Don’t Take Life Too Seriously; It Might be the Big Day Part 2

“No, I can’t install those stairs into your home! Do I look like a service technician?” I would recognize Linglang’s indignant tone anywhere. A crowd even larger than the one Conroy had amassed surrounded him, though significantly more women had found their way into this assembly.

“But, Mother—”

“I don’t care how feeble your mother is! I am an inventor and scientist, not a homebuilder!” he roared, putting out the woman. “Now, if there are any technical questions?”

“How does the door know when to open?”

He looked about ready to pull his hair out. “The doors don’t know anything! And I’ve already answered this question several times! Weren’t you listening?”

“I’ve only just run into you...”

His fingers massaged deep into his skull, trying to scratch at his brain. “Ack!”

The crowd looked on like a presidential press corps, throwing out questions as he turned and retreated through the nearest exit. However, unlike the president, Linglang didn’t have a Secret Service to hold back the mob. Well, I could do my gruff mentor a solid; he had given me four days off, after all.

I step between the inquisitive group and the door. “Now, now, everybody. Linglangbololangfalomerefensis isn’t used to dealing with so many people.”

Uttering such an unwieldy name off balanced the crowd, frowns coming to their faces by the distraction. “But this party was for showcasing engrave-tech. Surely, Linglang has some—”

“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “It is impolite to abbreviate a hozenlo’s name. Please use his complete moniker.”

The man faltered, unsure how to respond to such a rebuke. “At any rate, Linglang... he is the only expert present. Who else are we to direct our inquiries to?”

It occurred to me that I could probably answer their questions to the extent of their understanding. And unlike Linglang, I enjoy explaining things. However, I couldn’t ignore Amillia; she had conscripted me to be her “date” after all.

“Linglangbololangfalomerefensis just needs to freshen up. He will return shortly. In the meantime, might I suggest some refreshments? The speaking captions were quite difficult to construct,” I said, but then added, “or so I’ve heard.”

This seemed news to many of them, and the herd wandered off. While Amillia looked salty enough to earn a doctor’s reprimand, having been ignored throughout the exchange, I still wanted to check on Linglang; he had worked hard for this night, too.

I turned to face Amillia. “You haven’t greeted Linglang yet, have you? It’s your duty to do so, right?”

She nodded with a bitter curl to her lip, and we walked through the door as it swung open for us. Linglang paced back and forth, arms flailing about in a contemptuous flurry of expletives. Needless to say, the approach seemed uninviting, and Amillia showed no small amount of trepidation at presenting herself.

“Ahem,” I cleared my throat.

He turned with the scowl of a junkyard dog, but softened upon seeing us. “Olavir! Just who I wanted...”

I gestured to Amillia. I harbored curiosity about what he had been up to at the party, but it seemed appropriate to start with Amillia’s official greeting; I couldn’t say why I felt this was even necessary.

She did her curtsy. “Welcome Linglangbo...”

“lo…lang…falo…mere…fensis,” I whispered from the side of my mouth, and she repeated.

“I hope you are having a...” she started, but realized he clearly wasn’t having a good time. “Well, welcome anyway…”

It might have been the saddest greeting I’d ever witnessed. Her posture slumped with her last several words, and her tiara slipped down, becoming lopsided. She didn’t look back up. Instead, she fidgeted with her hands.

“Well...” Linglang said, unsure of what to make of it. “Anyway... Olavir, you are good at handling people!”

I gave him a sidelong look. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

“You are always bounding around offering your unsolicited assistance, and your assistance is just what I need!” he said, grabbing my arm and pulling me towards the door. “I need you to answer all those annoying troglodytes’ questions. You can send anyone with serious inquiries my way.”

“What makes you think they will listen to me?”

“Just tell them you are my assistant; that should be good enough.”

I considered it. Not a bad idea. As I said, I enjoy giving scientific explanations, though their questions wouldn’t stop there. But it wouldn’t be a bad idea to make some personal connections among the upper crust. Plus, it would get me away from Amillia...

That’s right, I still had Amillia. She stood there and hadn’t moved, somehow looking more pathetic than a waterlogged prom dress.

“I don’t think Amillia would approve,” I said, glancing her way. “She did already lend me out for the duration of the project.”

“Mmm...”

“It’s alright, Olavir,” she said, a rueful utterance. “Just go.”

She turned away.

“Well, now that it is settled,” Linglang said, unperturbed. “You just need to...” He continued, but I had tuned out.

