“They weren’t prepared to deal with my wardrobe’s defense systems,” he said. “Next time, they’ll be forewarned.”
“First one’s free,” Michelangelo muttered.
Down in the courtyard, one of the children shrieked laughter as Robert caught him under the arms and hoisted him overhead, before settling the child on his shoulder. Khir leapt and reared around him, chittering and yipping.
“Walter, down,” Robert said firmly, as the larger khir put its paws on his chest and pushed. For its size, the animal must be light. The big feet flexed, but Robert didn’t. The animal dropped to all fours and leaned against the man, exhaling heavily enough that Vincent heard it from where he sat.
“Is that safe?” Michelangelo asked quietly.
“Robert’s good with children,” Elena said.
Katya, who had not spoken, blinked at her. “Yes,” she said. “You’d hardly know he was a stud male.”
Vincent winced, and Lesa shot her daughter a look, but for Elena the irony must have passed unnoticed. “Exactly.”
Michelangelo nudged Vincent lightly. Vincent wondered how long it would take them to process this particular cultural divide, in all its peculiarity. Michelangelo had been asking about the animals. Not Robert, who bore a striking resemblance to the boy on his shoulder, and whom the child obviously adored, as he clung to his father, pulling Robert’s ears.
And then Walter, spurned, trotted up on the steps and sniffed Vincent curiously. Vincent forced himself not to flinch from the brush of sensitive feathers, despite a close‑up look at flaring nostrils and odd, pink pits lining the scales along the animal’s upper lip. Then the creature walked around him, sniffed Michelangelo, too, and flopped down on the cushions beside him with the feathered back of its head pressed to Angelo’s thigh.
It sighed, braced its feet against the base of a nearby chair, and shoved, moving him into a more comfortable position–for it–and appropriating part of the cushion.
Michelangelo paused with both hands raised toward his face. He lowered them slowly, and glanced down at the khir. Walter turned slightly, stretching its neck out, and wheezed a small snore as Katya and Lesa shared a laugh.
“They like to sleep in confined spaces,” Katya said. “And back up against a pack mate, if they can.”
“I’m a pack mate?” Michelangelo kept his hands up, at chest level, as if afraid a sudden move would startle the animal.
“You can touch it. It likes to be scratched at the base of the skull,” Lesa said. “And you’re in its den, and the rest of the pack is feeding you and treating you as welcome, so you must belong here. They don’t differentiate between khir and humans, if they’re socialized. They just know friends and strangers.”
Gingerly, Angelo lowered his hand to the khir’s shoulder. It whuffled, but didn’t wake. His fingertips brushed scales and feathers, his face assuming a curious expression, slack and focused, and Vincent found himself watching, breath held.
Vincent reached out and picked up his drink, folding his palm around cool, wet glass. It smelled minty and astringent as he used the rim to hide his face. The beverage was cold, but helped the chills that crawled across his stinging shoulders.
Michelangelo looked up, his fingers moving in the sleeping animal’s ruff, and gave Vincent a quizzical smile. The relaxed vulnerability around his eyes was more than Vincent could bear. He had to work for that, and nobody else got to see it, ever.
It was a hint of what Angelo would look like at peace.
“Right.” Elder Pretoria leaned forward, sliding her own glass across the table with her fingertips. She lifted it and sat back. “Miss Katherinessen, have your adventures left you any appetite? Or should we see about getting you home?”
He glanced away from Angelo, who looked back down at the khir. “Oh,” he said, “I think I could eat.”
Dinner was served in an even more informal style than the supper and reception they’d endured on their first night on New Amazonia. Kusanagi‑Jones found himself separated from his partner–not forcefully, but with the ease by which an accomplished hostess maneuvers her guests–and seated at a long low table in a spacious room. The carpetplant on either side and at the head and foot was protected by thick rugs, the floor underneath banked into comfortable seats. Another table ran crosswise at the foot of the first, and Kusanagi‑Jones was surprised when he realized that it was populated by the household males, children, and servants. He’d expected that they would be required to eat separately, and perhaps after the adult women and “gentle” guests–but once the food was brought out, the cook and two male and two female servants settled themselves alongside the table and began passing plates and chattering along with everyone else.
The total assembly was about twenty‑five. Five males other than the servants, counting Robert and an older man to whom he deferred, two boys, three girls, and the balance made up in teen and adult women, with the addition of Cathay, Shafaqat, Vincent, and Kusanagi‑Jones himself. Michelangelo noticed that the female and what he presumed were gentle male servants sat between the stud males–recognizable by their scars and the street licenses worn on leather cuffs at their wrists like barbaric jewelry–and the children, and the males largely conversed among themselves.
He also noticed that the same dark‑complected boy of about six or seven New Amazonian years–who had been riding Robert around the courtyard earlier–slithered out of his seat as soon as the cook’s back was turned, scrambled into the big man’s lap, and no one seemed to think much of it.
The table arrangements had left Kusanagi‑Jones seated next to Katya Pretoria on one side, and another woman–Agnes Pretoria, who he gathered was something like the household chatelaine or seneschal–on the other. “Is that your brother?”
Katya followed the line of his gaze. He looked down and continued ladling food onto his plate. Someone had apparently asked the cook to take pity on them, because the food on offer included legume curry, rice, bread with a nut butter, and a variety of other animal‑free choices. He’d have to find out to whom to send the thank‑you note.
“Julian.” Katya’s quick glance at Lesa gave away more than she probably knew. “Yes. He’s the last of Mother’s obligation. I don’t think she’ll marry until he starts the Trials, though, and finds a position. Unless…”
Kusanagi‑Jones caught her eye and then looked down, waiting her out while applying himself to the curry.
Her hesitation became a shrug. “Mother hopes he’s gentle,” she said. “He’s very smart.”
Kusanagi‑Jones washed his food down with a mouthful of wine. The consideration of a good meal itself was enough to lower his defenses. “Like his father?”
“You noticed. Yes. Robert’s special…” she paused, and picked up her fork. “Julian and I are full siblings. The third, Karyn–” The fork clicked on the plate. “She was older. Mother’s first. She died in a duel.”
“And do you duel?” he asked, because she didn’t seem to wish her discomfort noted.
She twirled her fork. “No,” she said, glancing up to locate her mother before she spoke. “It’s a stupid tradition.”
After dinner, the servants rose to clear the plates and bring more wine, coffee, and cakes before reseating themselves. Lesa surveyed the table and brushed Vincent’s sleeve. “There’s no butter, honey, or eggs in those.”
He didn’t flinch away from the contact–a small positive sign–and served himself from the indicated plate with tongs. “Thank you for this afternoon,” he said.