Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 09] - Logic Of The Heart by Patricia Veryan

lonely
inside when you don't."
    Montclair gave her a rather startled glance, but she was
prattling on artlessly.
    "Mama says eyes are 'portant, you know, and that I must choose
my friends by their eyes, so I'll have you for a friend, if you like,
and then you c'n be happy." Her lips drooped. Suddenly, she was
incredibly forlorn. "I'm lonely too. I hasn't got any little friends."
    "Well, you have a new grown-up friend," he said, bowing low.
    She gave a delighted laugh and clapped her hands joyously.
    With an answering grin he asked, "Why have you no little
friends?"
    "When we lived in London, the children next door laughed at me
'cause I'm—read-ishy, or something."
    "Bookish, perhaps?"
    "Yes. That. It's 'cause I wear specs, the Bo'sun says. So I
throwed 'em away. But Uncle Andy found them."
    "And did he beat you with that great club again? He must be a
wicked man."
    "No he's not! He's the bestest uncle what I ever had!" She
scowled at him fiercely, saw the twinkle in his eyes and giggled, her
small face becoming pink. "Oh, you're teasing. Did you know I made that
up a teensy bit? He din't really beat me. But he
did
spank me. Not 'cause I hid my specs, though. He said he quite und'stood
'bout that, and that the other children were jealous, that's all.
But"—she sighed, despondent again—"they're not really."
    "But you can wear your—er, specs now that you've moved away,
is that it?"
    "No. I weared them there, too. I can't see to read 'thout 'em."
    She seemed awfully young to be able to read. He stared down at
her sad but resigned little face, intrigued by its mixture of solemnity
and childishness. "How old are you?"
    "Oooh! That's rude," she said, cheered by this evidence of
faulting in the man she thought rather scarily splendid. "I asked the
Countess Lieven how old she was once, and Mama made me beg pardon."
    'The Countess Lieven.' Then her family must be of the Quality.
He could well imagine the formidable countess's reaction to such a
question, and his lips twitched. "Your mama was quite right. And I beg
your pardon."
    She beamed at him and imparted, "I'm six in December." She
again tugged at his hand. "Come on."
    Resisting, he said, "Now that we're friends, I must warn you.
You shouldn't come to the Folly. It's a bad place."
    "No it isn't! It's a nice place. And it's not folly!"
    "That's what it's called, Mistress—er… I think we haven't been
properly introduced, have we? May I present myself? My name is
Valentine."
    She swept into a rather wobbly curtsy. "How de do? That's what
my Bo'sun says." She lowered her voice to a 'manly' growl, repeated,
"How de do?" then laughed merrily. "Just like that."
    "Is your Bo'sun a sailor?"
    "Yes. Well, he was a long time ago. He sailed with my
gran'papa for hund'eds of years, but now my gran'papa's moved up to
heaven so the Bo'sun lives with us an' keeps asking Starry to be his
missus but she won't. I'm P'scilla. I c'n say my name now, 'cause my
tooth growed back. Last month I couldn't say it right, and everybody
laughed when I tried. D'you want to see? It's bright and new!" She
halted, holding up her face and opening her mouth wide.
    He admired the small, pearly new tooth and told her that they
all looked very nice. "I expect you clean them every day."
    "Yes." She sighed. "But they don't grow much. I wish they were
bigger. Like Wolfgang's. His are pointed. I asked my Uncle Andy to file
mine into points, and he said he would, but Mama wouldn't let him. An'
Starry— she lives with us—Starry said everyone would think I was a
Fury. And Furies are drefful bad creatures, you know. 'Sides, Mama said
I wouldn't be able to chew jam tarts if my teeth was all made into
sharp points, and I saved a
special
place in my
tummy for jam tarts. So I 'spect I better not have pointy teeth."
    "I agree," said Montclair, and reserving his musician's
curiosity as to the naming of Wolfgang, took up his branch once more
and asked, "Where do you live, Mistress Priscilla?"
    "In London."
    "Do you stay