-Empress’s dissatisfaction with how her priest-mages are performing. All of that is to her damnation. I can’t do more than I’ve been doing, which is learning to use a kind of magic literally alien to me. And I haven’t given myself enough credit for what I have accomplished, which is successfully scribe a th’an in only ten days without five years of preparatory penmanship exercises first. I know I can do this. And I refuse to let the God-Empress cow me again.
The drink gave me nightmares. Everyone in that eating place had the dead woman’s face, with that look of confusion she wore just before she died. Then they all fell down and shattered like the plate into ruby shards that the God-Empress stitched into her clothing, except they became golden because it was a honey day—I have to remember this, I know it’s important and I can’t sleep again until I’ve written it all down—it was a honey day, and I had to dress in gold and perform a kathana by myself in worship of the God-Empress, and the kathana was to write all over Terrael’s body and
I just threw up Audryn’s drink. I’m writing this huddled in bed. I don’t dare sleep again.
Dreamed about the soldier twisting that collenna master’s head until her neck snapped. Woke in the dark and couldn’t get the see-in-dark pouvra to work, then couldn’t sleep without seeing the dead woman’s face. Cederic once again unavailable. I should have just pushed my way into the conversation, but I couldn’t bear the thought of that, of looking like I go running to him for every little thing. Another day of failures. I asked Audryn if she knew of anything that would help me sleep, some th’an or other, and she brought me a sweet, oily-tasting drink. I’ve only sipped a little of it and it’s making everything fuzzy. It should help.
I had writer’s block yesterday. For some reason writers talk about writer’s block as if it’s a disease, some illness you can contract. And everyone has their own way of treating that disease. Special foods. Mindless television. Going for a run. Doing the dishes. Staring at the screen wondering if you will ever, ever write again, because obviously your store of words has permanently run dry. It’s unpleasant, no matter how you try to deal with it, and it’s always a huge relief when it passes.
For me, writer’s block is different. I have bipolar disorder that’s more or less kept in check by medication and behavioral modification. And some days I’m just depressed enough that I can’t write. If I force myself to, whatever goes on the page gets deleted by the end of the day because it’s awful, not just to my depressed brain but to any objective reader. But I’m not so depressed that I’m incapable of getting out of bed (though I do tend to spend the day in my pajamas, but that’s just an indulgence), which means I haven’t lost the drive to write. This is hell.
In a moment of synchronicity, my husband sent me a wonderful blog post by Mary Robinette Kowal, detailing her own journey through depression and how that relates to writer’s block. I repost it here because it’s uncannily like my own, though unlike her I was thrilled to have a diagnosis of bipolar disorder and was eager to be treated; I had been suffering for so long thinking I was weak and stupid it was wonderful to have a name to put to my condition. But the essence is the same; you don’t have to let depression rule your life, and there are ways to deal with it. Kowal lists some great coping techniques for dealing with writer’s block that arises from depression, but I think they’re excellent suggestions for anyone struggling with depression, period. And if this is a struggle you recognize within yourself, for your own sake, get help, whatever that means for you. Don’t let the stigma of mental illness keep you from getting well.
I’m still staring at the screen, waiting for this to pass. I’m grateful to know it will.
Before I can scribe my th’an with fire, I have to find a way to do the pouvra so that the fire manifests as a trailing line, like ink flowing from a pen, rather than as a single mass all at once. I tried all day and failed every time. By midafternoon I was too exhausted to do it any longer, and Terrael made me sit in a corner and watch how other people create th’an, and it should have had a calming effect, but it just made me more tense, thinking that all their lives were at the mercy of a madwoman with command of thousands of armed warriors. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Cederic today; he was busy with some of the Sais doing I don’t know what. I’m not exploring tonight. Too jumpy—alertness, even a little paranoia, those things are a thief’s friends, but too much anxiety leads to carelessness.
Nothing else exciting happened, and we returned to the gate we’d started from, and the God-Empress stepped off as lightly as she had before. I stumbled a little when I reached the ground, had to catch my balance, and was about to thank the God-Empress for her generosity in giving me her time when she said, “Kill the driver.”
I whipped around just in time to see two of the soldiers lift the woman off her seat, and another take her head in his two massive hands and twist so rapidly the woman didn’t even have time to scream. The sound of her neck snapping was almost inaudible over the roar of the blood rushing through my temples. The soldiers dropped her, and the God-Empress came to stand next to the body and prod it with her big toe. “Tell the priests to train me another,” she said, and walked away, her damp shift still clinging to her perfect ass and thighs. Fortunately my body knew to ignore my shocked brain, and propelled me after her, because for all I knew I might have been next.
