Page 116 of Katabasis
But that meant Hell demanded something more than a guilty plea. That the Furies, or whoever that mysterioustheywas, if they existed at all, expected a more profound acknowledgment of guilt. And whatever this was—whether because her mind would not admit it, or because it was out of the grasp of her understanding—Alice was not certain she could ever put it down on paper, or set it to words at all.
Gradus led her out of thebazaar and into another series of hallways until he stopped before a plain, unmarked door. “The workshop,” he said, and pushed it open. Inside was an unadorned room containing one long, oval table, at which sat a dozen or so Shades perched on metal folding chairs—very specifically, the kind of folding chairs with a gap just large enough to frustrate any hope of back support, and rusted metal bolts that threatened to splice you open whenever you tried to fold them up. The room was badly lit. The air smelled of cat piss.
A meeting was in progress. The Shades were hunched over a smattering of papers, debating something that had to do with “domestic violence” and “moral culpability.”
Alice scanned their faces. All dour, focused expressions. Thick scowling brows; mouths pressed in thin lines of concentration. Half wore spectacles. The other details of their garb had faded, leaving plain dark robes, and this gave them a vaguely Victorian air. These Shades looked ready to expound on the phrenological markers of intelligence across races. If ever there was a room in Hell where Grimes belonged, thought Alice, it was here. But none of the faces matched.
“He’s not here,” she whispered to Gradus. “We should—”
The door slammed shut behind them. The meeting fell silent. The Shades looked up and stared.
“Ah, Professor Gradus.” The Shade at the head of the table rose to his feet. A brass placard before him read,Chairman. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Went on a retreat,” said Gradus. “Needed to clear my head.”
“Well, we are not giving you comments,” pouted a Shade to the chairman’s left. “You know the rules. You give critique to get critique, you can’t just disappear for years and then expect us all to help—”
“That’s fine,” said Gradus. “I’m only here to observe.”
“Gradus,” Alice whispered again. But he ignored her.
“Who’s she?” asked the chairman.
All eyes turned to Alice.
“New blood,” said Gradus. “Only just arrived.”
“I thought we said no newcomers,” said the Shade to the chairman’s left.
“She’s still getting oriented,” said Gradus. “Hasn’t started writing yet. I thought you lot could share a bit of your wisdom. Show her how it’s done.”
“But this is aseriouswriting group,” said the Shade. “We don’t take novices, they’re a waste of time.”
“The rule was ten years at least,” the chairman agreed.
“She’s a Cambridge postgrad,” said Gradus. “Analytic magick.”
The wordCambridgewas like a spell. Even here, prestige opened doors. The Shades looked round at each other. A few shrugged. The chairman grunted. “I suppose she can audit. On a trial basis. You may take a chair in the corner.”
“Go on,” Gradus told Alice. “Sit.”
Alice did not understand what they were still doing here. “But he’s not—”
Gradus nudged her forth. “The chairman invites you to sit.”
Alice realized then she was not in control here.
She’d been a fool to trust Gradus. She could not fathom what he wanted; she should not have played along. She didn’t understand what was happening now, but she did not like her chances in Dis alone, so she sat gingerly at the edge of her assigned chair and tried not to look too afraid. Gradus remained standing beside her, his essence billowing around her like a cage.
“Might we get back to Professor Bent’s dissertation?” asked a monocled Shade. “If we’re quite done with interruptions?”
“Yes, yes, of course.” The chairman sat down. “Let us continue. Professor Brown, you were saying...?”
Professor Brown tapped the pages before him. “I do find this a bit revisionary. The tone is—well, it’s very combative,isn’t it? And the rebuttals to women’s liberation. Aren’t they a bit extreme?”
“I object,” said a Shade several seats down from Professor Brown. Alice presumed this was Professor Bent, author of said dissertation. He had a very long face, and a mouth startlingly far down from his nose, which seemed the natural result of a lifetime of stroking one’s chin as Professor Bent did now. “It’s—a bit contrarian, certainly, but it’s all telling the truth.”
“The truth is that all women are evil nags?”
