T
he renewal and forming of acquaintance carried on reasonable lines. Banal pleasantries exchanged, Abe with her customary dry wit, Borna with what must be his usual diffidence. And as for himself? Badinage and far too many words. Brianwood Hall rendered him nervous, oppressed by an antiquity of architecture and seemed content to lour with disapproval on one and all. Briarwood Hall stripped him of all sense of social propriety.
“Oh I am sorry, I have forgotten myself. Miss Steerpike,” He gestured first at the gravetic presence of the host,“the worthy Antranig Borna, one of the shrewdest book dealers to be had, and a fine fellow into the bargain.” It was reasonably true, if Mel was to be trusted, and Mel was always to be trusted. He sighed at the memory of her. It would do him no good. Pining for lost love had no place in business, even if it was the business of books.
“Borna here is my expert, as I say, and we would be very much obliged if we can have the merest peak at your collection, before the bidding starts.” He swirled his wine at Ana in an offhand way, just as he would have done at one of the social gatherings where they had periodically met. “It seems you are liquidating the whole of the collection? I take it, then, that you do not plan to continue to live here at Briarwood? An estate sale and then back to Florne?”
It would be in character. She had the grandeur and gravatas to dwell in the place, true, but not as a woman alone. That would be like something out of a dreary novel. A rich lady exiled within the labyrinthine halls of her ancestral home, wandering alone by day and by night with no one but servants to attend her, and nothing but the ghosts of dead relations of company. That did not suit Ana, at least not as he had known her. Sparkling wit and a magnetic persona would wither in this plather. The house required a whole family to inhabit it. A cabal of endless intrigue. Cantankerous old dowagers, a master and a mistress, various wards and cousins, aunts, uncles and wastrel nephews, children, brothers and sisters. Sisters. That had been a sad affair, the matter of Ana’s young sister. Not that he had ever met her, nor did much to inquire after her. That would never do. Passivity was like a death in the family, and he had no desire to open old wounds for no good purpose.
Perhaps she would sell off Briarwood. The house itself would be worth a fortune, and there were always grasping up-and-comers who would wish a storied and ancient estate to their name. How many estate agent vultures were crawling over the place now? They might pass under the guise as collector’s agents, but scratch the surface, and their inner serpent’s hearts would be clear for all to see. And are auctioneers and antiques dealers any better?
He could only hope.
Well! My dear nephew Bardo!” The voice, all Flornese Riverword uttered with casual disregard, came from somewhere to his left, where a few choice pieces of porcelain were displayed upon plinths. I thought it was you I espied. Several hells and all the netherworlds! This would only make matters worse. Worse, and futile.
It was his first language, the Riverword. At home in Florne, the House of the Galeazzi spoke it amongst themselves, as did so many others who wished to keep the specifics of their business at least a little concealed. Bastian to the core, the Galeazzi, going so far as to speak the old language and give a small mild curse to the tastes of the fine ladies and gentlemen with their cultivated Estuan accents.
Uncle Dziann, he said, dropping easily into that language as easily as if it were the water of the canals, what are you doing here? Just his luck. His devious uncle, the uncle he had hoped to best, had gotten word ahead of time and took no time in showing up. Damn Uncle Gian, and damn his timing.
Business dear boy, business. An estate such as this cannot go without at least some careful perusal. I was already abroad, doing some work for a client who needed to salvage what he could from his house at Dorehaven. A sorry collection, alas. Mostly matchwood by the time I got there. He shook his head and ran his hands through his greying hair. Nothing like this magnificent collection. And perhaps our elegant host might be in the market for a proper auctioneer and agent to handle the sales. I have broached the subject, but delicately. He gave his perpetual rogeish wink, arching his dark eyebrows. Whoever it is that she has contracted to handle this auction is competent, but lacks the subtlety that really gets the punters buying.
Uncle Gian turned a bit, and gave Ana a most civilized nod. The Riverword dropped and his accented Estuan flowed forth with perfect ease. “Your pardons Madame, but this is my beloved nephew.” He draped his arm with proper avuncular affection about Umberto’s shoulders. “It is so easy to slip into our old way of speaking.” Gian’s eyebrows rose again and he caught sight of Abe. “Ah! And this is my most beloved niece. I suppose it fits to have a family reunion in such a place and among these books.” He gave Abe a warm smile and clasped her too about the shoulders. “It has been too long since I have seen you. You really should make your way to Florne more often. The medical community could use your skills.”