“Oh, brilliancies like ‘I want a winter suit because winter’s coming’ and ‘it’s a nice evening because the sun is going down’,” Stevahn sighed.
Stellia tried to keep a straight face, but lapsed into a soft giggle, which Stevahn ignored.
“I knocked down the bloody screen you undress behind the first time I was there, with a great clatter and me standing there with my pants down around my knees.”
Stellia gasped and ducked her face toward her plate, sputtering hilariously. Stevahn actually began to smile.
“Then, last time I was there, I let him give me a brandy and had a cigar when he suggested it, hoping it would calm me, and – Oh Stell, I put the damned cigar out in his own glass of some violently alcoholic stuff he calls kirz because I wasn’t paying attention. There was this great flash of fire and the glass shattered…”
Stellia surrendered, dropping her napkin on the floor and sitting back to laugh. Her face reddened, making the waiter come over with a glass of water. She sputtered a few gulps down, managed to draw breath and looked wickedly at Stevahn, who was chuckling himself.
“Waldrum the Dancing Bear Goes to the Tailor,” Stellia chortled, parroting the titles of the popular children’s books about an inept bear who visited various shops. In every book, Waldrum awkwardly laid waste to whichever establishment he was patronizing and everyone was angry with him – until he began to dance for them. His dancing was so dazzling that he was always forgiven his terrible clumsiness.
It was a chancy joke. Stellia knew Stevahn’s most recent lover, Selnor, had ridiculed him by comparing Stevahn’s bulky build to that of the fictional dancing bear. It had been the final blow of a vicious argument that led to the dissolution of the household Stevahn and Selnor had set up together.
From anyone else, Stevahn would have taken offense, but Stellia had never deliberately hurt anyone in her life – and he enjoyed her antic sense of humor, which was very like his own. He began to laugh as well.
“What did he do when you made his drink explode?” she gasped.
“He threw a length of fabric over it to put out the fire and he laughed. He kept laughing all through the fitting,” Stevahn answered.
“Well, if he did that, all is not lost,” Stellia began.
There was a flurry at the door of the restaurant. People began craning to see who was coming in. The headwaiter was bowing repeatedly like a bizarre clockwork and Malvar himself went bustling across the dining room from the kitchen, grinning like a demon.
A woman nearby whispered, “It’s Borsen!” to her companion. Stellia’s head went up and Stevahn could feel his face draining white. He put his knife and fork down carefully.
It was indeed Borsen, with two companions, men Stevahn had never seen before.
Borsen, as always, was dressed exquisitely in one of his signature suits, made of rich, dark teal green silk. A heavy teal silk scarf splashed with a repeating pattern of four arrows curving inward to a center point was tied in place as his cravat.
One of other men rivaled Borsen’s splendor. He was blond with piercing blue eyes and a face that would be pretty on a girl. Decked out in what was obviously a Borsen suit of ice blue, he would have been eminently attractive to Stevahn if he hadn’t been downright frightening. His movements and gait were snakelike in their sinister smoothness.
The third man shambled along in the wake of the brilliantly attired Borsen and his companion, intent on a copy of Antiques and Antiquities. He wore a well-fitted dark suit that had picked up dust from the street. His hair had obviously blown out of place and hung forward over his forehead in a black tousled shock. He towered over his companions by more than a foot and Stevahn couldn’t help but wonder at the size of his feet as he clumped along behind the graceful younger men.
Stevahn felt a rush of jealousy as he saw how easily the blond man and Borsen got on. The damned blond snake talked and laughed as if he’d never said or done an awkward thing in his life. It was obvious they knew each other well.
They seemed oblivious to the murmuring and sensation swelling in their wake as Malvar himself guided them toward the private dining rooms. Borsen hadn’t even seen Stevahn. His brown eyes were intent on the blond man’s face.
Stevahn couldn’t bear it. He found himself rising to his feet, heard his chair clatter to the floor behind him. He flinched but kept control of himself, willing Borsen to look his way.
