* * * *
“I am not pleased,” her Master said, standing in front of her. “Yes, you have performed the simple physical task I set out for you to remain in this room till my return... but, this is not all I ordered you to accomplish—is that not right, slave?”
“Yes, Master. I apologize, Master.”
“With all this time to think, to ponder what it means to be a slave, to be the ideal submissive, I have found your answer to be simple—no, that implies elegance. More childish. ‘Because I’m proud of who I am.’ Does that speak of the complexities of servitude? Does that even touch on the physical sensations of your position, on the philosophical attributes of true service? No, Fancy—this is just not an acceptable answer.”
“Yes, Master. I am so sorry, Master.”
“And answer me this, pray-tell, what was that God-awful noise a few minutes ago? God, girl, did I give you permission to bang around like a bloody marching band? And look here—first that din and now this. I did not give you permission to open a window. Were my orders unclear? Were my instructions too complex? You were just to remain here—quietly—in this room, and to come up with an answer that would show me that you have what it takes to remain in this house, to stay my property.”
“Your orders were quite clear, Master. Please forgive me.”
“I have even begun to wonder about your sanity: it’s chilly outside and this room is close to being cold. Don’t you have enough sense to even close a window?”
“I’m sorry, Sir; it won’t happen again.”
At the window now, he rested his hands on the frame, preparing to close it—but then something caught his eye. Leaning out, he looked down for a few moments.
Distantly, Fancy could hear a few pitiful moans—as if, for instance, from someone who’d been severely beaten and then dumped out a second floor window.
After peering down into the alley for what seemed like a very long minute—at what, Fancy had a pretty good idea (if he’d been too banged up to hobble off)—Graham calmly stood back up and slid the window slowly shut. He glanced around the room, and found the silver glitter of the cheap knife laying where Fancy had tossed it aside. Then, he swept his eyes over to his property.
Her eyes were downcast, focused on the Chinese rug. Suddenly, he was beside her, his hand gently cupped her chin and lifted her face to his. His eyes were sparkling. “I do believe,” he said, “I am in possession of a very, very fine slave. Perhaps pride shall suffice.”
Fancy didn’t say anything. She just smiled.
Chapter Nine: The Dog and Pony Show
The afternoon session ended and the explosion of trainers and spotters leaving the debates was as bustling as the check-in period, with the added pressure of evening activities looming ahead. By the time Michael pardoned himself from his sweet afternoon on the grass and dressed for dinner, he was feeling a lot calmer. Jet lag, he decided. I’m overtired and just plain cranky-mean. I know I shouldn’t even talk to anyone when I’m like this, and I definitely shouldn’t be asking impertinent questions of Mr. Touchy. I’ll write about it in my journal, later.
He had dashed back to the room after young Stuart finished his story, to lay out Chris’s clothing and make sure his shoes were polished. Since the dinner was hosted by the Canadians, it was North American style formal wear. Chris had brought two different tuxedos, Michael his best suits.
He was actually looking forward to it. Formal dinners were never difficult for him; his family had a few when he was growing up. His Uncle Niall had more than his share. He had thought about renting a tuxedo, but at the very idea, he had gotten a withering look of contempt from Chris. And no wonder; when he started to pack, he discovered that Chris had a separate closet for his formal wear.
“How many tuxedos do you own?” he had asked, in amusement.
“The better question is, ‘how many suits in there are tuxedos?’” Chris had responded. And sure enough, there were vast differences between the carefully hung sets of formal wear and what Chris casually called his working clothes.
Until that time, Michael hadn’t even known that Chris had ever been a butler.
Naturally, he thought that was amusing too. “I mean,” he had said trying not to giggle, “think of what butlers are in American culture, OK? Alfred at stately Wayne Manor. Or that guy in the movie, the one who was a butler for Dudley Moore, remember? ‘I’ll alert the media,’ that was funny!”