Everyone was always ignoring Amillia. Okay, not always; people did talk to her, but only in the most superficial of way. This party only highlighted that. Even at a celebration ostensibly thrown for her, she had found herself relegated to a ballroom vagabond. Perhaps because it mirrored her everyday life, I hadn’t noticed. Outside of the prescribed social interactions—tutoring, meals, bathing, etc—she lived the life of a latchkey kid, left to wandering the long and empty halls. Even her personal attendant, Tissa, would just flop down with a romance novel at every opportunity. I had done little better; at those tea parties, I never engaged with her more than the bare minimum, and I would use any excuse I could find to escape. Thinking back on those instances, she seldom asserted her authority as much as she could have. Certainly, if she had played the tyrant, she could have demanded I spend every waking hour at her side, and I would have had little recourse—that’s what I originally thought I’d been consigned to.

But now a thought occurred to me; she was by far the youngest resident with no children her age around to play or interact with. Sistilla would sometimes indulge her, but they had left Amillia mostly to her own devices for entertainment and enrichment, until I came along. With this in mind, she might have very well thought she was buying a friend at that market down in Finefair. A childish notion for sure, but a child she was. For such an extroverted girl, it must have been difficult in ways I couldn’t imagine—being an introvert and all.

All these thoughts swirling in my mind crystallized into a new revelation. Everyone at this party had done this girl wrong, as had I. If there was one day to indulge her fancies, it was today, but we couldn’t even be bothered to converse with this girl.

I blinked something out of my eye. “Sorry, I don’t think I can help you tonight. I have a date with Amillia.”

She looked back just a little, light reflecting off her ajar tiara.

“What’s this now? Didn’t she...” he started, but paused, looking back at Amillia. “…Oh, very well.”

He waved me off as he reentered the ballroom, and the door swung shut behind him. I walked back over to Amillia and straightened out her tiara, tucking a strand of hair back into place.

“There,” I said and offered her my arm.

She stared at me open-mouthed. I could see the wetness in her eyes, and I couldn’t help but feel partially to blame. After a moment to collect her thoughts, a smile broke out and forced more tears across her face. She took my arm. The height difference still made it awkward, but she held tighter to my arm than she had before.

I escorted her back to the party. It was hopping now, and though the density of people hadn’t increased, they moved about like a heated gas. That is to say, they were in the way. Still, nobody was inclined to entertain an 11-year-old girl. I struggled to think up a pastime. I could try conversation, but what could I say to a child in frivolous conversation? While I pondered over this, a group of people parted to go for refreshments, opening up a clear line of sight to the massive stack of gifts.

“Amillia, when do you open gifts?” I asked.

“Umm, I don’t know. I guess when I feel like it?” she said in the same manner you might if asked what foot you lead with. This caught me by surprise, but she had shown no great interest in them.

The colorfully wrapped packages towered in a misshapen pyramid, probably over 100; Conroy had invited everybody and not just nobility, but prominent merchants and businessmen. They didn’t have a seat in government, but they had influence. That gave me an idea.

“Amillia, how would you like to play a game?”

Her eyes lit up. “What kind of game?”

“How well do you know the people here?”

She looked down. “I know some of them. I know I should learn all the houses...”

“That doesn’t matter,” I said, not wanting her to dwell on that inconsequential detail. “The game is, you open your presents and try to guess who brought it, without looking at the tag.”

“That seems really hard...”

“If you can’t get the exact name, you can try to guess if they have a noble title or if they are just normal,” I said with a shine to my voice.

“How can you tell the difference?” She touched her lip with a finger.

“Well, the kinds of gifts you give say a lot about you, so you might be able to tell. There are plenty of gifts, so you will get plenty of practice. And I’ll help too,” I added. This final detail sold the idea.

“Okay! Let’s do it!”

The first gift she selected was a square box wrapped in shimmering bronze-like foil with the traditional bow we are all familiar with, the prototypical present. Or it would be if shiny foil wrappings were common. In fact, few others had such a sparkling wrap. I snatched the tag before Amillia could see it and tucked it into my breast pocket.

Amillia reached a hand to the corner, ready to tear in, when I interrupted, “Any idea of who might have given this one?”

She frowned. “How can I know before I open it?” She held the gift between her two hands.

“Well, what do you think about the wrapping paper?” I gestured to the ribbon. “And the fanciful bow?”