Borsen and his party turned toward the racket. Recognition flashed across Borsen’s face as he saw Stevahn with his overturned chair being uprighted by a waiter.
Stevahn bowed as elegantly as he could, a formal greeting between equals, giving just the right amount of flexion of the waist and inclination of the head. He was thankful doing so obscured his face for a moment. He drew a deep, shaking breath, hoping it would reduce the hot redness he could feel on his cheeks.
When he rose from the bow, he saw nothing but Borsen standing across the room, walking stick before him, his elegant hands resting on the marble knob. Then Borsen smiled, removed his hat in a sweeping gesture and bowed in return – the bow of a craftsman to a superior, more flexion, longer in duration, the hat held outswept to the side in an achingly graceful pose, one leg very slightly extended.
“Oh my,” Stellia murmured appreciatively.
When Borsen stood upright the blond man asked him something, his face deliberately turned away from Stevahn so his words wouldn’t carry.
“One of my very best and most valued customers,” Borsen replied, his voice soft.
Stevahn sank down into the chair the waiter shuffled under him, his heart pounding in his ears. Borsen and the two men were ushered into the private room, but not before the hulking third man looked directly back at Stevahn and raised his eyebrows inquisitively.
“What a pretty compliment!” Stellia said delightedly. “Both of you – Stev, you’re a fool if you give up on him. He’s just young. He probably has no idea why you’re acting in such a silly way when you’re being fitted.”
“He’s attached to that blond snake masquerading as a man,” Stevahn said bitterly.
“Borsen doesn’t wear a bonding ring. The other two men do. They’re bonded, he’s not.” Stellia looked at him as if she dared him to refute her.
“How… how can you see things like that at a glance?” Stevahn asked, exasperated.
“I’m a woman and we look at details. If that young man didn’t care about your feelings, he would never have bowed to you like that. He’s caring and he has a sense of humor. What you need to do is show him who Stevahn Rondheim really is and stop bumbling around like Waldrum the Dancing Bear in a shop full of breakables.”
“Oh yes, Mother – and what should I do to erase months of idiocy on my part?” Stevahn asked, a little snidely but with genuine curiosity as well. Stellia was no fool.
“I’d suggest, now that you’ve been clumsy and made a mess, that you begin dancing, Waldrum. It always makes people love you.”
***
It was late. The Rondheim bank had been closed for two hours but Stevahn was lingering in the lobby, watching the building across the street.
He was hopelessly, pathetically, desperately in love and he had to do something about it, even if it meant an outright rejection from Borsen.
He had a plan. Borsen went through a nightly ritual when he left his store. He would gently stroke the marble in the entry of his building before turning and walking north along The Promenade. Stevahn had seen the routine night after night for months.
Tonight he was going to intercept Borsen and invite him to dinner.
The light in Borsen’s workroom went out and Stevan went into action. He locked the bank doors and ducked across the street, positioning himself along Borsen’s routine walk home. He waited.
Borsen emerged from the building, paused in the entryway and then turned south, as he had never done before. He began walking briskly toward the Palace end of the Promenade.
“Hells!” Stevahn raced after him,
calling out. “Excuse me! Hello!”
Borsen whirled to face him in a slight crouch, hand flashing toward his coat pocket. Then he recognized Stevahn and let his hand fall by his side, waiting with a bemused and carefully patient expression. Stevahn managed not to slip on the icy pavement and came to a stop before him.
“Would you care to have dinner with me?” he blurted. To his horror, he sounded annoyed.
“Good evening,” Borsen responded, sarcasm tingeing his voice. Stevahn swallowed and tried again.
“Would you have dinner with me?”
Borsen looked wary.
“Oh gods! This hasn’t been about suits!” Stevahn yelled, grabbing his head in frustration, knocking his top hat into the snow.
Suddenly, Borsen smiled, a genuine smile, not a professional one. His eyes twinkled with mischief. He bent and picked up Stevahn’s hat and handed it back.
