If you’re interested in the start of this story, go here.

SsillvrR would have leaned against the lion while he waited, if he didn’t feel as if the lion would have taken offense. It had that particularly unfriendly look about it that cats often sported, the one that read in no uncertain terms, my station exceeds yours, and if not heeded, involved claws. Instead, he leaned against Harsholt’s wall, which was a miserably artless creation and suffered badly from any comparison to the sleek feline grace of the lion. SsillvrR felt a little sorry for the wall, which having been built to dissuade any would-be-thief had no need for decorative beauty.

Feeling sorry for walls and intimidated by stone lions was, he realized, a good sign. He was rarely able to give into the assertions of his psyche unless he was feeling optimistic about something (truly optimistic, not doggedly). It was really, not a bad plan. Moreover, he had a good feeling about it. That sentiment rarely flew with anyone who wasn’t familiar with uniformed duties however, so the elf vowed to keep it under his hat so to speak. Spouting off about hunches and good feelings wasn’t going to instill confidence in Celino, who seemed hesitant still.

Despite that, the fact he was thus far in agreement left the elf feeling as if he’d missed key elements of the man’s character in his earlier assessments. Celino struck him as a good sort under the bluster and arrogance, but not really the sort to willingly enter into the sort of fracas he’d proposed. Specifically without visible benefit to himself. To save a man who’d been sent to off him no less.

Pulling his thoughts up short, SsillvrR supposed it was pointless to stare a gift horse in the mouth. Celino would help as much as he wished, and that was more than he could have hoped for. Now all they needed was for Tourmaline’s mood to be fair to good.

—–

One inventory, scrub, and hurried shampoo later, Celino was damp and full of apples. He pulled on his last set of clean robes, brown underneath and russet on top, and considered his gold top robe sadly before stuffing it back in the purse. If Aldridge’s notion of Tourmaline’s fashion sense was wrong, Celino could put better robes on later.

He finished his last apple just before the ivory lion came into sight and stopped behind a corner to see that his fingers were licked clean. Properly groomed, he strolled into the square. Aldridge was already there, lounging gracefully against a wall and looking as though he were pondering–apples, suggested Celino’s subconscious. Celino brushed it aside, but in the process lost his train of thought. Ah well.

He considered the lion for a moment. The beast was alert and on guard like any good servant, but what was it guarding? He leaned against the pedestal, resting his head on its carved flank. A glance along its line of sight revealed nothing of immediate import. Hmm. “Who built this?” he said offhandedly to Aldridge, then almost as offhandedly, “When did she say she would meet us?”

—–

Celino looked properly respectable, for a man in outlander gear. Maybe it was the color; brown was a nice humble color, solid, sturdy, dependable old brown. SsillvrR considered that if he were a color, he wouldn’t mind at all being a good earthy shade of brown. Something like good soil, or the underside of a nursery log. The elf’s clothes were considerably less polished. Inventory: One pair of nondescript riding breeches (the first thing he happened to grab), one matchingly non-descript shirt rolled up over his forearms (the sleeves were too billowy and got in the way), and a vest that was a tired looking shade of gray green like the underside of a safe leaf. Had he picked up a position behind Celino, his garb was such that he might have been taken for a servant.

“Who? I have no idea. It’s not bad though,” the elf considered peering up into the planar face that stared stonily past him. “Its all angles and points, but it still feels like a lion.” Hands in his pockets, he pushed off the wall with his shoulder and fell into step with the mage. “She didn’t. We’re ah, dropping by. Surprise visit.” A cheeky grin lifted both lips and eyebrows briefly as he inclined his head at Wrenmarch’s ugly gate. Neither the main gate nor the foot gate was locked by any visible means as it happened which seemed not at all unusual to the elf, who slipped in only to find himself faced by what looked like a giant grey footstool. With teeth.

“Ah… ” the elf grimaced, shuffling hastily through mental notes on a language he was only fleetingly familiar with. What the hell was that word? “Vournahan? Vourdanan!” With a skeptical whine, the dog’s curled lips dropped and a pink tongue lolled briefly, mockingly, before it padded off again.

Giving Celino a brief apologetic grin over his shoulder before they continued to the door, the elf shrugged. “Two languages are all I can manage. The third just won’t stick.”