“Umm... It’s shiny, and the bow is... silk.”

“Does it look like expensive wrapping?” I said, but realizing that expensive for her was several orders of magnitude higher than for normal people, I added. “I mean, compared to the other gifts?”

She looked at the pile. “It looks more expensive.”

I nodded. “So what can you say about the person who gave you this?”

“They have more wealth than the others?”

“Maybe, but everyone here could afford to wrap their gifts as such with no sacrifice on their part.” It hadn’t been my intention to start an impromptu critical thinking lesson, but I guess that is just who I am.

Amillia had overclocked her CPU, and I could almost see smoke coming out of her ears. “They are... willing to spend money on pretty things?” Perhaps it was asking a lot with this line of questioning, but I wanted her to get it.

I tilted my head. “To some people, the way they are seen is everything,” I hinted.

She continued to spin her wheel, but then a moment of clarity emerged from the smoke, and her eyes went wide. “Do they want people to see them as wealthy?”

I grinned. “It very well could be, though it could also just be their personal taste,” I said with a hand wave. “Any idea who might be like that?”

“Mmm... Maybe one of the non-nobles? They are always trying to prove themselves, or that’s what Father says.”

“Very good!” I beamed. “Maybe you should open it now for more clues.”

She was all too eager to oblige. Shreds of glittering foil rained down as Amillia tore into the package to my horror. Well, perhaps I overstate—I’m the guy who enjoys surgically removing the wrappings, almost as if I intended to reuse the paper... I had once.

What was inside? She opened the lid and pulled out a transparent glass container, containing what appeared to be a solid gold flower, immaculate in detail, as if touched by the hand of King Midas.

“It’s a flower...” I said.

“It’s a rose,” Amillia corrected, then laughed. “This is definitely Prince Orland!”

“…Really?” Seemed like a strange gift for him to give.

“I’m certain!”

I pulled out the tag, and sure enough, Orland had written his name with a flourish far more ostentatious than the packaging. “Orland is obsessed with flowers,” she elaborated. A man obsessed with flowers? “Prince Orland has the most wonderful garden, and he tends to it himself; he won’t let anybody else lay a hand on it,” she added.

“Well... I don’t think Prince Orland is trying to flaunt his wealth,” I lamented. My suspicions completely missed the mark.

“Hehe! No, Orland is just flashy. That’s his style,” she said. I guess that made sense. He did have a mustache robust enough to tie off a yacht.

We went through the next several gifts without nearly the same degree of accuracy.

“Aww! It’s a brooch!” Amillia held up the golden pin composed of interweaving gears that gave off immediate steampunk vibes. She held it up close and examined it. “That’s a strange pattern...”

“Yeah, I don’t think most girls would be interested in gears, especially the kind that would wear a brooch. I would bet this guy works with machines and rarely leaves his workshop. Kind of like Linglang, only he wouldn’t give you an article of clothing.”

“Really? I like it!” she said, pinning it to her dress. “It makes me look smart.” She pushed out her chest where she had pinned it.

I looked down past my nose. “Raibeck,” the card read. “Do you know him?”

“I think that was the gentleman with the thick white beard and bowler hat...” she recalled. It still impressed me that she could remember every guest she had greeted just from that one meeting.

An hour later, we still had barely put a dent in the mountain of gifts. As Amillia couldn’t reach the top of the stack, the whole pile loomed close to collapsing on itself like a Jenga tower with numerous pegs knocked out. I didn’t think it would cause injury if it did collapse, but it would draw attention and be rather embarrassing; I might have to get a stool.

“Phew,” Amillia exhaled, wiping the metaphorical sweat from her brow. “I’m getting a little tired of opening gifts.” The first known utterance of these words from a little girl. “Maybe just one more.”

She selected a flat, square box wrapped in simple red tissue paper. Pulling the gift from the stack gave the whole column an ominous sway, but it held. Rubbing her chin, she sized up the parcel.

“Mmm... Maybe one of the southern houses?” she postulated. The Southern nobility had a distinct culture from the Northerners and didn’t form deep bonds with their Northern counterparts. In short, she thought it an obligatory gift.

Another flurry of wrapping paper revealed a box of chocolates. “Wow! It’s Galf’s!”

“Oh? Is that good?”

“They are hard to get, and they only sell them at their Leoluxin shop. They say they are the best, but I’ve never had any.” She opened the box and marveled at the assembled confections. I thought she would dive right in, but instead, she slipped into a serious expression and closed the box.