“Don’t worry, I have many drivers,” the God-Empress said, and to my further shock drew my arm through hers and patted my hand. “I can see you dislike waste as much as I do. But she broke the rule and acknowledged me on a rose day, and God cannot be disrespected.”
“I thought…it was the bad driving,” I managed.
“What bad driving?” the God-Empress said.
We reached her filmy red chamber, which was empty of servants, and she stripped off her shift and walked naked to a wardrobe in one corner, which she flung open, revealing richly embroidered robes in all shades of, that’s right, red, accented with gold and copper and silver. She took robe after robe from the wardrobe and tossed them on the floor behind her, held one for a few moments before wrenching at its back seam until it tore, then finally found something she liked. But she didn’t put it on; she held it out to me. “You must be rose, too,” she said, “for you are God’s chosen.”
I did not like the sound of that, but I said, “Thank you, Renatha,” and wrapped it around myself. It was far too big for me, too big for the God-Empress even, but it was wonderfully opaque and fastened high enough in front that only a hint of my cleavage showed. She beamed again, childlike, but with a body that was definitely not that of a child. She found a robe for herself and then sat on the divan with her legs crossed under her.
“I expect to see the kathana performed soon,” she said, and suddenly her voice and her features were sharp in a way they hadn’t been all day. “How soon, do you think?”
“I, uh, wish I knew, Renatha,” I said, “For my part, I’m working as fast as I can, but focusing on my own work means I don’t know very much about how the rest is progressing. But I know everyone is performing to their utmost abilities.” I prayed to the true God that I hadn’t inadvertently said something that would condemn every mage to a sudden, neck-snapping death.
“I see,” the God-Empress said. “Then I will allow a little more time. Thank you for bringing this to my attention.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. Talking to her really is like maneuvering a maze of knives blindfolded, though that might be easier. At that point I just wanted to run back to the Sais’ wing and tell Cederic that we now have a deadline—though he and Vorantor probably already know this better than I do. I’ve resolved to be more diligent and to stop complaining at Terrael, now that I understand what’s at stake.
The God-Empress just sat looking at me, and I belatedly realized I was dismissed. “Thank you again for the generous gift of your time and company, which I do not deserve,” I said, and backed out of there as rapidly as was polite and sensible. Then I ran. I only made one wrong turn before reaching the Sais’ wing, and the safety of my bedroom, and then I’m not too proud to confess that I ripped the robe off, stomped on it, then stood there in my underclothing and cried. That poor woman. All those people. Had the God-Empress decided the men and women at the eating place had paid her too much attention, and sent her soldiers back to burn it to the ground? It was just so overwhelming, all the tension of worrying about whether I was going to say or do something wrong, and could I turn the pouvrin against someone in defense of my life, because I hope the answer is “yes” and I don’t want to only find that out when my life really is in danger.
After I finished crying, I dressed in comfortable clothing and wadded up the God-Empress’s robe and stuck it in the back of the wardrobe. Then I got it out and hung it up instead. She might expect me to wear it again. I don’t want to call her Renatha again. She may not have hurt me today, but I’m convinced she is my enemy, and for me to use her praenoma…it’s degrading to my true friendships to put my relationship with my enemy on the same standing. Even the thought of it makes me feel uncomfortable and a little sick at breaking that taboo, after all I’ve done to keep those customs. But I don’t have a choice, do I? The God-Empress might take lethal offense at my rejecting the gift of her name. And she might not direct that lethality at me. But as far as I’m concerned, ‘God-Empress’ is her aenemica now, her name turned curse, and I’ll think it every time I’m forced to say ‘Renatha’ instead.
Well. I feel better now that I’ve written all of this down, but I think I won’t go exploring tonight; I’m still a little on edge. And I’ve just realized I have more to tell Cederic about what’s happened, not just the part where it sounds as if the God-Empress is losing patience with her pet mage-priests; I have to tell him about feeling like I should recognize the th’an. And I have questions for him. And I’m starving because I forgot to go to dinner, I was too busy crying. At least all I have to look forward to tomorrow is failing to work th’an with fire. No, I can’t afford to think that way. If the kathana really only lacks my part to be ready, I have to redouble my efforts or I could cost many people, some of whom I care about very much, their lives.
Here’s a not so secret fact: I have virtually no sense of smell. I can only smell the strongest, closest odors, and since the strongest odors are usually the most unpleasant (gasoline, ammonia, the baby who’s just filled her diaper) I tend to think of my sense of smell as an enemy. What’s more, my brain often translates what I do smell into other smells, or sends me phantom scents that no one else can perceive. All perfume smells the same to me. All flowers smell the same. That aforementioned diaper, about half the time, smells like peanut butter. (The reverse is thankfully not true.)
This affects my sense of taste, too. There are a lot of flavors that other people love that to me are just—empty. They taste like a cup of hot water. That means I like strong, spicy flavors like chipotle, or bittersweet like dark chocolate. Even more do I like lots of flavors mingled together, so if one is missing, I don’t notice it. My favorite dessert is English trifle, chocolate and custard and berries all mixed together…and now I’m hungry.
So what does this have to do with writing? In my book The Smoke-Scented Girl, the senses of smell and taste are essential to the story. Taste, because one of the side effects of each magic spell is a phantom flavor; immobilizing someone is like biting an ice cube, clairvoyance tastes like strawberries. Smell, because the spell Evon creates to track Kerensa enhances his sense of smell. And about half the things they smell and taste in that book, I have no personal experience of. I had to be able to write convincingly about those things because my readers would know what charred toast smells like.
Probably the most famous piece of writing advice is “write what you know.” I’ve always thought that was both true and incredibly limiting. On the one hand, if you write about things you don’t know anything about, you’re going to sound like an idiot to the people who do know about them. On the other hand, our experiences in living don’t allow us to know and feel and do absolutely everything in the world. That’s one of the reasons for literature: books give us a window on other lives and encourage us to understand, even in our limited way, what other places and people and times are like. If writers take that advice in the strictest sense, we might as well give up on writing anything that doesn’t reflect our own narrow experience. For those of us who write speculative or historical fiction (or in my case, speculative historical fiction), it might as well say “don’t bother.”
But I think “write what you know” contains a wealth of advice beyond the obvious, and advice that broadens the possibilities of writing rather than shutting them down.
I will never be a secret agent, a warrior woman, or an ageless, deathless queen. I don’t have any personal knowledge of what those lives are like. In that sense, I can’t write what I know. But with some study, empathy, and a lot of imagination, I can write what I don’t know. And that opens up far more worlds than my limited one.
Surrounded by a detachment of ten armored and helmeted guards, we left the palace grounds through an unattended stone arch tall enough that we passed through with a good five feet of headroom to spare. I immediately began to sweat. I don’t know if I stayed comfortable until that point because the cooling kathana extends to the palace grounds, or if it was all in my head, but Colosse was hot and the dress I was wearing, while comfortable enough, was still too heavy to be the right kind of clothing for this climate. I’m sure it was just me and my acclimation to a much more temperate climate, because it was still morning and could not possibly be as hot as I remember, and if I think about it, that was true. Once we were some distance from the palace, and people began filling the streets, I could see that everyone else dressed sensibly in short trousers and sleeveless tunics, or loose-fitting dresses, and wore the same kind of sandals everyone wore at the Darssan. Of course, looking at how comfortable they all seemed made me sweat more. I discovered when I returned to my room, much later, that my nose was burned red, which makes me look ridiculous. The God-Empress looked as if she were still in her cool, breezy chambers, despite her wearing many more layers than I was. All right, now I’m a little jealous of her. Just a little.
Our collenna took up most of the street, but no one paid any attention to us. Everyone from pedestrians to those people pulling the wheeled carts simply stepped out of our way, as if the collenna was shrouded in a concealment pouvra. The God-Empress just stared straight ahead, her hand raised and moving in a strange, complicated wave at the unseeing passersby, thinking who knows what. It seemed so out of character that I finally said, “Do they always ignore you like this?” and then cursed myself for using the word “ignore,” which made them sound disrespectful.
The God-Empress said, “It is a rose day. I am invisible. It would be disrespectful if they acknowledged me when I don’t choose them to.”
Rose day. Rose-colored collenna. “May I ask what other kinds of days there are?” I said.
