Dressing Up
This scene originally came before
the High Lord and the rest of the family met Prince Smoke.
copyright © 1999 Anne Bishop. All rights reserved.
“What did you do to annoy
Helene?” Mephis asked as he joined Saetan in the family drawing
room before dinner. “When I asked her about a shirt, she
glared at me and said I should take it up with you.”
“Ah.” Refusing to meet
Mephis's eyes, Saetan carefully warmed a glass of yarbarah over
a little tongue of witchfire. He shrugged. “I merely suggested
that she postpone the laundry for a day or two.”
Mephis rubbed the back of his
neck. “Well, at least you didn't make any suggestions to
Mrs. Beale about dinner.”
“I wouldn't dare,” Saetan
muttered, sipping the blood wine. He studied his eldest son's
expression and sighed. Saetan had become a Guardian toward the
end of his prime. Mephis had become demon-dead later in life.
Sometimes, like now, when he looked at the gray hair and the lines
in Mephis's face, and the amusement struggling with sternness,
it was hard to remember which of them really was the elder.
“Why did you ask Helene to
postpone the laundry?” Mephis asked.
Saetan took another sip, grimaced,
and warmed the yarbarah again. “I thought girls liked to
dress up,” he finally muttered.
“No, you like girls
to dress up.” Mephis greeted Andulvar and Prothvar as they
came into the room. “The waif will become interested in fancy
clothes someday, and then you'll growl about the necklines. It
has been my observation that what delights a man about a woman's
dress and what delights a father isn't usually the same thing
– even when it's the same man. And watching a young man drool
over a daughter's charms does strange things to a father's equilibrium.”
Saetan growled at the prospect
but also continued to grumble. “I've explained often enough
that she needs a new wardrobe, and—”
“She has a new wardrobe or
have you forgotten?”
“Tunics, trousers, boots,
sweaters, and shirts – not blouses, mind you, shirts. No
girl clothes.”
“Not true,” Mephis said.
“She has a black skirt and two blouses.”
“Which I'm heartily tired
of seeing.”
“What's that... Aahh.”
Mephis crossed his arms and looked sternly at his parent –
who looked sternly back. “You're trying to force the waif
into buying more girl clothes by making sure the closet is bare.”
Saetan fiddled with his glass.
“It's worth the inconvenience. Well,” he added defensively,
“my favorite silk shirt wasn't in my closet either.”
Mephis looked around as the door
opened and choked back a laugh.
Taking the last swallow of yarbarah,
Saetan turned toward the door and just choked.
Mephis cheerfully pounded him
on the back.
“Stop that,” Saetan
gasped.
“Sorry I'm late,” Jaenelle
chirped. “Beale would like to announce dinner now if that's
all right.”
Prothvar leaped forward, offered
Jaenelle his arm, and escorted her in to dinner.
“Serves you right,”
Mephis said, quickly escaping out the door.
Saetan carefully straightened
his dinner jacket. “Now I know how young Morton felt,”
he growled to Andulvar.
Andulvar laughed at him and headed
for the dining room.
Saetan paused when he reached
the dining room. At least some good had come from the nightmare
Jaenelle had last week. It had lanced the festering wound of those
suppressed memories, easing a little of the pain they had to cause
her. He knew that soul wound wasn't healed, and she'd been easily
distracted from her studies this week, but for the first time
since she'd returned from the abyss, she was more like the child
they remembered than the haunted young woman she'd become.
Much more like the child, Saetan
thought with sour amusement as Jaenelle gave him a knowing smile.
Well, tonight he wouldn't think about Greer or nightmares. He'd
think about not throttling her while she sat next to him at dinner
wearing her one black skirt and his favorite silk shirt.
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