“Orenda,” Quiroris knocked on her door more loudly the second time, “Orenda?”

“It’s a free day, Felaern,” Orenda shoved a pillow over her face to block the light, “I’m trying to sleep.”

“I understand that,” he said, “But it is after noon. I can’t imagine how much more sleep you would need. May I come inside?”

“If you must,” Orenda slammed the pillow to her side and came to the heartbreaking realization that she was no longer asleep.

She stood and walked to her basin to begin her preparations for the day as Quiroris let himself inside, looking far more giddy than he had any right after interrupting her slumber. It must have been one of his bad days, because he was using his walking stick, but Orenda still thought that he never looked as if he truly needed it. Had he not told her he had been injured she would have assumed that he used it as a prop.

“Good day, Orenda!” he said happily.

“Good day, Felaern,” she said sarcastically.

“Do you know what day this is?” He asked her.

“It’s a free day,” Orenda told him, “purported to be a day of rest, but I assume we’re throwing that out the window.”

“On this day, eight years ago, near the end of the term, a little girl destroyed my bath house,” Felaern told her.

“The memory seems to have made you absolutely giddy,” Orenda huffed.

“I was hoping, Orenda,” he said, “That you would come out with me, to dinner. I was afraid that if I allowed you much more sleep, you wouldn’t have time to prepare.”

“It takes very little time to prepare to eat,” Orenda argued, “And if it’s only a little after noon I suspect we wouldn’t have dinner for a good six hours.”

“Well, a late lunch, then,” he amended, “I would like to celebrate the anniversary of the day you came into my life.”

“I would normally say that there was nothing to celebrate,” Orenda ran the oil through her hair as she spoke, “But I imagine I should take all the free food I can get. God knows how I will eat in the outlands.”

“Yes, well,” Quiroris fiddled, pulling the lace of his shirt out of the sleeve of his robe, “I will be ready to leave whenever you are.”

“Alright,” She said, absentmindedly, looking into the mirror and pulling out a curl to check for length.

“Orenda?” he asked.

“Yes?”

“The book that you let me copy,” he said, “I assume you’ve gone over it, once you had it back? I assume you must nearly have it memorized at this point.”

“You can assume anything you like,” Orenda said as she opened the wardrobe to get her uniform and robes, as they were the only real clothes that she owned.

“It tells how to wear the sari, doesn’t it?” He asked, though he knew the answer. He had poured over his copy, “I should like you to wear it.”

“You can like anything at all, Felaern,” Orenda told him as she laid her everyday clothes out on the bed, “that doesn’t mean it will happen.”

“Fair enough,” he sighed, “Well, I’ll be downstairs, whenever you’re ready.”

Orenda felt that the restaurant she found herself in reminded her of the test she had taken in her etiquette class. The easiest way to remember which utensils to use was to eat from the outside in, so that is what she did. Orenda was consistently amazed by the human wait staff, who were forbidden from writing anything down, yet who served flawlessly. She didn’t think she could have done it.

“You’re such an accomplished mage,” Quiroris said during the appetizer course as Orenda thought that she could absolutely fit a few of the jimikand ke kabazes into the pockets of her robe to take to Bubbider if she could distract Quiroris’s attention away from them.

“Thank you,” Orenda said, “It’s such a lovely day, isn’t it? This place has a nice view of the ocean.”

Quiroris turned to look out on the wide open sea from the span between the arches that most public buildings in the area seemed to have. The fire elves, Orenda remembered as she stuffed as many of the kabazes into her pockets as she thought reasonably would not be missed, liked to bring the outdoors in.

“It really is,” Quiroris agreed, as if he was dreaming of something. He turned to stare back at Orenda as she took a bite, and picked up his glass to slowly sip his wine. “Orenda,” he began again, “Do you want to go to the outlands?”

“It doesn’t much matter, does it?” Orenda asked.

“I mean,” he went on as if he hadn’t heard her, “do you want to study the temple? Do you think you could survive the journey to a site no one has been to in two hundred years?”

“Again,” Orenda answered, eating the last kabaz on the plate, “It doesn’t matter what I want; it’s what will happen.”

“It’s only…” Quiroris said as their waiter took away the empty appetizer plate and headed back to the kitchen. “I worry that I may have given you bad advice.”

“Perish the thought,” Orenda said and watched in amazement as the waiter carried their new tray, filled to the brim with dishes and expertly began to lay them out on the table without spilling anything.

“You remember poor Lord Glenlen,” Quiroris said, and Orenda thought that their waiter’s face twitched ever so slightly, “The area is rather dangerous.”

“I am not known for my fear of danger, Felaern,” Orenda reminded him, “I’m a bit more capable than poor Tolith. You know, I’ve always felt that earth elves were disproportionately frail. I think that, as a people, you may not be eating enough.”

She said this as she piled her plate from the dishes laid out on the table and broke her bread into manageable pieces to eat with.

“I’m not sure that that’s the case,” he said, though he did serve himself much more modestly, and Orenda braced herself because she had always been bothered by the delicate manner in which he ate. She half thought he was going to tell her to stop scooping with her bread and use a fork, but he didn’t.

Instead he said, “It just… does not seem to be a safe place for a young lady.”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t a safe place for a young gentleman,” Orenda agreed, “I would really rather not talk about this, Felaern. I don’t know why you think the subject of a friend’s death is proper meal conversation. I know it’s been a long time since you were in etiquette class, but honestly, bringing up such a grizzly murder while a lady is trying to eat is in poor taste.”

