Araminta Station Read Online Free PDF Page B

can manage the affairs of my own apartment. Gunter? Gunter! Where the devil are you?”
    A footman entered the room. “Sir?”
    “Lock the door with double bolts after Sir Scharde departs. Admit no one, and bring me no messages; is this clear?”
    “Yes indeed, sir.”
     
     
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    Chapter I, Part 3
     
    As they stood ready to leave their chambers, Scharde subjected Glawen to a last inspection. His curt nod concealed far more pride than he cared to put into words. “For certain, no one will find fault with your appearance; you may rest easy on that account.”
    “Hmmf. Arles will disapprove of my shoes, at the very least.”
    Scharde chuckled. “Only Arles. No one else will look twice in your direction - unless you commit some awful vulgarity.”
    Glawen said with dignity: “I am not planning any vulgarity whatever. That is not my idea of a birthday celebration.”
    “Sound thinking! I suggest also that you say nothing unless you are directly addressed, and then reply with a platitude. Before long everyone will think you a brilliant conversationist.”
    “More likely, they’ll think me a surly brute,” growled Glawen. “Still, I will guard my tongue.”
    Once again Scharde showed his crooked half-smile. “Come; it is time we started down.”
    The two descended the staircase to the first floor and passed through the reception hall into the main gallery: a pair of erect figures, with similar austere features and mannerisms which suggested innate grace and strength under careful control. Scharde stood a head taller; his hair had become a coarse nondescript gray; wind and weather had darkened his skin to the color of old oak. Glawen was somewhat more fair, and more compact at chest and shoulder. Scharde’s mouth was taut and ironic; Glawen’s mouth, when he was relaxed or moody, took on a pensive droop at the corners, as if his mind were off among the clouds. Girls, when they looked at Glawen, as often they did, found that this droop, with its suggestion of sweet flights of fancy, tended to play strange tricks upon their hearts.
    The two proceeded to the dining room. At the portal they halted, and took stock of those already at their places. Most of the in-House Clattucs had arrived, and now lounged at their ease in the stiff-backed chairs, gossiping, laughing and sipping lively Bagnold from the Laverty winery, or, as often, the heavier and sweeter Pink Indescense, as formulated by the Wook oenologists. At stations around the walls stood Yip footmen, resplendent in the gray and orange Clattuc livery, their faces powdered white and their hair concealed by wigs of combed silver floss.
    Scharde pointed across the table. “You will sit there, next to your Great-aunt Clotilde. I will be at your other side. Lead the way.”
    Glawen set his coat, squared his shoulders and advanced into the dining room. The company on hand stilled its talk; flippant remarks hung in the air; chuckles and titters dwindled into silence; all heads turned to stare at the new arrivals.
    Looking neither right nor left, Glawen marched around the table, with Scharde coming behind. There were mutters and whispers; clearly rumors regarding Glawen’s SI and his imminent shock had already seeped around the table. Such an item of news, with its implications and scope for tragic drama, was too choice to be contained. All now awaited the moment when Fratano’s announcement would blast Glawen’s life and everyone covertly studied the victim-to-be. Scharde smiled his faint smile.
    Glawen arrived at his place, with Scharde close behind. A pair of footmen pulled back their chairs and slid them forward after Glawen and Scharde had seated themselves. The company resumed its previous occupation; all was as before, and Glawen was ignored: an almost insulting indifference, in Glawen’s view. The dinner, after all, was in celebration of his personal birthday. He turned a haughty glance around the table, but no one noticed. Perhaps some grotesque and splendid