The Dragonbone Petticoat

Chapter 14

When he took to pussyfooting—first taking a few tentative steps after Kala, then moseying back, then drifting to a vendor of fried poultry, then hovering at a seller of sweet bread, but not able to get anything he wanted in his claws or beak, figuratively speaking—a wave of self-loathing washed over him, and he stormed into a cafe.

While they set a delicious spread, bringing any delicacy he wished, no matter how impossible—as if they stocked their larder with the flesh of mythical beasts preparatory to every Exhiibition—as well as goodies he hadn't anticipated, and a few culinary delights he had never tasted, let alone dreamed, he could only pick at them, touch them gingerly to his tongue, and make moues of sputtering distaste, like a finicky cat. He gagged on pate of gildlark, choked on a fireturtle soup, and ended by bolting back a few exquisitely seasoned, but nonetheless gorge-inducing to Ilmar for all that, filets of summerland dracoil. Every wine tasted sour, every liquored drink bitter, and even water tasted like iron.

Ilmar couldn't help snickering at the irony—although they had spared no expense, and the lives of twenty animals were sacrificed to plate this feast, the only flesh he craved was tabled beside him, fat-cheeked nobles' sons and daughters fattening their pedigree with a degree from Ardem. <

Having sampled their wine list and quenched his thirst with aged red wine, Ilmar passed the time by imagining how each diner might taste. For if he backed away as fast as he walked into the cafe, he would be carved up by another kind of flesh-eaters: the butchers of juicy gossip and the devourers of rumor. He had fond memories of the Corner Cafe from his glory days in Ardem. While he might cook the proprietor in a pan with butter and herbs, he would not want it said that he had snubbed the cafe's gourmet fare. If their reputation suffered, it would be harder to remember the way that it was, and his long past days of innocence would die a little.

(this section to be concluded)

***

"You go ahead. My head hurts."

While Euscura feigned a smile, discernible in dimples much too impudent and protruding, and poured out honey to sweeten her already dulcet tone, her eyes were lazily dim, and her gestures stiff and inarticulate as a wind-blown branch. "You mustn't, my dearest, you simply mustn't. You must come for the whole show, especially after running into that fright."

"Ilmar Andercruik is more likely to bite his own tongue than bite your head off," Kala's tone sounded tepid even to her own ears. "Less griffin than windbag."

"Then come along! We haven't even had a bite to eat."

"While we may not have had a proper meal, there were plenty of bites."

Although a light eater, Euscura had lost her girlish figure decades ago, mainly due to her inability to restrain herself from having a bite here, a bite there, and so forth, all day and night long, even rising from bed for midnight pecks, and this voracious bird hadn't restrained herself at the Grand Exhibition either, daintily picking at samples, noshing on gratis small plates, and tippling complimentary beverages. And while she prided herself on not being a drunkard, this stiff but whippy bon vivant was an inveterate imbiber, and more or less constantly tipsy from always heading not only for the slop, but the swill, descending with an appetite at once bird-eyed and pig-eyed, so that the tabled fare lightened moment by moment, Euscura's bites and sips so tiny that one couldn't blame her for the tattered bones, the bare bowls, and the evaporated wine.

"Tee hee," tittered Euscura, then drew up her shoulders into a cold stare. "Rude."

"Yoosie, it's only me." She sighed, and smiled her most winning smile, and even meant it when it worked, as Euscura beamed back an absurd, overly-broad smile, as if she had a crush on Kala.