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PARTY TWO ORIENTS TO DUTY.

BOTH ORIENT TO CARE EXPRESSED THROUGH ACTS OF SERVICE; NEITHER RELIABLY RECOGNIZES RECEIVING IT.

PACE ADVISORY: SLOW RISER.

“Slow riser,” she said. “Like bread.” She was going to get that embroidered too.

The suggested conversation topics ran to twelve.

Topic four was the comfort-smell question.

PARTY ONE

Onions in butter

She giggled, because it was true, but it was also funny. Funny then, and still was now.

PARTY TWO

Trella.

That word that stopped her mid-sip. She didn’t know what trella was.

The card footnoted it, because Re-lee footnoted everything: a flowering plant of Vorjan’s World; scent described as sweet, far-carrying; commonly associated with home gardens.

Tisha sat with her tea going cold, looking at one word a man like that had no earthly reason to hand a matchmaking database, and revised, quietly, several of her working assumptions about what was behind the wall.

Her family group chat, when she reported the week’s developments — she reported every week’s developments; the chat had opinions when she didn’t — responded within the hour across four time zones.

Mom:

Matched!! What’s his name, what does he eat?

TISHA:

Aldric. Vorjan House guard. Eats like the food might be recalled by command. He’s planning to reject the match at the end of the month. Announced it to my whole dinner service.

DAD:

Sounds like a man with a clean rifle and no war. Give him time.

MOM:

What does he EAT, Tisha.

TISHA:

Braise, roots doubled, flatbread. Leaves one bite as a hostage.

MOM:

Oh honey. That one’s yours.

DAD:

Nine days at the wire, kiddo. You know the drill.

TISHA: