“I suspect you can handle it.” Emily grinned.
“Can I help you?”
“No, stay right there.” Derian folded a snowy
white napkin over her forearm and rested a dish on it. “I shall serve Madame
tonight.”
Faint color rose to Emily’s cheeks. “Very
well, then. Thank you.”
“My pleasure,” Derian murmured.
Emily settled back in her chair and prepared
to be waited on. She remembered being waited on at formal functions her parents
had held at their home for visiting dignitaries when the party was small and
the embassy would’ve been too cold and impersonal. She’d never liked being
seated at the big table at the far end, away from the adults, always feeling as
if she was there more for show than for her presence. Every now and then her
mother would glance her way and smile as if to tell her she knew she was still
there, but her father rarely gave her a look, too lost in conversation with
whomever they were feting. Her memories of the impersonal formal dining faded
as Derian silently moved around behind her, sliding dishes in front of her with
a whispered description, filling her wineglass with a calculated cascade of
blood-red liquid, slipping other dishes to the center of the table with
sterling silver serving utensils positioned within.
“You do this very well,” Emily murmured.
Derian sat down beside her, close enough for
Emily to catch her spicy scent. “My father always insisted on a formal table
when the family dined together. I learned from watching the maids. Sometimes I
even helped them, just to annoy him.”
“Teenage rebellion?”
Derian sipped her wine. “More than that, I
guess. Maybe lifelong rebellion.”
“Do you have siblings?” Emily asked.
“I do now, a half brother. He’s…” She paused
as if counting in her head. “He must be six. I haven’t seen him in quite a
while.”
Emily took a bite of the very delicious food.
“It must be odd, having such a younger sibling.”
“Truthfully, I don’t think of my father’s
second family as having anything to do with me. I have nothing against the boy,
of course. But I don’t know his mother or him, and my father and
Marguerite—that’s his wife’s name—took up well after I left home.”
“What’s his name?”
“Daniel.” Derian poured a little more wine in
Emily’s glass.
“No more,” Emily said, laughing lightly. “I’m
not used to it.”
“Of course.” Derian replenished her glass and
put the bottle aside. “How about you? Big family, small family?”
Emily carefully set her fork down. She
usually managed to avoid talking about family, which wasn’t all that difficult
since her associates were business ones and the topic didn’t often come up.
Henrietta knew, but she’d never shared the story with anyone else, not even
Ron. Not the whole story. “Small, I guess. One older sister. Pam.”