Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [77]
The day had been perfect. The clerks in her father’s office had admired her immensely. The chocolate had been worthy of all praise and her papa had teased her agreeably about certain young noblemen, one of whom actually left a party of other young men to come over and pay his respects. Now she and her cousins were at the Gate, reveling in the throngs of people, and playing the latest gambit in the game of sex.
The rules of the game were as follows: Each young woman carried a small bouquet of flowers, gathered from the magnificent tropical gardens located in the heart of City Below. Drifting upon the airy walkways, her small, rouged feet bare — the mark of the gentry, who are rarely obliged to walk and thus need no shoes — the young woman will often, quite by accident, drop her bouquet. The blossoms scattering on the pavement, the bouquet will be rescued by a young man, who will return it after first conjuring up a lovely flower of his own to add to it.
“My lady,” said a gallant young nobleman, retrieving Gwen’s flowers as they fell through the sweet spring air, “this charming nosegay can only be yours, for I see here the blue of your eyes reflected — though not so brilliantly — in the forget-me-nots, the gold of your hair in the cornblume. But there is something missing which you will please allow me the liberty of adding.” A red rose appeared in the young man’s hand. “The heart of the bouquet, as warm as the one which beats for you in my breast.”
“How kind you are, my lord,” murmured Gwen with downcast eyes that showed to perfection the length and thickness of her lashes. Blushing prettily, she accepted the bouquet, and giggled over it with her cousins while the young noble continued on his way, conjuring roses by the dozen this day and giving his heart with every one.
By midafternoon, Gwen’s bouquet — though not as large as bouquets carried by other young women — spoke well for itself and for her, and (all that really counts) was larger than those carried by her plainer cousins. The three were floating in the air near Earth Gate, wondering whether or not to stop in one of the cafes for a goblet of sugared ice, when the Gates opened to admit a group entering from Outside.
The opening of the Gate caused a blast of cold air to sweep in, bringing a sharp, breath-catching and thrilling change from the perfumed warmth of the enchanted city. The ladies waiting near the Gate clutched their gowns around them and gave tiny shrieks of horrified delight while the gentlemen swore round oaths and spoke critically of the Sif-Hanar. All heads craned to see who was entering — a Princess of somewhere-or-other was expected momentarily. But it wasn’t the Princess, just a party of snow-covered young men and a half-frozen old catalyst. Glancing at them without interest, most of the crowd returned to its strolling, visiting in the waiting carriages, and drinking wine in the cafes.
But there were a few, however, who did take an interest in the new arrivals, particularly the young men, who had cast off the hoods of their traveling cloaks. Now they stood inside the Gate, looking around in some confusion, the snow on their shoulders and boots starting to melt in the warm, spring air.
“Poor things,” murmured Lilian. “They’re soaked through and shivering with cold.”
“How handsome they are,” whispered Majorie, the fifteen-year-old, who never lost an opportunity to prove to the two older girls that she was just as grown-up as they. “They must be students at the university.”
The three young men and the catalyst took their places in the line at Earth Gate and the three young women examined them with interest. There were several other arrivals ahead of them in line.