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Choosing A Dress
Oct. 4th, 2011 10:58 pmThis follows on from Bits.
Early in the predawn a beautifully hand addressed envelope was dropped into the mail slot at Terrence and Julia’s home. The inscription read “Julia, Countess Strefagi.”
Rodolfo, three of his half sisters and Astanthe, who had been Septima, had taken over part of the wedding dress salon. Rodolfo, dressed in a slightly archaic style that made the blond queue hanging down his back look like the perfect finishing touch, was seated erect in a leather armchair, both feet firmly planted on the ground and his rod of office grounded between them with his hands folded on top of it. From his position he could see the door to the change room his little Starflower was using, the entrance to the store and the promenade in front of the mirrors. His sisters, all of them tall blondes with excellent taste, were married and experienced in the travails of wedding dress shopping.
“Not the dress Silvana had,” Gloriana was saying in a practical tone, “Astanthe’s a good foot shorter – anything like that will look like the attack of the snow beast.”
“We should avoid that,” Astanthe gravely agreed, “My cousin Mariucca on my mother’s side...” She shuddered. “The photos could be posted as a public warning.”
Stephana patted her shoulder reassuringly. “Your wedding won’t be like that, we promise. Despite my brother’s heavy handed methods of courtship.” She sent Rodolfo a cutting glance. “Style isn’t the only issue though, there’s colour too. After all, there’s white and there’s white.”
When the shop door opened to admit a nervous looking middle-aged woman Astanthe was standing in front of the mirrors being critically examined in off-white taffeta.
“It’s too – apricot,” was Stephana’s comment.
“It makes your bust look like a liability, not an asset,” said Gloriana firmly.
“Stand on your toes like you were wearing heels, please,” asked Oriana from behind her. “Thank you, relax. No, this style of train just doesn’t work on you.”
“I do not care for the overall effect,” said Rodolfo, “She looks like she’s playing dress ups in someone else’s clothes. We need to look at something else.” He rose to his feet and walked to the newly arrived woman near the front of the shop. “Countess Strefagi,” he gave a bow that would have been old fashioned in her father’s youth but went well with his clothes, “You got my note. Thank you for coming. Won’t you please join us?” He offered her his arm and, when she tentatively took it, he led her up the few steps in the middle of the store to where the others were consulting with the assistant over the next dress to try on. “Would you care to sit?” He offered her the chair he had just vacated.
“Thank you, but no,” Julia was distracted. “Septima?”
The dark haired figure in the wrong dress turned suddenly. “Mum?!” Relief and shame warred on her face.
“Astanthe,” Rodolfo said firmly in Julia’s ear, “Her name is Astanthe now. Think of it as a wedding present from my brother or simply part of the whole getting married thing if that makes it easier.”
“Astanthe.” Julia tried it on for size. “How are you?” Then sharply, “You are not seriously considering that dress, are you? Not on you?”
Two dresses later, Rodolfo pointed at a Carnivale dress towards the front of the shop with his rod and said, “I would like to see that shape on her, please.”
“Rodolpho,” said Gloriana firmly, “That is not a wedding dress. That’s fancy dress. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why shouldn’t a wedding dress be made like that?” Rodolfo put his question in an ‘I’m being entirely reasonable’ tone. “I would like to see that dress on Astanthe please.” When the assistant hesitated he smiled and added, “Now.”
Less than five minutes later Astanthe was back in front of the mirrors wearing someone’s interpretation of a five century old fashion: near transparent pleated linen underdress visible above the bodice and through slashings in the sleeves; a boned and back-laced wide-shouldered bodice that, unlike the original version, proclaimed that the wearer had a bosom and invited the world to look; a heavily pleated skirt; and sleeves that weren’t joined to the dress all the way around the armhole and were slashed longitudinally in the tight upper arm section to allow the underdress to puff through them then finished in a loose lower section that finished above her wrist but trailed to her knee and was lined with a plain silk that toned with the brocade of the rest of the garment. Rodolfo regarded the effect with satisfaction. “Turn around, please,” he requested.
Astanthe complied, but paused half way round and looked back over her shoulder, “Like this?”
“Yes, you little flirt, exactly like that,” it was a warm smile between the two of them, “But this is a very autumnal colouring,” he indicated the pattern of vines and leaves in shades of brown and gold. “Does this fabric,” he’d turned to the shop assistant, “Come in any other colours?”
It wasn’t quite the same pattern, but a brocade in dark green and blue with touches of silver won his approval.
“It’s not anything like white,” said Stephana thoughtfully. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“It makes her look,” Rodolfo said calmly, “Like a great lady in an old portrait.”
“A very beautiful one,” Julia added then said, “And if you’re going to say ‘stuff the conventions’ then there’s no point in being coy about it, you might as well go for broke. At the very least dear,” she smiled at her daughter, “None of the others would be able to say that you’ve copied their dress.”
“The blue and green should make up the same as the sample dress,” offered Oriana with the agreement of the assistant, “And your bum really does look good in this,” she added to Astanthe.
“Just a veil and we’re done then,” stated Gloriana with some satisfaction.
“You’ll be done, dear sister,” corrected Rodolfo, “I get to pay for everything.”
Astanthe suddenly looked worried, “This isn’t going to cost too much, is it?”
“No,” he smiled reassuringly at her, “And you’re worth every scuto.”
Julia and Stephana had wandered down the front of the salon and were looking in a locked cabinet. Another assistant spoke to them, then unlocked the cabinet. They and that good lady came back to the group with a cobweb of lace. “This caught my eye while I was wondering what to do when I first came in. I think,” the assistant handed one end to the taller Stephana and together they dropped it carefully over Astanthe’s head, “It will be just the thing.” The first assistant, experienced in this, lifted the fall of fabric back up to cover the sample dress.
Six women breathed variations on, “Oh, yes...” Astanthe was the only one who couldn’t see what she looked like.
“They’re right,” Rodolfo told her fondly. “Now,” suddenly all business, “Astanthe needs to have measurements taken and get back in her own clothes, you ladies need to decide footwear and I have to deal with the business end of things. She and I have an appointment to view a house in,” he looked at his watch, “Forty five minutes.”
Early in the predawn a beautifully hand addressed envelope was dropped into the mail slot at Terrence and Julia’s home. The inscription read “Julia, Countess Strefagi.”
