Sol Leander lifted his shoulders and stood straight as an obelisk. “It is a matter of honor.”
The Bailiwick sat back in his chair, the groaning wood sounding like a threatening growl. He passed the invitation from hand to hand until it rested quite neatly in the center of his desk.
“Quite,” he said, over-enunciating the t.
Sol Leander stepped back with a flourish. “Until the Imminent Return,” he said with a bow.
“Until the Imminent Return,” Graus Claude answered.
Casting a last, parting glance at Joy, the Tide’s representative bent neatly at the waist as if to speak to her in confidence. “And I would advise that you keep your friend Miss Monica Reid well away,” he said with more than a hint of warning. “Her safekeeping is in everyone’s best interests. We are allied in this, at least, Miss Malone.” And without another word, he swept through the door, his starlight cloak a swirling flick of finality.
The office doors clicked closed.
Graus Claude leaned heavily to the side, one hand over his eyes. Joy wet her lips, her mind whirling in mad, panicked circles.
“What’s that about the Imminent Return?” she said, finally. It seemed strange for Council members to part with a toast.
The Bailiwick ran two of his hands over his face as the two others cleared away any trinkets on the desk. “It’s an old expression that hearkens to a mythical ‘someday’ when we won’t have to play these sorts of games any longer.” He sighed deeply and considered the invitation. “Well, that’s done it nice and neat,” he said, tapping a claw against the seal. “I could not have designed it better myself.”
Joy wound the edge of her shirt around her thumb. “I take it this gala isn’t a good thing?”
“Oh, a welcome gala is a marvelous thing—all finery and majesty, with riches to dazzle your every sense, opulence and decadence beyond anything imaginable. A parade of marvels and magics set upon a stage of high drama, low morals and clandestine affairs,” Graus Claude said, smiling. “However, three days...” He shook his head. “Three days? It’s unconscionable. And they agreed?” His many claws clicked against the desk. “Certainly, as your sponsor, I have only myself to blame. I suspect Maia is behind it. She entertains a particular delight in seeing me squirm.”
Joy waved a hand to get the Bailiwick’s attention. “Excuse me?” she said, leaning forward. “What are we talking about here? Because it sounds to me like this is just an elaborate excuse to let me fall on my face and make you look bad.”
“Precisely.” Graus Claude beamed. “Very well done!” He seemed genuinely pleased, which was strangely flattering. “Sol Leander has successfully woven a rope of many threads and expects you to tie the noose and hang yourself with it.” The Bailiwick squeezed a single fat fist. “Therefore, it is our job to make certain that he is the one who chokes on it instead.” He sounded positively vicious.
“Lovely,” Joy muttered. “So what do we do?”
“What, indeed?” he said. “There is simply no way to teach you all that you need to know before being presented formally to the community at large. A proper gala to welcome a new member into society takes months, years—perhaps he convinced them on an expedient time line given your mortal nature. More likely, certain favors changed hands. In any case, it is an effective way to make your introduction uncomfortable in the least, and virtually guarantee a number of long-term social casualties. Formal etiquette is very strict, and many in the Twixt are easily offended—they’ll use it as an excuse to cause all sorts of trouble. ‘Bridges burned wound lurking trolls,’ as they say.” He paused at Joy’s baffled expression. “Another old saying,” he explained. “Like the Imminent Return. Regardless, you will be expected to know how to present yourself accordingly and demonstrate your ability to establish your status in the pecking order, selecting your supporters and spurning your detractors in equal measure. Your presentation must be staged with precision and care, for among the Folk, impressions are everything and memories are long.” Two of his hands smoothed down his lapels as he came to a sudden realization. “Good heavens, I’ll have to contact my tailor...”
“Hello? Newbie halfling here who will be out of town those three days and currently hasn’t a clue what’s going on.” Joy pointed to herself. “I can’t go.”
“Correction—you must go,” Graus Claude said. “It is a welcome gala being held in your honor, after all—it will probably be the event of the century. To snub this invitation would cast yourself as a social pariah, which, trust me, is not a viable option.” His hands wove themselves together in pairs. “And you have nothing to worry about concerning distance or time. Indeed, there are far more serious things to worry about.”
“Like if I’m going to grow wings?”
“Don’t be absurd.” Graus Claude sniffed. “You would have sprouted fledgling nubs by now.”
Joy dropped her head into her hands and felt sick.
“Now, now, don’t fret overmuch—these things take time and, considering how dilute your lineage, you may be long in the tooth before you develop fangs.” Joy shot him a look. “Or gills,” he amended. “Actually, you might be quite fetching in spots.”
“Stop,” Joy said, closing her eyes and rubbing her hands over her knees. “One conniption fit at a time, okay?” She took a deep breath through her nose and out through her mouth. “If there’s no way that I can possibly learn everything before I immortally offend someone and smear both our reps, what options does that leave us with?”
Graus Claude gave one of his wide, toothy smiles.
“That’s simple,” he said. “We cheat.”
* * *
Joy picked up a pearl from a small pile spread across the Bailiwick’s desk. He was inspecting each one carefully, comparing their size and color and hue. It was hard for her to imagine Graus Claude ordering her a dress to match. Ball gown, she reminded herself, for my welcome gala. It was too ridiculous to take seriously.
“Is this really necessary?” she said.
“Trust me, Miss Malone, I believe this is our best option, given the current situation.” He opened his hand expectantly. Joy placed the pearl into his palm.
“I don’t understand what this has to do with my learning enough proper etiquette in time for the gala.”
Graus Claude grinned. “Leave it to me.”
“So I can stop typing?”
“Very droll,” he said while rolling the pearls between two plates of smoked glass suspended over a mirror. Joy couldn’t quite see how the thing held itself together, but Graus Claude stared intently at each pearl with a jeweler’s eyepiece jammed under his brow and several thin instruments in each of his hands. Long tubules ran from what looked like a brass coronet on his forehead to a nest of bulbs at its base. The emerald lamp shone close to his chin, highlighting every crag of his face in white gold. “You continue your work and I shall continue mine.” The Bailiwick went back to tinkering and muttering. “Think they can outsmart me, do they...?”
Figuring that she was still hearing him through the eelet, Joy decided not to comment. She turned back to the long list of official acknowledgment protocols on the tablet in her lap. Eye contact is mandatory excepting when bowing or curtseying to those greater than two stations above your current rank, whereupon eyes are lowered and lifted prior to attaining an upright position...bend at the knees, ankles parallel...hind in, chest out, don’t swallow as it is considered lewd...
A flicker of movement caught her eye. She stopped typing, grateful for the interruption—any interruption—Joy would have willingly hugged Hasp for the chance to escape. The outcast aether sprite may have been an evil toady for Briarhook, but an unexpected kidnapping certainly wouldn’t be dull! She wasn’t sure if her eyes,