Arissa suddenly leaned against his arm, sending a surge of shock bolting through his body. His first reaction was to move away from her lest William take note their close contact, but inthe next breath he realized that Arissa had oft leaned against him over the years, an affectionate gesture and nothing more. And if she was not leaning on him, she was sitting upon his lap and demanding stories. There was nothing unusual about their contact and he struggled to maintain a casual manner.
Her cheek against his massive bicep, Arissa yawned. “When are they going to commence dancing?”
He gazed down at her dark head, resisting the urge to deposit a kiss on the raven tresses. “Give the word, kitten, and I shall command it.”
She raised her head, gazing up at his incredible face. “The word is given. I want a lively dance, if you please.”
He frowned, feeling himself being sucked into the powerful vortex of her gaze. “Not too lively. I will not be able to keep pace.”
“You mean you are too old to keep pace,” she laughed softly at his menacing expression. “Hurry, now. Go and tell them to begin playing before I fall asleep.”
“You would fall asleep at your own party?”
It was a comment more than a question. Obediently, he rose to his full height and Arissa couldn’t take her eyes off him. Casting her a bold wink, he stepped around his chair and moved off the dais. Just as he was passing in front of the table en route to the orchestra, he came to an abrupt, if not disbelieving, halt. Arissa tore her eyes off of him long enough to glance to the source of his focus.
Bartholomew was moving into the room, clad in yards and yards of white fabric that had been dirtied with soot or some other sort of blackness. His face was painted white and dark circles ringed his faded blue eyes. Beside her, she heard her father groan.
“Good Christ, now what?” he said miserably, motioning to Richmond standing on the other side of the table. “Get himout of here, Richmond. I shall not have him spoiling the celebration.”
Richmond stepped in Bartholomew’s direction, but Arissa leapt to her feet and held out a quelling hand. “No, Richmond, leave him alone. He’s about to perform a special skit in honor of my birthday.”
Richmond halted his forward momentum, his gaze moving between Arissa and her father. William focused on his daughter. “What sort of skit? Did he tell you?”
“Of course not, father. It is a surprise.”
William cast a long glance at his son, who was currently taking position by the elaborate hearth. He shook his head slowly. “He looks as if he’s just survived a bout with the plague. What sort of performance could he be planning with that costume?”
Lady Maude stood up on the other side of her husband. “If it is in honor of his sister’s birthday, then we will all sit and enjoy it. No matter what it is,” she regained her seat, waving a stern hand to Richmond. “Return to your seat, Richmond.”
Richmond obeyed. As soon as he pulled his chair up to the table, Arissa wound her warm fingers around his hand. Under the table, he clutched her tightly.
The crowd saw that Bartholomew was about to speak and a hush settled over the smoke-hazed room. Bartholomew faced his sister, his parents, and raised his arm in simulation of a Roman salute.
“Greetings, friends, guests, relatives, honored nobles. In tribute to my sister’s most monumental day of birth, I have prepared a prolific Greek prose that, in itself, hinges the meaning of life,” he focused on his sister dramatically. “For you, my dear sister. Congratulations that you have achieved this day:
‘Abhorred Styx, the flood of deadly hate,
Sad Acheron of sorrow black and deep;
Cocytus named of lamentation loud
Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegethon
Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage.’”
The prose was delivered with great flourish, gloom-and-doom that would be better suited for a funeral than a birthday celebration. William put his face in his hand and shook his head with disbelief while the rest of the hall was deadly silent, listening with intense concern and puzzlement.
“He’s praising her by reciting a poem about the River Styx?” Gavan was suddenly crouched by Richmond’s left hand. Two seats down, Daniel and Penelope sat with open mouths as Bartholomew raised his voice with great theatrical control. Regine, loitering at the end of the table, watched her sister and Richmond closely for their reaction.
Richmond kept his gaze straight ahead, on Bartholomew. “Hardly appropriate.” Beside him, Arissa hushed them both sternly.
Bartholomew took a dramatic pause, propping his foot on a chair and pretending to pilot a boat as one does when crossing water, by using a pole and pushing it across the bottom.
“‘Far off from these slow and silent stream.
Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls
Her watery labyrinth, whereof who drinks
