Chapter 26 Chapter 25: Lord Vincent
The dining area was a vision of richness, old-world grandeur. Stark, blood-red vinyl walls created a dramatic backdrop that set off the ivory mould-leaf pillars and intricate trims, making them glow. The light was subtle and flattering, casting deep, velvety shadows that only added to the elegance emanating from the naked candles flickering on every linen-clad table. Their tiny flames gleamed off every facet of the crystal glasses and danced across the vast, gold-gilded frames surrounding the sombre, masterful oil paintings that hung on every wall. The air itself smelled of money, aged leather, and slow-roasted meat.
The Host, an elderly Nate whose fine tuxedo was arguably more elegant than most of the guests' attire, glided toward me. His critical eye swept over me, and in that moment, I thanked Joel for the gift of my dress one more time; it was the only clothes I had that could possibly meet this standard.
“Madam,” he intoned, his voice a low, respectful murmur.
“I am with Lord Vincent and Doctor Norton,” I said, hoping my voice didn't betray my nerves.
He smiled deeply, a practiced expression that didn't quite reach his eyes. “You are a little early, Madam. Er…” he paused, waiting.
“Nanda.”
“Well, Madam Nanda, you are a little early,” he repeated, as if I might not have understood the first time. “But you will find them in our cigar room, at the other side of the restaurant.” He gestured with a perfectly flat hand toward a distant, open-walled area shrouded in a hazy, blue smoke.
I began the long walk around the perimeter of the room, past tables full of well-dressed, murmuring guests enjoying fine food and vin. I focused on placing one foot in front of the other, hoping with every step that I would not fall flat on my face or commit some other, worse, unforgivable social sin.
When I was about halfway across, I spotted Doctor Norton. He had his back slightly to me, but there was no mistaking his familiar, scholarly stature. Sitting opposite him in a deep, wingback armchair was a large Nate with sun-darkened skin and hair as pitch as night, which perfectly matched his fully black suit. A silver-headed cane rested beside his chair, and a fat, smouldering cigar was held loosely in his hand. He didn't just occupy the space; he seemed to command it, looking for all the world like he owned the room and everyone in it.
Still walking with all the grace I could muster, I couldn't keep my eyes from this mystery Nate. He could only be Lord Vincent, I thought. And as if he’d heard my thought, he looked up from his conversation and caught my gaze. A slow, knowing smirk crossed his face. His eyes, dark and intensely focused, never left me as I neared them. It was the type of gaze that felt like it was undressing someone, appraising every detail with unnerving thoroughness.
Just as I was about to step across the invisible threshold into the open-walled cigar area, a waiter materialized and stopped me. “I am sorry, Madam, no Pollis pass this point.” The statement was so absurd, so utterly unexpected, that it didn't immediately sink in. I took another step. “I am sorry, Madam, you can’t go in there,” he said, this time with more force, his hand coming up to grab my arm.
As his fingers closed around my bicep, his original words finally registered. I could feel my face go instantly hot with a flush of pure embarrassment, which was made a thousand times worse by the booming voice that sounded from the cigar room.
“Unhand her!”
Lord Vincent had risen to his feet, his presence suddenly immense and commanding. Doctor Norton turned at the same time, a look of mild curiosity on his face that morphed into stunned recognition as he saw me. “Nanda?”
The waiter let go of my arm as if it had burned him, leaving me standing alone, frozen like a scared rabbit in the middle of the opulent room.
“Lord Vincent, please meet Nanda,” Doctor Norton said, quickly rising to smooth over the situation, a nervous smile on his face.
Lord Vincent broke out in a deep, hearty laugh that turned several heads. “This is Nanda?” he asked, his smile widening into something that resembled a tetra’s grin, all sharp amusement and predatory charm. “Well met, Nanda. You are definitely not what I was expecting.”
They both approached me. I fumbled, my hand half-reaching out for a formal shake. “Yes, um. Pleased to meet you.”
Instead of shaking it, Lord Vincent took my hand and bowed slightly, brushing his lips against my knuckles in a gesture that felt antiquated and intensely powerful. “A pleasure, I am sure. Now, let us take our table before another overzealous waiter tries to manhandle you away from our company.”
“A splendid idea, old chum,” said my mentor, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he gave me a look that was both apologetic and immensely relieved.
Then, to my astonishment, Lord Vincent offered me his arm. Feeling like I was in a dream, I took it, and the two of them escorted me back through the dining room as if I were a prized guest. Before I could even process how to sit in the dress, a waiter hurried over to pull my chair out for me. Everything seemed so fine, so meticulously choreographed, and I felt completely overwhelmed, a fragile imposter in a world of gilded certainty.