The door, a broad wooden panel whose innately stately design was somewhat ruined by the fetching shade of robin’s egg blue it had been painted popped open before they could even announce themselves with a knock. A short, dour looking man stood framed within it, his eyes all but consumed by the pouches of fat surrounding them. He squinted moleishly up at the pair of them.

“Your business?”

SsillvrR looked detachedly amused. The man was obviously new if he expected Tourmaline’s guests to readily announce their business. “Is my own thanks. Could you please tell the lady the ‘other’ son is here?”

The mole’s eyes disappeared entirely with the force of his scowl, but he seemed able to navigate by other means for he spun about top-like and trundled into the dark foyer leaving the door open. Some unspoken rule of etiquette kept SsillvrR from following; he waited patiently until a warm voice echoed at an unlady-like volume from somewhere within the depths.

“That joke is nearly as old as I am, and the pair of us are fading fast!”

SsillvrR slipped inside after ushering Celino in first, and let the door click shut behind them. “As much as I like to yell, where are you?”

“Two lefts and a right.”

There was a sitting room, a small affair used for personal guests, then a short hallway and finally a grander room which at a glance was not terribly unlike the average. There were high windows, and nice curtains hung on nicer rods with little twisty metal ends. There were items of furniture; chairs and tables, couches and a chaise with several immense pillows. And in the middle, there was a construction somewhere between a dais and a couch, populated primarily with pillows and drapery in the middle of which sat a young woman wearing nothing but a handful of hairpins and a serene look.
SsillvrR did a double take.

“Don’t be rude,” said a canvas. “Margarette, this is SsillvrR, who is among other things, a bit of a jackass.”

SsillvrR was still trying to work out how this situation fit into his understanding of etiquette when he managed some kind of greeting before jerking his gaze back to the talking canvas. “What in the gods names are you doing?”

“Learning how to telekinetically strip a woman,” the voice said, with a humor that was like the tinkling of glass bells. “Don’t have a heart-attack, I’m painting. I think. Mostly I’m just pushing the paint around on the canvas, but I think I’m beginning to get it now. There’s a great deal of bullshit involved. I think if I can come up with a decent line to explain why it looks like a puddle of cat vomit rather than lovely Margarette here, I’ll be accepted into the art community.” A face appeared around the edge of the stretcher then, long and ovaline with too many edges for it to ever be called beautiful. A fine network of lines gathered at the edges of her eyes, and her lips though thin were flexible, and made echoing crinkles when she smiled. “Who are you, and what do you think of my painting?”

—–

The [i]other[/i] son? Celino’s eyebrow went up. He pondered that all the way through the house, which was richly decorated but nothing notable; stuffy, like all Continental houses.

And then there was a woman, notably unstuffy. Celino took one look for reference and then kept his eyes on her face. Ah. Eccentric, yes. He was impressed that she considered herself old (but perhaps elves were like that… but she looked human… but if not everyone who had pointed ears was an elf, then maybe not everyone who had round ears was human) and could bellow like that without looking red in the face seconds later. Then the canvas spoke and the situation became slightly less eccentric, though even in Cockaigne one did not lay out undressed people as decoration during public visiting hours.

If this was Aldridge’s point of comparison, he didn’t see why his own foreignnesses shocked the man so. He was junior league compared to Tourmaline.

“Celino XVII, at your service,” Celino said with a middling bow, the one that said “I respect you and acknowledge your high station but as yet have insufficient evidence that it’s groveling time.” He added a second, shallower bow for Margarette, the one that said “I have no idea where you stand socially but respect you all the same, and also you are naked.” As he strolled across the room and circled the canvas to stand behind it with Tourmaline, he reflected that despite wearing rather more clothes than Margarette, Tourmaline was a distractingly handsome woman. Bony and planar, with strong features that were marked by laugh lines but could probably do a fearsomely competent “fierce” face. Tall, that was a bonus, though being at least four inches taller than Celino was daunting. She seemed to have hit the sensible part of the female life cycle with force and enjoyment. This interview was going to be terribly interesting.

All the same, she looked nothing whatsoever like her “son.” Aldridge [i]would[/i] explain the joke if she wouldn’t, Celino was going to make sure of that.

He considered the canvas, arms behind his back. “You have not yet captured the essence of the sitter’s personality,” he drawled, “but you have the curve–” He indicated the line from shoulder to hip to flank with a graceful mirroring gesture. “–down nicely. Which art community are you trying to get into, artisanal or society?”

