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Volunteers from among the townsfolk carried out platters heaped with pheasant and turkey, cabbage, beets, perch, and trout, and many dishes dressed in onion, garlic, and carrots, with rolls and biscuits on the side. All of this, they set in front of the people to allow them to serve themselves. Later, that would be followed by sweet potatoes, both in pies and out, accompanied by milk cakes and flan flavored with secret homemade recipes.
Allabva listened to the speech as well as she could, but she was distracted the entire time, nervous to be sitting with the Dlorovins but glad to be sitting with Delgan.
At length, the speech ended and the food came out. Delgan reached for the serving plate nearest him and sat poised with the large fork, ready to spear some meat.
“Allabva, do you want pheasant, or turkey? Or both? And can I get you some gravy?”
“Oh, thank you. You know you can call me Allie. Um, turkey, please. And yes, that would be nice.” Delgan knew his manners well. That scored him some points in her book. It wasn’t like he really needed the points, but he had them anyway.
Allabva didn’t want to appear useless. She grabbed the next tray over. “Perch or trout? And would you like some lemon sauce?”
“Breaded perch, please, and not too much if you don’t mind,” he replied. “I’ve never been one to love fish much, and perch has a milder flavor. So, I’ll take it breaded, and with lemon sauce. It’s good enough that way.”
“You know what, I’m not the biggest fish eater, either,” Allabva admitted. So, she thought, if we wound up married, probably neither one of us would drive the other one crazy with the smell of fish, or a high appetite for it. Allabva felt that perhaps she should start keeping a tally as Delgan scored even more points.
“Oh, is that because your father drowned at sea?” Mistress Dlorovin asked. “I could see that having some influence on your tastes.”
“Um, no.” Allabva replied. Leave it to the future mother-in-law to unabashedly say the awkward, insensitive things. “At least, not mostly. I know I already didn’t like it before he left on his last voyage. And we don’t know that he drowned, only that he hasn’t come back.” Not future mother-in-law!, she told herself. Potential mother-in-law. Allabva and Delgan weren’t even officially courting, after all. Yet.
Allabva surprised herself with these thoughts. Brelin’s behavior must have had more of an effect on her than she expected. Not that it would be a bad thing, necessarily…
“Mother,” Delgan rescued Allabva from her reverie, “you know they’re still hoping for him to come back. Madam [DB1] Roalke isn’t looking for a new husband, even though there have been a few people interested.”
There he goes again, more points.
Delgan’s father stormed into the conversation, addressing Allabva first. “Mistress Roalke, allow me the pleasure of being the first to address you as such. Congratulations on your majority. Delgan, can you pass me that plate? Janfla, I know you’d prefer the pheasant. Now, young Mistress Roalke, what is next on your plate, proverbially speaking? Opening a tailor shop, a bakery, anything specific?”
Allabva mentally thanked him for not asking about any prospects of courtship. She wouldn’t know what to say. She repeated what she had told Delgan earlier, during the Greenstones’ Dance. “Nothing specific that would require any change. We still have the orchard, and my mother still needs help, so the plan is to stick around and grow the best fruit we can.”
“A noble pursuit,” Master Dlorovin assessed. “Noble work that needs somebody to do it, nothing more, nothing less can you ask for in life. Why, we have Delgan here about to start an apprenticeship with Blacksmith Ntoffel as soon as we get our wheat and maize planted for the season. I’d say the same thing about that work. Noble, necessary, and honest sweat.”
“And a lot of sweat, at that.” Delgan inhaled and then puffed his cheeks out as he slowly exhaled through a small hole in his lips.
“No truer words, right?” His father agreed. “But that’s what you want, right? Delgan’s always wanted to make things with his hands. He enjoyed doing crafts when he was young, and he’s been fascinated with the smith’s forge ever since we gave him one of those iron puzzles when he was little.”
“Thank you, Father. I think that’s enough about me. Allabva, are you alright?” Delgan turned the attention back to her with the question, his fork halfway between the plate and his mouth.
