unpolished colonial manners for prickliness.”
Eliot laughed, and reached across for the decanter, refilling both glasses and replacing it. He made no effort to avoid touching Gryf, leaning instead for a long moment with one hand on Gryf’s thigh. It was not something that Gryf was used to, this casual and constant physical contact, but he supposed he would have to accustom himself to genteel mannerisms, if he planned to associate with gentlemen.
He was not finding out much about Eliot, except that the man appeared to have a weakness for sherry and held his drink well. The decanter was emptied rapidly, with no noticeable change in Eliot’s demeanor. Gryf tried to drink slower, but Eliot laughed and made a pointed remark about it, so that Gryf had to keep up and hope that he could retain his wits.
“Where are the girls?” he asked after a time, and heard the thickness in his own voice. He shook his head, to clear it, and focused again on Eliot. The other man was still smiling.
“Patience, my friend. Finish your drink.”
Remembering his mission, Gryf tried to think of a question that might reveal Eliot’s weaknesses, but the accumulating level of sherry in his brain made thoughts come more and more sluggishly. He frowned hard at theman next to him and struggled with phrasing the only question that occurred. At last, with the bluntness of alcohol reasoning, he asked, “Do you get drunk?”
Eliot laughed, a pleased and giddy sound. He squeezed Gryf’s shoulder affectionately. “Yes, I believe I do. In fact, I think I am. And I know you are, my provincial potboy. Come now, don’t let yourself get dry.”
Gryf watched Eliot fill the glass. The decanter of sherry seemed to have gone from empty to full without Gryf’s noticing. It was already half-empty again, and when it was dry for the second time—or was it the third?—he caught a blur of movement at the edge of his restricted vision and turned in time to see the abbess refilling the decanter. She disappeared noiselessly, a trick which seemed to Gryf inordinately clever.
He became quieter and quieter as the sherry dwindled again, answering Eliot’s questions and comments with infinite care. Gryf had forgotten what he was or was not supposed to say, and so it seemed safer to say nothing. He sat staring down at his lap, thinking about Lady Collier’s alabaster-smooth shoulders above a gown of emerald-green. The vision fascinated him; he felt himself responding physically, a hot glow that seemed to spread outward to his fingers and toes. In a confused dream she came, leaned close and whispered—then suddenly, the abbess was in front of him with her hands on her waist, grinning broadly. The image of Lady Collier vanished like a swirl of smoke. He stared at the proprietress and then turned, remembering Eliot, but the other man was gone. The abbess held out her hand.
“Come on, now, he wants you.”
“Who?” Gryf blinked, his eyelashes brushing the soft silk of the mask.
But she only took him by the hands and pulled himbodily to his feet. He stood, swaying a little, and looked around for Eliot, rubbing at the mask which blocked his vision. His efforts only made the trouble worse, and he yanked the annoyance off with a grunt.
“There now,” said the abbess. “You’re a fine-looking trick. But I’ll wager your friend wants you to wear it.”
She took the mask from his fingers and replaced it with the swift efficiency of an executioner. Gryf, concentrating on standing, made no objection. He was even glad of her support as she led him out of the room. He had a vague impression of a dark hallway with stairs, of many doors, and then one opening to a room hardly better lit than the hall.
With a light shove from the abbess, he stepped inside, stumbling only slightly. The mask still interfered with his vision, and he swung his head to see the room. His eyes fell first on a girl, wearing a volunteer uniform coat and nothing else. She held a birch rod, and
Eliot laughed, and reached across for the decanter, refilling both glasses and replacing it. He made no effort to avoid touching Gryf, leaning instead for a long moment with one hand on Gryf’s thigh. It was not something that Gryf was used to, this casual and constant physical contact, but he supposed he would have to accustom himself to genteel mannerisms, if he planned to associate with gentlemen.
He was not finding out much about Eliot, except that the man appeared to have a weakness for sherry and held his drink well. The decanter was emptied rapidly, with no noticeable change in Eliot’s demeanor. Gryf tried to drink slower, but Eliot laughed and made a pointed remark about it, so that Gryf had to keep up and hope that he could retain his wits.
“Where are the girls?” he asked after a time, and heard the thickness in his own voice. He shook his head, to clear it, and focused again on Eliot. The other man was still smiling.
“Patience, my friend. Finish your drink.”
Remembering his mission, Gryf tried to think of a question that might reveal Eliot’s weaknesses, but the accumulating level of sherry in his brain made thoughts come more and more sluggishly. He frowned hard at theman next to him and struggled with phrasing the only question that occurred. At last, with the bluntness of alcohol reasoning, he asked, “Do you get drunk?”
Eliot laughed, a pleased and giddy sound. He squeezed Gryf’s shoulder affectionately. “Yes, I believe I do. In fact, I think I am. And I know you are, my provincial potboy. Come now, don’t let yourself get dry.”
Gryf watched Eliot fill the glass. The decanter of sherry seemed to have gone from empty to full without Gryf’s noticing. It was already half-empty again, and when it was dry for the second time—or was it the third?—he caught a blur of movement at the edge of his restricted vision and turned in time to see the abbess refilling the decanter. She disappeared noiselessly, a trick which seemed to Gryf inordinately clever.
He became quieter and quieter as the sherry dwindled again, answering Eliot’s questions and comments with infinite care. Gryf had forgotten what he was or was not supposed to say, and so it seemed safer to say nothing. He sat staring down at his lap, thinking about Lady Collier’s alabaster-smooth shoulders above a gown of emerald-green. The vision fascinated him; he felt himself responding physically, a hot glow that seemed to spread outward to his fingers and toes. In a confused dream she came, leaned close and whispered—then suddenly, the abbess was in front of him with her hands on her waist, grinning broadly. The image of Lady Collier vanished like a swirl of smoke. He stared at the proprietress and then turned, remembering Eliot, but the other man was gone. The abbess held out her hand.
“Come on, now, he wants you.”
“Who?” Gryf blinked, his eyelashes brushing the soft silk of the mask.
But she only took him by the hands and pulled himbodily to his feet. He stood, swaying a little, and looked around for Eliot, rubbing at the mask which blocked his vision. His efforts only made the trouble worse, and he yanked the annoyance off with a grunt.
“There now,” said the abbess. “You’re a fine-looking trick. But I’ll wager your friend wants you to wear it.”
She took the mask from his fingers and replaced it with the swift efficiency of an executioner. Gryf, concentrating on standing, made no objection. He was even glad of her support as she led him out of the room. He had a vague impression of a dark hallway with stairs, of many doors, and then one opening to a room hardly better lit than the hall.
With a light shove from the abbess, he stepped inside, stumbling only slightly. The mask still interfered with his vision, and he swung his head to see the room. His eyes fell first on a girl, wearing a volunteer uniform coat and nothing else. She held a birch rod, and
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