ot more than ten or so! Cerise looked proud, her chin up, like Sish had looked snapping up the salmon. He tried to picture her hurling herself at some green-skirted Brunnhold lass, all bony fists and swinging elbows, and found that he could. He wondered if it was self-defense; he didn’t particularly think so.
He was glad, at least, that the miraan had stopped her grasping and balancing and had got some modicum of comfortable; he only felt the pinprick of claws a few more times before the thing settled herself around his shoulders. He’d half expected her to jump down, or whinge and claw until Cerise took her back. As it was, he wasn’t sure how long he’d manage, with his back aching like this.
Burbridge had stared openly at the lass for a moment or two, and then had looked away, toward the canapés. The elderly incumbent didn’t seem wont to look at him, either, with the tiny drake perched dangerously close to eye contact.
He shrugged delicately – as much as he could; it produced an agitated noise from Sish – thinking a Brunnhold ladies’ dorm wasn’t the sort of place for bruised knuckles and makeshift riffs, unless it wasn’t quite as he’d thought it was. “I suppose it is,” he said.
Burbridge cleared his throat. Cerise was looking at him; he wasn’t looking at either of them, and he wasn’t looking at the canapés anymore, either. He was looking up at the vaulted ceiling, and then down at his shoes.
He caught glances, off and on: painted lips twisted in discomfort, twitching mustaches. The party flowed on around them, easy-like. Sometimes a murmur more intelligible swam from the babbling brook; “Unseemly,” softer even than the string quartet, or a stage whisper, “What a spectacle.” There were still droplets clinging to the heaviest of Cerise’s dark hair, though the wild curls at the edges had dried frizzy and wispy.
He had a strange feeling suddenly, one he couldn’t’ve begun to put his finger on. It wasn’t, he thought, embarrassment or shame – not for his reputation, at least.
A cursory glance and he’d lost the museum director and his wife, and dzehúh Owo’dziziq was nowhere to be seen.
“My father used to say, young lady,” said Burbridge, “that if a fight cannot be won like a gentleman, then it is not worth the winning.” He cleared his throat, took another sip of champagne. “A pleasure to meet you, madam. Anatole.”
If the little table of canapés was the eye of the storm, he supposed Burbridge felt that getting out the other side was preferable to staying in the middle, with the whispers whirling all around. He supposed he didn’t much mind; the whispers would follow them wherever they went, this afternoon.
Smiling mildly, Burbridge produced a kerchief from his waistcoat and dabbed at his forehead. Then, with a more cursory bow, not looking at either of them, he wove away. A couple – the wife in glittering red – moved out of his way, an unpleasant smile playing on the wife’s lips.
“Sometimes you just want to use your fists,” he said, frowning. “I suppose you’re right; it’s a matter of situation. I don’t know that I’d think to cast, if I wanted to break someone’s nose.” He wasn’t sure why he was saying it; he wasn’t sure what in hells he was doing. He didn’t look half as triumphant as she had; he didn’t look particularly triumphant at all.
With a snort and a bitter-dark sort of laugh, he shifted his weight, reaching up for Sish as if she were a scarf. “Help me, will you? She’s giving my back hell, and I think she’d rather be on her mistress’ shoulders, anyway.”