Rodolfo, three of his half sisters and Astanthe, who had been Septima, had taken over part of the wedding dress salon. Rodolfo, dressed in a slightly archaic style that made the blond queue hanging down his back look like the perfect finishing touch, was seated erect in a leather armchair, both feet firmly planted on the ground and his rod of office grounded between them with his hands folded on top of it. From his position he could see the door to the change room his little Starflower was using, the entrance to the store and the promenade in front of the mirrors. His sisters, all of them tall blondes with excellent taste, were married and experienced in the travails of wedding dress shopping.
“Not the dress Silvana had,” Gloriana was saying in a practical tone, “Astanthe’s a good foot shorter – anything like that will look like the attack of the snow beast.”
“We should avoid that,” Astanthe gravely agreed, “My cousin Mariucca on my mother’s side...” She shuddered. “The photos could be posted as a public warning.”
Stephana patted her shoulder reassuringly. “Your wedding won’t be like that, we promise. Despite my brother’s heavy handed methods of courtship.” She sent Rodolfo a cutting glance. “Style isn’t the only issue though, there’s colour too. After all, there’s white and there’s white.”
When the shop door opened to admit a nervous looking middle-aged woman Astanthe was standing in front of the mirrors being critically examined in off-white taffeta.
“It’s too – apricot,” was Stephana’s comment.
“It makes your bust look like a liability, not an asset,” said Gloriana firmly.
“Stand on your toes like you were wearing heels, please,” asked Oriana from behind her. “Thank you, relax. No, this style of train just doesn’t work on you.”
“I do not care for the overall effect,” said Rodolfo, “She looks like she’s playing dress ups in someone else’s clothes. We need to look at something else.” He rose to his feet and walked to the newly arrived woman near the front of the shop. “Countess Strefagi,” he gave a bow that would have been old fashioned in her father’s youth but went well with his clothes, “You got my note. Thank you for coming. Won’t you please join us?” He offered her his arm and, when she tentatively took it, he led her up the few steps in the middle of the store to where the others were consulting with the assistant over the next dress to try on. “Would you care to sit?” He offered her the chair he had just vacated.
“Thank you, but no,” Julia was distracted. “Septima?”
The dark haired figure in the wrong dress turned suddenly. “Mum?!” Relief and shame warred on her face.
“Astanthe,” Rodolfo said firmly in Julia’s ear, “Her name is Astanthe now. Think of it as a wedding present from my brother or simply part of the whole getting married thing if that makes it easier.”
“Astanthe.” Julia tried it on for size. “How are you?” Then sharply, “You are not seriously considering that dress, are you? Not on you?”
Two dresses later, Rodolfo pointed at a Carnivale dress towards the front of the shop with his rod and said, “I would like to see that shape on her, please.”
“Rodolpho,” said Gloriana firmly, “That is not a wedding dress. That’s fancy dress. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why shouldn’t a wedding dress be made like that?” Rodolfo put his question in an ‘I’m being entirely reasonable’ tone. “I would like to see that dress on Astanthe please.” When the assistant hesitated he smiled and added, “Now.”
Less than five minutes later Astanthe was back in front of the mirrors wearing someone’s interpretation of a five century old fashion: near transparent pleated linen underdress visible above the bodice and through slashings in the sleeves; a boned and back-laced wide-shouldered bodice that, unlike the original version, proclaimed that the wearer had a bosom and invited the world to look; a heavily pleated skirt; and sleeves that weren’t joined to the dress all the way around the armhole and were slashed longitudinally in the tight upper arm section to allow the underdress to puff through them then finished in a loose lower section that finished above her wrist but trailed to her knee and was lined with a plain silk that toned with the brocade of the rest of the garment. Rodolfo regarded the effect with satisfaction. “Turn around, please,” he requested.
Astanthe complied, but paused half way round and looked back over her shoulder, “Like this?”
“Yes, you little flirt, exactly like that,” it was a warm smile between the two of them, “But this is a very autumnal colouring,” he indicated the pattern of vines and leaves in shades of brown and gold. “Does this fabric,” he’d turned to the shop assistant, “Come in any other colours?”
It wasn’t quite the same pattern, but a brocade in dark green and blue with touches of silver won his approval.
“It’s not anything like white,” said Stephana thoughtfully. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“It makes her look,” Rodolfo said calmly, “Like a great lady in an old portrait.”
“A very beautiful one,” Julia added then said, “And if you’re going to say ‘stuff the conventions’ then there’s no point in being coy about it, you might as well go for broke. At the very least dear,” she smiled at her daughter, “None of the others would be able to say that you’ve copied their dress.”
“The blue and green should make up the same as the sample dress,” offered Oriana with the agreement of the assistant, “And your bum really does look good in this,” she added to Astanthe.
“Just a veil and we’re done then,” stated Gloriana with some satisfaction.
“You’ll be done, dear sister,” corrected Rodolfo, “I get to pay for everything.”
Astanthe suddenly looked worried, “This isn’t going to cost too much, is it?”
“No,” he smiled reassuringly at her, “And you’re worth every scuto.”
Julia and Stephana had wandered down the front of the salon and were looking in a locked cabinet. Another assistant spoke to them, then unlocked the cabinet. They and that good lady came back to the group with a cobweb of lace. “This caught my eye while I was wondering what to do when I first came in. I think,” the assistant handed one end to the taller Stephana and together they dropped it carefully over Astanthe’s head, “It will be just the thing.” The first assistant, experienced in this, lifted the fall of fabric back up to cover the sample dress.
Six women breathed variations on, “Oh, yes...” Astanthe was the only one who couldn’t see what she looked like.
“They’re right,” Rodolfo told her fondly. “Now,” suddenly all business, “Astanthe needs to have measurements taken and get back in her own clothes, you ladies need to decide footwear and I have to deal with the business end of things. She and I have an appointment to view a house in,” he looked at his watch, “Forty five minutes.”
Choosing A Dress
Oct. 4th, 2011 10:58 pmThis follows on from Bits.
Early in the predawn a beautifully hand addressed envelope was dropped into the mail slot at Terrence and Julia’s home. The inscription read “Julia, Countess Strefagi.”
Rodolfo, three of his half sisters and Astanthe, who had been Septima, had taken over part of the wedding dress salon. Rodolfo, dressed in a slightly archaic style that made the blond queue hanging down his back look like the perfect finishing touch, was seated erect in a leather armchair, both feet firmly planted on the ground and his rod of office grounded between them with his hands folded on top of it. From his position he could see the door to the change room his little Starflower was using, the entrance to the store and the promenade in front of the mirrors. His sisters, all of them tall blondes with excellent taste, were married and experienced in the travails of wedding dress shopping.
