After a quick but fervent prayer of thanks to the Creator for the bounty of their feast, Harlin loosened the gold buttons on his dinner jacket and sat down. Ferrin watched with amusement as their host struggled to lift his soup to his mouth without dunking the tassels from his scarf in his bowl.
After trying at least three different variations of getting the spoon to his lips, Harlin finally opted to sling the dangling end over his shoulder with an irritated huff. The frustration on his face quickly changed to embarrassment when he caught Myriah watching as well.
“So, how has work been lately?” Elson asked, momentarily distracting Ferrin from the chorus of slurps coming from the other members making their way through the first course of their meal.
“Steady,” he said, swallowing another mouthful. The soup was quite good—a tomato bisque with garlic, onion, and a touch of lemon. Ferrin tried his best to appear proper as he repetitively lifted his spoon to his lips. He wanted to pick the bowl up and gulp it down. But if he did, he would end up getting an earful from Myriah on their way home about not living in a barn.
Ferrin opted instead to join the others by adding his own exuberant sipping to the mix. It earned him a harsh glare from Myriah. He smiled.
The kitchen staff had barely had time to clear his bowl before bringing out the second course. A glazed pheasant surrounded by steamed vegetables. His stomach grumbled. Maybe the evening wasn’t a total loss.
Small pockets of conversation wound their way around the table as the members finished their meal. Apart from Elson’s goading, no one bothered to include Ferrin in any of the typical banter. He rather preferred it that way. It left him with more time to enjoy his food while it was still warm.
Myriah spent the majority of her meal humoring poor old Mother Luka, as everyone called her. She had a slight gift with plants. Her daughters had been forced to hide her transferal, though, ever since her mind had begun to wander. They had caught her growing a willow tree in the front lawn one evening. They cut it down before their neighbors had woken to find the tree had miraculously appeared overnight.
Once the places were cleared, desserts served, and wineglasses refilled, Lord Harlin stood from his seat at the head of the tables. “Are there any special announcements that need to be made before we begin?”
Ferrin wasn’t sure how their dainty host had managed to garner enough favor from the others to acquire the title of spokesperson. Ferrin hadn’t voted for him. It must have had something to do with the man’s overt desire to please everyone.
Garreth, who was sitting just to Harlin’s left, had tried more than once to position himself as leader, but was rejected each time. Once a year, the Rhowynn Wielder Council took a vote on their spokesperson. So far, Garreth hadn’t managed to claim the honor, mostly due to the secrecy of the voting ballot. As long as no one knew how the others had voted, it kept the members safe from coercion.
Ferrin, too, had never been selected. Of course, he had never been stupid enough to add his name to the list of candidates, not that it would have made much difference. Under the present circumstances, his membership was tenuous at best. If he continued to use his gift in a way that drew attention, he would very likely be banished altogether. He wasn’t completely sure his dismissal wouldn’t be the foremost topic of conversation for the evening.
Harlin scanned the tables. “If there are no special annou—”
“My winter tulips have begun to sprout a full month early.”
All eyes turned to look at Mother Luka.
Harlin smiled in his usual nervous way, apparently not sure whether to ignore the sudden and totally off-topic outburst and move on, or try to placate to the old woman’s whims. “That’s, uh . . . That’s very interesting—”
“They aren’t supposed to bloom this early, you know.” The old woman shook her head. “What if they catch cold?”
“Yes, well, that’s quite the predicament, now, isn’t it? Cold tulips . . . Can’t have that now, can we?”
There were a couple of snickers, but most managed to hold it in and either roll their eyes or, like Myriah, smile politely as they kindly acknowledged the old woman’s dementia. Ferrin’s sister patted the woman’s hand and spoke something in her ear that seemed to calm her down. Myriah was good with those who needed extra attention.
“Right,” Harlin said. “If there’s nothing else, I guess I will officially call this meeting on the third Sixthday of Kùma to order.”
“’Bout time,” Ferrin mumbled, earning him a chuckle from Elson and a stomp on the foot from Myriah.
Harlin removed a small piece of parchment from an inner jacket pocket and unfolded it. “I have two items set for discussion this evening, and then we will open the floor for any general needs you believe should be addressed.”
Ferrin grimaced. It had been this unrestricted forum of opening the floor that had caused the outbreak during their last meeting, ending in shouts.
“First,” Harlin said, “it has been brought to my attention that a few of our members, who will go unnamed, are experiencing some difficulties financially—”
“More than a few, I’d wager,” Doloff said in his ever-cheerful sort of way from the far end of the table, across from Garreth. With the poulter’s acute state of melancholy, the man’s name should have been Doldrums instead of Doloff.
“Yes,” Harlin said, “times have been quite hard this year for many, and with winter setting in, I’m afraid it’s going to get much worse.”
“That seems a mite hypocritical for someone like you to say,” Dask said from his place beside a couple down from Garreth. As a scrivener, Dask’s business had been slowly downsizing over the last few years as more and more people were learning to write for themselves. “You already have enough gold to feed a small army.”
Harlin’s brow tightened. “In the troubling times we live in, no one’s wealth is secure, I assure you.”
“Times are indeed hard,” Ella said. The young woman sitting near the center on the opposite side had a unique talent for soothing nerves. “It’s why I’m very thankful we have each other to lean on.”
No one argued. Not even Doldrums.
Harlin shuffled his feet, clearly anxious to move on. “As I was saying, there are some among us in a very bad way. Coin is always appreciated, but that is not something everyone can easily contribute, as Dask has pointed out. Do we have any suggestions?”
After a moment of silence, Ilene scooted forward in her seat next to Ella and cleared her throat. “It might help if we knew the immediate needs.” The middle-aged woman was a skilled organizer. Having worked as a clerk for one of the larger shipping yards in Rhowynn, she had a gift for taking chaos and turning it into order. “If we knew the items deemed most necessary, we could determine the best course of action. I believe a communal drop would be an effective strategy. We could allocate one of the members’ homes as a place to stockpile food, clothing, or whatever was needed. That way, those in need can make a private withdrawal from there.”
Ferrin had to admit it was a good idea. It was easy to see why the shipping companies were constantly vying for her approval. He had always thought her gift rather odd, but listening to her now, he could see the value in understanding the order of things.
“And I would suggest, Lord Harlin,” she continued, “seeing as how you are the spokesperson and already know the impoverished parties, that your home be set up for this year’s drop point. Perhaps we should add this to the list of responsibilities assigned to each year’s spokesperson.”