So directed, the two young things obeyed with startling will, and it was not too long before Lute was reclining shamelessly among a mountain of pillows, wineglass in hand, dressed in a houserobe of rich vermilion wool.

“Much better than eggs,” he announced with satisfaction, and took a deep draught of wine.

Moonhawk looked over from the table at which she was combing her hair and paused, comb arrested. Lute glanced up, eyebrow quirking. “Yes?”

She recovered herself, finished the stroke and began another. “It is only that you look very nearly respectable, dressed so.”

His eyes gleamed and he brought his glass up to drink.

“Who is he, Zinna?” demanded a girlish falsetto from across the room. “What do you mean who? That handsome fellow in the red gown, of course! Do you suppose he’s a wealthy merchant? Perhaps a noblewoman’s son…”

Moonhawk laughed, conquering the urge to turn and stare at the girl she knew was not there, put the comb down, picked up her glass and moved over to the pillows. “I didn’t say handsome,” she protested. “I said respectable.”

“My hopes dashed,” he sighed, face reflecting unsurpassed sorrow. He assayed the glass, slanted his eyes at her face. “Perhaps I’ll have a try for the eldest daughter. This will be hers someday, after all, and with a few manners I’m certain she’d be quite tolerable.”

“A mannerly woman is very important, “Moonhawk agreed with false gravity and he inclined his head.

“Present company excluded, certainly.”

She froze on the edge of hurling the contents of her glass into his gaunt brown face; sighed and shook her head.

“Always one step before me, Master Lute,” she said, with equally false softness.

He tasted his wine. “Hardly that. At the most, half-a-step ahead and half-a-step to a side.” He leaned forward suddenly; surprisingly extended a hand. “Come, cry friends! I swear I hadn’t meant it to sting so sharply!”