Vanilla #6 - Dinner party
Author: Wang Xi-feng
Story: Stand and Deliver!
Flavor: Vanilla #6 (dinner party)
Rating: PG-13 (language, self-injury)
Word Count: 3,072
Summary: Zlatka and Stojna gang up on Lukánsky, with mixed results.
Notes: Excuse, please. For some reason my spacing is not showing up correctly, thus making things even more disjointed than they already are.
"What do you mean my wig isn't ready yet?" Mitganger said to the valet. "I specifically told you I needed it brushed out and the curls done by this afternoon. We're having a party, in case you hadn't noticed. I can't host a party without my wig." The youth, misery written all over his pockmarked face, mumbled and nodded and allowed as how he had meant to see to it but then Her Highness wanted a watermelon, so he had to go out and get it, and by His Highness' leave--
"You might have sent Stojna," Mitganger said. "God knows if there were ever an ingenious way to get the stupid thing back home, she'd think of it."
"I'm sorry, your Highness. I thought she wasn't to be used as a servant-"
"I heard my name," Stojna said, wriggling out from behind the clothespress where she'd crammed herself. "How come you need a wig? Nastrántsy Asshole doesn't wear one." The valet shrank back in terror.
"My God!" Mitganger said, startled. "How did you get behind that? I specifically-" he rounded on the valet again - "gave orders that all the hiding places were to be rendered inoperable."
"He forgot," Stojna said, shrugging and dusting herself off. "Because of your stupid party. So anyway, how come you need a wig?"
"Because," Mitganger said, rubbing his head, "Toltsch men still wear wigs on formal occasions, and we have a guest coming, so it won't do to look bad in front of her. Why don't you go down to the peruke-maker and see if he has anything of mine ready? You can get something from the baker for yourself with the change." He poured three or four dukaty into Stojna's hand and watched her tear off at a run, shaking his head. "And don't let me hear you call Prefect Lukánsky that again!"
*
It was already a deep, blue dusk outside when the Neckers arrived; the hall and the sitting room were golden with candlelight and tawny rug and brass. Count Necker had acquired a mustard-yellow coat, heavily embroidered in red and green, that made Mitganger a little jealous, and Zlatka was in burgundy silk; her amber eyes sparkled in the candlelight, and the powder and plaster on her face looked less harsh than in daylight. Mitganger felt awkward and naked with his head bared, even if the other men in attendance were not bewigged, but there was nothing for it. Zlatka was a friend, and he had to greet them.
"I thought Lukánsky was coming," Zlatka said, sinking gracefully into one of the chairs.
"He is, unless there's been a change of plans and I didn't hear about it." Mitganger spread his hands and tried to ignore the flush creeping up his neck. "I imagine Baroness Dusic is taking her time about getting ready."
"Baroness Dusic?" Zlatka sat up a little straighter. "I didn't know they knew each other."
"I think it's a recent association. But she is coming with him."
"Mm," Zlatka said, frowning as she looked at her hands.
*
Lukánsky gave himself a quick once-over in the glass panels of the door, ran a hand over his hair, and rang the bell. Nervous as a boy, he jittered slightly as he ran a finger under his collar, which suddenly seemed too tight. Jelinka Dusic might be close to his age, but she was still beautiful, and he wasn't immune to the effects of her smile.
"There you are!" cried Mitganger, standing up as the doors swung open for them. "And this would be Baroness Dusic, I take it? Charmed." He kissed the Baroness' hand, after the Toltsch fashion (they, themselves, had picked it up from the Jarvonnois). "I don't think you know everyone here. This is my wife, Amalia." The Princess Palatine, a small, prim woman with a perpetually disapproving mien, had just bustled in from another room, and was taken by surprise. "This is Mojshe, Count Necker, and his wife, Zlata."