She turned to me, a blush touching her cheeks, and holding the box tight to her chest. “Olavir... Here, I want you to have this.” She pushed the golden-embossed box to me. “I know you have been wanting some since your first day here...”

I stammered, unsure how to respond. “W-What brought this on suddenly? I can’t take one of your gifts.” I tried to push it away, but she insisted.

“For celebrating my birthday with me. There are plenty of other gifts.” She pushed it forward again, more forcefully. “Please take it.”

“But don’t you say you had never had any of these before?”

She gave a soft smile. “You can always give me some later if you are worried about me.”

I wanted to protest, but it would only sour the mood if I did, so I reluctantly accepted. I didn’t feel I had done anything to warrant such a show of appreciation; only at the ninth hour had I even realized I was being an ass.

The music shifted again, slipping into a slow dance tempo to close out the night. Amillia was looking longingly at the dance floor, still crowded with partygoers, but thinning out as many of the dancers returned to their tables for some light banter before the party closed out. Even the attention around Conroy and Linglang was dwindling as the last gleam of twilight drifted away.

I scraped my tongue against a fang, fidgeting my shoulders into my neck, but after Amillia’s display of appreciation, I couldn’t falter. “Did you still want to dance?” She turned, eyes lighting up. “I-I don’t know how, but if you don’t mind...” She shook her head, shaking the tiara askew.

“Only, we have to do it here!” I pointed to the spot where we stood. I only had so much tolerance for humiliation. She didn’t object.

We spent the rest of the evening with me stepping on her feet and bumping into tables; I made sure we stayed well away from the gift table. I couldn’t imagine Amillia enjoyed herself—she spent nearly the whole time giving me instructions on where to put my feet and how to rotate my body—but, to the contrary, she looked to be having the time of her life. And she wasn’t a half-bad teacher. By the end, I had started to get the hang of it.

“See? You can do it! Now you won’t be embarrassed to dance on the floor,” she said with a sly smile. “I can show you other dances too!” What had I just gotten myself into?

Well, I couldn’t say I had a bad time. And after the party let out, I helped myself to one of those Galf’s chocolates. Sublime!

______________________________________________

Little did Olavir realize that, as the party played out, a keen eye observed his every move. His surveyor had even donned party-appropriate attire to blend in with the crowd. He even doffed his omniscient goggles, which he loathed to part with.

How clumsy he looks, Brogan thought as he eyed Olavir cavorting about with Amillia. Nobody would expect him capable of any kind of swordplay. But he wouldn’t fool him.

This party would provide the perfect opportunity to meet his handler—everybody who was anybody was invited after all, and when he made contact with them, he would be there to catch him in the act.

So far, he had done nothing incriminating; Brogan had scrutinized his every move, starting when the first guest arrived. Nothing suspicious had been said—he wore a hearing-enhanced engraved derby—nor was any physical contact made to pass off notes or any indicator of silent communication. While this would have been a convenient time to rendezvous, he must have deemed it too suspicious. This only further reinforced the idea that he was dealing with a smooth operator.

Mingling with the partygoers seemed like an ideal time to pass on simple messages, assuming they were using a code. However, Olavir only made a few comments and always delivered in hushed tones to Amillia. Hardly seemed like clandestine communication. However, he could just be that good.

Then they headed for the old observatory. Brogan had him. There was no other reason to go there than to receive orders. He couldn’t hear everything that the maid had said, but she must be in on the take; he would have to deal with her later.

Brogan slunk along in the shadows as they made their way to the tower. He had been sneaking since he left the womb. When Amillia opened the door to the observatory, revealing two people, he knew he had him. Except that only Sistilla and Orland occupied the observatory. Well, he could hardly suspect those two. Unless Orland secretly wanted Sistilla dead. If so, he was putting up a good act.

Eventually, they had backtracked and ended up at the gift table. Of course! How could he not have seen it? It would be easy to send a message through a gift. Any number of markers could be a signal, and even more detailed instructions could be conveyed with a thinly veiled written message. And then, Amillia had given him that box. There it was! The hand off! Not sure what subtle manipulation he had employed to get her to surrender it to him. From what he heard, you would think Amillia had pressed it on him. Olavir truly was a smooth operator.

So as he watched Olavir put on his clown show of a dance, Brogan plotted out his next move.