The mail could wait.
· · ·
It was expected and ordinary that the major domo should meet Cajeiri at the door.
It was not expected or ordinary that his father and mother did.
That was entirely disconcerting. He was not ready for them. He was not ready to be questioned or required to report. He froze in place, too tired, too confused to know what to say or do first.
Then Great-grandmother’s teaching took over. Manners. Manners gained a person time. Manners let one gather one’s wits, decide what to do, and above all, calm down.
“Honored Father,” he said, bowing once and again. “Honored Mother. Thank you.”
“Welcome back, son of ours,” his father said. “I trust it was an enjoyable trip.”
“It was.” He was being examined for signs of distress: he knew he was. “The train was on time. Thank you very much for sending it.”
“Was it a pleasant stay at Najida?”
“Very pleasant, honored Father.” That was entirely true. “We went out on the boat three times.”
“One would think,” his mother said, “that your guests would be missing their families by now.”
That was a test, too. His mother had not been one to miss her family. She had run away from her father, then run away from Great-uncle, then had another feud with her father and run away again, and lately she had had another feud with Great-uncle and Father both—but she had not run away.
She was still difficult and quick-tempered, and she challenged him with that question. What she was really wanting to know right now was whether his guests were traditional, proper people who had proper respect for their parents.
Or whether they were foreigners with, as she was already sure, defective upbringing and no proper respect.
Nobody could win, with his mother.
“We were busy,” he said. “We were all busy all the time. We went out on the boat and we walked down to the village, and everything—” He was running off his train of thought, going nowhere useful. He was exhausted, and control was difficult, especially dealing with his mother. A servant stood behind him. He slipped his coat buttons and slid it off his arms. The waiting servant took it, and the major domo slipped another on, the bronze brocade, one of his three better ones that he had not taken with him. “Thank you, nadi.”
It was a better coat than someone ought to choose, who was simply going to go to his room, take it off again, and take off his boots and rest. So the major d’ knew something.
“Staff has made a special supper,” his mother said.
He could hardly bear the thought of food. His stomach was empty, except for breakfast. He had wanted to throw up, all the way from the lift to the apartment.
But he was suddenly on the edge of mad, now. He was not entirely sure what he was mad at. His father seemed to be on his side, and stood there to defend him. His mother was being nice, at least on the surface. Everybody was being nice. But his temper surged up, the instant his mother said supper—not that there was a thing he could do about it, because everybody had made their plans, Cook had made dinner, and that was the way it would be. He hoped there were no invited guests he had to please—but there usually were when there was any formal supper.
“A private supper,” his father said. “Just the three of us.”
Well, that was better.
And maybe the bronze brocade coat just meant they were treating it as a sort of occasion: himself, his mother, his father—
He belatedly remembered there were four of them now, and suddenly guessed what would be very politic to ask his mother on his homecoming.
“How is my sister, honored Mother?”
“Very well,” his mother said, and looked pleased, as if he had guessed right and finally done the right thing.
“Go wash,” his father said. “Supper is about to be served.”
“Yes,” he said. He thought about saying that his servants were coming upstairs with crates—but they were also coming with Boji, who was going to be upset and probably loud about it, and he really hoped Eisi and Liedi could get Boji quietly into his room before dinner started.
Boji, however, was definitely not a happy topic with his mother, and he had no wish to forecast trouble before it happened. “I shall wash and be right back,” he said, and bowed again: bowing was always a way to change the subject without having to look at anyone.
And washing gave him a chance to give private orders to his aishid.
He escaped down the hall with them in attendance. He was so tired, so very tired he was shaking. But he had told himself all the way home that his best way to get his guests back next year was to make his parents happy, and the best way to do that was to go back into the household and follow all the rules.
And he was doing that, so far.
But before he even could reach the bath, there was a rattle and rumble down the outside hall that would be his valets bringing the baggage to the door, and bringing Boji back. One of Boji’s earsplitting shrieks echoed in the huge hall outside. He looked back toward the door.
His mother had come back into the foyer, looking upset.
“Nadiin-ji.” He appealed to his bodyguard, who were right behind him. “Help them. Please keep Boji quiet. Hurry!”
Antaro and Jegari were best with Boji. They headed back to the foyer and Veijico headed down the side hall—to the kitchen, he could guess, urgently looking for an egg, boiled or otherwise, in case his valets should have run out.
That left just Lucasi to attend him, and they went down the hall to wash, both of them. He reached the washroom, heard the outer door open as Boji’s cage came rattling in.
Lucasi properly should not leave him alone right now, but he said, “Go be sure,” and Lucasi went to have a look and be sure Boji got to his suite.
Cajeiri washed his hands, splashed water into his face, wiped back the stray wisps of hair about his face, and headed for the dining room as Veijico passed him, headed out to the foyer, carrying an egg. Boji was setting up a loud fuss out there despite all his staff’s efforts, and they were still bringing in baggage, which involved noisy crate trolleys.
He let all that happen as it had to, trusting his bodyguard and his valets, who knew as well as he did how to handle Boji. He slipped into the dining room alone, sat down, as his father was seated, and listened, worried.
A closed door did not entirely muffle the sound of Boji’s cage rolling across the mosaic floor of the foyer.
And it did not at all muffle the sound of Boji shrieking out— or of a baby crying far back in the apartment, where his mother had her rooms.
The racket of Boji’s arrival reached a high pitch, then quieted.
“One is very sorry,” he said. His stomach was upset. He heard his mother chiding staff in the hall outside.
“Are you well?” his father asked, a clear diversion of topic.
“Yes,” he said, doggedly determined not to look around. “Everyone was well. Nand’ Bren is well.”
The baby’s crying came clear for a moment. A door had opened and closed. Likely his mother was going back to see to his sister. It was hard to think of anything but that.
“One very much regrets the racket, honored Father.”
“One trusts Boji will settle soon,” his father said. “And were your guests glad to go home?”
He thought about politely lying, and decided on the actual truth. “No, honored Father. We were all sad.”
“Indeed,” his father said, but offered not a clue what he thought about it. His father picked up his spoon. “We may as well have the soup.”
The polite thing was to ask all the courteous questions. And he should want to ask. But he was afraid of the answers. Two more sips of a tasteless soup and he gathered up his courage and did ask: “And are you and Mother well? And the baby?”