Zlatka extended a hand languidly, but did not get up, which irked Lukánsky unreasonably, and would have irked him considerably less if she hadn't been shooting him sidelong glances and smirking. He tried to consider that it was not a personal affront, that she did after all outrank Jelinka and technically didn't have to get up, and that in any case Jelinka did not seem to take it amiss. The two women were smiling and chatting as if they had known each other by sight for years and were delighted to finally be properly introduced, although there was something about Zlatka that reminded him of a cat with its claws sheathed.
"It's such a pity about your husband's estate."
"It's unfortunate," Jelinka said, "but he left me well enough provided for. I haven't suffered."
"Countess Necker," Lukánsky said, "you aren't a lawyer."
"Neither are you," Zlatka said. "Last I heard, you enforced the laws. I suppose now you're going to tell me I can't express sympathy for a fellow creature?"
Had it just been innocent? How could he tell? How could you ever know with Zlatka? "I'd never presume to tell you what you can do."
"See that you don't," Zlatka said, as if dismissing a servant, and Jelinka stifled a little giggle. She leaned forward. "Honestly, you could do so much better than Lukánsky. Don't mistake me, I have all the respect in the world for the man, but--"
"Oh, it's not like that at all," Jelinka said, and the two heads, dark and golden, went together, leaving Lukánsky to wonder if they had outflanked him. He was so intent on this line of thought that he didn't notice Mojshe Necker trying to make conversation with him.
"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head, "what was that?"
*
The door burst open, bringing with it a blast of cold air, and Stojna returned in triumph, bearing with her a large bun oozing with chocolate and icing, which she had no intention of sharing with Hristo and Barto. "I went to Master Karansevic's like you asked," she announced in the general direction of Mitganger's back. "He said he does not have anything of yours ready and you should have sent someone earlier this week instead of waiting until today." She wondered, for a moment, if she should say anything in front of the others gathered, of whom she recognized only Lukánsky and the Princess Palatine.
"Well, damn," Mitganger said, looking annoyed. "I guess I'll have to go through this one bareheaded. Thank God we're all friends here." That brought a chuckle from the foreign-looking man, and from the lady who reminded Stojna of a china shepherdess she had once seen at her cousin's house. "Your brother and Barto are in the kitchen. You can go in and-"
"Oh, Augustine," a different lady said, smoothing out the skirts of her burgundy gown. "Is this one of your little miscreants?"
"This is the ringleader," Mitganger said, putting a hand on Stojna's shoulder and steering her towards the kitchen. "I'm holding them here for a little while."
"I offered to hold them for you in a more appropriate place," Lukánsky said. He looked completely uncomfortable and out of place, and Stojna wondered why. He'd acted like he knew everything when he was lecturing them.
"St. Catherine's is no place for kids," Mitganger said. "Now. Stojna. You can go to-"
"Stojna?" the lady in burgundy said. "Are you from the North?"
Stojna nodded, trying to duck out from Mitganger's hand. "Yes, miss."
"Yes, my Lady, or yes, Countess Necker," Mitganger said. "There's your lesson in high life, Stojna."
"Well, we're practically neighbors, then," the lady in burgundy said. There was something odd about her face, but she smiled and Stojna didn't feel quite so nervous then. "I'm Zlata Necker. My father is Starets Savic."
"I know where he lives," Stojna said. "Papa used to do some work for him. I've been to Dom Savica."
"I was just there over Passion Week," Countess Necker said. "Hey, Augustine. Would you mind if I had her wait on me?"
"If you wanted a servant," the foreign-looking man said, "you should have brought Sofi." At about the same time, Lukánsky went red in the face and said, "Zlatka!" very loudly. Stojna hoped she'd get to stick around, even if she did have to wait on Countess Necker; this was getting interesting, and she wanted to see what would happen next.
*
Mitganger's greatest regret in life, at that moment, was that he had not insisted on this being a male-only gathering. Actually, once he gave it some thought, he could remember not one event graced by Zlatka's presence that had gone exactly according to plan. "Uhh…we've really been trying not to…well…" Stojna was beaming at him expectantly, and something about her face reminded him of Karoszlina. "Stojna. Would you like to eat in here with us?"
