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Duh—Rule 1.How quickly we forget.
I tried a sweet and biddable smile and a girlish curtsey to Healer’s greeting. That went over better.
“You’ve forsaken Lord Rogue’s colors?” She swept her hand at my outfit.
“I’m sorry?”
“Your black gown. I’m surprised you’ve refused Lord Rogue’s protection already. Or are you declaring him unworthy of your loyalty?”
This time, Rogue did not step in, though I could feel his arm flex. Apparently I was fielding this one alone.
“Lord Rogue has been gracious in his hospitality, but I thought it best that he not be affected by any penalties I might face. I represent only myself.”
Healer’s eyes flicked to Rogue. “So you will not stand surety for her debts?”
“I am responsible for my own debts, Lady Healer.”After all, I’m a liberated woman, chickie.
“Interesting,” she commented, which sounded much the same as Tinker Bell’s “Fine.” Masters of the one-word insult, these gals.
“Well done,” Rogue whispered as Healer serenely glided away, Darling heeling like no cat I’d ever seen. “Now she has to vote to keep you alive, if she wants her pound of flesh from you.”
“Please tell me that’s not a literal translation.”
Rogue just looked grim, which was not comforting.
“So, this vote—majority rules?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Why do I bother asking questions at all?”
“I don’t know. You must admit I’ve tried to dissuade you.”
Another delegation approached us, of three ladies, all Red Carpet sex goddesses. My inferiority complex divided and doubled like a zygote. After the ladies, a mixed group stopped to chat. All asked pointed or veiled questions. Rogue remained pretty much silent, only patting my hand occasionally or whispering critiques of my diplomatic skills after they’d moved on.
One woman—and I use the term loosely—floored me by wearing nothing but a pair of enormous butterfly wings. Her nude and hairless body looked girlish, with skin nearly the dusk of an insectile thorax, while the wings soared above her in glimmering monarch oranges. Her hair, a short matching cap, framed large eyes with feathery lashes. I tried to act as though I saw butterfly-women all the time while I ducked her questions about the current war by batting my eyes and saying I left such decisions to the warriors, just being a girl myself. No one seemed to like this answer, but they seemed unsurprised and Rogue approved the maneuver.
“Ostentatious of her,” Rogue muttered as she pranced away.
“The wings? Are they real?”
“Did they look like illusion to you?”
“Let me rephrase—are they natural to her? Can she fly with them? If you thought she was being ostentatious, does that mean she doesn’t always have them?”
“I thought you were going to stop asking questions.”
“Ineversaid that,” I hissed, but had to desist in the face of another interrogation by a man with Richard Gere silver hair.
A ripple ran through the room. People melted out the doorways, water receding from high tide.
“Banquet time,” Rogue said. But we didn’t move. We stood in the spot he’d staked out, side by side, my hand still on his arm, as the room emptied.
Chapter 9
In Which I Sell My Soul to the Highest Bidder
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