The God-Empress never once turned her head to look at me during this conversation. When she spoke, her voice sounded as if it were coming from far away. “Honey days, when I am accompanied by the mages and all must bow before God’s presence and that of her priests.” (Mages as priests. I keep having more questions for Cederic.) “Moss days, in which all must present God with tokens of faith. Sky days, in which the streets are cleared entirely and those found outside are punished.”
“I see,” I said, and then couldn’t think of anything else to say. And tried not to imagine what punishment that might be.
The collenna lurched to a halt. “My God, I am sorry—please accept—I will be more diligent—” the master babbled, turning around in her seat, and this time I could see the th’an. It was far more complex than the ones on the loenerel and the war wagon had been, and I was struck so hard by the feeling that I ought to recognize it that I felt a little dizzy in addition to my fear for the collenna master’s life. But the God-Empress said nothing, still staring off into the distance, and soon the collenna moved on. I breathed more easily; I’d been afraid I was about to witness some of that punishment first-hand. I relaxed too soon, but that’s a different part of the story.
The God-Empress seemed completely sane all morning. She lost her distant look after a while and began pointing out landmarks, and I began enjoying myself. Colosse is almost as old as the disaster, and has grown up in much the same way as the palace, if less haphazardly; the palace has the disadvantage of being seen by its possessors as an outward representation of their divine power, and being frequently rebuilt accordingly. Colosse is just a big city that’s adapted to the needs and desires of its residents over the centuries. And it’s nothing like anything I’ve seen in my travels, but then I don’t think anything in my world is as old as Colosse. There are tall domed buildings where mages perform kathanas for those who can pay (and sometimes for those who can’t, depending on the mage) and buildings containing nothing but swimming pools and facilities for exercising, as if people don’t get enough exercise walking around and doing manual labor, but I suppose if you have magic readily available a lot of the manual labor is done for you.
There are three buildings that look like that giant’s building blocks dropped out of the sky, completely unadorned, that the God-Empress said contain books, and if you pay money you can go in and look at any of them you want. I don’t know if I believe her. They’re bigger than the biggest libraries we have in Balaen—the size of even one of those buildings would be enough to contain thousands, tens of thousands, of books, and that there are three of them…! Though that was another thing I learned; buildings that perform a particular function all look alike. So the libraries look like rectangular blocks, and the mage buildings are all domed, and some of them are smaller than the others but they all have the same shapes. So there are almost no signs anywhere, even marking the streets. It’s expected that you’ll know what services are offered based on the shape of the building. I don’t know if this is laid down by law, or if it’s just tradition, and I really couldn’t begin to guess. But since there are only so many types of building, even this otherworlder woman felt familiar with the city after only a short time. I saw a few shadowy people, but only three or four, and all of them were dressed and laden like travelers. I suppose if nothing occupies this space in my world, it makes sense that there wouldn’t be many things to be shadows in this one.
to be continued…
I walked around after a bit, admiring the courtyard. It was open to the outside on two sides, and the sunlight even at seven o’clock in the morning was blinding thanks to the white stone paving the paths that led away from the courtyard to some other part of the palace. Ahead of me, with respect to where I’d entered, was another archway that led to a short hallway identical to the one we’d come in by, but I couldn’t see very far thanks to the sunlight. I went to stand at its entrance, glancing at the guards for some hint, but they ignored me. That was when I became angry. I was so afraid of what the God-Empress might do that I’d forgotten how far I’ve come, how many dangers I’ve faced, and I was ashamed of my cowardice. The God-Empress might decide to have me killed no matter what I did, so I decided to hell with her, and set off down the hallway. When I think back on how defiant I was, it makes me feel sick.
This area, too, was completely empty of people. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought the palace was abandoned, and I wondered how its population could disappear so thoroughly. I suppose the servants, not being otherworlder women with strange powers that fascinated the God-Empress, would take every opportunity to stay out of their mistress’s sight. I wandered the broad, frescoed halls, mentally keeping track of my route, until I reached an actual door. It was unlocked, so I pushed it open and found what I can only call a boudoir. The walls were invisible thanks to all the filmy draperies that shrouded the room, most of them moving lightly in an intangible breeze; the floor was so soft it was like walking on a pillow, every step throwing me a little off balance. Cushioned, backless chairs stood at random throughout the room, some of them canted due to the pillowy nature of the floor. Everything was in shades of red, from deepest maroon to lightest pink, and the God-Empress, who was reclining on a divan at the center of the room, was dressed in a thin shift of pale red—not pink, but pale red, there’s a difference—so sheer I could see her nipples. Not that I was looking. They were impossible to miss.