—–

SsillvrR, who was paying a lot of attention to the edges of the canvas; specifically the white bits such as they were neither the nudity, nor a portrayal of that nudity, completely missed Celino’s careful little bows. Which really was just as well, since Tourmaline did too, having returned her gaze to the pinkish blots in the center which SsillvrR supposed, stealing a glance now that the initial shock was wearing off, were supposed to be Margarette.

“It’s very
–pink,” the elf pointed out while Tourmaline rearranged the contingent of brushes balanced somewhat precariously behind the delicate point of her left ear. Her laughter was bright and unapologetically loud. Margarette, her eyes closed in a dozy cattish fashion, smiled absently.

“Well she is mostly pink. I also find myself having purchased a great deal more red than I really require, strictly speaking, so I’m trying on ‘economical’ as well as ‘painter’ and using as much as I can before it goes crusty and useless. Perched atop a high backed stool at the edge of a long dining table Tourmaline certainly looked the part. SsillvrR considered that was probably not accidental. “Margarette dear, do you need a break?”

“My arm is getting a little tingly,” the woman confessed while her painter traced the line Celino had indicated with a fingertip, smearing the paint hopelessly.

“Bitch,” Tourmaline hissed at it, and proceeded to make matters worse by attempting to coax it back into place with the same finger. “Well, you’ve ruined it Celino XVII. I suspect you are not an artist.” And then to her model, who was stretching stiff muscles gingerly as she climbed into a long robe of a considerably more cozy sort than Celino’s, “stretch your legs then, and find something to eat in the kitchen while you’re at it.”

Fingers bearing the evidence of her error, she began removing brushes from their various hiding places and plopping them one at a time into containers of muddy looking liquid.

“I’m attempting to get into whichever art community would irritate my son most. So, you’re here to ruin my paintings and gawk at my poor model?”

—–

“I am not an artist,” Celino agreed amiably. “When I wish to enjoy the exercise of craft, I do magic; when I wish to be pretentious and smug, I point myself at someone I dislike and dive into it freeform. I admire your attempt to impose discipline upon your natural desires.” He considered the ruined canvas. “It’s not a bad start, all in all. You have the outlines of everything right; it’s the internal details that are off. If you worked with them a bit, you might have a painting that wouldn’t annoy your son at all.” He glanced at Aldridge. “Your other other son, I mean.” Aldridge was taking a keen interest in the painted draperies. Celino doubted Tourmaline could be convinced to wrap them around Margarette, even if they used up more red paint.

—–

Tourmaline listened to Celino while rearranging her brushes in a manner that seemed to have no particular reason whatsoever, then began wiping her paint-smudged fingertips on her smock front. “You are confused Celino XVII; the irritation is my aim.” SsillvrR made a small sound that seemed amused and exasperated as he pulled a chair out from beneath the table, whose only other occupants were a variety of painting paraphernalia and some strange looking potted plants. And then to the elf, “Thank you incidentally, for continuing to use that ‘joke’ despite my obvious annoyance with it. Do it again and I will take it upon myself to create thirty or forty paintings of your favorite guardsmen nude and have them displayed prominently in council chambers. And the barracks mess hall. I might even put your signature on them, if I can remember how to spell your damnable name.”

SsillvrR chuckled this time, pushing a small pot of pearly white paint aside. “You’d be bored of the project by the second painting. I think I’m relatively safe.”

“Hmhh,” said the blond woman, turning a piercing gaze on Celino again. “Neither of you came here to discuss paintings and familial rivalries. Let’s have it then.”

—–

“In that case, I advise you to change nothing, but when you start on the series of guardsmen, use nothing but red paint. Insist that the outlines created by your brush strokes are enough. Throw around phrases like ‘the visible hand of the artist’ and ‘tactile painting.’ Interlard it with rambling explanations of the ‘other son’ joke, or, if you don’t feel like it, let me have the rambling explanation now.” He seated himself across from Aldridge, placing his elbows carefully to avoid a splotch of blue paint.

So Tourmaline knew about Aldridge’s predilections. Iiiiiiiiiiiiinteresting. And Aldridge wasn’t turning colors and squirming. Even more interesting.

Celino looked expectantly at Aldridge. He wasn’t going to launch into the explanation of this mess.