“You’re right, of course,” he agreed, tapping his fork against the napkin it had rested on, “I apologise, Orenda, I’ve only… been thinking of it so much, since it happened. I didn’t know it had gotten that bad. Those kinds of crimes had been all but eradicated, under the late Lord Glenlen’s rule.”

Orenda took a long drink of wine and went back to eating without comment, and Quiroris watched her as if she was some sort of rare animal in a zoo that he thought had gone extinct.

“I don’t think it is a safe place for you,” he said, at length.

“No place is safe,” Orenda told him, “Safety is an illusion. Felaern, you should know that. If the future ever seems uncertain, unpredictable, fraught with danger and deadly experiences- that is because it is. No matter where you are or what you do, you will not escape pain or death.”

“That’s true,” he agreed, “in the end, death comes for us all. But elves are meant to live long lives, Orenda. I would like to see you live a long life.”

“I can’t imagine that you’ll make it to the end of my life, old man,” Orenda told him, “You’ve got more than two centuries on me.”

“No,” he agreed, “I can’t imagine I will. But… I can give you a firm foundation of safety and security.”

“I can’t imagine how,” Orenda wondered if there was a way she could sneak an entire plate to Bubbider now that she finished, but most of the food was covered in sauces, and she wasn’t sure how she would manage it. She was still pondering this over as Quiroris spoke.

“Lady Glenlen would not send you away if you were married,” He said.

“I don’t know that to be the case,” Orenda argued, “I can’t imagine it would have any bearing on the situation.”

“I know she wouldn’t,” Quiroris argued, “I asked her in my last report.”

“Oh,” Orenda said, thinking it over. She wasn’t opposed to a political marriage, but in order to be of any real use to the Order, it would need to be someone fairly high ranking. Tolith, she finally realized, would have been a perfect candidate, had he not gone and gotten himself killed. She was running the genealogy of the nobility over in her head, alongside the idea that Quiroris may be the perfect person to arrange the match because he had known most of those families for centuries, when she was knocked out of her thoughts by the sound of his voice.

“Orenda,” he said, “If you marry me, you can stay here, safely and with security that you’ll always have a position, even after my death.”

“What?” Orenda asked, and her confusion gave way to insult. “Felaern, have you gone mad? Has the bleach soaked into your brain? I have half a mind to throw this wine at you, but I thought better of it because I need it to settle my nerves after that bought of profound stupidity.”

“It would be the safest place for you,” he argued, “You’re a conspicuous person, Orenda. People still associate you with Captain Nochdifache. If you keep your head down and prove to them that you’re just a law-abiding scholar-”

“I shouldn’t have to prove anything!” Orenda snapped, “Honestly, how could you ask me this now? I’m not leaving before I’ve eaten my dessert, and now that I’ve given my answer we shall have to sit here, trapped by social convention, in a cloud of awkwardness, because you’ve decided to be foolish! You couldn’t have possibly thought I would agree to something so ridiculous!”

“Orenda,” he said seriously, “What match did you think you were ever going to get? Did you think that some… you don’t have any noble blood. You have no title. I took you in out of the goodness of my heart-”

“You took me in,” Orenda corrected, “to ease your own guilt- no, no come over here, I know we’re shouting but I do still very much want the basundi. Yes, thank you.”

This last part had been addressed to their waiter, who had seen that they were fighting and stood with his tray to take their main course dishes awkwardly a good distance away, but at Orenda’s insistence had come anyway to take them away, then returned to the kitchen to ready their dessert.

“We’re making a scene,” Quiroris said.

“Felaern, I am a scene,” Orenda corrected, “You don’t seem to understand that. I am not one of you. Everywhere I go, I would get these stares regardless of how I behaved. You can give me as many etiquette classes as you like, and it will never make me a model of elven grace to the nobility. I will always be treated as if I am some kind of spectacle.”

“Orenda,” he said in a soothing voice, “People only look upon you because of your exotic beauty-”

“Felaern,” Orenda snapped and wondered how much of the wine she had drunk, “I am not exotic! I am from here! I am native to this place! You are exotic! You, and… wow, and everyone else in here, are all exotic!”

“Your basundi, mam,” the waiter said as he served it. He seemed delighted by what was happening at this table in particular, and Orenda saw that the other humans were also smiling, as if they all supported her.

“Thank you,” She said and began to eat.

He sat the dish in front of Quiroris and stood behind and to the left, a position he could take in his employment, but had not taken for the duration of the meal, because he had other tables to serve. It was obvious that he wanted to see how the rest of this meal played out.

“Can the lady get some coffee with her desert?” Quiroris snapped; his patience had thinned to the point that it was about to break.

“Yes, sir,” the waiter said, and disappeared into the kitchen.

“I didn’t think you would be so upset,” Quiroris said as he pulled the spoon through the top of his basundi, carving little ditches without eating any of it.

“I can’t imagine why,” Orenda snapped, halfway through the dish before the waiter returned to pour the coffee. “Thank you.”

She stirred it with the same spoon despite knowing perfectly well what a coffee spoon was, and continued, “I do not foresee any marriage in my future, Felaern. Of course, the future is vast and unknowable, and I may come into some political gain that one would be foolish to walk away from, but not today. I suppose I shall go into the wastelands to seek my fortune.”

“Will you at least write me?” Quiroris asked, “So that I can know that you’re safe?”

“I don’t imagine I will be safe,” Orenda told him, “But I can lie to you, if you’d like.”