Grass

appropriately to each of their guests with charm or pure formality or even frosty coolness to those so chilly they would resent anything else. “So glad you could come,” they murmured, noting each detail of dress or feature and connecting it with the name humming in their ears so they would not forget to be wary of this one or that one as the evening wore on. “Good evening. So very glad you could come.” On the balcony above the largest reception room, musicians played. A dozen villagers hastily trained and tricked out in livery circulated with glasses, putting on the fine air of pomp and disdain which Stella had suggested to them. “What you must convey,” she had told them, giggling, “is that it is better to be a footman at Opal Hill than to be Obermun anywhere else.”

“Stella!” Rigo had expostulated.

“It’s all right, sir,” Asmir Tanlig had said. “We understand the young lady right enough. She wants us proud enough to shame the bons.” And so they were to the last man, bowing like grandees as they offered their trays of glasses, their bits of tasty food, their sotto voce directions to the ladies’ or the gentlemen’s retiring room, along the balcony, near the musicians. The guests stood or sat or wandered, examining each bit of furniture, each set of drapes, some with a slightly discontented air. Little enough there for them to find fault with unless they found fault with themselves. Similar furnishings were found in every estancia. Similar images on the walls. Similar arrangements of flowers. Not so well done, perhaps, but similar. Too similar to cavil at, though one or two made the effort. “So ordinary,” they said. “So everyday. One would think, coming from Sanctity…” As though they would not have belittled anything that had breathed of Sanctity.

“Good evening How very glad we are to meet you.”

Now the seconds and thirds were beginning to arrive. Eric bon Haunser with Semeles bon Haunser on his arm. “A cousin,” said Andrea’s voice. “At one time said to have been Eric’s lover. She will attempt to seduce Tony, or failing that, the ambassador.”

Was there a quaver in Andrea’s voice at the thought of anyone seducing the ambassador. Was it amusement, perhaps? Gray haired Andrea, who knew Rigo as though he were her own younger brother. Who knew all about Eugenie. Amused? Tony flushed as he bowed over the hand of Semeles bon Haunser. Stella snorted, and Marjorie bit back a cheerless giggle as she smiled and bowed in her turn as Figor took her hand.

“Figor bon Damfels, younger brother of the Obermun. Yie has been instructed to flirt with Lady Westriding. Shevlok bon Damfels. He will pay court to Stella, though unwillingly, for he is still grieving over Janetta bon Maukerden. Sylvan bon Damfels. As usual, no one knows what he is up to.”

Marjorie’s placid voice addressed the bon Damfels’ sons. “Good evening. How nice to see you both again.”

“Good evening, Lady Westriding,” said Sylvan, bowing. “It is kind of you to have planned this amusement for us. We have talked of little else for days.” Smiling at Marjorie, at Stella, manfully clapping Tony on the shoulder, bowing slightly to Rigo. All this charm. In comparison, Shevlok was a poor player, able to muster only a muttered compliment, a sidelong glance, more cowed than seductive. Unconvincing, Marjorie thought. Damned loutish, Stella seethed. Unhappy Shevlok.

“Obermun Stavenger bon Damfels. Obermum Rowena bon Damfels.”

Now the firsts were beginning to appear, and Andrea’s whisperphone was silent. The Yrariers already knew what was common knowledge about the Obermuns, the Obermums.

“Obermun Kahrl bon Bindersen. Obermum Lisian bon Bindersen. Obermun Dimoth bon Maukerden. Obermum Geraldria bon Maukerden.”

“Good evening. We are honored to welcome you.”

“Obermun Gustave bon Smaerlok. Obermum Berta bon Smaerlok. Obermun Jerril bon Haunser. Obermum Felitia bon Haunser.”

“Good evening. Good evening.”

“Obermun Lancel bon Laupmon.”

“Alone,” whispered Andrea. “Recently widowed.”

Then, at last, one final man and an old. old woman in a mechanical chair. “Obermun Zoric bon Tanlig. Obermum Alideanne bon Tanlig.”