“Not the dress Silvana had,” Gloriana was saying in a practical tone, “Astanthe’s a good foot shorter – anything like that will look like the attack of the snow beast.”
“We should avoid that,” Astanthe gravely agreed, “My cousin Mariucca on my mother’s side...” She shuddered. “The photos could be posted as a public warning.”
Stephana patted her shoulder reassuringly. “Your wedding won’t be like that, we promise. Despite my brother’s heavy handed methods of courtship.” She sent Rodolfo a cutting glance. “Style isn’t the only issue though, there’s colour too. After all, there’s white and there’s white.”
When the shop door opened to admit a nervous looking middle-aged woman Astanthe was standing in front of the mirrors being critically examined in off-white taffeta.
“It’s too – apricot,” was Stephana’s comment.
“It makes your bust look like a liability, not an asset,” said Gloriana firmly.
“Stand on your toes like you were wearing heels, please,” asked Oriana from behind her. “Thank you, relax. No, this style of train just doesn’t work on you.”
“I do not care for the overall effect,” said Rodolfo, “She looks like she’s playing dress ups in someone else’s clothes. We need to look at something else.” He rose to his feet and walked to the newly arrived woman near the front of the shop. “Countess Strefagi,” he gave a bow that would have been old fashioned in her father’s youth but went well with his clothes, “You got my note. Thank you for coming. Won’t you please join us?” He offered her his arm and, when she tentatively took it, he led her up the few steps in the middle of the store to where the others were consulting with the assistant over the next dress to try on. “Would you care to sit?” He offered her the chair he had just vacated.
“Thank you, but no,” Julia was distracted. “Septima?”
The dark haired figure in the wrong dress turned suddenly. “Mum?!” Relief and shame warred on her face.
“Astanthe,” Rodolfo said firmly in Julia’s ear, “Her name is Astanthe now. Think of it as a wedding present from my brother or simply part of the whole getting married thing if that makes it easier.”
“Astanthe.” Julia tried it on for size. “How are you?” Then sharply, “You are not seriously considering that dress, are you? Not on you?”
Two dresses later, Rodolfo pointed at a Carnivale dress towards the front of the shop with his rod and said, “I would like to see that shape on her, please.”
“Rodolpho,” said Gloriana firmly, “That is not a wedding dress. That’s fancy dress. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why shouldn’t a wedding dress be made like that?” Rodolfo put his question in an ‘I’m being entirely reasonable’ tone. “I would like to see that dress on Astanthe please.” When the assistant hesitated he smiled and added, “Now.”
Less than five minutes later Astanthe was back in front of the mirrors wearing someone’s interpretation of a five century old fashion: near transparent pleated linen underdress visible above the bodice and through slashings in the sleeves; a boned and back-laced wide-shouldered bodice that, unlike the original version, proclaimed that the wearer had a bosom and invited the world to look; a heavily pleated skirt; and sleeves that weren’t joined to the dress all the way around the armhole and were slashed longitudinally in the tight upper arm section to allow the underdress to puff through them then finished in a loose lower section that finished above her wrist but trailed to her knee and was lined with a plain silk that toned with the brocade of the rest of the garment. Rodolfo regarded the effect with satisfaction. “Turn around, please,” he requested.
Astanthe complied, but paused half way round and looked back over her shoulder, “Like this?”
“Yes, you little flirt, exactly like that,” it was a warm smile between the two of them, “But this is a very autumnal colouring,” he indicated the pattern of vines and leaves in shades of brown and gold. “Does this fabric,” he’d turned to the shop assistant, “Come in any other colours?”
It wasn’t quite the same pattern, but a brocade in dark green and blue with touches of silver won his approval.
“It’s not anything like white,” said Stephana thoughtfully. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“It makes her look,” Rodolfo said calmly, “Like a great lady in an old portrait.”
“A very beautiful one,” Julia added then said, “And if you’re going to say ‘stuff the conventions’ then there’s no point in being coy about it, you might as well go for broke. At the very least dear,” she smiled at her daughter, “None of the others would be able to say that you’ve copied their dress.”
“The blue and green should make up the same as the sample dress,” offered Oriana with the agreement of the assistant, “And your bum really does look good in this,” she added to Astanthe.
“Just a veil and we’re done then,” stated Gloriana with some satisfaction.
“You’ll be done, dear sister,” corrected Rodolfo, “I get to pay for everything.”
Astanthe suddenly looked worried, “This isn’t going to cost too much, is it?”
“No,” he smiled reassuringly at her, “And you’re worth every scuto.”
Julia and Stephana had wandered down the front of the salon and were looking in a locked cabinet. Another assistant spoke to them, then unlocked the cabinet. They and that good lady came back to the group with a cobweb of lace. “This caught my eye while I was wondering what to do when I first came in. I think,” the assistant handed one end to the taller Stephana and together they dropped it carefully over Astanthe’s head, “It will be just the thing.” The first assistant, experienced in this, lifted the fall of fabric back up to cover the sample dress.
Six women breathed variations on, “Oh, yes...” Astanthe was the only one who couldn’t see what she looked like.
“They’re right,” Rodolfo told her fondly. “Now,” suddenly all business, “Astanthe needs to have measurements taken and get back in her own clothes, you ladies need to decide footwear and I have to deal with the business end of things. She and I have an appointment to view a house in,” he looked at his watch, “Forty five minutes.”
Early in the predawn a beautifully hand addressed envelope was dropped into the mail slot at Terrence and Julia’s home. The inscription read “Julia, Countess Strefagi.”
Rodolfo, three of his half sisters and Astanthe, who had been Septima, had taken over part of the wedding dress salon. Rodolfo, dressed in a slightly archaic style that made the blond queue hanging down his back look like the perfect finishing touch, was seated erect in a leather armchair, both feet firmly planted on the ground and his rod of office grounded between them with his hands folded on top of it. From his position he could see the door to the change room his little Starflower was using, the entrance to the store and the promenade in front of the mirrors. His sisters, all of them tall blondes with excellent taste, were married and experienced in the travails of wedding dress shopping.
“Not the dress Silvana had,” Gloriana was saying in a practical tone, “Astanthe’s a good foot shorter – anything like that will look like the attack of the snow beast.”
“We should avoid that,” Astanthe gravely agreed, “My cousin Mariucca on my mother’s side...” She shuddered. “The photos could be posted as a public warning.”