Doctor Norton and Lord Vincent fell into an easy, familiar rhythm, talking and teasing each other in a brotherly, casual manner that felt a world away from the stifling formality of our setting. Their camaraderie was genuine, a relic of a shared past that bypassed titles and status and witnessing it made me relax enough to actually begin enjoying their warm, if intimidating, company. I almost forgot the overwhelming finery around us.
“He was a rascal at school, too,” Lord Vincent declared, gesturing at Doctor Norton with his fork. “Always had his nose in a book, but only so he could find smarter ways to cause trouble.”
“No more than you!” the Doctor retorted with a hearty chuckle before deftly including me in their batter. “Nanda, you will never meet a finer rascal than The Lord Vincent. A scoundrel of the highest order, I assure you.”
We were interrupted by our waiter, who had returned looking markedly more nervous. “Would you like to see the vin menu, my Lords, Madam?” he asked, presenting three heavy, leather-bound folios.
Lord Vincent looked up at the man with killer eyes, his affable mask slipping for just a second to reveal the steel beneath. “Don’t waste our time with such things,” he said, his voice a low, dismissive rumble. “It’s your job to please us, so please us. We will have your best vins with every course, and the best food your chef can muster up. Surprise us.”
The waiter paled slightly, gave a hurried bow, and left without another word. Our friendly conversation picked up again as if nothing had happened, continuing until the first bottle of vin a pale, sparkling gold, was brought to our table and poured with reverential care.
After a deep, appreciative gulp of the exquisite vin, Lord Vincent turned the full force of his attention to me. The candlelight gleamed in his dark eyes.
“The Doctor says,” he began, his tone conversational but his gaze intensely focused, “you are a splendid student. His best ever. And also, captain of your dieball team.” He laughed, a rich, disbelieving sound. “Highly skilled in the martial arts, war, politics, and strategy. He says you can even beat him at rushém, which I find more farfetched than you being the captain of the dieball team. Is this correct?”
I was lost for words. My tongue felt like a dry wedge in my mouth. The list of accomplishments, recited in this gilded room, sounded like they belonged to someone else. “I… I do my best, sir,” I finally managed, my voice barely above a murmur.
“Modest as well!” he boomed, his smile widening. “We are going to get on famously.” As he said this, his hand, which had been resting on the tablecloth, found its way beneath it, brushing against my thigh in a gesture that was unmistakable and entirely inappropriate. I froze.
“How are your language skills?” he asked. While Doctor Norton was either oblivious to the lord’s touch or choosing to ignore it.
“Nanda is fluent in Sylvan, Desttites, and speaks a mean Ovan,” Doctor Norton answered for me, beaming with pride.
I found my voice, needing to correct the exaggeration. “I have yet to practise my skills on real people, so I don’t know if ‘fluent’ is entirely true,” I interrupted softly.
“That can be remedied,” Lord Vincent said, his voice a low purr. His whole hand settled on my thigh, giving it a deliberate, possessive squeeze that made my stomach clench.
“As I have told you,” Doctor Norton continued, his tone shifting to one of regret, “Nanda was set for great things, but the Trembling has not blessed… her. So, no college or university will take her application.”
“Well, Nanda,” Lord Vincent said, leaning closer. The scent of his vi breath and cologne enveloped me. “The good Doctor compliments you at every turn, the same Doctor Norton I have never heard compliment anyone. And his word is as solid as nails for me.” His eyes raked over me, appraising. “And you are one fine cut of a Polli, if I may say so.” His hand began a slow, stroking motion on my thigh. “I take it your Trembling has yet to come?”
I nodded, utterly paralyzed by the conflicting sensations of thrilling opportunity and violating discomfort. “No, Lord. I think… I think sadly I might be broken.”
“Broken or not,” he said, his thumb tracing a small circle on the sensitive inner part of my leg, “I would venture to give you a fighting chance. I like you.” His hand was now firmly on the inner side of my thigh, a hot, heavy weight through the delicate fabric of my dress. “I will be traveling to Sylva next weekend. We are at war with them, but some fools from above would like to give diplomacy another chance. So, I and my team have been asked to dine with their leaders.” He paused, letting the significance hang in the air. “I believe you, a Polli with your particular… skills… could add a little spice to that team. If you are game.”
My mind reeled. Was he really asking me to travel into our enemy's land as part of his diplomatic consulate? The professional opportunity was staggering, a lifeline thrown directly to me. The price of his lingering hand felt, in that dizzying moment, almost worth it. “Yes… yes, I am game,” I heard myself say, the words tumbling out in a rush of desperate ambition. “Where do I sign?”
He laughed again, a sound of genuine amusement. “I would like you to think about this first. It is not a holiday. It is dangerous. And if you are still willing after thinking it over,” he said, finally removing his hand to reach into his breast pocket, “then you should ring me Monday morning.” He handed me a thick, cream-colored business card, embossed with black lettering and a crest. It felt heavy, final. The promise of everything I wanted, delivered with a touch I already wanted to forget.