Well, the beating he got later on was no laughing matter, although he could swear that Grendel and Alex thought the whole thing was pretty amusing. And it wasn’t that Chris ever got into the whole formal costume at their house, either; at least not when Michael was there. He tended toward the same clothing he wore at Anderson’s—suits and ties, collared shirts and ties with jeans for days when he worked outside.
Michael secretly thought that maybe Chris had some sort of tux fetish. It was occasionally a funny thing to consider, although he was very careful not to ever say anything out loud. But it also started him wondering what other huge secrets Chris Parker had. Man of mystery, indeed. Just when you think you had him pegged, he went out to a leather bar and hustled tourists at pool, or watched some cheesy monster movie with Rachel, the two of them leaning into each other and laughing around buttered popcorn. Or, well, he turned out to have been a butler.
As he brushed the jacket off and opened the box of studs and cuff links, Michael thought about the entire formal service wardrobe. Where had Chris actually been a butler? And when? Was that something he had been sent away to do? Was that the context in which Anderson...loaned him out? Because there was now no doubt that Chris had been handed off to someone unspeakable. The memory of it was apparently so terrible, he couldn’t even hide it from Michael, the traditional ‘last-to know’ guy.
And the fact that Chris had actually experienced it meant that Michael was himself more likely to suffer, too. It was frightening now, too frightening to really spend a lot of time considering. He decided that he would ask for a meeting with Anderson when he got back to the States to clarify things. But while he was here, he had to concentrate on doing better. He had to focus on serving and pleasing Chris, making up for his lost temper and showing what all these months of learning were worth.
So, knowing that Chris wouldn’t let him play valet because of his little temper tantrum, he left the room and sought out a little time with other people his age as they congregated in the halls and on the outskirts of the banquet hall. It was nice being part of a crowd that might be discussing genital piercings as easily as sports scores. He kept an eye on the time, and strolled over to the Western wing as promptly as possible. Serving slaves dashed about in western-style uniforms, some of them more provocatively dressed than others. As he turned into room five, he thought he had walked into the wrong room, because the first person he saw was Stuart.
He was dressed in a tux now, a modern one without a lapel. He looked for all the world looked like the junior groomsman who was getting up the nerve to ask the junior bridesmaid to dance.
But instead of a too-tall girl in a pastel party dress, Chris, looking relaxed and elegant himself, was chatting with him. Michael stationed himself a discreet distance away, but could hear them very well. He lowered his head and focused away from them.
“What do you think of the Jorgenson Center?” Chris was asking, showing no sign that he had noticed Michael at all.
“It’s OK, Sir,” the kid replied. “Not equipped for someone like me, I can tell you that! If I had told them everything at first, I don’t think they might have been as helpful. You gave me the best advice though, and I can’t tell you how much it meant to me.”
“I’m glad I could help,” Chris said gently. “And from what I’ve heard—and what I see—they’re better equipped than anyone was when I was your age. You make me feel ancient.”
“Wow, I’m sorry!” The kid blushed. “It’s just that—when Marcy told me about you, and said that I could write to you—it was like a lifeline.�
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Michael shuffled a little, wanting to move even further away. This seemed embarrassingly personal. At the same time, his sense of jealousy came right up. What the hell was Chris doing with that—that—child? How did this angelic-looking space cadet end up being pen-pals with his trainer? Stuart was still speaking.
“And Sir—with all respect—I have to say again that you should consider publishing it. If you only saw what was happening on the West Coast—it’s like an explosion. And we need the kind of stuff you wrote to me.” He was so sweetly earnest.
“Publish it? I don’t know, Stuart.” Chris paused and shook his head. “It was a different world for me, I’m afraid. There are things I’m not comfortable with as common knowledge. I—I would need to think about that.”
“Thanks, Sir, that’s all I can ask.”
Michael cleared his throat slightly, and was gratified to see Chris check his watch.
“Time we should be going,” he said. “Michael, come here a moment. This is Stuart. He is Marcy Teodor’s trainee, from Seattle. Stuart, this is my student, Michael.”
“Hello, Stuart,” Michael said, feeling foolish as he nodded. “Good to see you again, I didn’t know you knew Mr. Parker.”