“You simply cannot wear this – thing – with my suits,” he said. “Come by tomorrow and order something decent from Petran. He’s my men’s hatmaker.” He turned and started north along The Promenade again.
“Wait!” Stevahn heard the desperation in his voice and obviously Borsen did too, because he swung around and stared.
“What is it?” he asked quietly.
“Please – just dinner. Would you just have dinner with me? I do not want to eat alone one more damned time wishing that I was having dinner with you. Nothing more, just dinner. To get to know each other. To find out if we could be friends?”
Oh my gods, I’m one step from kneeling in the slush and begging. What has happened to me, Stevahn thought, cringing inwardly. He thinks I’m insane. Waldrum knocks over another breakable.
Borsen smiled again.
“I thought you were coming with me. What are you waiting for?” he asked. “I’m starving.”
***
Stevahn was basking in conversing with Borsen at an exquisitely appointed table at Malvar’s. He found Borsen fascinating and an excellent companion. The young man listened intently, responding with humor or probity, depending on the trend of the conversation.
“How does a man your age become the owner of an establishment like Borsen’s?” Stevahn asked.
“I could have set up the usual tailoring establishment, starting with a small shop and working my way up, but I have money,” Borsen explained. “My uncle, who raised me from the age of thirteen, taught me to invest long ago. He’s my business parter and he helped to set me up.”
Borsen wiped his mouth and leaned back so the waiter could remove his soup plate. Stevahn noticed how Borsen thanked the man sincerely, something simply not done by most who dined in places like this. He noticed the look of gratification on the waiter’s face. Something to remember, he thought.
“Not to say that having been set up to start out in such style means I’m some rich, spoiled brat who’s playing at keeping shop,” Borsen went on, replacing his napkin in his lap. “I’ve had to prove myself and work like the hells.”
Something across the room caught Borsen’s eye. He picked up his draftsman’s pencil and sketched in a small book he’d placed on the table at the beginning of the meal. This had happened a number of times since they were seated.
“You see, failure is simply not an option,” Borsen continued, looking up at Stevahn. “Not after the trust placed in me, and the effort put into me by my uncle and many other people. I know there is a rumor that I’m just playing around with this business. That is not the case. I’m only just starting.”
“Starting! You’re practically finished!” Stevahn exclaimed, making Borsen laugh.
“Not at all. What I have is a tiny baby compared to what I want. I eventually hope to trade in antiques, textiles, furnishings, art, anything else people want. Clothing and accessories - that’s just the beginning, because it’s my particular expertise.”
Their main courses arrived. Borsen started on his as if he hadn’t eaten for a week, though his manners were exquisite and flawless.
“How does one end up wanting to be a tailor all his life?” Stevahn asked. Borsen shrugged.
“Just as I could ask you why someone becomes a banker,” he responded.
“It’s my family business,” Stevahn explained. “We all have money in the blood. Nothing makes the members of my family happier than making money from money, I’m afraid. To us it’s fascinating – to most other people it seems dreary and dull.”
“Money is never dull,” Borsen grinned.
“Not to listen to my clients. They want me to handle it so they don’t have to deal with the dullness,” Stevan smiled.
“They need to spend a few years without money and then they’ll find money – or what you can do with it – fascinating indeed,” Borsen replied. Something caught his eye. He began sketching again.
His remark made Stevahn curious. It didn’t fit the image of Borsen being set up in business with an enormous emporium.
“Well then, I could say that tailoring runs in my family, as banking runs in yours.” Borsen picked up the thread of the conversation, having finished whatever he was sketching. “My mother was a talented seamstress. She made beautiful little suits for me from the time I was a baby.”
“She must be very impressed with your success,” Stevahn said.
Borsen shook his head.
“She died when I was six,” he said quietly. “But she would have been thrilled.”
“So Borsen is your father’s family name?” Stevahn asked.
For the first time, Borsen’s face clouded.
“No, it’s my first name, given to me by my mother.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why?” Borsen asked, his eyebrows going up.
“Obviously I’ve blundered onto something that hurt or offended you,” Stevahn replied.