Stephana patted her shoulder reassuringly. “Your wedding won’t be like that, we promise. Despite my brother’s heavy handed methods of courtship.” She sent Rodolfo a cutting glance. “Style isn’t the only issue though, there’s colour too. After all, there’s white and there’s white.”
When the shop door opened to admit a nervous looking middle-aged woman Astanthe was standing in front of the mirrors being critically examined in off-white taffeta.
“It’s too – apricot,” was Stephana’s comment.
“It makes your bust look like a liability, not an asset,” said Gloriana firmly.
“Stand on your toes like you were wearing heels, please,” asked Oriana from behind her. “Thank you, relax. No, this style of train just doesn’t work on you.”
“I do not care for the overall effect,” said Rodolfo, “She looks like she’s playing dress ups in someone else’s clothes. We need to look at something else.” He rose to his feet and walked to the newly arrived woman near the front of the shop. “Countess Strefagi,” he gave a bow that would have been old fashioned in her father’s youth but went well with his clothes, “You got my note. Thank you for coming. Won’t you please join us?” He offered her his arm and, when she tentatively took it, he led her up the few steps in the middle of the store to where the others were consulting with the assistant over the next dress to try on. “Would you care to sit?” He offered her the chair he had just vacated.
“Thank you, but no,” Julia was distracted. “Septima?”
The dark haired figure in the wrong dress turned suddenly. “Mum?!” Relief and shame warred on her face.
“Astanthe,” Rodolfo said firmly in Julia’s ear, “Her name is Astanthe now. Think of it as a wedding present from my brother or simply part of the whole getting married thing if that makes it easier.”
“Astanthe.” Julia tried it on for size. “How are you?” Then sharply, “You are not seriously considering that dress, are you? Not on you?”
Two dresses later, Rodolfo pointed at a Carnivale dress towards the front of the shop with his rod and said, “I would like to see that shape on her, please.”
“Rodolpho,” said Gloriana firmly, “That is not a wedding dress. That’s fancy dress. Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Why shouldn’t a wedding dress be made like that?” Rodolfo put his question in an ‘I’m being entirely reasonable’ tone. “I would like to see that dress on Astanthe please.” When the assistant hesitated he smiled and added, “Now.”
Less than five minutes later Astanthe was back in front of the mirrors wearing someone’s interpretation of a five century old fashion: near transparent pleated linen underdress visible above the bodice and through slashings in the sleeves; a boned and back-laced wide-shouldered bodice that, unlike the original version, proclaimed that the wearer had a bosom and invited the world to look; a heavily pleated skirt; and sleeves that weren’t joined to the dress all the way around the armhole and were slashed longitudinally in the tight upper arm section to allow the underdress to puff through them then finished in a loose lower section that finished above her wrist but trailed to her knee and was lined with a plain silk that toned with the brocade of the rest of the garment. Rodolfo regarded the effect with satisfaction. “Turn around, please,” he requested.
Astanthe complied, but paused half way round and looked back over her shoulder, “Like this?”
“Yes, you little flirt, exactly like that,” it was a warm smile between the two of them, “But this is a very autumnal colouring,” he indicated the pattern of vines and leaves in shades of brown and gold. “Does this fabric,” he’d turned to the shop assistant, “Come in any other colours?”
It wasn’t quite the same pattern, but a brocade in dark green and blue with touches of silver won his approval.
“It’s not anything like white,” said Stephana thoughtfully. “Is that going to be a problem?”
“It makes her look,” Rodolfo said calmly, “Like a great lady in an old portrait.”
“A very beautiful one,” Julia added then said, “And if you’re going to say ‘stuff the conventions’ then there’s no point in being coy about it, you might as well go for broke. At the very least dear,” she smiled at her daughter, “None of the others would be able to say that you’ve copied their dress.”
“The blue and green should make up the same as the sample dress,” offered Oriana with the agreement of the assistant, “And your bum really does look good in this,” she added to Astanthe.
“Just a veil and we’re done then,” stated Gloriana with some satisfaction.
“You’ll be done, dear sister,” corrected Rodolfo, “I get to pay for everything.”
Astanthe suddenly looked worried, “This isn’t going to cost too much, is it?”
“No,” he smiled reassuringly at her, “And you’re worth every scuto.”
Julia and Stephana had wandered down the front of the salon and were looking in a locked cabinet. Another assistant spoke to them, then unlocked the cabinet. They and that good lady came back to the group with a cobweb of lace. “This caught my eye while I was wondering what to do when I first came in. I think,” the assistant handed one end to the taller Stephana and together they dropped it carefully over Astanthe’s head, “It will be just the thing.” The first assistant, experienced in this, lifted the fall of fabric back up to cover the sample dress.
Six women breathed variations on, “Oh, yes...” Astanthe was the only one who couldn’t see what she looked like.
“They’re right,” Rodolfo told her fondly. “Now,” suddenly all business, “Astanthe needs to have measurements taken and get back in her own clothes, you ladies need to decide footwear and I have to deal with the business end of things. She and I have an appointment to view a house in,” he looked at his watch, “Forty five minutes.”
What's Happening
Oct. 2nd, 2011 10:36 amTerrence re-entered the room by holding the door open for Boscailo, who was carrying two large pots of coffee, plus Filia and Rubia’s eldest girls who were carrying a tray of mug and the sugar and milk respectively. Boscailo saw them out again with a cheerful, “Thank you, girls,” and an aside to the room, “It turned out that I didn’t know where the mugs live in the kitchen but Gemma and Franca did.”
Julia poured his the first coffee and he sat at the table. While everyone else helped themselves, Terrence asked, “So, what happened?”
“I won’t bore you with the details,” Boscailo sipped his black brew, “But Septima is marrying Rodolfo Desideri a fortnight from tomorrow, probably at Cappella degli Altichieri or Basilica di Sant’Erasmo da Specola. The time has yet to be set since they’re not sure which church it will be in.”
“What!” Terrence reacted with shock, then realised that the women, including his wife, were nodding and pleased.
“I spoke to Septima,” Boscailo told the Count apologetically, “And she seems quite happy to marry Rodolfo. When I spoke to our wives and Septima’s other sisters, they wanted her to be happy, safe, and protected. Marriage to Rodolfo fits the bill.” He drank some more coffee. “Frankly, Rodolfo seems like the cat who got the cream. I doubt you’d get her away from him now. I’m sorry I took so long getting back, but I went with them to file the paperwork.” He drank more coffee.