Delgan had caught Allabva staring off into the distance again. Hronomon. Again. Staring at her, staring into her soul from what must have been half a league away. He wasn’t going to leave her alone, apparently.
“Indeed.” She came back to herself. “Just that silly Nomo-Nomo again, I could have sworn he—uh, she—she was staring at me again.”
The whole family turned to look and saw Hronomon roll in the dirt, then get up and start bouncing down the hillside while cocking his head from side to side.
“I know what’s going on,” Delgan said. “She’s looking at your dress, wondering why she’s never seen such a perfect color combination before.”
Somehow, Delgan’s echo of Brelin’s compliment didn’t make Allabva feel very comfortable about the Nomord’s behavior, even though she was glad to know he thought so. It was just too much attention, too fast. He still got points for thinking so, though.
Master Dlorovin came to the rescue again. “Some fanciful joke she must think she’s making, that Nomord. Stare at somebody trying to eat dinner at Greenstone Observance and try to make that person look like a fool. Well, she’s too late. We already know you’re perfectly sane.”
“Thank you, I’m sure that’s it,” Allabva squeezed out, relieved at least that Delgan’s family didn’t think her odd in the head. Even Delgan’s father was winning more points for him.
She tried to shrug it off and be fully mentally present in the conversation. Moving the conversation away from the odd Nomord, she said, “Did the Council provide all the meat and vegetables, do you know? I think only the desserts were potluck, right?”
It halfway worked. They ate and conversed about additional boring topics, Allabva feeling more comfortable in the mundane, until Mistress Tunnigan stood up again to announce that the dessert table was open, and the dancing green would now be open to all. The small band of musicians struck up a lively local tune to get people on their feet. Allabva agreed to join Delgan in a dance and quickly found herself lost in the joy of the familiar steps.
Their small talk was interrupted by Brelin romping through with Alvern Swiskopfel. “Watch out!” Brelin shouted and Allabva dodged out of the way, pulling herself closer to Delgan. The faster moving couple vanished again into the dancing crowd, laughter trailing behind them. Brel certainly wasn’t wasting any time putting her plans in motion. Allabva couldn’t help but shake her head, Delgan mirroring her rueful smile back to her.
“It’s kind of surreal, don’t you think?” she heard herself saying.
“What’s that?” Delgan said.
“Well, Del, here we are. Adulthood, by all accounts. But I don’t feel any different than I did yesterday. At least, not physically or mentally. I’m not any taller or stronger. I don’t think I learned any great truths about the world since yesterday.”
“But now we’re empowered to make our own big decisions.” Del finished it for her.
“Exactly. Look at Brel and Alvern. They look like they’re jumping in with two feet.”
“I don’t know that that’s necessarily a bad thing.”
“Oh, of course not. She’s just so ready to be so…”
“Committed?” Delgan was reading her mind.
“Exactly, again. Now, I just don’t know if I’m there yet with this adulthood thing.”
“I hear what you mean, Allie. I’m not sure I’ll be the best blacksmith around. But I guess I am committed to it; it’s definitely my first choice. I’m glad I’m free to pursue that. But I don’t feel confident I’ll always love the weight of the work.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Delgan. I’ve never known you to back down from a difficult task. You’ll be fine.”
“Whatever you say.”
“No, seriously. You’ll grow those big blacksmith muscles, and the work won’t feel so heavy all the time, I think. You’ve done fine helping on your parents’ farm, haven’t you?”
“Well, I guess so. We’ll see. And you? Do you feel unsure about helping on your parents’ orchard?” Delgan just kept hitting it right, aside from that one moment at dinner when he almost insinuated that she could be so beautiful that a Nomo-Nomo couldn’t stop looking at her. At least he had directed that comment at the dress, not at her. But now, he called it her parents’ orchard, not just her mother’s. Allabva appreciated that.
