“I thought Grassians spoke Terran or trade lingua,” she replied, dismayed. “Obermun bon Haunser spoke diplomatic Terran to me.”
“Oh, they’ll do that if they like,” he said with a nasty grin. “They’ll speak diplo and some of them will even lower themselves to speak trade lingua, and then the next time they’ll turn their backs to you and pretend they don’t understand you at all. You’ll get further with ’em if you know Grassan. Way I understand it, it’s a mishmash of languages they all spoke when they came here, and then it’s changed since. Each family speaks its own variety of it, kind of a family dialect, a game they have, but mostly that’s a matter of family words and you can understand the sense if you know the language. You’ll get further yet if they don’t know you speak it until you speak it pretty good. I can send you a teacher.”
“Do,” she agreed, all at once trusting and liking him. “Send me a teacher and be very close-mouthed about it if you will, Mr. Few.”
“Oh, I will.” He snorted. “I’ll send you a man in two days. And you call me Roald, like all the Commons do. Damn bons.” The animosity seemed habitual rather than acute, and Marjorie did not inquire into it, merely making a note that Rigo should hear of it if he had not already learned of it for himself.
In addition to the commodious guest and servants’ quarters in the main house, there were three small detached residences at Opal Hill available to members of the embassy staff. Given first choice, Rigo’s faithful assistant Andrea Chapelside had picked the small house closest by, to be most readily available in case of need. Her sister Charlotte would live there with her. Father Sandoval and his companion priest, Father James, took the largest of the detached residences, intending to use part of it as a library and school for Stella and Tony and the largest room as a chapel for themselves and the embassy. This left the smallest house for Eugenie Le Fevre. It had a summer kitchen, living room, and bedroom above the ground and several cozy winter rooms below. Each of the houses was connected by a tunnel which led to the big house. Each opened upon a separate vista of the gardens.
When Roald Few finished his business with Marjorie, he called on each of the other residents of Opal Hill, getting their instructions for the furnishing of summer bedrooms and sitting rooms. The middle-aged women in the first house had pictures of what they wanted, things that looked like home. The men in the larger house wanted everything as plain as it could be, and one room they wanted untouched except for the provision of some little seats with kneeling stools in front of them and an altar kind of arrangement. The delicate-looking younger man had drawn a picture which the older stocky man nodded approval over. Both of them religious, Roald thought. Not dressed like Sanctified, though. These had funny little collars. Something different from the usual run.
“I hope this will not cause you too much trouble,” the older of the two said in a steely voice which only seemed apologetic.
“No trouble at all, except one,” said Roald with an engaging smile. “And that’s knowing what the proper title is for you and the other gentleman. I know you’re some sort of religious folk, and I wouldn’t want to go astray with the lingo.”
The delicate gentleman nodded. “We are Old Catholics. I’m Father Sandoval, and my companion is Father James. Father James’ mother is sister to His Excellency, Roderigo Yrarier. We are usually called Father, if that wouldn’t offend you.” And if it would, his voice said, say it anyhow.
“I don’t stay in business being easily offended,” Roald assured them. “If you wanted me to call you uncle, I’d do that, too. I might balk at aunt, but uncle I could manage.”
This brought a chuckle from the younger priest, and Roald nodded at him cheerfully as he left.
The smallest house was the most remote and the last on his list. It was there, in the empty summer quarter, that he met with Eugenie. He had not been with her for long before he knew everything about her. Everything, he thought to himself, that he needed to know.
“Pink,” she said. “Soft pink. And rose shades, all warm, like the inside of a flower. I miss flowers. Curtains to shut out the night and the sight of that awful grass. Soft curtains that drape and blow in the wind. Wide couches with pillows.” She moved her hands and her lips, sketching what she wanted on the compliant air, and he saw what she saw, a nest feathered in ivory and rose, sweet-scented as—so fable had it—a Terran morning. She was wearing a silky gown that flowed behind her on the air, fluttering with her movement as though she were accompanied by soft winds. Her hair was light brown, the great wealth of it piled high on her head with tiny curls escaping at her brow and the nape of her neck. Her eyes were an ageless blue, innocent of anything but pleasure and untroubled by thought.
Roald Few sighed, silently, knowing all about it. This lady looked like the little porcelain woman his wife kept on the table at home. Poor Lady Westriding. She had interested him enormously, and now he pitied her as well. What was it had gone wrong there? he wondered. So many things could happen. He would tell Kinny, his wife, all about it, how they looked, what they said, and Kinny would
