“It’s just a headache,” said Io, in a voice of doomed resignation that would have suited “it’s just an earthquake.”
“This will never do,” said Prudence thoughtfully. “You wait here just a minute; don’t move.” She left, said something unintelligible to the guard at the door, and her footsteps faded. Fifteen minutes later she was back, carrying a china cup and saucer with the care one gives to very hot water.
“Couldn’t remember which purse I left these in,” she said. She took out a colored packet and emptied some crumbled leaves into the cup. The steam took on an earthy aroma.
Io pushed herself up on one arm. “What is it?”
“Headache medicine. I brew it for my husband all the time, poor dear. Drink it down, now.”
Io regarded the cup with suspicion. “Where did you get it?”
“From a witch I know on Mercati Boulevard. Very reliable. Go on, drink it, sweetheart. The banquet starts in an hour.”
Io took a few sips. “It doesn’t taste bad.”
“It doesn’t taste good, though, either. At least, that’s what Michael always tells me. There you are, now. Finish it off. Good!” Prudence retrieved the cup. “Now lie back and finish your nap, and I’ll be back in half an hour.”
“I’ll never be ready for the banquet on time.”
“Oh, phooey, they’re longing for you to make a big entrance anyway. Let me worry about that nonsense.” Iolanthe settled back down. “You were joking about the witch, weren’t you?”
“My dear child.” Prudence dimmed the lights and stood at the door, cup and saucer in one hand. “Whatever your nurse used to tell you, you’re a grownup now, sink or swim. You can’t afford to be a stickler about form.” Iolanthe turned to the doorway, startled, but Prudence had already gone.
“She’s late,” said Tal.
Adrian, sitting beside him at the long banquet table, smiled. ‘That’s as it should be. Anticipation is half the fun for us mortal human types, Tal. Look around the table—the gossip level is volcanic, and we haven’t even been served the soup. I think they’re half-inclined to like her already, just for the drama she’s helping to invest in the situation.”
Tal glanced across the damask tablecloth, where Fischer sat beside Sophia Messina, a distant cousin. She was talking animatedly, gesturing toward Iolanthe’s empty seat. Her tight brown curls were starting to fall into her eyes.
“Will they slam their cups against the table,” Tal inquired, “and demand that the show begin?”
“All right, perhaps it’s not the most gracious attitude, but at least it’s relatively positive.” Adrian dug a finger around his dress collar. “This isn’t leaving red marks on my neck, is it?”
Tal looked at him.
“I’m just asking. I suppose she wouldn’t be able to see them by candlelight anyway. —Tell me, what would a banquet be like outside the Cities? I hear the Republic and Empire tend to use artificial meat. Is it true?”
Tal was accustomed to his sudden dips into anthropological speculation. “True enough, most of them do.”
“So they might consider us barbaric?”
“The Empire would never say so. They believe in polite deceit.”
“But you don’t. You come right out and tell me anything I ask. Is that because you’re Aphean, or because you’re from the Republic?”
Tal looked badly startled. Adrian missed this rare sight, because he turned just then to see Iolanthe Pelagia enter the room.
“I never said I was from the Republic,” Tal said, and stopped, because Adrian was so clearly not hearing him. Iolanthe walked slowly down the length of the hall, flanked by Prudence Favvi, wearing a gown that every woman present know was borrowed, for it was a magnificent sky blue, Favvi’s trademark color. And Prudence herself was wearing dark midnight, which was plainly ridiculous, as well as making her look at least five years older.
“They’ve switched gowns,” Tal heard Sophia Messina say in her alto voice, clear as a bell across the table. Tal glanced toward her briefly, reliving one of his occasional paranoid thoughts that human women were telepathic.
“But what does it mean?” old Lady Baltis hissed toward Sophia. The latter woman shrugged the pair of lovely shoulders that showed above her low-cut gown. From the intensity of the whispers, Tal judged that if Adrian’s gossip-formula were correct, Iolanthe’s popularity must be growing by leaps and bounds.
“Pity she’s a spy,” said Adrian, and Tal turned to stare. “I thought you disagreed with Fischer’s assessment.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Adrian, his gaze still fixed on the vision in sky blue. “Of course he’s right, but I refuse to accept Fischer’s crushingly obvious advice on personal matters. Sometimes he thinks I’m still twelve years old. He should learn to hide it better.”
Iolanthe halted just across the table from Adrian, and performed an impeccable curtsy toward him as giver of the feast. Adrian stood. “How beautiful you look,” he said, a sentence he had always found welcome, though never as appropriate. “Won’t you please grace us?” He gestured toward the seat at his left.
She circled the back of the table and took her place, Prudence next to her. As she crossed behind the chairs, she saw the young man beside Adrian turn and stare at her in a way that was discomforting. He had gray eyes, eyes that seemed “off” in some way. Well, all in a row, she thought, sitting down; the Demon, the Protector, the Misfit, and the Sophisticate. She turned toward Prudence for a moment to observe how she unfolded her napkin.
“Thank you so much for the medicine,” said Iolanthe to Prudence, as the soup was taken away. “I feel so much better. A little disoriented, but there’s no pain at all; I can’t get over it.”
“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” said Prudence, “but you know, you really have to talk to Adrian. One course devoted to me is acceptable, but two would look very strange.”
Io peered down at her
