Air Conditioning for the Soul [narrative]
The particular rattling-crunching sound of good china being chewed stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Many of the other diners had broken off their conversations to stare at the young punk so brashly eating his plate when he'd finished his meal, a fact which pleased him. His gaze moved deliberately around the room as he chewed, seeking censure and disapproval. That he found in spades, but with equal measures amusement and camaraderie and curiosity. His gaze, and his chewing, stopped only when he found his hostess supremely unconcerned.
This could not be endured. A swallow preceded a belch, which preceded in its turn a half-snarled, "Yeh don't mind."
"Not at all," she purred over her wine in what would normally be a reassuring tone of voice. "It saves me the trouble of washing. Please, help yourself to anything on the table."
Ali's reply, and the redcap's sullen response, won a chorus of laughter from the diverse guests around the table, ranging from good-natured through surprise to barely concealed contempt. But the laughter was needed--it had been an uncomfortable gathering, thus far. The guests, leaders and representatives of their various peoples and interests, usually had little to do with each other and as little as possible to do with their hostess. Uncomfortable and wary of each other as much as their Duchess, and the evidence she sports of her very active role in the land's defenses, the only universal thus far had been relief that the sluagh were seated all at one end of the table where the decorations and high-mounded serving dishes hid their peculiar meals.
The meal had passed, thus far, with remarkable haste. There had been the usual fussing and fidgeting as the courses were served, each plate holding a dinner tailored to the specific needs and preferences of its recipient, and each served by Ali's own hands. Her unflinching service of even the sluagh meals might have won a note of approval from her pale companions, but their unwavering expressions gave no hint either way. The redcap, on the other hand, had showed his great enthusiasm for her general proximity by "playfully" pretending to nip at her arm (and perhaps even greater enthusiasm for her coy smile and flirtatious teasing that he shouldn't bite the hand that feeds him).
But with so few certain of the reasons behind their being invited, the dinner conversation was stilted at best and mostly nonexistent. Uncertainty and discomfort were a potent social poison, to which the best remedy Ali knew was laughter. Once tongues were loosened, the conversation could begin. It was general and cautious over dessert, the guests full of questions for Ali and each other--there was great disbelief that Ali washed her own dishes, delight in casual anecdotes and eventually even good-natured teasing in reply to a few lusty boasts. More importantly, there was a gradual realization of common causes.
And then, when Ali saw understanding beginning to dawn in their eyes, she knew the evening's work could truly begin.
This could not be endured. A swallow preceded a belch, which preceded in its turn a half-snarled, "Yeh don't mind."
"Not at all," she purred over her wine in what would normally be a reassuring tone of voice. "It saves me the trouble of washing. Please, help yourself to anything on the table."
Ali's reply, and the redcap's sullen response, won a chorus of laughter from the diverse guests around the table, ranging from good-natured through surprise to barely concealed contempt. But the laughter was needed--it had been an uncomfortable gathering, thus far. The guests, leaders and representatives of their various peoples and interests, usually had little to do with each other and as little as possible to do with their hostess. Uncomfortable and wary of each other as much as their Duchess, and the evidence she sports of her very active role in the land's defenses, the only universal thus far had been relief that the sluagh were seated all at one end of the table where the decorations and high-mounded serving dishes hid their peculiar meals.
The meal had passed, thus far, with remarkable haste. There had been the usual fussing and fidgeting as the courses were served, each plate holding a dinner tailored to the specific needs and preferences of its recipient, and each served by Ali's own hands. Her unflinching service of even the sluagh meals might have won a note of approval from her pale companions, but their unwavering expressions gave no hint either way. The redcap, on the other hand, had showed his great enthusiasm for her general proximity by "playfully" pretending to nip at her arm (and perhaps even greater enthusiasm for her coy smile and flirtatious teasing that he shouldn't bite the hand that feeds him).
But with so few certain of the reasons behind their being invited, the dinner conversation was stilted at best and mostly nonexistent. Uncertainty and discomfort were a potent social poison, to which the best remedy Ali knew was laughter. Once tongues were loosened, the conversation could begin. It was general and cautious over dessert, the guests full of questions for Ali and each other--there was great disbelief that Ali washed her own dishes, delight in casual anecdotes and eventually even good-natured teasing in reply to a few lusty boasts. More importantly, there was a gradual realization of common causes.
And then, when Ali saw understanding beginning to dawn in their eyes, she knew the evening's work could truly begin.