A Name Given, a Name Cast Away

While Kasvren was in the library sorting out which books needed tending, Isolde and the old woman appeared again. Catching the sound of their footsteps crossing the hall on the ground floor, he rose at once and went out to meet them — and could hardly conceal his astonishment.

Nothing remained of the bedraggled, destitute creature he had first seen. She was still an old woman, yet her bearing was somehow different from that first meeting. She wore the plain undyed cotton dress that the female servants wore, and its very simplicity suited her, setting her off to greater advantage. Her white hair had been cleanly combed back and pinned high upon her head. If not for that signature innocence in her eyes — that hollow, empty gaze — she might have passed for a governess, or even one of Isolde's more frugal relations.

"You were in the library, then."

"Yes. But it seems the books won't be pressed today."

"This land holds its dampness a long while. I imagine you'll be able to work only after the sun has shown itself for three days or so."

With that, Isolde led the old woman into the dining room. Kasvren, who had little appetite, had already taken a light lunch, so he did not join them for the meal — but he stayed to take tea.

A soft porridge was served, along with vegetables slow-simmered in vinegar and sugar. Isolde spooned up the porridge with a small silver spoon and fed the old woman directly, and when it ran past her lips she wiped it away with a napkin so swiftly that her practiced hand was unmistakable. Watching the two of them over his tea, Kasvren found himself wondering whether Isolde had once nursed someone before.

"I don't want it."

Mouthing her porridge, the old woman abruptly shook her head and spoke like a small child. But Isolde did not yield. She stroked the woman's shoulder and murmured,

"Just a little more. Come now, you must eat your vegetables too."

"I don't want it."

"There's hardly any left — look. When you finish this, I'll give you your favorite cherry jam."

Isolde tilted the bowl in pretense only, so that just a little porridge remained in view. The old woman smacked her wrinkled lips about for a moment, then obediently accepted another mouthful. Only after she had finally coaxed down the whole bowl did Isolde help her sip her tea slowly, then call for Rad Dat and have him bring the cherry jam and a small teaspoons.

"Here — cherry jam."

"Cherry jam."

"Yes, that's right. You ate your porridge so well, so this is your reward. But only one spoonful. You understand, don't you?"

"When I was little, I was scolded if I so much as touched the cherry jam……"

"No one here will ever scold you."

At that, the old woman broke into a bright smile. She took the jam into her mouth so greedily it seemed she would suck the spoon clean as well, and a happy languor spread across her face. Watching her, Isolde too smiled — a softened expression she would never have shown at any other time.

The moment the last of the jam vanished from the spoon, the old woman smiled roundly, like someone in full possession of her wits. It was a smile touched with dignity — and with something like shyness. Isolde pressed a light, affectionate kiss to the woman's wrinkled cheek, then carried the empty bowl out to the kitchen with her own hands.

"Do you live in this house?"

The question came so abruptly that Kasvren was rather taken aback, but he soon composed himself and answered with due courtesy.

"No, madam. I am a guest here as well."

"I see. Your eyes are very beautiful. Like…… like leaves made of peridot. Or perhaps like a forest at midsummer."

Kasvren smiled.

"You must be a poet."

"Me? No. I'm no poet. Poets carry instruments with them — a violin, or a lute, that sort of thing. I never learned to handle such things. My mother said it was a vulgar thing for a woman to touch a stringed instrument. She said only gypsies did such things."

Astonishingly, the old woman spoke well. She seemed an entirely different person from the one who had been muttering indecipherable sounds in her slurred voice earlier. What was more, her conversation was genuinely interesting. Kasvren tried to imagine what sort of life she might have led before becoming a homeless wanderer. Given that she had been forbidden to learn a stringed instrument, she might once have been a nobleman's daughter. She had said she was scolded merely for touching the cherry jam, so the odds were high that she had at least been raised in a household that held its daughter's conduct to very strict standards.

"Forgive my impertinence, madam, but might I ask your name?"

Though Kasvren's tone could not have been kinder or more tender, the old woman's face — animated only moments before — went pale at the question. She shut her mouth, bowed her head, and hunched her shoulders. Her already small frame seemed to shrink smaller and smaller. Struck by an absurd anxiety that she would dwindle down to the size of a little pouch if he left her be, Kasvren spoke quickly.

"Marian."

At that instant, the trembling stopped. Slowly the old woman straightened her hunched body and stared straight at him, her eyes asking what he had just called her.

"It is the name of a nurse who once looked after me, long ago. Marian. Since I don't know your name, may I call you that from now on? I hope it gives no offense."

"I was not born to be called Marian. I had another name. But I threw that name away. As I cast off everything that had to be cast off — even the things I ought to have kept — I threw my name away with them……"

Murmuring this — whether to herself or to him, no one could say — the old woman suddenly giggled like a child given a piece of candy. That smiling face reminded him, for some reason, of the real nurse he had known.

"So you have given me a name. The one who gives a name is bound to the one who receives it."

"Then I may call you Marian?"

The old woman gave no answer. But there was nothing of the earlier refusal in her face, and so Kasvren decided he would call her Marian. Marian — the name lingered warmly on the tip of his tongue and gave him a feeling of peace. Like a meadow where soft grass lay fallen.

Bathed in warm water and fed her fill, the old woman — no, Marian — soon fell asleep in the temporary bed Isolde had arranged for her. Wrapped in the blankets and curled on her side, breathing softly in her sleep, she looked utterly singular. From one angle she seemed young; from another, like someone who had lived past a hundred years.

"Marian, is it?"

Isolde spoke without turning her head, having just risen from the bedside. It was moments after she had straightened the collar of the blanket so the old woman could sleep warm. Kasvren, who had been assisting her — clumsily, at that — instinctively recoiled a step at the interrogative edge in her voice. Admittedly, a corner of that wariness owed to his wish to hide the shameful thing he had done that morning.

"One can hardly go through life without a name, can one?"

"That was for her to decide. She has come to this mansion many times, and not once did it occur to me to give her a name. There was no need."

"I suppose I needed one."

Only then did Isolde turn to look at him. Finding a displeased little smile hanging on his face, she tilted her head, arms crossed.

"You truly do fly into rages out of nowhere."

"I lose my temper? I?"

"Yes. Isn't it so? You can hardly deny it."

Angry? Me? Kasvren frowned, feeling as though he'd been falsely accused — but he soon had no choice but to admit there was some truth in Isolde's words. He had been angry, indeed. At no one but himself. At himself for committing an act that left him unable to look Isolde in the eye, and at himself for being struck true by her once again.

"There is something I wish to ask you."

At his words, Isolde raised a slender index finger to her lips and glanced toward the door. There could be no mistaking the consideration — she did not wish to wake the sleeping Marian. Kasvren followed her out in silence, and the moment the door closed behind them, he caught her wrist without thinking, as she was already walking away as if she had heard nothing at all.

"Let go of me."

Isolde shook off his hand — sharply, yet with perfect composure — and, touching the place he had seized, backed away until she could look him squarely in the face.

"You said you had something to ask."

"You could have said so without grabbing me."

"You were about to walk away."

Isolde twisted one corner of her mouth upward, but she did not deny it. An utterly unfathomable woman.

"So — what is it you wanted to ask?"

"……Did you, by any chance, come into my room last night?"

After a brief silence, Isolde asked back, her face blank.

"Why do you ask?"