veryvorkosigan | Winterfair

(Sweetened mascarpone and basil, with candied walnuts lining the bottom of the pastry; it's a traditional South Continent dessert.)

Vorcharkov sniffs, apparently studying a platter of glazed fresh fruit. It's admittedly worthy of study, like a stained-glass window done in food.

"Duo, allow me to present you to Lord Vorcharkov," she says lightly. "Father-in-law to the current Count Vorgalanis, and a longtime supporter of the Conservative party. And this is Captain Duo Maxwell, a friend I met in my galactic travels."

"Happy Winterfair," Duo echos, giving the Lord a nod of his head. Not quite a bow, but enough to not be obviously disrespectful. He's guessing it isn't nice to meet this guy, so that greeting is out.

He bites back the 'So, you recommend the fruit?' that is just on the tip of his tongue.

The man's face grows even more pinched, nostrils flaring slightly, and he doesn't return the greeting.

"I suppose this was only to be expected," he sniffs, his voice lowered -- but not quite too low to be heard by any nearby interested parties. "Swanning around the wormhole nexus over the past few years like a born galactic --"

"Which I am," she agrees cheerfully, abandoning both her earlier choices and picking up a candied orange segment.

"Which you evidently are." Vorcharkov sounds much less cheerful about it. "Too much to hope that five decades on Barrayar would have taught you some notion of propriety, if not instilled any natural shame. The old Count your husband not five years gone --"

"Eight," she corrects, her voice still light but with a sudden steel core to it. "Eight years. And two months, and ... twelve days. But who's counting."

Duo sets down his plate with a 'clank' of silverware. Okay, so this guy is a dick. And if Duo wasn't very aware of the careful eye Security has had on him most of the evening, Vor-jackass here would be having a knuckle sandwich for dessert.

"Do you have a problem with whom I choose to spend my time, Lord Vorcharkov?" If they were back in Milliways, that would have come out in Japanese. There's no better language in which to passive-aggressively insult someone.

"I have no quarrel with you, Captain," Vorcharkov says stiffly.

"Lord Vorcharkov," says Cordelia with a small sigh, "much as I enjoy my occasional duties as Barrayaran-to-galactic translator, this particular tangle is just too ridiculous to be worth straightening out. I'm fairly sure you've got hold of at least three completely wrong ideas, but since I don't feel like prying your fingers loose of them ... would you terribly mind just categorizing me as an old widow behaving scandalously and leaving it at that?"

Okay? He's missing something.

Duo settles for staring daggers at Vorcharkov. Dude insulted his date. Who is a very classy widow, thank you, and also a good dancer.

That's just not cool.

He stares at her, clearly thrown off-balance.

Cordelia waves two fingers at him, and smiles again. "Do have a lovely evening. And give my best to Marina and Leyo."

She picks up a candied strawberry, and moves easily down the buffet table, leaving Vorcharkov faltering in place.

"You might want to reconsider just who you have a quarrel with," Duo tells him.

Then he swans off after Cordelia.

"So," he says, reappearing at her shoulder and presenting her with one of the chocolate petit fours. "That's what you mean about Barrayar being more conservative, huh? What a-" He coughs and censors himself carefully.

"Scumbag. Let's go with that."

She takes the treat from him with a smile, which fades as he continues speaking.

"That was actually pretty mild, all things considered." Dryly said. "The thing is that there's actually no serious cultural stigma against a widow remarrying; in fact it's pretty much expected. But you being an offworlder, and younger than my own kids, says to them that this is just a casual fling -- and the more conservative elements decidedly don't approve of respectable old Vor widows having casual flings."

With a crooked grin: "The notion that we might be just friends hasn't actually occurred to any of them, I don't think."

Duo frowns. "That's insulting to both of us. The idea that you'd only be hanging around me if we were sleeping together, and insinuating that I'm some kind of gold-digger who doesn't care when people insult you to my face. Not to mention that they're assuming a fling is the only way we'd interact, while also judging you for that interaction?"