—–

Tourmaline savored a good laugh at Celino’s suggestions, while pushing small glasses of water in varying shades of brown about with an air of half-hearted searching. “He’s clever, but he has a touch of the entitlement complex you seem so very fond of,” she assessed looking pointedly at SsillvrR, who was absently arranging the cups of dirtied paint water in order of size. “One of yours?”

“A friend,” SsillvrR corrected with a half grin. “And fellow conspirator.”

One brow, arched severely that it hung in a permanent slant over a murky bronze eye. “A friend and conspirator to whom you’re going to have to explain the measure of your ‘joke’ to personally. You can consider it penance for letting my old age in with you.”

“Justice thwarted. Look, I’ll level with you-”

“Please, do.”

“I need a favor You know the Six Cups?”

“In between the four and five cups I imagine.”

SsillvrR made a small sound of amusement, gleaning an affirmation in her tone if not her words. “I need something expensive of yours to turn up in their possession.”

“How about that damnable statue? Tell them they can keep it. I’m not fond of having that damned thing staring at me day in and day out.”

—–

Entitlement complex! Of all the–what had he said that was entitled? Celino’s color rose. While he was working up a proper splutter, Tourmaline and Aldridge cut through it with “One of yours?” “A friend.” And the words before had been–”…you seem so very fond of.”

Huh.

Huh.

But Aldridge still wasn’t changing color and squirming, which wasn’t as good a sign as it could have been. If he was being so casual about it, maybe Celino was the type of lover Aldridge favored, but Aldridge still didn’t favor him (occupation, race, nationality, what was wrong?), which sunk the whole enterprise. Ahhhh, this was getting worse and worse.

Celino forced himself to surface from his brown study in time to hear he wasn’t going to get his explanation. Tourmaline also knew about the Cups, which was strange if the Cups were as do-nothing as Aldridge told him. And she owned the statue? “Why does it face the house?” Celino said. He lounged back in his chair to give Aldridge more room for his puttering. (Oh, soft chairs. Celino remembered what they felt like.) “It’s bad geomancy, directing that kind of opposition toward the house. It should face away.

“But I think that even a bunch of fine strong lads like the Cups would have trouble carting it away. What about the painting? An outfit like the Cups might think it was worth stealing on provenance alone.” That was a stab in the dark. Celino still had no idea why this woman was important, apart from having evidently transmuted her social qualms into great pots of cash. “The furor surrounding its theft and recovery would generate enough celebrity to annoy a dozen sons.”

—–

No, SsillvrR was neither squirming nor pinking. He was in fact, having finished arranging the containers of water from smallest to largest in a typically obsessive compulsive manner, now ensuring all the brushes within them pointed at Celino. At Tourmaline’s suggestion the corners of his mouth turned up a a pinched kind of smile, the kind one might offer at the sharing of a private joke. “Celino has a point. Plus, I would prefer if we could not involve him if at all possible.”

Tourmaline snorted indelicately, and having located the glass of brown water which was in fact NOT paint water, but an expensive aged scotch, took a sip. “Nobody’s told me yet why you would like me to deliver something of mine into the hands of some sort of criminal organization. But don’t tell me; wait.” Tenting her fingers over top of the glass, she peered with an intense scrutiny into ceiling over the doorway by which they’d entered for a moment. “This is most certainly a personal affair, or I would not be graced with your company. An item of mine in the possession of criminals at your request, paired with the fact you’re not here alone suggests to me this has something to do with you,” she paused to stab a finger tipped in a delicately pointed nail at him. Following, she lifted a hand to her mock in an expression of mock horror. “My dear elf, are you involved in some kind of… unlawful undertaking?”

SsillvrR’s ears swung out as he looked up from pushing a paintbrush back and forth between his hands. “Admittedly what I’m proposing stretches the limits of my conscience… but the ends I think justify the means.”

Tourmaline waved a hand, flippantly dismissing the debate such a statement could have provoked. She let her fingernails clink against the glass before slanting her gaze at Celino. “It faces the house because its gifter is an arrogant prick who thinks he’s being clever. Now someone give me the whole story, and hand me the biscuits on the sideboard while you’re at it.”

“He’s merely making a point. You were being a little reckless a few years back, associating with those kind of-”

“Don’t you dare defend him when he’s not here to give you brownie points for it,” Tourmaline pointed her glass at SsillvrR with a scowl, and the elf lifted his hands in surrender, but not without a badly smothered smirk.

