Again, laughter. And again, a wave of relief. Mary and he hadn’t shared this much in the way of warmth since before the Ring of Fire. He’d missed that intimacy, and desperately—all the more so because he’d had no way of telling her. He wasn’t good at that. Marriages don’t lend themselves well to efficient administration.
“That’s what that personal apology was, John, that he gave you on the wharf. It wasn’t just an olive branch. It was also an offer. So take him up on it, you dimwit. Or would you rather stay all cooped up, festering in resentment?”
She rose to her feet, moved over to the one window in the room, and drew aside the curtain. There was really nothing much to see, of course, in the middle of the night.
“Let’s steal a page from Mike Stearns’ book, John. Down there in Grantville, he’s groping his way when it comes to imperial politics. But up here, in Magdeburg . . . I can feel it, John. Feel it, I tell you. It was all through the air at that soiree tonight. Those people are perched on a knife’s edge between exhilaration and terror. Some of them—The Landgravine of Hesse-Kassel, for instance—are even smart enough to know it. And if you think Amalie’s a smart cookie, you ought to meet the abbess of Quedlinburg. I spent more time talking to her than anyone.”
“I don’t understand what you mean. Steal a page from Mike Stearns’ book? How?”
“Give them confidence, John. Give them hope. Gustav Adolf’s not seeing that either, I don’t think. ‘I want this, I want that. Give up this, give up that.’ They all recognize that he’s right—the ones who were at that soiree, anyhow. And there’s even a part of them—the best part—that’s a bit thrilled that they’re going to be bold enough to do what everyone has known for—oh, for centuries now!—needs to be done, if Germany is ever going to be more than a basket case. But they’re scared.” She stared out into the darkness. “If there’s one thing I’ve come to know, these past two years, it’s the way fear can eat a human being alive. Terror is a dangerous thing, John. Let’s not—this time—be on the wrong side of that equation.”
He shook his head. “Mary, I’m not trying to argue with you. I just don’t understand—”
She spun around, her hands spread wide and a great smile on her face. For just an instant, his heart swelled, remembering the young woman he’d met and married so many years before.
“Give them an empire, John. Not just money and power. Hell, you’re trying to take that away from them. So—so—” She groped for words. Then, softly: “Give them an olive branch, extended on a wharf. Give them a place of their own. Give them an imperial city for a capital, not just a great, ugly, monster of an industry town. Give them universities that they can send their children to. Give them opera houses and libraries and museums. Give them a city they’ll want to live in—and it won’t hurt any to have them here under Gustav’s guns instead of festering out in their country mansions, now will it?—while they spend their energies in a social whirl. There’s no harm in it, and a lot of good. I know you think my hobbies are a bit silly, but I will tell you this, John Chandler Simpson. Culture is not just a pretentious word for rich bitches with nothing better to do.”
She smiled, seeing his jaw sag at her language. “Oh, phooey. Since I’m broke now, anyway, why not? If you’ve got the name, why not have the game?”
She shook her head firmly. “It’s not, John. However foolish the trappings often are. Culture is what transforms raw power into civilization. So if we’re going to do this, then, damnation, let’s do it right. If Gustav wants his empire, fine. I just insist that the thing has to shine.” She spurted a little half-laugh, half-giggle. “At the very least, I insist that it glitter.”
“But—but—” He took a deep breath of his own. “Mary, who is going to pay for all this? We’re already strapped—”