Chapter 40
PHOENIX
Phoenix sits alone in the Nomad’s office, staring at the painting.
She is not alone for long.
It is dark in the room. She could light a candle, but Phoenix is not fond of fire.
The door creaks open, and in slinks Lars.
She recognizes him by his plodding footsteps. The man knows every species of insect, can spot a loose thread in one’s button from across the room, but has no awareness of how loud he is when he ambles.
He approaches Phoenix, standing next to her chair, his hands clasped behind his back.
He stares at the painting.
She knows that he knows. Lars is too intelligent not to have figured it out. Although, now that she considers it, he might consider her stupid enough not to have figured it out either.
When he opens his mouth to speak, his words are not what she expects.
“You must be relieved to be rid of her,” he says.
A pause, as Phoenix processes the statement.
She has learned not to allow Lars’s brusqueness to kindle anger inside her. He is not a man to be taken seriously when it comes to manners.
It’s not the insensitivity of the statement, the clear lack of understanding or caring for the feelings of others, that surprises her.
It’s the insight.
But Lars is like that, she supposes. What everyone else interprets from the way she’s retreated into near-silence is a woman grieving for her friend. Because that is how they would react had they lost someone so close to them, someone who experienced and shared in their trauma.
Lars would not feel this way.
So, for once, his inability to place himself in the minds of others offers him a clearer insight than most.
“She was my friend,” says Phoenix. Lars might be onto something, but that doesn’t mean he deserves her explanation.
“She was not your friend,” says Lars.
“I’ve known Venus for years. She understands things about me,” Phoenix says. “Things we both experienced that no one ever will. Things we went through together…” Phoenix trails off.
“If my understanding of friendship is correct, it is intended to be a mutualistic relationship. Your relationship with Venus was, at best, commensal. More likely, it was parasitic.”
When Phoenix doesn’t answer, Lars says, “Parasitic means—”
“Yes, I know what it means,” says Phoenix.
Typically, Lars’s condescension would make Phoenix angry.
But she isn’t angry. Perhaps she doesn’t have the energy for such things.
Perhaps there’s a small part of her that’s relieved for someone else to know the truth.
For someone to look at her and not assume feelings that are absent—assumptions that make Phoenix feel even guiltier.
She doesn’t know why she tells him. Perhaps it’s because Lars is so curious, but only for the sake of his own understanding. He has no instinct to gossip, to share the news with others.
“Venus was captured by Vulcan three years after me,” says Phoenix. “She had difficulty…” Phoenix pauses, searching for the correct word. “Adjusting,” she settles on.
She was probably understating. It wasn’t the way Phoenix used to have to drag her out of that bed those first few months. Spoon-feed her just so she wouldn’t wither away. That, Pheonix hadn’t minded.
It was what had come after.
Venus’s strength returned, but only physically. She loved Phoenix, attached herself to her. But her love, her friendship, came with expectations. Sacrifices.
Venus could barely get herself out of bed in the morning, not without Phoenix’s portion of tea in addition to her own. Her clothes never fit her in a way that was flattering. Fortunately, Phoenix’s did.
Even this wouldn’t have been so awful.
It was mostly the nights.
Occasionally, Venus would scream that if she had to attend Vulcan’s bed one more night, she would kill herself. So Phoenix would take her night for her, pretending that she wanted Vulcan’s company so that the switch, instead of insulting him and bringing wrath down on Venus, would feed his ego.
This never went over well with the other muses. “It’s because they’re jealous of me,” Venus would say, claiming they said awful things behind her back, and how could Phoenix be friends with them with how awful they were?
So slowly, Phoenix’s ties, the friendships she had made over the years of being a slave, the small glimmers that softened her otherwise terrible life, were stripped away one by one.
Because Venus needed protection.
And that’s what Phoenix was. A protector.
It was what her mother had always prized in her. Her willingness to stand up for those who could not stand up for themselves. Her strength and her boldness.
And then, one night, the thing Phoenix had stopped letting herself dream about had happened. Captain Nolan Astor had killed Vulcan.
Freed them.
Venus had been paralyzed, screaming, terrified of the bounty. Phoenix, naturally, had stayed with her. Tugged on her shoulders and tried and tried and tried to coax her friend into getting out of there.
Venus would not move. And in that moment, Phoenix had truly hated her.
They almost hadn’t made it out, except Wendy Darling had sent Captain Nolan back in.
The Nomad hadn’t taken them on as crew members, as Phoenix had hoped.
But that had been fine. Because they were free.
Except they weren’t.
Venus was too terrified of the postmortem bounty on their heads to get a job. Though Phoenix suspected there had been more to it than that.
But then the Nomad had ended up needing them. Phoenix hadn’t been particularly enticed. If she never felt that hum of power again, she would be content.
But Venus had begged. Why, Phoenix had no idea. Venus hated being invisible. Her only joy back when they had been at Vulcan’s was the attention of his visitors during their parties.
She needed to be special. Phoenix supposed that was why she hated Tink so much.
But then Venus died. The first time, at least. And Phoenix hadn’t known what to feel. There was nothing she could have done to save her. Part of her had felt guilty about it nonetheless. Felt that she should have gone down with Venus, died with her.
Except that wasn’t fair. It was Venus’s fault she had been captured.
The idea had warred within her.
Except Venus hadn’t been dead at all. She’d allowed Phoenix to sit with that guilt while she betrayed them behind her back.
And sure, Phoenix believed the Nomad when he said that Venus had planned on getting Phoenix out, when he told them their location.
But Phoenix knows deep down she never would have done the same to Venus. She never would have risked it.
The Company is not exactly known for keeping its bargains. Sure, they had kept Phoenix from harm that time.
But Phoenix knows why Venus had made the deal. It was to save her own skin. And though she didn’t want harm to come to Phoenix, she had risked it.
So yes, Phoenix does mourn her friend. But perhaps she does not mourn her friend as much as everyone thinks.
Lars is still chattering away next to her, unaware.
But Phoenix has slipped into a spiral, the bottom of which is a sharp hatred of herself.
“It is rather convenient that she’s dead,” says Lars. “She was the weak link of the group.”
Phoenix makes a noncommittal noise.
“You don’t want your power back,” says Lars. “I don’t blame you.”
Phoenix doesn’t bother to ask Lars how he knows.
“I saw you when the others figured out how to retrieve Venus’s power from her portrait,” he continues. “They were going on about that poet. But you were staring at a different book.”
“He used to make me read those passages,” says Phoenix.
“Which ones?” says Lars.
“All of them. Any of them. It didn’t matter,” says Phoenix.
“But there must have been one,” says Lars. “One in particular he liked. One that has to do with the painting.”
Phoenix turns her head and stares at him. Finally, for the first time in a long time, she laughs.
“You don’t know, do you? You don’t know how to get the power out of the painting.”
Lars’s ears flush red, matching his hair.
“I admit, I am not a scholar of poetry. I’ve read through all of the books of this poet in the Nomad’s collection. And I assure you that if the correct poem was in these books, I would have figured it out.”
Phoenix considers him for a while. Considers sending him on a wild goose chase for a poem that doesn’t exist.
It might be amusing.
But tonight, she’s feeling generous.
“It’s not about the poetry,” she finally says. “It’s about what we did while I was reading them. He always said that poet was paired best not with wine, but with smoke. We would smoke ellweed while I read it.”
“Ellweed,” says Lars, undiluted pleasure beaming in his eyes. “Sometimes used to make paint. Shall I scrape some off for you?”
“Sure, Lars. Why not?” says Phoenix.