made room for them to pass, but nobody followed.
"Us now, cha'trez." Val Con's voice was soft in her ear as he took her arm. "You did admirably."
"Easy for you to say," she muttered. "I'd rather sing for my supper, though. Any day."
"I need a drink."
Miri leaned against the wall just inside their private parlor, eyes closed against the scented darkness. Dinner had been horrible. Her place had been set with an arsenal of forks and tongs and spoons and knives, all of which, sleep-learning told her implacably, had a specific use. She'd fair busted her head while she'd waited for the first course, trying to remember the long list of foods that could and should be addressed with each implement.
Then the first course was served and she'd broken out in an ice-cold sweat as dish after unidentifiable dish went by. She'd snuck a look to see what Val Con was having; took a little of that and nibbled while she tried to do her conversational duty to the woman on her left. She'd left the wine strictly alone, terrified at getting even a little fuddled with all those new cousins watching and keeping score.
"A drink," she said firmly. "A big drink."
"Certainly," Val Con murmured in her ear. He slipped a hand beneath her elbow. "Come sit on the couch, cha'trez . . . There. Red wine? White? Jade? Canary? I believe—yes, there is misravot, if you would prefer. . ."
Miri sighed, leaned back in the cushions and finally opened her eyes. Val Con had lit the low-lights—the ceiling sparkled with starring pinpoints; the carpet glittered like new snow.
"What do I know about wine? You pick."
"All right," he said, and poured pale green wine into two crystal cups. He brought them to the couch and handed her one, raising his own in salute.
"To Lady yos'Phelium, my love."
She laughed and shook her head. "Why not to Lord yos'Phelium?"
"Lord yos'Phelium was not courageous, nor did he comport himself with anything but mediocrity." He touched her cheek. "Miri, you are a treasure."
"If you say so," she said dubiously and sipped her wine. "I think it's pretty brave, myself, to trust everything to somebody who don't even know what fork to use—" She shook her head. "Who knows what fork to use," she corrected herself, "if there'd been a clue to what the food was!"
"Ah, I had wondered why you ate so little. . ." He tipped his head. "You must not let it burden you," he said softly. "You imagine my melant'i is so fragile it will shatter at your slightest error. Instead, it has—resilience—and certainly strength enough to withstand my lifemate's mistaking a fork—or even using a fork instead of tongs!" He tasted his wine, suddenly serious.
"In all matters of importance—in your conduct toward your delm and the head of your line; in your answer to tel'Vosti—you were above reproach. If in less vital matters you err, or simply choose to disregard the Code, then it is—a nothing. People will say, if they say at all: 'Ah, she is an original.' Which is no bad thing."
"An original?" She frowned and shook her head.
Val Con sighed. "It is one of the reasons I insisted you learn the Code from the source, rather than from my tutoring," he said slowly. "Each individual takes the Code and—shapes it—according to his own character and necessity. Now, I have, perhaps, taken too much from my uncle's tutelage—or learned too young, as Shan would have it—so my manner tends toward coolness and extreme precision." He sipped wine, brows drawn.
"Shan is an original," he murmured: "his manners are appalling, but his manner pleases. Anthora follows his style. Pat Rin is very correct, but easy, so the correctness seems joined to and flowing from his melant'i. Nova—" he shook his head, smiling with a touch of wistfulness. "I once overhead someone say he would rather meet an angry lyr-cat unarmed, than Nova and I in a reception line."
Miri laughed.
Val Con leaned over and kissed her.
"Mmmm," she said and shivered
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