“The cookies first, then the story.”

—–

Aldridge teasing Tourmaline like a small boy! That was easily the sexiest thing since he’d said dirty words. Celino kept his face neutral and pleasant as he fetched the biscuits from the sideboard, but inside he made small incoherent sounds that, if he were not a man in the full dignity of adulthood, would have been called squeaking. He offered her the tray, taking the seat beside her as he did so.

“It started about a week ago, when I sat down to have a glass of ale and enjoy the ambiance of the Cups’ tavern. They didn’t have ale or ambiance, so over a glass of cat piss, we enjoyed a lively debate about our respective mothers, which I won.” He leaned back, letting his hands hang bonelessly over the griffins’ heads that thrust from the ends of the armrests. “Over the course of the debate, several of the Cups attempted to steal my purse and wound up in my purse, where they stayed for the night and much of the following morning, until Captain Aldridge was prepared to take my statement regarding the attempted theft. This made me rather unpopular with them, so a few days ago, they hired a dribbling monkey with a large axe to break my ribs. After meeting me and trading several remarkable stories about the quite remarkable Captain, then going off to dribble upon the Captain himself, the monkey declined to do the job.”

Celino looked at Aldridge expectantly. Your turn.

—–

Tourmaline’s fingered hovered indecisively over the various biscuits while Celino explained, before choosing a variety that was decorated with small curls of cherry flavored white chocolate.
“Now you don’t get a cookie,” she told SsillvrR pointedly when Celino finished. “He does.”

SsillvrR was feigning disinterest in said cookies, ears swiveled outward. “Two months ago,” he corrected. “And there was technically an episode of subsequent incarceration following that drunken debacle.”

“Is that how you meet all your friends?” Tourmaline broke the cookie in two and dipped it in her scotch. “And this monkey is going to play a key role I imagine.”

SsillvrR gave Celino a look that suggested he was disappointed enough to consider upending some paint water over the mage’s head. “The man in question was in the service under my command at Yalesbury.”

The woman lifted her gaze before letting out a bright ‘ha’ that startled a sleeping cat off the back of a chair piled with anatomy books. “Lovely! I’m beginning to understand now. You feel some misguided duty to this disgraced monkey, particularly since he was kind enough to spare your friend here and are therefore looking for a reason to justify
what, some kind of rescue mission?”

Looking a little dour, he shook his head. “Well, not rescue per se. Preventative measure let’s say. The cups aren’t going to be happy about that broken contract, and his current ah
transgressions are something I think it would be wise to keep under wraps considering his former position.”

Tourmaline nipped at the edge of the cookie and smiled. “And he’s agreed to help you out of some similarly misguided sense of loyalty?”

SsillvrR glanced sidelong at Celino and shrugged a bit.

—–

“And there was technically an episode of subsequent incarceration following that drunken debacle.”

“Ah, yes.” Celino smiled creamily. “We got to play the three-things game with a real locked room and ‘me, a warm bed, a cup of coffee.’” He selected a green cookie filled with butter frosting and topped with pistachios, and spent the rest of Aldridge’s story licking the filling out. He envied Tourmaline’s glass of scotch. It had been ages since he’d tasted spirits.

But–two months? Surely it hadn’t been that long. He riffled through his memories. There were a lot of days cluttering up his memory, but it didn’t feel like much more than a week.

He ignored Aldridge’s disappointed look, licking his cookie like it was the most absorbing thing in the world. He stood by what he said. The man was a monkey beyond doubt. It wasn’t Celino’s fault that Aldridge couldn’t see that, or that Aldridge was the very definition of misguided loyalty.

“Certainly not,” Celino said indignantly when Tourmaline accused him of the same flaw. “The Cups are still after me. I need to make them call off. And,” he tilted his head toward Aldridge, “he asked me for help.”

—–

At Celino’s elbow Tourmaline laughed under her breath, a smoky sort of chuckle that involved a sidelong glance at the elf, who was if only briefly wearing a fairly suspicious face. “So, you would like something of mine to appear in the hands of said gang of baddies so you can justify cleaning them out and thus preventing them from causing further trouble for your absent simian associate and Celino the somethingth. Seventeenth, was it? Well I have a large concern with the current proposal. It would require me to step forward wreathed in titles and cry foul. You know very well how I feel about that. Ostmont society is more or less ignorant of my existence and that tickles me scarlet.”

