dance ended, the couples pattered their applause, I retrieved my things from behind the armor, and Parr and I stepped out into the welcome coolness of the October night.
Chapter 6
More adders ~ Ginger ale ~ untimely Flushing ~ we dance the Sir Roger de Coverly.
A re you imagining a romantic scene of distant music, softly scented breezes, and twinkly lanterns, with moonlight falling over everything? Do you picture me beginning to shiver, while Parr wraps me tenderly in my shawl? In your vision, does he leave his arms casually around me as we lean against the balustrade, gazing at the stars?
Happy dream!
It was crowded on the long brick terrace overlooking the parterre. (A parterre, in case you were wondering—I was—turns out to be a chessboard arrangement of flower beds.) Now past the season of prime bloom, the Forefield parterre minced down to a long lawn, which swooped down to the river. Staircases and gravel paths threaded the flower beds, punctuated by large stone urns spilling over with late grasses and vines.
On the terrace where we stood, boys in blazers, now and then with a date in a pale dress, jostled one another to get at the food and drinks. Spilled pretzels crunched underfoot. From time to time clumps of muttering youths burst into wild chortles, as if to celebrate some successful act of wickedness. Released from his guard table, Turkeyface stalked along the edge of the terrace, sniffing the air for illicit smoke.
Grandison Parr led me to a sheltered spot by a pair of planters. “What would you like to drink?” he asked.
“Hmm—ginger ale?” I hoped the choice wouldn’t sound too babyish.
“Right. Be right back.” He pushed his way into the crowd.
At first I kept his golden head in sight, but after he turned around and glanced at me twice, I looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring. When I looked again, he was gone.
A long time went by.
I played with the fringes of my wrap, braiding and unbraiding them.
I wondered whether Ashleigh was still dancing. I considered going to find her, but decided to stay put, in case Parr came back.
Three or four gangly boys nearby nudged and punched one another. They ejected one and gave him a little push in my direction. He approached hesitantly.
“So, um, you wanna dance?” he muttered, addressing an area a little below my collarbones. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen.
“Sorry, I can’t—I’m waiting for my . . . escort . . . to come back with a drink,” I answered.
With a little gulping noise, the boy skittered back to the safety of his companions.
A girl in green leaned against my planter, glancing sideways at me. I considered speaking, but decided against it. The girl’s escort soon appeared and carried her away to the ballroom.
A handsome guy with the look of a large and powerful cat—a junior, I thought, or possibly even a senior—presently took her place. He plucked a pair of cigarettes from his blazer pocket and held them out. “Trade you a smoke for a light,” he offered.
I shook my head. “Sorry, I don’t have any matches.”
He tucked the cigarettes away and leaned against my planter, his arm touching mine. I edged away, but he relaxed closer to me, keeping his arm in contact with mine.
“Sounds like they’re finally done with the ancient music,” he said after a minute. “Let’s go dance.”
“I can’t. I’m waiting for someone.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been waiting a long time. Are you sure he’s coming back?”
I hesitated, considering what to say. I was beginning to have doubts.
The cat-guy pressed his advantage. “You seem pretty bored. If you don’t want to dance, I’m sure we can find other things to do.” He raised the eyebrow even higher. A hundred years ago, I thought, would he have twirled a moustache instead? I gripped the planter behind me, wondering how to get rid of him.
To my relief, rescue came running up, in the form of the person ultimately responsible for my
Chapter 6
More adders ~ Ginger ale ~ untimely Flushing ~ we dance the Sir Roger de Coverly.
A re you imagining a romantic scene of distant music, softly scented breezes, and twinkly lanterns, with moonlight falling over everything? Do you picture me beginning to shiver, while Parr wraps me tenderly in my shawl? In your vision, does he leave his arms casually around me as we lean against the balustrade, gazing at the stars?
Happy dream!
It was crowded on the long brick terrace overlooking the parterre. (A parterre, in case you were wondering—I was—turns out to be a chessboard arrangement of flower beds.) Now past the season of prime bloom, the Forefield parterre minced down to a long lawn, which swooped down to the river. Staircases and gravel paths threaded the flower beds, punctuated by large stone urns spilling over with late grasses and vines.
On the terrace where we stood, boys in blazers, now and then with a date in a pale dress, jostled one another to get at the food and drinks. Spilled pretzels crunched underfoot. From time to time clumps of muttering youths burst into wild chortles, as if to celebrate some successful act of wickedness. Released from his guard table, Turkeyface stalked along the edge of the terrace, sniffing the air for illicit smoke.
Grandison Parr led me to a sheltered spot by a pair of planters. “What would you like to drink?” he asked.
“Hmm—ginger ale?” I hoped the choice wouldn’t sound too babyish.
“Right. Be right back.” He pushed his way into the crowd.
At first I kept his golden head in sight, but after he turned around and glanced at me twice, I looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring. When I looked again, he was gone.
A long time went by.
I played with the fringes of my wrap, braiding and unbraiding them.
I wondered whether Ashleigh was still dancing. I considered going to find her, but decided to stay put, in case Parr came back.
Three or four gangly boys nearby nudged and punched one another. They ejected one and gave him a little push in my direction. He approached hesitantly.
“So, um, you wanna dance?” he muttered, addressing an area a little below my collarbones. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen.
“Sorry, I can’t—I’m waiting for my . . . escort . . . to come back with a drink,” I answered.
With a little gulping noise, the boy skittered back to the safety of his companions.
A girl in green leaned against my planter, glancing sideways at me. I considered speaking, but decided against it. The girl’s escort soon appeared and carried her away to the ballroom.
A handsome guy with the look of a large and powerful cat—a junior, I thought, or possibly even a senior—presently took her place. He plucked a pair of cigarettes from his blazer pocket and held them out. “Trade you a smoke for a light,” he offered.
I shook my head. “Sorry, I don’t have any matches.”
He tucked the cigarettes away and leaned against my planter, his arm touching mine. I edged away, but he relaxed closer to me, keeping his arm in contact with mine.
“Sounds like they’re finally done with the ancient music,” he said after a minute. “Let’s go dance.”
“I can’t. I’m waiting for someone.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been waiting a long time. Are you sure he’s coming back?”
I hesitated, considering what to say. I was beginning to have doubts.
The cat-guy pressed his advantage. “You seem pretty bored. If you don’t want to dance, I’m sure we can find other things to do.” He raised the eyebrow even higher. A hundred years ago, I thought, would he have twirled a moustache instead? I gripped the planter behind me, wondering how to get rid of him.
To my relief, rescue came running up, in the form of the person ultimately responsible for my
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