"Come in, please," a soft voice said from inside as the door opened. "I'm Cecile Thurston."
They blinked against the incandescent mantles of the gaslight in the hallway, amid a clean smell of wax and floor polish and faint appetizing cooking odors; a black-and-white cat stared at Rudi and the others with the usual cool insolence from halfway up a staircase. The woman greeting them was tallish and in her forties, in a dress with a full knee length skirt, her long hair light brown where it wasn't gray.
"But you can call me Cecile," she said, giving a sudden brilliant smile aimed at him and Edain. "I know what you did for Larry."
It took him a moment to realize that Thurston was Larry to this comfortable-looking woman. There wasn't any physical resemblance to Juniper Mackenzie-Cecile Thurston was three inches taller, for starters-but she reminded him of his mother a little.
They all shook hands and made introductions. Young Frederick Thurston was there, in a neat green uniform; and two girls of about seven and twelve, who turned out to be named Jaine and Shawonda. Both were staring at him-the older particularly, with her eyes virtually bulging.
Oh, and I hope that's not going to be awkward, Rudi thought. Sweet Foam-born One, none of your jokes, now!
He knew the effect he had on a lot of females, and liked it very much-when they were of age. Crushes by youngsters ranged from a boggart-level nuisance to a full-blown pain in the arse. Then Odard and Matti saved the moment by bowing-the elaborate leg-forward, hat off, bent-knee flourish an Associate used with a lady of high rank who was also their host.
Cecile Thurston smiled. "My, that's impressive!"
Mathilda chuckled. "Theoretically I should curtsy, but it always looks absurd when you're wearing hose yourself."
"You could all probably use a drink," Cecile said. "Come on into the living room and let me take your coats… well, cloaks…"
The living room had a good rug, sofas and tables and upholstered chairs-most of it looking like modern work but made to late pre-Change patterns, which gave it all an old fashioned look. The two young girls' stares turned considering as they took the whole party in; they reminded him forcefully of his younger half sisters Maude and Fiorbhinn. Particularly the younger, Jaine, who looked somehow as if a whole lot of crack ling energy would burst loose any moment and make her slightly frizzy dark hair stand out in all directions, despite her careful grooming and clean frock. The elder girl was quieter, with a round face and an unfortunate spray of pimples.
"I bet you're a prince from foreign parts," young Jaine said to him after a moment of awkward silence. "You look the way a prince should."
Rudi grinned. "Not quite," he said. "My mother's a Chief, and I'm sort of… an assistant Chief."
"Oh," she said. "Like a prince is an assistant king, I guess.. ." Then she brightened and looked at Mathilda. "Are you a princess?"
"Well… yes, actually," Mathilda said.
Rudi judged she was taken a little aback at princesses being rhetorically classed with unicorns and dragons and other exotic creatures of mythology. After all, prin cess was simply her job description, and not even one she'd asked for or wanted all that much.
Jaine frowned. "I thought princesses had to be beautiful? You're sort of pretty, I guess, but…"
Edain choked over a sip from his wineglass. Rudi managed to smooth his face into polite impassivity before he caught Mathilda's wilting glare. She knew he'd had to swallow a laugh.
"And don't princesses wear beautiful long dresses with jewels and stuff like that?"
Mathilda nodded solemnly. "Sometimes I do. But I'm traveling and they're too heavy and the skirts catch your legs and you can't move your arms very well in one. And all the buttons!"
Rudi smiled a little to himself, and saw Odard smoothing away an identical expression. Evidently he'd also heard Matti when she went into full it's like being in irons rant on the cotte-hardi.
"Oh," Jaine said, sounding a little disappointed. "I thought it would be fun to wear dresses like that. But," she added generously, "what you've got on now is cool too. Sort of like what people on playing cards wear."
She frowned. "Why've you got the Sign of Evil on your chest, though?"
"Ah…" Mathilda looked down. "It's hereditary. It's not the Sign of Evil. It just means that the Throne is supposed to be all-seeing to detect enemies and evildoers."
Jaine turned to Odard: "You're not a prince either, I guess? You're not as handsome as he is, but you're dressed like a prince."
"I'm a baron," he replied helpfully. "That's sort of like-"
"A wicked feudal oppressor!" Jaine said delightedly, clapping her hands together. "I've read about that in school. Do you have a castle and a dungeon?"
"A castle, a small town, six manors-four held for knight service by my vassals, two in demesne-ten villages and a hunting lodge," Odard said.
"And dungeons? With racks and rats and straw and guys in black hoods and stuff?" she said with gruesome relish.
"No. The High Court of Petition and Redress doesn't like that sort of thing these days. And I'm not all that wicked or oppressive… all my peasants would leave if I were, and then where would I be?"
"Broke, and earning your own living," Rudi said. "And that wouldn't suit you at all, at all, Odard."
And you can't hunt runaways with dogs anymore, he thought.
Odard's father had been an enthusiastic hunter of runaway peons, with a pack of sight hounds trained to kill, and a busy torture chamber. Though to be fair, that sort of thing had been over before Odard's voice broke; it had been part of the settlement at the end of the War of the Eye that anyone could move if they wanted to. It was amazing how the Portland Protective Association's standards of management changed once the implications of "voting with the feet" sank in.
The interrogation continued relentlessly:"What do you do, then, if you're not being wicked and oppressive?"
Odard was looking a little bewildered; children were more strictly kept in the Protectorate. He probably hadn't had much to do with kids in his own household since he was one himself.
"Ah… I keep the garrison up to scratch, drill the mi litia, keep order, collect the taxes, see the demesne farms are managed properly and the tithes paid, preside at ses sions of the court baron, throw out the first baseball of the season…" Odard said.
"Oh," Jaine said. "Boring stuff, like Dad does."
Her brother cleared his throat. "Excuse her," he said. "We don't get that many foreigners here."
"We're all Americans," his mother said soothingly. "Have a canape."
The word was only vaguely familiar to Rudi; evidently it meant things like bits of liver paste and capers and cav iar on crackers. At home Mackenzies would have called it a nibblement; Sandra Arminger referred to them as petit fours or, when she was being obscure, faculty fodder.
Jaine's older sister cut in with a question for the twins: "And you two are elf-friends?"
There were bookcases on one wall of the living room, across from the fireplace. Rudi's eyes flicked in that di rection. Yes, a set of what Aunt Astrid insisted on calling "the histories," and looking well-read.
"Well, we sure would be if there were any elves around to be friends with right now," Ritva said.
"Provided they liked us, " Mary said pedantically. "Which we can't tell, really. Who knows? They might be all snooty and condescending."
Seeing disappointment, Ritva went on: "But we do live in a flet and talk Elvish. Well, Sindarin, not High-Elvish. That's for special occasions."
Both the Thurston sisters looked interested. "Say something in Sindarin!" Shawonda exclaimed.
"Ummm…"
The twins looked at each other, cleared their throats, and sang a few verses instead-they had pleasant sopranos, as well trained as you'd expect in a Dunedain, and they were very good at two-part harmony. Mackenzies liked to sing, but Astrid's Rangers couldn't say, "where's the outhouse?" without a chorus sometimes.