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(Ten) ◀◀◀◀◀ Chapter Eleven ▶▶▶▶▶ (Twelve)
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As we find ourselves once again facing the subject of Moonshade parlors, it is worth noting that Torrissio also broke the mold when it came to his own: He didn't actually have one.
For what was a parlor but a vestige of the superficial? The depthless and the frivolous, yes, frivolous! Torrissio thought, a purely frivolous means for Moonshade's fungal plague of magical parvenus to flaunt their superficial power and superficial wealth. The trappings of the arrivistes and social climbers—their rooms clad in cheap furniture that could only hope to ape the qualities of heirloom masterpieces, all artificially weathered and patinated, upholstered in nasty garish chintzes and velveteens, and finally draped from floor to ceiling in waterproofed sheeting. As if that would help.
Torrissio, whose prestigious family tree extended a direct, if totally indeterminate (and more importantly, indeterminable) root towards those of the Ophidian hierophants of ancient history, firmly believed that the installation of something like a parlor would not only serve to lower his own reputation but the hitherto undaunted reputations of those who came before him.
No, Torrissio's manor had a sitting room! It was different! Why, the mere words sitting room implied a far, far cozier affair, purpose-built for intimacy and introspection. Although entertaining guests was entirely not out of the question, this chamber primarily existed to serve none but the master of the house, thus eliminating the need to cover everything in sanitized oilcloth.
Furthermore, in his seasoned opinion there could be no better place to rest off a wicked hangover; the adept himself now lounged comfortably (if slightly nauseously) in a beefy Chesterfield-style chair, leather-clad and tufted the way chairs ought to be. Among its many old world charms it also boasted a novel clockwork reclining function which facilitated a fuller appreciation of the sitting room's obligatory fireplace. As he lied back in his chair, his faithful Marvello III knelt beside, massaging the man's painfully bruised right foot.
"I must inquire how signore acquired such a grievous wound," said the automaton, his amber eyes flashing with cursory interest.
"I suppose I probably dropped a bottle on it earlier. Who can say?" said Torrissio. In one hand, he cradled a highball glass half-empty with a vile concoction of (among other things) cold coffee, vinegar, pureed pickled tomatoes, a dusting of powdered angostura bark and the yolk of a single raw duck's egg.
"It is of my opinion that signore has been drinking to excess lately."
Torrissio lolled his eyes backwards in disgust. "It is of my opinion that signore blah blah…" he wearily mocked Marvello III's modulated cant. "To the best of my recollection, I did not program you to contribute your trifling opinions without my express solicitation of them."
Marvello III's eyes darkened. "Yes, signore."
"If ever I wish to know whatever is going on inside that rattletrap brain of yours, I will make the suitable inquiries."
"Yes, signore. Very good, signore."
"Though I'm sure I've told you that dozens of times already, and no doubt I shall have to tell you dozens of times again. Oh well. I suppose I shouldn't expect so much from an intractable bucket of bolts," Torrissio muttered and gave the contents of his highball a little slosh. Come to think of it, he was never sure if Petra's "patented" hangover cure actually alleviated symptoms or simply made one feel so much worse that they would forget all about what'd made them sick in the first place.
That, or perhaps she was trying to kill him. Not at all surprising if so.
He swirled the contents of the glass once more and took another sip.
Mmm. She did hate him terribly, he knew that much.
"Nevertheless. My thanks to you as always for the sweet remedy, Elissa," he addressed the other automaton by a name he knew she hated in turn.
Narrative circumstances precluded a complete description of her restoration as it happened—it really was an elementary matter for an expert like Torrissio, a rewinding of her cerebral emulator servos—but there stood Petra at the ready, her polished chrome chassis shadowed in the darkest corner of Torrissio's sitting room. Almost invisible, save for her luminous blue eyes, burning with artificial life and very real enmity.
"Ugh. You know I hate that name," she said, infusing her monotone with as much of that very real enmity that her rewound cerebral emulator servos could generate.
"I don't care," returned Torrissio, equally ruthless. "Your alleged friends told me that they could no longer deal with your maintenance and thus abandoned you to my whims. Therefore, I am exercising my right to address you however I please. Ooh. Not so rough, Marvello!"
"My apologies. I am doing my best to rectify the situation with signore's grievous wound."
"I don't believe you. Giselle would never do such a thing," said Petra, with a waver in her voice that betrayed her unease.
Torrissio growled. "Why are you trying to massage a bruise? You're only making it worse!" He stretched to swat at the automaton. "Go get a bag of ice for it! Ice! Pronto!"
Marvello III's eyes flickered as he registered the command. "Signore requests a bag of ice."
"She promised me!" Petra went on, her hands wrenching at the hem of her blue gingham apron. "After Rocco died, she swore she would never allow me to fall into your clutches again. On her honor!"
"Yes. Ice. And I also want another bag of ice for my raging headache," said Torrissio, between disgusted sips. "Bleh."
"Signore requests two bags of ice."
"Pronto!"
"Pronto. Two bags of ice."
Likewise Petra took two stomps forward, such that her body now reflected the fire that blazed in the sitting room's hearth. "She gave me her word! Aren't you listening to me?"
"I'll listen to you whenever you have something to say worth hearing. But personally I'd suggest you learn to accept your fate. Perhaps you will even come to appreciate it. Clearly that woman's word was as good as her honor, which is to say both are about as good as those of any other woman," he said, gesturing. "And the only woman who was ever good for anything at all now rests forever in a little crock sitting up there on the mantelpiece. Perhaps it would behoove you to—"
Whatever delightful tidbit Torrissio had to share next would be forever lost to the sudden intervention of his personal carillon, a polyphonic peal that signified the arrival of someone with pressing enough business for them to have braved the hike to his front door.
He groaned out loud. "Bugger! That would be those two idiot boys, coming home to roost like grackles in the pergola. Just as obnoxious as the grackles, anyway. Can't they leave me be?"
"You were the one who offered to take them in at night," Petra reminded him hotly.
"True. Well, odious as it may be, it is the duty of the highborn to provide some meaningful public service to this miserable city."
"More like you wanted an excuse to occupy the Magelord's manor."
Torrissio tutted. "Not so, dear Elissa. Just like the Necromage and his sniveling sidekick, you have misinterpreted my actions. I have no intention of becoming—"
The carillon again. The astute listener would recognize its melody as the opening bar to the classic Sosarian folk tune Sea Shanty. Simply hearing the tune seemed to set Torrissio's whiskers a-twitch.
"Dash it!" he swore. "Marvello III, go dispatch those two bantlings and tell them they must seek alternate accommodations for the night. I absolutely cannot be bothered, I've no intention of leaving this chair until morning—Marvello? Marv—w-where is that infernal pile of scrap?"
Petra exhausted a small puff of air from her ears, the automaton's equivalent of an annoyed sigh. "He went to fetch the ice you needed so badly, or could you not be bothered to remember that as well?"
The carillon again.
Torrissio stalled in thought, frustration distorting his features as he gnawed on his upper lip. Things were getting urgent. How many more times would he be forced to listen to Sea Shanty?
"My dear Petra…" he began with an oleaginous grin.
"Oh no! Don't ask me to do it! Don't you dare! I would never be so heartless as to cast two children out into the street. I refuse."
"You'll do as I say," Torrissio snapped, "or else I'll get the magnet…"
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