"Ah, yes," Lukánsky said. "This is the part where you try to reason with her and give her choices, despite all the evidence in favor of her making bad ones."
"You hush up," Zlatka said, tapping him with her fan.
"Yes, please!" Stojna said. Despite himself, Mitganger felt a little pleased; the child was not completely unteachable after all.
"There, you see? She's not completely hopeless."
"You have always, and only, seen what you wanted to see," Lukánsky said.
"Oh, I'm sure she couldn't be that bad," Baroness Dusic said. "She looks like a dear little girl to me."
"You haven't endured her presence for eight hours straight," Lukánsky said.
"Poor lamb, she had to endure yours," Zlatka said. "Her nerves might understandably have been strained after that. I myself have quailed in less than three."
Mitganger stifled a laugh, remembering the occasion on which Zlatka had quailed, and turned his attention back to Stojna. "All right. Since you'll be joining us, go take your bun in and let your brother and Barto split it." The girl's expression darkened. "You'll hardly miss it. We're having something much nicer for dessert." Only slightly pacified, Stojna dragged her feet as she headed towards the kitchen.
*
The footmen brought an extra chair; the doors to the dining room swung open, and Zlatka, in the rear, watched Baroness Dusic look adoringly up at Lukánsky, both arms wrapped around one of his. She couldn't hear a thing they were saying - she imagined it must be the sort of snide witticism she was always enduring from Lukánsky - and frowned. What kind of conversation could he possibly have with that silly creature?
Besides, Baroness Dusic needn't think that no one knew what she had done to the late, lamented Karlo Dusic, and her first husband before that. If she had not a penny to her name, it was no more than she deserved.
If Lukánsky wrecked himself, it was no more than he deserved. Men could be the stupidest imaginable people sometimes.
Zlatka didn't even notice that she was worrying a hangnail until she sat down, and once she did, she went at it with a vengeance under the table.
*
"Your friends are so charming," Jelinka Dusic whispered, and Lukánsky shifted slightly in his seat, uncomfortably conscious of her warm breath on his ear and the flicker of Zlatka's amber eyes in the candlelight. He could smell the first course and wondered how long it had been since his last meal; his stomach growled.
"Really, Prefect Lukánsky," Zlatka said, looking remarkably like a schoolmistress.
"I beg the Countess' pardon, of course."
"I should hope you'd beg the Baroness'," Zlatka said. "I, after all, am not disgraced by your abominable manners." Lukánsky felt his ears burn.
"Zlata, I wish you'd let it go," Necker said. "You've been at the man all evening."
"Please don't worry about it," Jelinka said, and her hand flattened on his arm again. "It really does smell quite divine, doesn't it?"
It did, and Lukánsky was spared the burden of agreement, because that was when Stojna came crashing into the dining room again. The Princess Palatine must have whisked the little heathen away and put something nicer on her, because no Northern peasant girl came by red-and-white floral brocade honestly; it also appeared that a comb had been applied to those curls and soap and water to her face and hands, which was only an improvement.
"Oh, don't you look nice," Zlatka said, and Stojna's face lit up. "Come sit over here by me." She pulled the low chair closer and patted the seat. "Now. Attend, if you will. This is how it's done among the great and the good."
She won't need to know that in a hajduk camp. What are you playing at, Zlatka?
*
Stojna decided a few minutes into the dinner that adult parties were really boring. There wasn't much conversation at all, and whenever the grownups did speak, nobody said anything interesting; it was all "Pass the butter" or "The weather is unseasonably cold". Her friend Hanka, back home, had been fascinated by the parties and balls in Cingrad, and rapturously re-read whatever scraps of newspaper society pages she could find. Sitting ramrod-straight in one of Mitganger's lyre-backed chairs, bored senseless by the sounds of chewing and the heavy silence that hung over the room, Stojna was sure she had no idea what had so appealed to Hanka. At least Countess Necker was nice, even if she was breaking Nastrántsy Asshole's cardinal rule ("Don't Be Nice To Stojna").
