The Ugly Duckling, King's Court
“So there I was,” Charlie went on – it was impossible to think of him as Ewing, somehow, in the midst of the story, “wandering through the bar, bare-arsed with only a pillow to maintain my dignity – ”
Chrysanthe coughed. She covered her hand with her mouth, the only one still holding the cigarette a bit away; her eyes watered, and she did her level best not to smile, and failed entirely.
“Not,” Charlie had continued, somehow slightly louder, his smile creeping wider, edging towards a smirk, “that I am generally overshy in such matters,” he took another drag of his cigarette, “but,” he shrugged his shoulders lightly, spreading his hands wide, “I didn’t want to make the other gentlemen too jealous! So, the bartender, he turns to me –”
Chrysanthe snorted, very softly, into her hand. She was encouraging him now; she was quite aware of it. The closer she came to laughing aloud, the worse and more depraved the story got. It sounded rather like something out of a novel – or – perhaps another sort of story. She knew she ought to be taking a much sterner tone with him.
“You,” Chrysanthe said, quite cheerfully, “are utterly depraved.” She studied Ewing, looking him up and down, and contemplating notions of size. “The whole name? Or just Charlie?” She asked. Chrysanthe took the last drag on her cigarette, dropped it and ground it out with the heel of her boot.
The Ugly Duckling was an odd looking place, and Chrysanthe had very little in the way of hopes of it maturing into a swan. She followed Charlie inside nonetheless, glancing around. It had been cold outside – not so cold as Vienda this time of year, Chrysanthe supposed thanks to the sea air, but the wind still bit in rather firmly.
Inside it was warm, and smelled more than faintly of sweat and stale beer; discordant notes of a song Chrysanthe didn’t recognize filled in whatever gaps the hum of conversation left. It was comfortable, busy, and not in the least well-lit. Chrysanthe smiled back, perhaps equally uncertain, at the bartender. She shrugged her coat off, folding it over her arm. The brown silk felt more than a little out of place at such a bar, but then – for all her unusual height, Chrysanthe knew there was little chance at all of anyone mistaking her for anything but a galdor.
It had happened at the factory, once or twice, from a distance and behind. One look at her features would do it; so, of course, would coming near enough to feel her field.
It was the second time Charlie had called her a friend, Chrysanthe noticed. She found it odd and almost intrusive; both times, he’d done it such that to object would be entirely inappropriate. She didn’t think he meant it, in any case, and there was at least a part of her which wished he’d stop.
“Charming,” Chrysanthe said. It could have been arch and sarcastic; it wasn't. Her tone was warm as she glanced around, and there was a little smile on her face. She glanced back at Charlie, and the smile didn’t fade. She felt the oddest desire to thank him.
“Could I get a beer, please, Ms. Alice?” Chrysanthe smiled across the bar, her tone polite and even.