“So tell me,” Gredarius said, “how is Fabiola?” His prodigious waddle bobbed as he spoke. The particular emphasis he gave the word “is” could not have been replicated by any save for those suffused in the layered intricacies of Niskian high society.
The subtle nuance was invisible for all but those in the know, to whom it was a pointed remonstration indicating, in order, that Gredarious was aware Fabiola came down with a bad case of the deliriums, that he was critical of how Perdustan supported her in her time of need, yet also bemused at the rift the lady’s ailment caused the young man and her family, that he sided with the family against Perdustan, that he was eager to hear the young man’s side if only for the opportunity to water the seeds of gossip already spread throughout society, and lastly that he wished to unsettle Perdustan in order to see whether he will push back and risk his standing or simply squirm to the pleasure of the gentleman and ladies joining them at their dining table. Somewhere distant, like a far star winking in the night sky, was actual interest in how Fabiola was doing.
“She is holding up well,” Perdustan responded evenly. “She dearly wished she could attend.” A dewdrop of condensation formed on his glass of amaroc. It may have appeared as though Perdustan gave a polite if dismissive reply to a prying question, but to the men and women at the table it was as if the young man, meeting Gredarius on the fencing floor, performed such a dancer-like twist to avoid the old grandee’s lunge that no parry was necessary. In that moment all Perdustan need do was extend his arm and the point would meet the defenseless breast.
Yet now came the decision—should Perdustand indeed land his proverbial blade against Gredarius it would have caused the baron undue humiliation, and Perdustan was in no standing to earn the ire of such a gentleman when the Marquee’s Salón was but two weeks hence. However, should he hold back, he would earn a reputation as wheedling and spiritless, or, worse yet, a tufthunter. “Blast,” Perdustan thought. “My quicksilver conversationism got me in trouble once again.” The dewdrop gave a slow lurch then raced down the glass.
Every faculty of his mind endeavored to weave a response. Yet each pattern was scrapped as rapidly as they emerged, each demanding a price too much to bear. The keening faces of the men and women at the table stared hungrily at Perdustan. The lady’s jewelry tinkled with anticipation, the men’s brows furrowed in preparation for whatever was to come. Gredarius’s red waddle trembled expectantly. Time was running out.
The dewdrop hurtled to the base of the glass and met its end upon the tablecloth. With a voice cool and crisp as a mountain stream Perdustan continued, “she so wished she could be here to see you and the lady Renoriette dance the Tazurella.” It was like the welcome sun breaking through storm-ridden sky. Such a perfect chord, so well-considered only a master would strike it, yet so easygoing it felt the most obvious and welcome successor to the prior melodies, is oft but the purview of the angel choirs our earthly cantors may only dream of approximating.
Not a single person at the table was unimpressed, not least Perdustan himself. Gredarius’s waddle quavered. “Yes, yes, quite so,” he responded after a moment. “She is indeed missed. But there is never a shortage of opportunities to take the Tazurella.” With that he nodded slightly, wiped his mouth, and directed a new question at another member of the table. Perdustan, content, sat back in his chair and sipped his amaroc.