A Shield of Propriety

How far a junior diplomat would wedge his boot into a private doorway depended entirely on how quickly someone offered him an unappetizing truth.

Klaasje Blaauw cracked the heavy oak door of Imperial Suite Seven four inches, just enough to fill the opening with her own broad, steady shoulders. She held the silver tea tray firmly across her midriff, keeping the laden surface level while its broad edge formed a barrier. Behind her, deep in the shadowed interior, the carved mahogany dressing screen remained motionless. Not a rustle of salvaged green velvet stirred.

"Attaché van Vliet," Klaasje said. Her voice remained at the level one might use when explaining to a stubborn goat why garden fences exist. "You are shouting into a private suite. That is three distinct violations of passenger corridor etiquette."

Bram van Vliet stood on the runner carpet with his chin lifted, his silver-trimmed traveling coat buttoned to the collar. He had pale eyes and the narrow, inquisitive nose of an upland hound bred to root truffles out of wet clay. Over his shoulder, the first-class corridor gleamed with polished brass sconces and red lacquer paneling, entirely empty save for a distant steward polishing a spittoon.

Bram leaned forward, his nostrils flaring in an exaggerated inhalation. "The salon smells of roasted quills, Miss Blaauw. Half the second-tier delegation is whispering about an incendiary accident. If Lord van der Meer is unwell, protocol dictates that his junior attaché assume custody of the dispatch cases."

"Lord van der Meer is resting," Klaasje replied smoothly. She did not shift her weight by a single inch. "And the odor you detected was merely the result of a brisk, high-heat caramelization of spiced fig rinds."

Bram’s left eyebrow climbed toward his oiled hairline. "Caramelized figs produce soot on the upper door frame?"

"When prepared over a spirit lamp with sufficient cinnamon, yes. Lord van der Meer requires strict atmospheric humidity to regulate his bronchial passages before crossing the High Skerries." She adjusted the tray, the porcelain cups giving a sharp, dry clink. "Unless, of course, you wish to inspect the hot plate yourself? I am currently steeping a decoction of bitter chicory and dried ox bile to settle his upper crop. It possesses a pungent sulfurous vapor. Would you care for a cup?"

Bram drew back half a step, the fastidious curve of his mouth tightening. "I am not here for herbal broth. The High Council expects the envoy to appear at luncheon. We enter the Great Caldera cloud-pocket before nightfall. The gondola will encounter sustained atmospheric chop for over forty leagues."

Klaasje kept her gaze fixed on the small gold knot of Bram’s cravat. She knew how court climbers operated: give them anger, and they found purchase; give them complete medical tedium, and their aristocratic horror of unpleasant odors did the work for you.

"The envoy is fully aware of the schedule," Klaasje said. "He is currently undergoing a rigorous pre-transit fasting regimen to preempt gastric distress during turbulence. As his Confidential Dietary Secretary, I have barred all visitors until the barometric pressure stabilizes. If you wish to lodge a formal protest regarding his menu, Purser Roorda keeps the dietary grievance ledger in the purser's office on Deck Two. You will need three counter-signatures and a stamp from the provisioning master."

Bram’s eyes narrowed into slits. He glanced past her ear, trying to angle his vision through the four-inch gap, but Klaasje tilted the silver tray upward, blocking his line of sight toward the charred ceiling beams.

"You are very protective for an emergency domestic hire, Miss Blaauw," Bram murmured, his voice dropping into silky malice. "One might wonder what sort of dietary crisis requires the complete sealing of Imperial Suite Seven."

"The sort that involves explosive bile secretions across silk upholstery, Attaché. Would you prefer he attend the council luncheon and share the experience with the ambassador?"

Bram’s throat twitched. The threat of social embarrassment, even secondhand, was always the sharpest blade in a courtier’s pocket. He adjusted his gloves, pulling the gray kidskin tight over his knuckles.

"Very well," Bram said, stepping back from the door. He allowed a thin, razor-sharp smile to touch his lips. "Let him rest behind his tea trays and dried fruit. But remind the honorable envoy of one small detail before the sun sets."

"I shall deliver any pertinent message," Klaasje said.

"The Great Caldera front is carrying heavy lightning this afternoon," Bram said, leaning in just enough for his perfume of lavender and musk to hit the threshold. "The captain warns we will drop through four separate shear zones. Even iron-hulled birds find their wings heavy in a storm. Tell Lord van der Meer that his loyal colleagues will be watching very closely to see how high he soars."

He turned on his heel without waiting for an answer, his boots clicking in precise, arrogant meter along the corridor carpet until the corner swallowed him.

Klaasje waited until the soft thud of the distant salon door signaled his departure. Only then did she draw back into the suite, slip the heavy brass latch into its socket, and let out a long breath.

Across the room, the mahogany screen folded back on creaking hinges.

Joris van der Meer emerged into the dim amber light of the suite. He had managed to drape the emerald velvet curtain around his tall frame in the manner of a formal toga, pinning the scorched hem across his chest with a silver curtain hook. Despite the improvised wardrobe and the faint smudge of soot along his collarbone, his posture was rigid, his jaw set in a hard, aristocratic line.

"Ox bile," Joris said. His voice was dry, but the tremor that had shaken his ribs ten minutes earlier was gone. "You told the junior attaché of the Northern Marches that I was consuming ox bile."

"It is standard veterinary treatment for bilious falcons," Klaasje said, setting the tea tray on the low side table. She unbuckled her canvas satchel and placed a fresh bundle of dried mango alongside a tin of mint leaves. "And more importantly, it sent him away. Men of his tailor rarely pursue an inquiry if they think it smells bad."

Joris stared at the heavy oak door for several seconds. The golden flecks in his dark amber eyes shifted, catching the daylight filtering through the half-drawn blinds. The haughty chill in his expression did not soften completely, but the defensive hostility had vanished.

"He knows," Joris murmured quietly, stepping toward the table. The heavy velvet trailed across the carpet behind him. "Bram has been watching the flight schedules since we left the eastern docks. He chose this crossing specifically because the High Skerries are known for shearing gales."

"Then we have until nightfall to prepare," Klaasje replied. She pulled a brass folding stool from the corner and sat down, smoothing the coarse fabric of her handler's apron. "Which means you need a fresh tunic, two hours of breathing exercises, and no more standing on the curtain rod."

Joris looked down at the velvet clutched in his fist, then up at Klaasje. For the first time since she had walked into the burning suite, a faint, wry twitch touched the corner of his mouth.

"A secretary with a sharp tongue and a basket of fruit," Joris said, reaching out to pick up a slice of dried mango with long, aristocratic fingers. "My grandfather would have had you flogged for insolence, Miss Blaauw."

"Your grandfather was welcome to clean his own charred silk," Klaasje said, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Eat your mango, my lord. We have a storm to fly through."