“So,” Julia was nursing her mug of creamy coffee in both hands, “Who is making the arrangements and paying for everything? When will we know the ceremony details?”
“The Desiderii are paying for everything,” Boscailo told her, “Dress, priest, reception, the lot. We cannot all attend – Count Bartolo was quite firm on that point. I will receive an invitation. I may bring my wife,” he smiled fondly at Tertia, “Our children, my mother-in-law,” Julia looked pleased, “And Septima’s unmarried sisters. No-one else,” he finished firmly, looking around the table. “Due to the short time frame there will be no bridesmaids or flower girls, so both sets of nieces will miss out.” He grinned, “Count Bartolo and I thought that was fair. Oh,” he added, “Her name has been officially changed to Astanthe Giustina Rosina Maia Strefagi – it was some of the paperwork we put in.”
“Astanthe,” Count Terrance rolled the name around on his tongue, trying it out for size, “It could be worse. With her birthday’s saint and both grandmothers? That was gracious of him,” he acknowledged.
“He doesn’t seem to bear her any personal ill will,” acknowledged Boscailo, “And he seems to genuinely believe that she and Rodolfo can be happy together. There is one little thing he wants concerning Terris though.”
“Oh yes?” The Count’s eyes turned to Terris who gulped nervously.
“He wants sponsorship signage for a Desiderii business on Terris’ racing car. Nothing big,” Boscailo shrugged, “A flash on each front door. The firm concerned is a car detailing business they have in Broscina. All it does is car detailing,” he sipped coffee before admitting, “We checked it out when it opened up, but it’s just out of our area and it doesn’t touch bikes. No competition. Rodolfo Desideri is one of the directors though, and as he will be married to Terris’ sister by the time the qualifiers are underway it won’t be too surprising that the firm is sponsoring him.”
“Vaguely humiliating,” Terrence conceded, “But that would be the end of the parts issue?”
“Yes,” confirmed Boscailo, “He agreed to that.”
“I can do that,” Terris spoke up, “I checked the book price for those parts and he really did offer a good deal, if I’d had the money...,” he trailed off.
“Word to the wise, Terris,” Boscailo offered, “Never buy motor vehicle parts or firearms that have had their identifying information removed, it just leads to trouble.”
What's Happening
Oct. 2nd, 2011 10:36 amThis leads on from Well, What Did She Expect.
Terrence re-entered the room by holding the door open for Boscailo, who was carrying two large pots of coffee, plus Filia and Rubia’s eldest girls who were carrying a tray of mug and the sugar and milk respectively. Boscailo saw them out again with a cheerful, “Thank you, girls,” and an aside to the room, “It turned out that I didn’t know where the mugs live in the kitchen but Gemma and Franca did.”
Julia poured his the first coffee and he sat at the table. While everyone else helped themselves, Terrence asked, “So, what happened?”
“I won’t bore you with the details,” Boscailo sipped his black brew, “But Septima is marrying Rodolfo Desideri a fortnight from tomorrow, probably at Cappella degli Altichieri or Basilica di Sant’Erasmo da Specola. The time has yet to be set since they’re not sure which church it will be in.”
“What!” Terrence reacted with shock, then realised that the women, including his wife, were nodding and pleased.
“I spoke to Septima,” Boscailo told the Count apologetically, “And she seems quite happy to marry Rodolfo. When I spoke to our wives and Septima’s other sisters, they wanted her to be happy, safe, and protected. Marriage to Rodolfo fits the bill.” He drank some more coffee. “Frankly, Rodolfo seems like the cat who got the cream. I doubt you’d get her away from him now. I’m sorry I took so long getting back, but I went with them to file the paperwork.” He drank more coffee.
“So,” Julia was nursing her mug of creamy coffee in both hands, “Who is making the arrangements and paying for everything? When will we know the ceremony details?”
“The Desiderii are paying for everything,” Boscailo told her, “Dress, priest, reception, the lot. We cannot all attend – Count Bartolo was quite firm on that point. I will receive an invitation. I may bring my wife,” he smiled fondly at Tertia, “Our children, my mother-in-law,” Julia looked pleased, “And Septima’s unmarried sisters. No-one else,” he finished firmly, looking around the table. “Due to the short time frame there will be no bridesmaids or flower girls, so both sets of nieces will miss out.” He grinned, “Count Bartolo and I thought that was fair. Oh,” he added, “Her name has been officially changed to Astanthe Giustina Rosina Maia Strefagi – it was some of the paperwork we put in.”
“Astanthe,” Count Terrance rolled the name around on his tongue, trying it out for size, “It could be worse. With her birthday’s saint and both grandmothers? That was gracious of him,” he acknowledged.
“He doesn’t seem to bear her any personal ill will,” acknowledged Boscailo, “And he seems to genuinely believe that she and Rodolfo can be happy together. There is one little thing he wants concerning Terris though.”
“Oh yes?” The Count’s eyes turned to Terris who gulped nervously.
“He wants sponsorship signage for a Desiderii business on Terris’ racing car. Nothing big,” Boscailo shrugged, “A flash on each front door. The firm concerned is a car detaining business they have in Broscina. All it does is car detailing,” he sipped coffee before admitting, “We checked it out when it opened up, but it’s just out of our area and it doesn’t touch bikes. No competition. Rodolfo Desideri is one of the directors though, and as he will be married to Terris’ sister by the time the qualifiers are underway it won’t be too surprising that the firm is sponsoring him.”
“Vaguely humiliating,” Terrence conceded, “But that would be the end of the parts issue?”
“Yes,” confirmed Boscailo, “He agreed to that.”
“I can do that,” Terris spoke up, “I checked the book price for those parts and he really did offer a good deal, if I’d had the money...,” he trailed off.
“Word to the wise, Terris,” Boscailo offered, “Never buy motor vehicle parts or firearms that have had their identifying information removed, it just leads to trouble.”
Terrence re-entered the room by holding the door open for Boscailo, who was carrying two large pots of coffee, plus Filia and Rubia’s eldest girls who were carrying a tray of mug and the sugar and milk respectively. Boscailo saw them out again with a cheerful, “Thank you, girls,” and an aside to the room, “It turned out that I didn’t know where the mugs live in the kitchen but Gemma and Franca did.”
Julia poured his the first coffee and he sat at the table. While everyone else helped themselves, Terrence asked, “So, what happened?”