“Pink,” SsillvrR said.

“Scarlet,” said Tourmaline meaningfully. “Also, how do you propose to link the Cups to that item? Offer to take inventory of their stolen items for them?”

—–

“It’s not at all what you think,” Celino murmured in response to Tourmaline’s chuckle, exuding innocence. When she was done talking, he said, “Seventeenth. But you may just call me Celino. There are no other Celinos in the town to confuse me with.” He stretched out his legs under the table and hitched a foot up on the polished length of one of the crossbars. “Please pardon my ignorance, madam, but what are your titles? The Captain hasn’t seen fit to enlighten me.”

How did the Captain plan to catch the Cups out? That was a good question. Celino had a vision of himself playing bait in the Cups’ den, and hoped fervently that Aldridge had a better idea. He bit one of the halves of his cookie in two as he waited for whatever answers or evasions the present company produced.

—–

“And your predecessors were mages I assume from that bit about purse-incarceration? No, he wouldn’t either. I’d wring his neck. Or rather I’d pay someone to wring it for me; I’ve never been one for violence.” Tourmaline munched the last of her cookie, rolling her eyes dramatically that they seemed to gleam orange in the lamp light. “First lady of eccentricities. Unless I agree that information is classified master Celino. And don’t eat the last chocolate wafer; I’m saving it for Margarette”

“You may as well tell him,” SsillvrR, having run out of things to arrange was tapping his fingertips absently against the arm of his chair. “What’s the worst possible outcome? Its Ostmont. He’s not what you’d call terribly popular here-abouts. No socialites are going to be breaking down your door trying to curry favor The social climate being what it is, the worst you could expect would be a few rotten tomatoes thrown at your door.”

“I don’t particularly care for tomatoes either,” Tourmaline retorted before blowing out a long sigh. “Explain to me how you intend to catch the Cups with my things first.”

“That’s not difficult. We’d need to choose an item that is expensive enough to be exciting, but not so expensive that the Cups couldn’t find a likely fence for it. So long as its something that’s relatively unique to your collection, I can find it again. I know the fences they use on a regular basis, and none of them have lofty enough connections to be able to go directly to a buyer.” SsillvrR stopped drumming his fingers and made a small open handed gesture. “You know I wouldn’t ask if I could possibly manage this any other way. I don’t particularly like having to ask in the first place, but this isn’t something I can mange in an official capacity. I can’t fix this on my own.”

“You could have asked him.”

“You’re not going to hold the favor over my head,” the elf shrugged mildly, looking almost guilty. “I can keep the drama to a minimum if I’m in control. Its also, just faster.”

Tourmaline sighed again, and examined the points of her nails, picking absently at the surface of one, which gleamed with subtle nacre. “Oh alright. Only because I like you. And I may in future, hold this over your head,” her grin was broad and feline as she snatched another cookie, the wafer she’d professed to be saving before turning a blithe smile at Celino. “First lady of eccentricities, as well as queen mother.”

—–

Denied and extensively insulted, Celino rolled his eyes and sat up. “I can keep secrets,” he said, taking a cookie dipped in pink icing. “As a physician, I’ve held information that could have broken a thousand marriages and ruined ten thousand lives. Keeping secrets is part of the job. You–” He pointed the cookie at Aldridge. “–may not appreciate my openness with details of my own life, but you can’t fault my discretion with your own life. A little trust, if you will.”

He sat back and munched discontentedly while Aldridge explained the plan and he and Tourmaline made confusing banter about a mysterious “him.” Then Tourmaline smiled at him as though some great secret was going to be revealed, and–oh. That was odd. “Queen mother of what?”

—–

“As many venereal diseases contracted by philandering husbands as you’ve treated, you’ll forgive me my suspicions. I have worked long and hard to distance myself from any and all responsibilities, and I’m tired. I have no interest in being dragged, accidentally or otherwise, back into that whole mess. Politics may hang by a silk handkerchief for all I care.” Snapping the wafer in two, Tourmaline proceeded to nip off equal sections from either end.

This time, it was SsillvrR’s turn to laugh. The elf’s ears twitched with the effort it took to contain that mirth, even as he cleared his throat. Tourmaline looked mad as a wet cat. “The king?”

—–

“Oh, it’s not you, ma’am. I was angry at yon giggling baboon.” Celino looked from Tourmaline, to Aldridge, to Tourmaline. “Ah. Which king?”