Borsen shook his head and smiled, but a bit stiffly.
“I took no offense. You didn’t anger me at all, the memory of my father did. I don’t use his name. I took my uncle’s surname years ago for legal purposes, but otherwise – it’s Borsen.”
“Rapidly becoming a household word in Erdahn,” Stevahn offered, hoping it would make Borsen smile. It did.
“Very likely,” Borsen answered. He’d finished his main course and the hovering waiter appeared to remove his dish. “May I have the pork as well, sir?” Borsen asked, evoking a slight bow from the waiter, who bore the empty plate away.
Stevahn burst out laughing.
“I’m a bottomless pit.They’re used to me here,” Borsen grinned. “It seems to be a family trait. When Uncle and I come in here for dinner, they put on extra food in the kitchen. Last time we both had two soups, two starters, two main courses and I managed two desserts, while he opted for a cigar. I’ve been careful to be very dainty this evening but I’m still starving. If you want to go ahead to dessert, please do. I’ll catch you up.”
“I don’t mind,” Stevahn laughed. “It’s novel, I’ll grant, but I don’t mind.”
Halfway through his second main course Borsen sketched again and curiosity overcame Stevahn. He asked to see it, then wondered if he’d trespassed.
“But of course,” Borsen said, blinking. “It’s such a part of me that I don’t even think about it. You must think me very rude.” He handed the sketchbook over.
“Not at all,” Stevahn answered, then fell silent as he began leafing through the book.
He was looking at a soul. Every drawing, even the smallest rough sketches, were infused with emotion. There were drawings of everything – The Promenade, Borsen’s shopfront, the Rondheim Bank, views of the harbour, the Palace. There were drawings of people, quick sketches of the clothing people wore, more fully realized sketches concentrating on form and face. As Stevahn turned page after page, his heart lifted. It was very obvious that Borsen was attracted to men. He worshipped the male figure. No wonder he was a magnificent tailor.
“Do you live alone?” Stevahn blurted, wanting to punch himself in the mouth the minute he’d said it.
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“I live with my sister,” Borsen replied quietly, seeming to find the question a reasonable one. “Varnia has been taking care of me since I was thirteen.” He smiled at Stevahn.
“Thirteen – is she your younger sister?” Stevahn asked in confusion.
“No, some years older,” Borsen said with a finality that Stevahn realized was setting a boundary.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t pry,” he apologized.
Borsen looked at the tabletop.
“Don’t mind me,” he replied suddenly. “I must be tired if I’m being short with nice fellows who ask me to dinner.” He looked up.
Stevahn realized Borsen had let some of his courteous guard down, because for a moment, weariness showed plainly on his face.
“Anyone who works as much as you do deserves to be tired and testy,” Stevahn told him.
“How do you know how hard I work?” Borsen’s eyebrows went up.
Before he thought, relieved that the tense moment had dissipated, Stevahn gave himself away.
“My office is opposite your workroom. My family’s bank is across the street. I can see you working away whenever I look out the window.”
Borsen looked at Stevahn for so long that he felt like crawling under the table. It’s over, he thought. You blockhead.
Suddenly Borsen smiled, then laughed aloud. Stevahn felt as if a great weight had fallen from his shoulders.
“So you’re the eyes I feel upon me,” Borsen said. “I’d begun to think we had spooks in the building. I will have to look up once in a while and wave. So you’re that Rondheim.”
Stevahn felt himself blushing, which only made Borsen laugh more. He wasn’t entirely quelled until his dessert arrived.
To cover his discomfort, Stevahn took a cigar when they were offered and proferred the box to Borsen, who declined.
“I’ll have another dessert though, the nut cake, thank you,” he said to the waiter.
“What is your accent?” Stevahn asked bluntly, tired of being curious. Considering Borsen’s obvious tolerance of faux pas, he felt the question wouldn’t be considered an intrustion. “It’s charming but I can’t place it.”
Love and Sacrifice: Book Two of the Prophecy Series Page 45