was the color of mashed potato), I was also supposed to be learning how greatly the political opinions of the Whigs and the Tories differed, how to hold a fan, and the difference between “Your Highness,” “Your Royal Highness,” “Your Serene Highness,” and even “Your Illustrious Highness.” After only an hour plus seventeen different ways of opening a fan, I had a splitting headache, and I couldn’t tell left from right. My attempt to lighten the atmosphere with a little joke—“Couldn’t we stop for a rest? I’m totally, serenely, illustriously exhausted”—went down like a lead balloon.
“This is not funny,” said Giordano in nasal tones. “Stupid girl.”
The Old Refectory was a large room on the ground floor, with tall windows looking out on an inner courtyard. There was no furniture except for a grand piano and a few chairs pushed back against the wall. Xemerius was dangling head down from a chandelier, as so often, with his wings tidily folded on his back.
Mr. Giordano had introduced himself with the words, “Just Giordano, if you please. Qualified historian, famous fashion designer, Reiki master, creative jewelry designer, well-known choreographer, Adept Third Degree, expert on the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.”
“Oh, wow,” said Xemerius. “Someone must have dropped him on his head when he was a baby.”
I could only agree with him, if in silence. Mr. Giordano—sorry, just Giordano—bore a most unfortunate resemblance to one of those demented presenters on the TV shopping channels, always talking as if they had clothes-pegs on their noses and there was a miniature pinscher dog under the table snapping at their calves. I was just waiting for him to twist his plump lips (had they been Botoxed?) into a smile and say, “And now, viewers, take a look at our indoor water feature, the Bridget model, top quality, a little oasis of happiness, only twenty-seven pounds, a real snip at the price, you can’t do without one of these, I have two at home myself.…”
Instead he said—without any smile at all—“My dear Charlotte, hello-hello-hellooo!” and kissed the air to the left and right of her ears. “I heard what’s happened, it is simply in-cred-ible! All those years of training, so much talent gone to waste. Terrible, a crying shame, and so unfair.… Well, so this is the girl, is it? Your understudy. ” As he inspected me from head to foot, he pursed his fat lips. I couldn’t help it—I stared back, fascinated. He had a peculiar windblown hairstyle which must have been cemented in place with huge amounts of gel and hairspray. Narrow black strips of beard crisscrossed the lower half of his face like rivers on a map. His eyebrows had been plucked to shape and then drawn in with some kind of black eyebrow pencil, and if I wasn’t much mistaken, he had powdered his nose.
“And that is supposed to fit seamlessly into a soirée of the year 1782 in the very near future?” he asked. By that he obviously meant me. By soirée something else. The only question was what?
“Hey, looks like Puffylips has hurt your feelings,” said Xemerius. “If you’re looking for a nasty name to call him back, I’ll happily prompt you.”
Puffylips wasn’t bad for a start.
“A soirée is a boring evening party,” Xemerius went on. “Just in case you didn’t know. People sit together after supper, play little pieces on the pianoforte, and try not to go to sleep.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said.
“I still can’t believe they’re really going to risk it,” said Charlotte, draping her coat over a chair. “It’s against all the rules of secrecy to let Gwyneth go into company. You only have to look at her to see there’s something wrong.”
“My own idea exactly,” said Puffylips. “But the count is famous for his eccentric notions. Her cover story is over there. Hair-raising. Take a look at it.”
Charlotte leafed through a folder lying on the grand piano. “She’s to play
“This is not funny,” said Giordano in nasal tones. “Stupid girl.”
The Old Refectory was a large room on the ground floor, with tall windows looking out on an inner courtyard. There was no furniture except for a grand piano and a few chairs pushed back against the wall. Xemerius was dangling head down from a chandelier, as so often, with his wings tidily folded on his back.
Mr. Giordano had introduced himself with the words, “Just Giordano, if you please. Qualified historian, famous fashion designer, Reiki master, creative jewelry designer, well-known choreographer, Adept Third Degree, expert on the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.”
“Oh, wow,” said Xemerius. “Someone must have dropped him on his head when he was a baby.”
I could only agree with him, if in silence. Mr. Giordano—sorry, just Giordano—bore a most unfortunate resemblance to one of those demented presenters on the TV shopping channels, always talking as if they had clothes-pegs on their noses and there was a miniature pinscher dog under the table snapping at their calves. I was just waiting for him to twist his plump lips (had they been Botoxed?) into a smile and say, “And now, viewers, take a look at our indoor water feature, the Bridget model, top quality, a little oasis of happiness, only twenty-seven pounds, a real snip at the price, you can’t do without one of these, I have two at home myself.…”
Instead he said—without any smile at all—“My dear Charlotte, hello-hello-hellooo!” and kissed the air to the left and right of her ears. “I heard what’s happened, it is simply in-cred-ible! All those years of training, so much talent gone to waste. Terrible, a crying shame, and so unfair.… Well, so this is the girl, is it? Your understudy. ” As he inspected me from head to foot, he pursed his fat lips. I couldn’t help it—I stared back, fascinated. He had a peculiar windblown hairstyle which must have been cemented in place with huge amounts of gel and hairspray. Narrow black strips of beard crisscrossed the lower half of his face like rivers on a map. His eyebrows had been plucked to shape and then drawn in with some kind of black eyebrow pencil, and if I wasn’t much mistaken, he had powdered his nose.
“And that is supposed to fit seamlessly into a soirée of the year 1782 in the very near future?” he asked. By that he obviously meant me. By soirée something else. The only question was what?
“Hey, looks like Puffylips has hurt your feelings,” said Xemerius. “If you’re looking for a nasty name to call him back, I’ll happily prompt you.”
Puffylips wasn’t bad for a start.
“A soirée is a boring evening party,” Xemerius went on. “Just in case you didn’t know. People sit together after supper, play little pieces on the pianoforte, and try not to go to sleep.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said.
“I still can’t believe they’re really going to risk it,” said Charlotte, draping her coat over a chair. “It’s against all the rules of secrecy to let Gwyneth go into company. You only have to look at her to see there’s something wrong.”
“My own idea exactly,” said Puffylips. “But the count is famous for his eccentric notions. Her cover story is over there. Hair-raising. Take a look at it.”
Charlotte leafed through a folder lying on the grand piano. “She’s to play
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