Prudence Favvi had done well, he thought. She was the strongest and best of Saul’s distant cousins, and had always been a friend to the boy. If Adrian’s marriage turned out to be a tenth as good as the one between Prudence and her husband Michael, he, Fischer, would be more than satisfied with it.
The door to the tea room opened. Prudence came forward, leading a dark-haired girl. Fischer’s first impression was simply that, a young girl looking insecure and uncertain; his second impression, directly on its heels, was: Good heavens, this is possibly the most beautiful young woman I have ever seen. A tall young man in City Guard red followed.
“My dear,” said Prudence gently, in defiance of all scripted etiquette, “this is Adrian.” She patted the shoulder of the dark-haired girl, her voice low and calm, with the steady reassurance of a nurse. Her actions seemed so natural, it was only a moment later that Fischer realized that Adrian should have spoken first.
Adrian stepped forward from the jungle of old tea urns. The light of die heaters suffused his face, giving badly needed color to his paleness. “I’m very glad you’ve come,” he said.
A good beginning, thought Fischer, but then the boy stopped. After a moment, Iolanthe Pelagia said uncertainly, “I hope—”
Simultaneously, Adrian had begun to speak. They both fell silent.
Fischer felt his toes curl up in empathic discomfort. This was Adrian, the charmer of every young lady from court level to Requiem Row? Damn, the occasion was too important, that was the problem. If the boy only cared a little less, he could have been his usual self and given this girl the reassurance she so clearly needed.
“Please go on,” said Adrian finally.
“I hope,” said Iolanthe, with a trace of grimness, “that the amity between us will become a bridge across the stars between our two Cities.”
Oh, heavens. Even Prudence looked appalled. You can get away with that kind of thing in a hall of audience, when you were playing to the crowd anyway; it fell miserably flat here in this tiny room, particularly in the school-lesson voice that the Lady Iolanthe dragged it out in. Adrian might have pulled it off, barely.
Iolanthe Pelagia bit her lips, looking a little horrified herself, but wearing the expression of one determined to enter Purgatory. She said, “The essential unity of the heirs of the C-Curosa—” Her voice cracked just then, making her stumble over the alien name. She stopped short. A pink flush spilled over her face, starting at her neck and reaching her hairline in less than a second.
It was completely enchanting. And her cracking voice had removed any authority her undeniable beauty had lent earlier. Secure in his one-upmanship, Adrian suddenly found his tongue.
“I know we hope the same,” he said kindly. “Do you know, I think you should sit down and have a cup of tea. We have lots of them here.”
She blinked at him, confused, through eyes that were shining with moisture.
“Prudence,” said Adrian, “do you think you could pull over a chair here? And what about your escort, my lady?”
“What about him?” she echoed blankly, leaving the world of diplomacy behind.
Adrian grinned. “Does he want tea, my dear.” He was addressing her the same way he addressed his legion of ex-lovers, but fortunately Iolanthe was unaware of that.
“He’s not an officer,” she said, a little shocked.
“Well, no need for us to be inhospitable. What’s his name?”
“Will Stockton.”
“Will Stockton, would you like a cup of tea? Or coffee?”
To Iolanthe’s clear amazement, the sergeant said calmly, “Tea, please. I never drink coffee.” And he pulled over a chair.
“Excellent choice. The coffee here has been standing for at least an hour that I know about,” the Diamond Protector said darkly.
Fischer started to chuckle. The others turned to look at him.
“Sorry,” he said. A few more chuckles escaped. “Sorry,” he said again, to Adrian.
The Protector shook his head. He pushed his chair a bit closer to the heating table and lifted a traytop. He glanced over at Iolanthe and Will Stockton.
“Now,” said Adrian, as though he were putting a question to die council, “how do we feel about muffins?”
Chapter 8
Io did not know what to make of him. He didn’t seem particularly frightening, but then Lord Cardinal Amo also went out of his way to reassure, and it was wise never to relax around people like that. And yet… Adrian seemed so pleasant. So normal. As Prudence led her through corridor upon corridor, flanked by all five of her bodyguards, Io turned to the older woman. “Was that … usual?” Prudence dimpled suddenly. “Usual in what way, my dear? He’s never been engaged before, so I have no yardstick to measure.”
Io tried to match Prudence’s brisk pace. She noted an occasional well-dressed lady, but no gentlemen, except for her five, and they seemed to draw unhappy looks from the ladies the group did pass. No sedan chairs either, and she could have used one. She put a hand to her forehead. The headache was hovering nearby; she could feel it watching, sizing up the situation. If only she could retire to her room for a few days, the way she used to at home.
“You look tired,” said Prudence in a businesslike way. “When we get to your quarters, why don’t you take a nap if you want one? I won’t let anyone disturb you for the next four hours. Dinner’s at eight.”
“Will Hartley Quince be there?”
“I don’t know—may I call you Iolanthe? Call me Pru, if you like. I don’t know if he’s been invited.”
“Do you think he was angry at being sent to quarters in the Jade Court?”
“I don’t see why he should be, that’s where the rest of the Opallines are. We can hardly put you up with them, Iolanthe. You’re the Protector’s wife, practically. Anyway, what does it matter whether he’s angry or not?”
“It matters,” said Iolanthe, who had grasped that fact at