“She is the Obermun’s mother and the eldest among the first leaders,” whispered Andrea. “She is always the last to arrive.”

Now the Yrariers could follow the music and the smell of food, down a half flight from the long, chilly hall. Marjorie advanced into the ballroom, was swung into the dance by Rigo. Stella and Tony followed. They had practiced these antique steps under the watchful eye of a dancing master sent from Commons and they now swayed across the floor as though they had danced in this remarkably intimate fashion all their lives. The dance was called a valz. From here and there about the floor couples of the bons joined them on the floor, not so many as to look enthusiastic but not so few as to appear impolite.

“We are being put in our place,” Marjorie said, smiling into Rigo’s face.

“They can only do it if we appear to notice it.” He smiled in return, flames of fury at the backs of his eyes.

They turned to other partners. Rigo allowed no opportunity for snubs. Though he was complimentary to all the bons, he asked no woman to dance who had not been ordered to approach him. Thanks to Persun, he knew who those were. As did Tony.

“Pretend it is an Olympic event,” Marjorie had told her fretful son. “If you do it right, you will get a medal. Treat your partner as you would a willful horse, gently but firmly. It is only athletics, after all.” And so Tony danced and smiled and tried to flirt, though he had had sadly little practice at it. Stella was far better at it than he, anger only increasing her vivacity.

Marjorie drank fruit juice, provided discreetly by Asmir Tanlig, and chanted to herself as she sometimes did when duty bade her do things she did not want to do. “Bow, smile, be led into the dance. Smile, flirt, talk of nothing much. Flirt, charm, be led back to your chair. Charm, bow, begin again.” The partners came and went, in relays. She began to long for a real drink, a real conversation.

“Will you dance with me, Lady Westriding?” Sylvan spoke, appearing from somewhere behind her.

She almost sighed with relief. Sylvan was not supposed to be one of those she had to be wary of. She went into his arms as to a refuge, not fleeing precisely, and yet not holding herself aloof. He led her gently, as though she were a hooded bird, accustoming her to his movements until they seemed to dance almost as one. She thought fleetingly of her advice to Tony, and was amused. Around them other couples circled, a little silence falling as bons whispered to one another. Sylvan was always interesting because he was not predictable. Look — Sylvan! Sylvan bon Damfels…

Perhaps it was the quiet that drew Rigo’s attention. He was on the balcony, standing at the entrance of the gentlemen’s withdrawing room as he saw Marjorie circling in Sylvan’s arms and felt his lip lift in a familiar snarl. She danced with the young bon Damfels as though he were an old and valued friend. Or a lover.

He struggled to control his face. He could not snarl or curse as he sometimes did when he saw her contented like this, moving in some exercise of horsemanship or dance or merely walking in the garden. There was an expression on her face at certain times, an expression of unconscious joy which came from a part of her he had always coveted, a separate being he never saw when he was with her. He had seen that being in the arena or the hunt, skimming the green pastures toward the high fences, all there between the posts and over the water, winging on danger and delight, a bird soaring with a singing face. He wanted to hold that bird.

He had wooed Marjorie and won Marjorie. but he had never gained possession of the thing he’d wanted. Seeking her soul, he had taken only her body, finding there a hollowness he had not expected, a vacant citadel he could storm again and again to no effect. In his bed she became someone else, someone dressed in childlike gowns, filmy white, sprigged with blossoms, her body fragile and boneless, her eyes focused far away on something he could not see. He had used every skill with her he knew, and some he invented for her alone, but she never came from Rigo’s bed looking as she looked now, dancing with Sylvan bon Damfels, lost in movement and pleasure, eyes half closed, lips curved up in that gentle smile he had thought, once, would be his alone.

Andrea’s voice in his ear, secret as a mole. “Persun says your absence is being noted.”

He smiled and went down from the balcony, looking for women’s faces he could notice particularly, women’s bodies he could admire with a significant glance, hinting something, promising nothing. It was all a game, a game.

And below him, Sylvan left Marjorie and turned to Stella with conscious gallantry. Marjorie took yet another