“You are late,” the God-Empress said, and here I should probably admit that I’m making up almost everything I write her saying in this conversation. Not the intent or meaning, and I’m not doing it to make myself sound impressive and clever. When we were in her pavilion, she spoke in very straightforward language, but every time I’ve met her privately, she’s used what sounds to me like formal or archaic words. Understanding her put a strain on my aeden-acquired language skills, and I found I couldn’t remember her exact words most of the time. So this conversation is more extrapolated even than most of what I write. I really do think there’s a pouvra for memory. If I ever have time, maybe that’s the one I’ll try to invent.
Anyway, she said, “You are late,” but she didn’t sound angry. I said, “I apologize, but your palace is too beautiful for me to rush through it. And I didn’t realize how constraining this dress would be.”
“You dislike my gift,” the God-Empress said.
“It’s beautiful. I meant only to indicate my ignorance of Castaviran clothing,” I said, trying not to panic. Insulting her before half a minute had passed was not a good beginning to this day.
“You chose well. It is an old-fashioned cut that shows you appreciate tradition,” she said. “I would have been displeased if you had appeared in the other.”
Already I was navigating the twisty maze that was her mind. Even my wardrobe was a test. “Thank you for the honor of the gift, which I do not deserve,” I said.
“Sit,” the God-Empress said, and I found a slightly canted chair and settled into it. “Drink,” she said, and a servant emerged from a door hidden by the draperies and handed me a squat golden cup with two handles; I drank, and discovered that it was lukewarm water, tasting slightly of minerals but welcome after the rapid walk I’d had. The room itself was comfortably cool, and I think I’ve mentioned that the palace has some kind of cooling kathana that I’ve been grateful for. Balaen is quite a bit more temperate than Castavir despite occupying much of the same territory. I wonder if Cederic knows why the same places in each world can have vastly different climates.
And yes, it did occur to me that the water might be poisoned, but there was nothing I could do about that. There’s only so much I can protect myself from, and refusing to drink on the slight chance that the water might kill me would only be trading the possibility of danger for the near-certainty that the God-Empress would have me executed for insulting her.
We sat and drank in silence, me mindful of the instruction not to speak unless spoken to. The God-Empress had a cup matching mine and drank with both hands on the handles, which gesture I mimicked. Eventually she set the cup down and said, “I will show you my city. You should know what it is you are going to defend.”
“Thank you, Renatha,” I said, only barely remembering to use her name, and she stood up, which was a sign for servants to come rushing out of hidden doorways to dress her in tunic and robe and another tunic and a sash that went around her waist three times, all of it in shades of red and decorated with rubies, and a matching ruby-studded silver choker. The God-Empress is unusual in preferring faceted stones to cabochons, which is probably the only thing we have in common. That and being female. She was gloriously beautiful, and I felt dowdy next to her, which was probably the idea.
Once she was dressed, and her golden hair (which was freshly dyed) was piled on her head with ruby-studded hair clips, we left the room and went by a completely different route back to the courtyard, where the God-Empress went down one of the brightly-paved paths to where a strange-looking collenna waited, its thumping higher and more rapid than that of the loenerel. It was…I can’t even think of anything to compare it to. It reminded me a little of a tortoise’s shell, if tortoises were dusky rose; its base was circular, and two seats surrounded by a silver rail were perched in a depression on its back, which was about five feet high. The seats were shaded by a canopy of rose velvet fringed with silver, and the seats themselves were upholstered in the same colors. At the front (what I guessed was the front, which guess was later proven correct) was another seat, this one black lacquered wood, with a smallish bucket to the right of where the master would sit and a tray of brushes above it. The plate containing the th’an engraving was silver rather than brass, or it might have been steel, and I couldn’t see the th’an because a woman dressed in a master’s uniform, but in rose pink, was standing at attention near the collenna, blocking my view.
“Lift me,” the God-Empress said, and a pair of tall and muscular men actually put their hands on her and raised her to where she could step into the collenna. I was watching her settle herself when I felt those hands on me, and I squeaked, but managed not to fight them. My ascent was considerably less graceful than hers, but I eventually got my dress arranged around me and gripped the rail of the seat as the collenna lurched forward. I’m not afraid of heights, but there was something about the movement of the collenna, and being just far enough off the ground that falling would hurt, that made me nervous. Then again, it might have been the company.
to be continued…