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“And neither are you a God.”

It was the first bitterness I had ever spoken. With that disposed of, I returned to the mirror.

“All in all,” I said, “the truth is this—that when you made me, you made me very ugly.”

“I made you,” you said, stiffly. “Most people would be satisfied with that.”

“Ah,” I said. “But if you had created me in the way most people do, Mikela, then I would be beautiful indeed.”

Then I turned the mirror towards you, showing you your own face, and at this you were silent.

* * *

I was certain I’d earned his hate, then, along with his rejection. And if I no longer held any authority over him, my position would soon become untenable. He might turn on me, hurt me physically, as easily as breathing. He might even kill me.

Where can one go from Divinity, after all—but down?

“Who told you you were . . . ugly?”

“A young man in a carriage.” He rummaged for the name: “Count—Ivan.”

“Ivan, here?”

“In the courtyard by now,” my creation replied, seemingly somewhat bemused by my panic. “Do you fear I might frighten your guests a second time, if given the opportunity?”

I flushed. “What I FEAR is Ivan withdrawing his patronage, without which you could never have come into being and cannot be maintained any further than I could on my own income—perhaps a mile or so from where we stand, if our luck held. As things stand now, your lack of cooperation may very well doom us both.” I paused. “Are you LISTENING to me?”

* * *

My right hand, unnoticed, had found the table. Under it lay the book I had been reading, its title outlined by my index finger. I reconsidered it.

“No,” I mused. “I am not a monster. But I am not a man, either. Not the shadow of God.” I looked at you. “I am your shadow.”

And still you sat in silence.

“I want a name,” I said.

“Choose one yourself, then,” you returned. “But quickly.”

I opened your copy of Beowulf, not quite at random, and pointed to a word.

“My name is Grendel,” I said, and heard the walls give it back to me.

3.

“You cannot conceive how glad I am to finally make you acquaintance, Dr. Kosowan,” claimed Ivan’s bride, and offered me her hand—which, like her cheeks, was both a bit too pale for comfort and yet flushed with tr

aces of a more hectic tone. Leading me to suspect that my cousin might not have too long a wait before being able to resume his bachelor status (albeit while clothed in a far less colorful wardrobe.)

“Madam,” I replied. And kissed it.

“I feel the lack much less than I thought I might, however,” she hastened to add, “since my husband’s family has already told me so much about you.”

“Of that, dear lady, I have absolutely no doubt.”

Ivan, who had spent most of our exchange lingering uneasily by the rack that held his grandfather’s silver duelling pistols, snapped his fingers, causing a girl to appear at Rebecca’s elbow. “Dovya, you will conduct your mistress to her chambers,” he said. “The journey has doubtless fatigued her, and she will wish to rest.”

At which Rebecca nodded, and left, without a further glance in my direction. But Ivan’s smile faded as he turned back, only to see me heading for the opposite door.