“You never said who your trainer was,” Stuart said with a touch of excitement and respect. “It’s an pleasure to formally meet you, sir.” Michael almost rolled his eyes. No one had called him ‘sir’ in ages.
“I am sorry to interrupt you, sir,” Michael said quickly, turning to Chris. “But—”
“Yes, it’s time for dinner. We will be sitting with Marcy and Stuart and a few of the other Americans. Let’s get going.” He led the way, with Michael and Stuart falling in behind him.
“It is like, such an honor to actually meet him,” Stuart whispered. “I can’t believe you’re actually training with him! You are the luckiest guy, like, anywhere!”
This time, Michael did roll his eyes.
* * * *
Marcy Teodor turned out to be a tall, solidly built woman with a crooked nose but beautiful, expressive eyes. She was elegantly dressed in a long black skirt and a cunningly tailored tuxedo jacket which gathered around her breasts, a perfect frame for the smoky jade of her necklace. She shook hands like a man, though, and ruffled Stuart’s hair in greeting exactly as though he were an Irish Setter. Michael felt suddenly grateful for the dignity Chris allowed him most of the time, and tried to keep from grinning.
Seating took time, as elegantly dressed slaves escorted people to the glittering tables. There was a subtle ‘cowboy’ motif in the formal service; and when people discovered touches like the wire-wrapped lasso which encased their napkins, there was muted laughter. If there was any sign of how the debates went, it was only that a few people seemed even more formal than usual. Men and women acknowledged each other with nods, and bows, by standing, and by extending their hands. Michael couldn’t even keep up with the messages they were sending to each other, as some men rose for all women and everyone rose for some senior Trainers. He saw Geoff across the room, accompanied by what looked like a knot of young people, some trainers, and some spotters.
When Ken Mandarin swept in, eyes turned, as she intended. She was wearing tails, with a formal white tie, and a top hat that would have done Dietrich proud. Behind her were her pair, wearing nothing but matching shirt cuffs, black loin cloths, and starched collars with satin bow ties. They were remarkably pretty—and funny, too. Just exactly the kind of silly costume that people expected to see at a formal banquet of slave trainers. And Ken knew it, too—she laughed her way through the room, pausing only to blow kisses to various friends. When she was seated, she waved her slaves away, and they took her hat, collapsing it in a flourish that actually got applause.
“What would we do for laughs without Ken?” Marcy said. But her eyes were slightly hooded; Michael could hear a certain tension in her voice as well. But before he could ask anything, he was pleased to see his new friend Tucker approaching to take a seat, with Alexandra on his arm. It was very strange, feeling so much in the center of things yet being in the minority, only part of the American group.
After the men at the table seated themselves again, Chris leaned slightly toward Marcy and said, “You know, there’s no need to be angry with Ken. You’ve known her longer than I have, she’s a good friend. And she doesn’t mean harm.”
Marcy harrumphed and watched her wine poured with a critical eye. “No, she doesn’t mean it, but come on, some of what she said was uncalled for. She almost accused you and everyone who supports you of being fascists. That’s a bit over the top, don’t you think?”
Chris shrugged as he laid the napkin in his lap. “I’ve been called much worse. She feels threatened. Frightened people often say things they regret later. I’m supposed to meet with her to discuss this tomorrow, and then I have a play date scheduled sometime in the evening. Join us. Bring your puppy and don’t let a disagreement spoil an otherwise good relationship.”
“My, you’re busy,” Alexandra joked.
Chris looked up at her with a mix of warmth and respect that Michael could almost feel across the table. His eyes looked tired, but he was clearly keeping himself focused. “I’m following your recommendation to socialize,” he said.
Marcy laughed. “Oh, you’re one of those all-work-and-no-play people, aren’t you? Somehow, I’ve gotten that impression from your reports. Tell you what, if Ken says it’s OK, I’d love to come play for a while. And Stuart here hasn’t been out in company yet, it’ll be good for him.”