—–

Tourmaline broke the remainder of her wafer over Celino’s head. “Exactly how old do you think I am?!” The crumbled bits of its shattered end tumbled in a sugary landslide down the front of his robe.

SsillvrR laughed all over again, and this time found himself being frowned at by both Tourmaline and Celino. “Sorry,” he grinned in a manner that belied his apology.

“Now you owe me two favors,” Tourmaline growled under her breath, holding the remainder of her cookie up threateningly. SsillvrR held up a hand to ward off any biscuit projectiles before explaining as delicately as he could manage.

“The present monarch Jareth, whom am… I think you’ve made mention of before.” In less than favorable light.

—–

Celino made an undignified gak and hid behind his hands as the madwoman assaulted him with a biscuit. He shook it out of his hair with a toss that sprayed crumbs across the carpet and stood to brush down the front of his robes, making sure to pat hard enough to cause crumbs to leap off his robes and into the bottles of paintbrush water. A tiny one landed in the glass of scotch and floated there, dimpling the surface.

Ah. The woman was not eccentric, she was crazy. Aldridge could have warned him. He vented his anger by glaring at Aldridge as he brushed off his robes, then sat down again majestically.

Tourmaline wasn’t a thing like Bitch-Queen Varonah. If this was her idea of proper Varonahish behavior, Celino was at a loss as to how to cater to her. A sneering, strutting, arrogant bitch with a dress slit all the way up to heaven, breath that smelled like roast babies, and a late-night appointment with her own son–that he could handle. Varonah had never been his favorite character, but there had been a period in his adolescence when she seemed like the most desirable woman imaginable (mainly because she could make Agnesia Torrissii jealous, but oh, that dress), and he could have extrapolated something usable from that time. An elderly eccentric with a taste for the arts… No, he had nothing. He was going to have to wing it. As he recomposed himself, he wondered if the poor thing had ever had a real son of her own.

“My apologies, Your Grace,” he said politely. “I was asking which country, not which generation, as I could not understand why a lady of your eminence would be found in Ostmont. I will keep your secret with the greatest of care.”

—–

SsillvrR watched, one arm draped over the back of his chair as Celino’s expression went through several distinct stages. It was a bit like watching a child come to the realization that they were not going to be able to weasel out of a predicament. There was surprise first, then disbelief, anger (presumably at him for not informing him sooner) and acceptance. Although Celino’s acceptance had a skeptical quality to it that made SsillvrR snicker under his breath, using the opportunity to steal a shortbread.

Tourmaline frowned quietly at the crumb floating in her drink, and mumbled something unflattering about him while trying to fish it out again. “Call me ‘your grace’ again and I will wash that cookie off with the nearest paint water.”

SsillvrR grinned. “She’s not joking, she’ll do it.”

Obviously resisting the urge to sigh, Tourmaline managed to extricate the cookie bit, and brushed it off on Celino’s sleeve. “So then, I would appreciate it if you did keep your mouth shut. Moving on; for an item, what about my mantle clock? I’d have to hunt up the certificate that came with it, but I believe it will have the clock’s number on it.”

Still grinning, the elf agreed. “That should work. My next question is-”

“Can I put it among their things. Yes, I can, but not now. Now, the pair of you have given me a headache, and absolutely murdered my artistic inspiration. Come up with a location where you’d like it put; someplace I’ve actually seen would be best, for tomorrow. Or…what is tomorrow? Monday? Yes, Monday’s fine. But not until the afternoon.”

“Thanks Tourmaline,” SsillvrR stood with a fairly respectable bow, and a cookie sailed over his bent back to explode against the very nice wallpaper behind him. The elf, though chuckling, sensed his cue and jerked his head at Celino in the door’s direction. “I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon, or baring that I’ll send a note.”

“Yes yes,” the woman waved a long fingered hand and emptied the contents of her glass. “Good night boys.”

—–

“Madam.” Celino rose and bowed to her deeply, then scooted out behind Aldridge. Once out of cookie-chucking range, he stopped and went over himself once more, sending a fine cloud of sugar drifting onto the antique rug. There were still crumbs in his hair. There were still crumbs in his damp hair, ensuring that they were going to be there for days unless he combed his hair fiercely once it was dry. He made a low sound of exasperation. As low as he could, he asked Aldridge, “Who is she, really?”