The Q

by Beth Brower

Lord Arch took a long sip of his tea and thought on what Quincy had said. She felt as if she could hear the sound of his mind turning and shifting her words into a formula he could understand. “If I were to treat what you have just said as poetry—” he began. Quincy scoffed, but Lord Arch continued, “—I would say that you, Miss St. Claire, think of yourself as the smashed bottle, edges and all, and that when you look around the room, you see an unbroken set, capable of different things than you for their perceived wholeness. Have I understood right? Have I seen?” Quincy did not answer, for what he had said was not what she had thought, but the echo of it was strangely familiar: as if she had an indefinable taste in her mouth and he had told her what it could be.