He shakes his head.

"Huh." She surveys him with some interest. "The gold-digger interpretation hadn't occurred to me, but it's quite possible. More likely, though, they just assume you're another corrupt galactic with no proper morals. Which for some reason is a word they think means internalized sexual taboos."

A nearby youngish man in green dress uniform gives her a startled glance at that, but quickly looks away again and schools his face to a pleasant neutrality.

"Well," Duo says.

Then he shrugs. "I can't really argue with that one."

Cordelia laughs, and pops the chocolate petit four into her mouth.

There's a faint stir in the crowd some distance away, not immediately apparent unless you're waiting for it. She has been, and her glance flicks in that direction.

He looks up from the table, his attention following after hers.

"What's up?" he asks, leaning a little closer to speak quietly enough that only she will hear it.

"Gregor and Laisa coming through," she murmurs. "High odds they'll make a point of greeting both of us. Let's be polite."

(She gave him the quick course on modes of address, earlier: use your Majesty when speaking to either Emperor or Empress, not Sire and Madam, even though most everyone else here will be using those. It denotes a personal relationship, she explained. Gregor isn't your sire. You wouldn't call my mother Mom if you heard me call her that, would you? It's like that.)

"Got it." He ditches the plate so his hands are free and tucks them behind his back in an approximation of parade-rest.

The Emperor and Empress are moving slowly but steadily through the party, exchanging brief nods and smiles with most, a few words with some. They don't act as though they have a particular destination in mind, but they're unmistakably moving in Cordelia's direction.

She dips a small curtsey as they draw within a few feet. "Happy Winterfair, Sire. Madam."

Emperor Gregor's smile is a bare indenting of the corners of his mouth, but something about it bespeaks reserve rather than displeasure. "Happy Winterfair, Lady Cordelia. And Captain Maxwell." Another nod, this one to Duo; the Emperor meets his gaze, the look brief but startlingly intense.

"Your Majesties," Duo says, bowing at a carefully polite angle. He smiles, but lets his bangs fall over his eyes to break that look.

We don't stare at the Emperor, Duo, even if he started it.

"I hope you're enjoying your visit, Captain," says Empress Laisa cheerfully. "You couldn't have a better native guide than Lady Cordelia."

"And I trust you've been having an entertaining evening?" the Emperor adds, with the smallest flicker of his eyes toward Cordelia ... a glance that looks incongruously amused.

"Of course!" Duo says, honestly, but with a layer of look-I'm-so-harmless cheer. "You have a lovely city. And Winterfair has been very enlightening."

"I hope we haven't scandalized anybody who didn't need scandalizing," Cordelia murmurs, her smile entirely too demure.

"Not that I've noticed," the Emperor says, just a touch dryly. "Do please keep it that way?"

That smile tilts up at one corner -- briefly, but enough to turn demure into positively conspiratorial. "Of course, Sire."

Duo eyes them both, furtive. Seems like the Emperor here approves of Cordelia more than not. But also doesn't really want a scene. For her sake or his?

...maybe for Security's sake.

"I'll do my best to keep the Dowager Countess out of trouble," Duo says, giving that statement all the weight it deserves. (i.e. none) "But I'm afraid I can only follow her lead, being an ignorant galactic."

That gets a hastily suppressed snort of laughter from the Empress, and a swift exchange of glances between the Imperial couple.

"I'm sure she won't steer you wrong," the Emperor says, the tucked-in corners of his mouth deepening slightly, and he gives a nod that suggests the conversation is wrapping up.

"I'll do my very best not to," Cordelia agrees.

Duo bows again, still rigorously precise. "Thank you for allowing me to attend," he says.

"Our pleasure," the Emperor says -- and sounds like he means it. "And thank you both for joining us. Happy Winterfair."

The Empress reaches to press Cordelia's hand, with a twinkling-eyed smile of her own, before the two move on.

Winterfair

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