Finally, Michael saw someone who could be as easily embarrassed as he was. Stuart almost turned purple, he blushed so deeply. It deepened the difference between his fair skin and fair hair. He cleared his throat and took a drink of water amid the slight, knowing smiles.
“So, I see the whole goatee thing made it to New York,” Marcy said, leaning back a little to get a better look at Chris.
“I have...a thing?” Chris’s pause was priceless, and if Michael wasn’t already feeling a little heat run up his collar, he would be giggling hysterically. As it was, Alex was laughing.
“Oh, God, yes—sometimes I think there isn’t a male in the Seattle area over the age of twelve who doesn’t have a little chin fuzz on him. Look at Stuart here!” She grinned and winked at the young man, who was now stubbornly paying attention to unfolding his napkin. “Yeah, there’s a thing all right. Somehow tied into that depressingly exciting music they’re churning out in basements while they drink their two dollar cups of coffee.”
Chris sighed. “I must admit I haven’t been paying attention to modern trends as much as I should.” He eyed Michael with mild amusement. “Coffee is two dollars a cup and I have a...thing.”
“Oh, it’s not as bad as I make it out to be,” Marcy said. “At least it looks good on you.”
And that was something in which Michael could take some satisfaction, at least. It was just over a month ago when Rachel and Alex had both complained to Chris about his full beard, and Michael had caught him upstairs getting ready to shave it off.
“Don’t take all of it off,” Michael had suggested. “Let me do something, it’ll look hot.”
Chris put down the old-fashioned straight razor he had been honing and looked at Michael in that rare way that meant he was carefully considering it, and Michael rushed ahead, eager to be of interest.
“I can barber, really!”
“You can use one of these?”
“My dad taught me when I was fourteen, and Uncle Niall uses one, too. I can shave your nuts, if you wanted me to, without a single nick.” The minute the words were out of his mouth, he almost choked. “Oh my God, I don’t believe I said that.” But apparently Chris thought that was funny.
“All right,” Chris decided. “I’ll sit by the window. And I’ll let the women of the house decide if what you do is acceptable, and what to do to you if it’s not.”
For once, Michael was confident in his abilities. With a flourish, he heated a
towel, worked up a thick lather in the enameled mug, and went to work in a way that would have made his Italian uncle, the family barber, proud. He carefully trimmed Chris’s hair, thinking of the photos in the latest men’s magazine that he had been admiring. Chris had a surprisingly simple haircut, but it wasn’t the best for his face. As hairs fell around the chair, Chris seemed uninterested, the perfect customer, quiet and allowing his head to be moved easily.
When the haircut was done, Michael worked at removing most of the beard. He trimmed and shaped Chris’s mustache, and when he was finished, looked critically at the results. Now, instead of a simple parted hairstyle with loose curls, Chris had a short-top with a little flair—the front cowlicks curled up and then down again over his eyebrows. His slightly straight cut and deliberately longer sideburns gave his face more length. And the close-cropped goatee looked pleasingly masculine yet a little dandyish, too. It was all even, very precise. Michael found some gel in the bathroom and ran a little of it through Chris’s hair with satisfaction.
And when the trainer looked at himself in the mirror, he fingered the goatee with suspicion, but then leaned back and nodded. “You’d best add this skill to your file,” he said simply.
Michael lived for praise like that. It was even better when Rachel pronounced it beautiful and Grendel and Alex approved. Admit it, Michael thought, looking at Chris as the conversation continued. It looks good on you, and you like the attention. Never mind that the little space-cadet brat sitting across from you has the exact same cut.
Michael hid his laughter with a fit of coughing and was rescued from explaining it when the first course began to arrive.
The meal was sponsored by the Canadian branch of the Marketplace. Not, as Michael had first thought, by the trainers alone. “Hell, we couldn’t afford McDonald’s for this crowd,” Benjamin had joked. “There’s only seven of us here out of maybe twenty-five trainers in all!” But each geographic segment of the Marketplace took turns sponsoring special meals and events in honor of their trainers, to showcase both their best properties and various cultural items of interest.
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