“The Worshipful Company of Information Technologists.”
Archie opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
“I’m sorry. The Worshipful Company of Information Technologists? Seriously?”
“That’s what Andrew said.”
“So someone looked at a guild structure designed for blacksmiths and candlestick-makers in the fifteenth century and thought, you know what this needs? Cloud computing.”
“It appears so.”
He’s grinning now. “You’ll need black tie.”
“Andrew mentioned that.”
“And you’ll need to look impressed by everything. These people take it very seriously.”
“I can look impressed.”
“Leo, your default expression is mild disapproval. We might need to practice.”
“My expression is fine.”
“Your expression says, ‘I’d like to speak to the manager of this entire country.’ Here—watch.”
He turns to face me fully. Eyes wide, lips parted, the expression of a man encountering something marvelous for the first time.
It’s ridiculous.
“That’s your impressed face?” I say.
“That’s my impressed face.”
“You look like you’ve been hit with a tranquilizer dart.”
He drops the expression and grins at me. “Better than looking like I’m conducting a performance review. Now you try.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“Come on. Show me your impressed face.”
“This is my impressed face.”
“That’s your regular face. That’s the one you make when someone tells you the printer’s jammed. We need at least forty percent more awe.”
He’s still looking at me with those wide eyes. There’s glitter caught in his hair from the fairy party, a smear of something sparkly along his jaw that he’s missed.
I rearrange my features into something I hope conveys wonder and not indigestion.
Archie studies me.
“That’s maybe fifteen percent more awe. But I’ll take it.”
“Generous of you.”
“I’m a generous person. And I’m committed to your continued improvement.”
I really don’t want to think about what aspects of me have improved since I started spending time with Archie.