“I won’t bore you with the details,” Boscailo sipped his black brew, “But Septima is marrying Rodolfo Desideri a fortnight from tomorrow, probably at Cappella degli Altichieri or Basilica di Sant’Erasmo da Specola. The time has yet to be set since they’re not sure which church it will be in.”
“What!” Terrence reacted with shock, then realised that the women, including his wife, were nodding and pleased.
“I spoke to Septima,” Boscailo told the Count apologetically, “And she seems quite happy to marry Rodolfo. When I spoke to our wives and Septima’s other sisters, they wanted her to be happy, safe, and protected. Marriage to Rodolfo fits the bill.” He drank some more coffee. “Frankly, Rodolfo seems like the cat who got the cream. I doubt you’d get her away from him now. I’m sorry I took so long getting back, but I went with them to file the paperwork.” He drank more coffee.
“So,” Julia was nursing her mug of creamy coffee in both hands, “Who is making the arrangements and paying for everything? When will we know the ceremony details?”
“The Desiderii are paying for everything,” Boscailo told her, “Dress, priest, reception, the lot. We cannot all attend – Count Bartolo was quite firm on that point. I will receive an invitation. I may bring my wife,” he smiled fondly at Tertia, “Our children, my mother-in-law,” Julia looked pleased, “And Septima’s unmarried sisters. No-one else,” he finished firmly, looking around the table. “Due to the short time frame there will be no bridesmaids or flower girls, so both sets of nieces will miss out.” He grinned, “Count Bartolo and I thought that was fair. Oh,” he added, “Her name has been officially changed to Astanthe Giustina Rosina Maia Strefagi – it was some of the paperwork we put in.”
“Astanthe,” Count Terrance rolled the name around on his tongue, trying it out for size, “It could be worse. With her birthday’s saint and both grandmothers? That was gracious of him,” he acknowledged.
“He doesn’t seem to bear her any personal ill will,” acknowledged Boscailo, “And he seems to genuinely believe that she and Rodolfo can be happy together. There is one little thing he wants concerning Terris though.”
“Oh yes?” The Count’s eyes turned to Terris who gulped nervously.
“He wants sponsorship signage for a Desiderii business on Terris’ racing car. Nothing big,” Boscailo shrugged, “A flash on each front door. The firm concerned is a car detaining business they have in Broscina. All it does is car detailing,” he sipped coffee before admitting, “We checked it out when it opened up, but it’s just out of our area and it doesn’t touch bikes. No competition. Rodolfo Desideri is one of the directors though, and as he will be married to Terris’ sister by the time the qualifiers are underway it won’t be too surprising that the firm is sponsoring him.”
“Vaguely humiliating,” Terrence conceded, “But that would be the end of the parts issue?”
“Yes,” confirmed Boscailo, “He agreed to that.”
“I can do that,” Terris spoke up, “I checked the book price for those parts and he really did offer a good deal, if I’d had the money...,” he trailed off.
“Word to the wise, Terris,” Boscailo offered, “Never buy motor vehicle parts or firearms that have had their identifying information removed, it just leads to trouble.”
Self Interest
Sep. 28th, 2011 11:10 amThis follows on from Family Meeting.
Bartolo Desideri rose and came out from behind his desk to shake hands with the tall, broad man in motorcycle leathers who had been shown into his office. “And to what do I owe the pleasure,” he asked pleasantly, “Of a visit from the sotto capo of the Canis Hadi?”
“I am not here,” Boscailo Littori admitted genially, “As a representative of the Canis, Don Matteo knows nothing of this visit. I am here in my private capacity as a husband. I’m sure you are aware that my wife’s younger sister has recently passed into your care. My wife is distraught over her little sister’s situation and I hope to be able to provide her with some relief for her concerns.”
“So,” Bartolo smiled, “You are here on behalf of the Strefagi?”
“Not at all,” Boscailo disagreed amiably, “I’m here in my own self interest. My wife, delightful woman that she is, has always, for reasons I‘ve never quite understood, seen me as some sort of romantic hero. I’ve been happy to bask in this rose-tinged view of the world, particularly as it seems to give me some leeway with dirty boots on clean floors. However, now it behoves me to do something in order allay her fears.”
“In order to maintain your immunity in the area of dirty boots,” Bartolo smiled and indicated a chair in front of the desk, “Please sit down.”
“Thank you,” Boscailo sat then continued while Bartolo retook his own seat, “Not just boots, there’s cooking too. My wife is a wonderful cook but she’s been a little distracted the last few days. If matters were to deteriorate to the stage of burnt dinners, it would be a tragedy and a possible crime against humanity.”
“I see,” Bartolo laced his fingers together in front of him on the desk, “So what can we do to make your wife happier?”
When Boscailo returned to his parents-in-law’s home there was a large, black car parked in the driveway. He considered the clearance on either side of it, sighed, and parked his motorbike next to the curb. He walked up to the front door, nodding to the man who now stood beside it, and knocked. It was his mother-in-law who opened the door and let him in.
After she locked the door again she hugged him and demanded, “How did it go? Is she alright?” before stepping aside and handing him over to his wife.
Tertia hugged him too. “Are you all right? Did you see her?”
An arm around Tertia, Boscailo answered both of them. “Count Bartolo and I had a very civilised conversation and yes, I saw and spoke to Septima. I’ll tell you the rest when we’re all together. Kitchen or dining room?"
“Dining room,” his mother-in-law answered shortly with a nod of her head in the right direction. “I’ll get the rest of the girls. Filia’s eldest can keep an eye on things out there.” She added darkly, “She’s here.”
Boscailo nodded. “The car was hard to miss.”
Bartolo Desideri rose and came out from behind his desk to shake hands with the tall, broad man in motorcycle leathers who had been shown into his office. “And to what do I owe the pleasure,” he asked pleasantly, “Of a visit from the sotto capo of the Canis Hadi?”
“I am not here,” Boscailo Littori admitted genially, “As a representative of the Canis, Don Matteo knows nothing of this visit. I am here in my private capacity as a husband. I’m sure you are aware that my wife’s younger sister has recently passed into your care. My wife is distraught over her little sister’s situation and I hope to be able to provide her with some relief for her concerns.”
“So,” Bartolo smiled, “You are here on behalf of the Strefagi?”
“Not at all,” Boscailo disagreed amiably, “I’m here in my own self interest. My wife, delightful woman that she is, has always, for reasons I‘ve never quite understood, seen me as some sort of romantic hero. I’ve been happy to bask in this rose-tinged view of the world, particularly as it seems to give me some leeway with dirty boots on clean floors. However, now it behoves me to do something in order allay her fears.”