She had finished her dinner already - fish and vegetables, tediously steamed - and her eyes played over the white china and gold rims, the lace tablecloth, in the candlelight. The foreign-looking man seemed to be talking about something called the currency market with Mitganger, in between bites, and the china shepherdess lady sparkled at Lukánsky, who seemed unsure and kept looking at Countess Necker. He was probably going to yell at her after dinner was over and Stojna had to go upstairs.
There was a tap on her wrist; Countess Necker had thwopped her lightly. "It's rude to stare," she whispered in Stojna's ear. "Of course you're curious, but you must not show it so openly. If you want to know, ask and I'll tell you."
Stojna frowned and leaned closer. "Is that lady Mrs Lukánsky?"
Countess Necker's mouth quirked in what might have been a smirk. "Christ, no. She's an adventuress. But don't let on I said that."
This sounded much more exciting than the rest of the evening, and Stojna made a mental note to ask the china shepherdess about some of her adventures, if she got the chance. "Is Nas-I mean, Prefect Luk-Oh my God, you're bleeding!" Stojna's voice rose higher, drawing every eye in the room to Zlatka's hands. There was, indeed, a drop of blood snaking over Zlatka's fingernail and threatening to smear on the snowy linen napkins.
"It's nothing to be worried about," Zlatka said, rising to her feet. "Merely an affliction of the skin. I'll go clean it up. Stojna can have my dessert, if she'd like it."
*
Dessert was a cake made with white flour, and when the butler sliced it, it had several light, fluffy layers, alternating with the whitest, fluffiest frosting. There was a creamy note to the frosting that Stojna had never tasted before, but she knew she wanted more of it. Mitganger had been right: it was much nicer than her bun, which Hristo and Barto were by now very welcome to. Hopefully, the servants would forget and leave it out in the kitchen.
When she was reasonably sure that no one was looking, Stojna reached over and took the tiniest corner off of Countess Necker's cake. The Countess had said she could have it, after all, but she was already full, and anyway, Stojna felt like she should leave something for her.
*
In the powder room, Zlatka's heart pounded as she rooted out the obstinate hangnail and two more, and when this did not prove enough even though her fingers ran red, she tore at her cuticles and ripped off the scabs on her fingertips and scrubbed at the backs of her hands until they bled too. Somewhere in the midst of all this destruction, she had started to chant fuck you, fuck you, fuck you under her breath. When there was no more to tear, and the china bowl of the sink was spattered with blood, Zlatka let out a shaky breath, feeling drained and almost calm again.
Once she had washed her hands and bandaged the damage, and once she had wiped the sink clean, she sailed, smiling and serene, into the dining room again. There was a question in Mojshe's eyes when he rose to greet her, but he said nothing in front of the others - thank Heaven for small favors.
"I left your dessert for you," Stojna said as she scurried out from the dining room, which was being cleared. Leaning in close, she whispered, "Is Prefect Lukánsky going to yell at you?"
Zlatka laughed. "No, indeed! He wouldn't dare!"
*
"He gave me this to give to you," Mojshe said that evening, as Zlatka was about to enter her dressing room. He held out a folded-up piece of paper. "I've never been to a more awkward party in my life, and that was before you wanted the little hellion to hand your plates. If he's not really your friend and you don't want him around, I wish you'd just tell me and I'll see to it that you're not bothered with him."
"It's not that simple," Zlatka called from the dressing room, where she had begun to open the note. "He has dealings with my brothers." She skimmed the paper quickly; judging from the large blot in the middle of the page, Lukánsky had broken a pen nib. Good. Let him be agitated, the git.
My Lady. I cannot imagine what I might have done to offend you, but I do most humbly beg your pardon if I have given you any cause for upset, no matter how small. I do not expect to be allowed to regain your good graces, but I am at your Grace's disposal. M.L.
Zlatka smirked and tucked the note into the drawer of her dressing-table. "Mojshe?" She knocked on the wall, which separated her husband's dressing room from hers.
"Yes, Zlatka." His voice was muffled, but at least he was still awake. Good.
"Come sleep in here tonight."