“In order to maintain your immunity in the area of dirty boots,” Bartolo smiled and indicated a chair in front of the desk, “Please sit down.”
“Thank you,” Boscailo sat then continued while Bartolo retook his own seat, “Not just boots, there’s cooking too. My wife is a wonderful cook but she’s been a little distracted the last few days. If matters were to deteriorate to the stage of burnt dinners, it would be a tragedy and a possible crime against humanity.”
“I see,” Bartolo laced his fingers together in front of him on the desk, “So what can we do to make your wife happier?”
When Boscailo returned to his parents-in-law’s home there was a large, black car parked in the driveway. He considered the clearance on either side of it, sighed, and parked his motorbike next to the curb. He walked up to the front door, nodding to the man who now stood beside it, and knocked. It was his mother-in-law who opened the door and let him in.
After she locked the door again she hugged him and demanded, “How did it go? Is she alright?” before stepping aside and handing him over to his wife.
Tertia hugged him too. “Are you all right? Did you see her?”
An arm around Tertia, Boscailo answered both of them. “Count Bartolo and I had a very civilised conversation and yes, I saw and spoke to Septima. I’ll tell you the rest when we’re all together. Kitchen or dining room?"
“Dining room,” his mother-in-law answered shortly with a nod of her head in the right direction. “I’ll get the rest of the girls. Filia’s eldest can keep an eye on things out there.” She added darkly, “She’s here.”
Boscailo nodded. “The car was hard to miss.”
Self Interest
Sep. 28th, 2011 11:10 amThis follows on from Family Meeting.
Bartolo Desideri rose and came out from behind his desk to shake hands with the tall, broad man in motorcycle leathers who had been shown into his office. “And to what do I owe the pleasure,” he asked pleasantly, “Of a visit from the sotto capo of the Canis Hadi?”
“I am not here,” Boscailo Littori admitted genially, “As a representative of the Canis, Don Matteo knows nothing of this visit. I am here in my private capacity as a husband. I’m sure you are aware that my wife’s younger sister has recently passed into your care. My wife is distraught over her little sister’s situation and I hope to be able to provide her with some relief for her concerns.”
“So,” Bartolo smiled, “You are here on behalf of the Strefagi?”
“Not at all,” Boscailo disagreed amiably, “I’m here in my own self interest. My wife, delightful woman that she is, has always, for reasons I‘ve never quite understood, seen me as some sort of romantic hero. I’ve been happy to bask in this rose-tinged view of the world, particularly as it seems to give me some leeway with dirty boots on clean floors. However, now it behoves me to do something in order allay her fears.”
“In order to maintain your immunity in the area of dirty boots,” Bartolo smiled and indicated a chair in front of the desk, “Please sit down.”
“Thank you,” Boscailo sat then continued while Bartolo retook his own seat, “Not just boots, there’s cooking too. My wife is a wonderful cook but she’s been a little distracted the last few days. If matters were to deteriorate to the stage of burnt dinners, it would be a tragedy and a possible crime against humanity.”
“I see,” Bartolo laced his fingers together in front of him on the desk, “So what can we do to make your wife happier?”
When Boscailo returned to his parents-in-law’s home there was a large, black car parked in the driveway. He considered the clearance on either side of it, sighed, and parked his motorbike next to the curb. He walked up to the front door, nodding to the man who now stood beside it, and knocked. It was his mother-in-law who opened the door and let him in.
After she locked the door again she hugged him and demanded, “How did it go? Is she alright?” before stepping aside and handing him over to his wife.
Tertia hugged him too. “Are you all right? Did you see her?”
An arm around Tertia, Boscailo answered both of them. “Count Bartolo and I had a very civilised conversation and yes, I saw and spoke to Septima. I’ll tell you the rest when we’re all together. Kitchen or dining room?"
“Dining room,” his mother-in-law answered shortly with a nod of her head in the right direction. “I’ll get the rest of the girls. Filia’s eldest can keep an eye on things out there.” She added darkly, “She’s here.”
Boscailo nodded. “The car was hard to miss.”
Bartolo Desideri rose and came out from behind his desk to shake hands with the tall, broad man in motorcycle leathers who had been shown into his office. “And to what do I owe the pleasure,” he asked pleasantly, “Of a visit from the sotto capo of the Canis Hadi?”
“I am not here,” Boscailo Littori admitted genially, “As a representative of the Canis, Don Matteo knows nothing of this visit. I am here in my private capacity as a husband. I’m sure you are aware that my wife’s younger sister has recently passed into your care. My wife is distraught over her little sister’s situation and I hope to be able to provide her with some relief for her concerns.”
“So,” Bartolo smiled, “You are here on behalf of the Strefagi?”
“Not at all,” Boscailo disagreed amiably, “I’m here in my own self interest. My wife, delightful woman that she is, has always, for reasons I‘ve never quite understood, seen me as some sort of romantic hero. I’ve been happy to bask in this rose-tinged view of the world, particularly as it seems to give me some leeway with dirty boots on clean floors. However, now it behoves me to do something in order allay her fears.”
“In order to maintain your immunity in the area of dirty boots,” Bartolo smiled and indicated a chair in front of the desk, “Please sit down.”
“Thank you,” Boscailo sat then continued while Bartolo retook his own seat, “Not just boots, there’s cooking too. My wife is a wonderful cook but she’s been a little distracted the last few days. If matters were to deteriorate to the stage of burnt dinners, it would be a tragedy and a possible crime against humanity.”
“I see,” Bartolo laced his fingers together in front of him on the desk, “So what can we do to make your wife happier?”
When Boscailo returned to his parents-in-law’s home there was a large, black car parked in the driveway. He considered the clearance on either side of it, sighed, and parked his motorbike next to the curb. He walked up to the front door, nodding to the man who now stood beside it, and knocked. It was his mother-in-law who opened the door and let him in.
After she locked the door again she hugged him and demanded, “How did it go? Is she alright?” before stepping aside and handing him over to his wife.
Tertia hugged him too. “Are you all right? Did you see her?”
An arm around Tertia, Boscailo answered both of them. “Count Bartolo and I had a very civilised conversation and yes, I saw and spoke to Septima. I’ll tell you the rest when we’re all together. Kitchen or dining room?"
“Dining room,” his mother-in-law answered shortly with a nod of her head in the right direction. “I’ll get the rest of the girls. Filia’s eldest can keep an eye on things out there.” She added darkly, “She’s here.”
Boscailo nodded. “The car was hard to miss.”
This follows on from Just Because you Can, Doesn't Mean You Should.
Astanthe was what they said her name was now. That was what Bartolo had decided and he was the Desideri but here and now she was alone with one of his less literary brothers. “What’s wrong, Starflower?” Rodolfo had taken off her collar and now he took her face gently in both hands and kissed her.
When her mouth was free again she said, “My father can’t win can he? I’ve seen two days of your practices...”
He put a forefinger on her lips. “If there’s a fight, I agree with you. But Bartolo doesn’t want it to come to a fight. Your father would fight for you even if he though he’d almost certainly lose, so Bartolo will make the price of failure more than your father would risk, even for you.” He kissed her again. “The stake Bartolo will demand if your father loses is you and both your unmarried sisters.”
She went still. “What does Bartolo want?” Tears sounded close again and he gathered her in to him with both arms.
“For this stupidity to be over.” She could feel the rumble of his voice through his chest as well as hear him. “We used to be ‘two noble houses alike in dignity’ and this damn feud has pissed that away in what, three generations? If we can stop now there are still things left to recover and people left on both sides to do it.”
“And if we can’t?” She wasn’t stupid. She was trembling. She already knew the answer.
“Your father’s the Strefagi now. If he won’t deal or can’t hold what’s left of your family and followers in line, then our only choice is extermination.” He sighed and gazed over her head at the wall behind her, “Some of the foot soldiers say that your uncle killed honour when he razed our old town house with everyone in it but I believe there’s still a chance for all of us to come out of this...human.”
She looked up as he looked down and blue eyes met red. “Can we? Still?”
“If no-one does anything really stupid,” he sighed, “Again.”
Astanthe was what they said her name was now. That was what Bartolo had decided and he was the Desideri but here and now she was alone with one of his less literary brothers. “What’s wrong, Starflower?” Rodolfo had taken off her collar and now he took her face gently in both hands and kissed her.
When her mouth was free again she said, “My father can’t win can he? I’ve seen two days of your practices...”
He put a forefinger on her lips. “If there’s a fight, I agree with you. But Bartolo doesn’t want it to come to a fight. Your father would fight for you even if he though he’d almost certainly lose, so Bartolo will make the price of failure more than your father would risk, even for you.” He kissed her again. “The stake Bartolo will demand if your father loses is you and both your unmarried sisters.”
She went still. “What does Bartolo want?” Tears sounded close again and he gathered her in to him with both arms.
“For this stupidity to be over.” She could feel the rumble of his voice through his chest as well as hear him. “We used to be ‘two noble houses alike in dignity’ and this damn feud has pissed that away in what, three generations? If we can stop now there are still things left to recover and people left on both sides to do it.”
“And if we can’t?” She wasn’t stupid. She was trembling. She already knew the answer.
“Your father’s the Strefagi now. If he won’t deal or can’t hold what’s left of your family and followers in line, then our only choice is extermination.” He sighed and gazed over her head at the wall behind her, “Some of the foot soldiers say that your uncle killed honour when he razed our old town house with everyone in it but I believe there’s still a chance for all of us to come out of this...human.”
She looked up as he looked down and blue eyes met red. “Can we? Still?”
“If no-one does anything really stupid,” he sighed, “Again.”
This follows on from Just Because you Can, Doesn't Mean You Should.
Astanthe was what they said her name was now. That was what Bartolo had decided and he was the Desideri but here and now she was alone with one of his less literary brothers. “What’s wrong, Starflower?” Rodolfo had taken off her collar and now he took her face gently in both hands and kissed her.
When her mouth was free again she said, “My father can’t win can he? I’ve seen two days of your practices...”
He put a forefinger on her lips. “If there’s a fight, I agree with you. But Bartolo doesn’t want it to come to a fight. Your father would fight for you even if he though he’d almost certainly lose, so Bartolo will make the price of failure more than your father would risk, even for you.” He kissed her again. “The stake Bartolo will demand if your father loses is you and both your unmarried sisters.”
She went still. “What does Bartolo want?” Tears sounded close again and he gathered her in to him with both arms.
“For this stupidity to be over.” She could feel the rumble of his voice through his chest as well as hear him. “We used to be ‘two noble houses alike in dignity’ and this damn feud has pissed that away in what, three generations? If we can stop now there are still things left to recover and people left on both sides to do it.”
“And if we can’t?” She wasn’t stupid. She was trembling. She already knew the answer.
“Your father’s the Strefagi now. If he won’t deal or can’t hold what’s left of your family and followers in line, then our only choice is extermination.” He sighed and gazed over her head at the wall behind her, “Some of the foot soldiers say that your uncle killed honour when he razed our old town house with everyone in it but I believe there’s still a chance for all of us to come out of this...human.”
She looked up as he looked down and blue eyes met red. “Can we? Still?”
“If no-one does anything really stupid,” he sighed, “Again.”
Astanthe was what they said her name was now. That was what Bartolo had decided and he was the Desideri but here and now she was alone with one of his less literary brothers. “What’s wrong, Starflower?” Rodolfo had taken off her collar and now he took her face gently in both hands and kissed her.
When her mouth was free again she said, “My father can’t win can he? I’ve seen two days of your practices...”
He put a forefinger on her lips. “If there’s a fight, I agree with you. But Bartolo doesn’t want it to come to a fight. Your father would fight for you even if he though he’d almost certainly lose, so Bartolo will make the price of failure more than your father would risk, even for you.” He kissed her again. “The stake Bartolo will demand if your father loses is you and both your unmarried sisters.”
She went still. “What does Bartolo want?” Tears sounded close again and he gathered her in to him with both arms.
“For this stupidity to be over.” She could feel the rumble of his voice through his chest as well as hear him. “We used to be ‘two noble houses alike in dignity’ and this damn feud has pissed that away in what, three generations? If we can stop now there are still things left to recover and people left on both sides to do it.”
“And if we can’t?” She wasn’t stupid. She was trembling. She already knew the answer.
“Your father’s the Strefagi now. If he won’t deal or can’t hold what’s left of your family and followers in line, then our only choice is extermination.” He sighed and gazed over her head at the wall behind her, “Some of the foot soldiers say that your uncle killed honour when he razed our old town house with everyone in it but I believe there’s still a chance for all of us to come out of this...human.”
She looked up as he looked down and blue eyes met red. “Can we? Still?”
“If no-one does anything really stupid,” he sighed, “Again.”