“No, not at all. I just don’t feel like it’s a big adult decision, that’s all. It’s the obvious thing to do right now, and it doesn’t require any drastic change. So…here I stay.”
“Makes sense. And did you have any thoughts about…” Suddenly, the conversation, though still amicable, thickened. “Well, about Brelin?”
“Brel?” Allabva said. “Brel’s going to do what Brel’s going to do, and I’m going to be her friend, anyway.”
“No,” Delgan said, intention hanging in the air, “I mean, what do you think about…about seeing me again? Perhaps next week, you could come over for dinner?”
His punch line was soft. That was good. Ease into it.
“Oh, why didn’t I understand that’s what you meant?” Allabva stammered, wishing for more time. “I’d have to—”
“Allie!” Brel came bounding back, hooking her arm in Allabva’s, and pulled her insistently. “Come here for a minute. I’ll bring her back, Delgan!”
“What are you doing?” Allabva asked for an explanation at the same moment that she allowed herself to get pulled along, turning and giving a surprised wave to Delgan. “Where are we going? And how did you get such perfect timing?”
Brelin laughed out loud. “Allie, you have to try the cream punch the Faetlans brought. It simply cannot wait. Also, because I’ve been watching you, and I’m here to make sure you don’t make a big mistake.”
“What big mistake?”
“Delly-kins just asked you over, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you were going to say yes, weren’t you? Here you go.” Brelin served two glasses of the cream punch and handed one to Allabva. “You’d better say yes.”
“I was about to say that I’d have to check with my mother, because she might need me.”
“You like him, right?”
“Yes. I want to go, but if Mother needs me—”
“No. This is important, Allie-poos. Tell the Delly-kins ‘yes,’ and your mother will understand. If she doesn’t, just send her to me.”
Allabva couldn’t help but laugh at Brelin’s antics and odd nicknames. “Okay, um, Brelly-welly. But what if I’m needed? I don’t want to lead him on.”
“Allabva Roalke. Tell him yes. Now take that glass of punch and share the rest with your Delly-kins. He’ll like that.”
“Sharing the glass? But we’re not—”
“Shh, Alla-Roal.” Brelin was leading Allabva back towards Delgan, who had taken a moment to try some miniature milk cakes. She spoke conspiratorially. “If things go right, soon enough you’ll want to kiss him, so you might as well share a glass of punch. It won’t kill you. Now say yes.” Then she raised her voice to a more audible level. “Here she is, Del.”
Brelin gave Allabva a gentle push towards Delgan, who now held a mini cake in each hand, and was offering one to Allabva.
“Hi.” Allabva felt awkward. “Um, let’s go for a little walk.”
“Sure thing.” Delgan stepped aside to let her lead the way. “Here, have a milk cake.”
Allabva accepted the small pastry and led away from the festivities, walking through the town’s main thoroughfare. They wouldn’t go far, she decided, but this way they could talk with some amount of privacy, being fairly confident that they wouldn’t be interrupted by Brelin or by anybody else. Once they were far enough away, Allabva broached the subject Delgan was probably waiting for.
“Delgan, I like you.”
“Alright, I think I like where this is going.” “
“No, seriously I do. I just don’t like leaving people high and dry, so when Brel grabbed me and whisked me off, I was about to say that I would need to talk with my mother and make sure she would be alright without me that evening. But apparently Brel thinks that if I told you that, it wouldn’t be fair to you to keep you waiting for an answer.”
“I see. And what are your thoughts about Brel’s thoughts?” Delgan’s expression was… Hopeful?
“Wait, what am I doing?” Allabva stopped herself abruptly. “Have some cream punch.”
Delgan’s eyebrows rose. “It looks like you already drank some of it.” Allabva wondered if he might be thinking what she had thought when Brelin suggested this.
She didn’t want to bear the suspense any longer. “Yes, I’ll come to dinner. I’d love to. Maybe I just need to be more confident and let Mother handle things on her own. She’s quite capable, so why not? Now have some punch.”
Delgan’s eyebrows stayed high in the sky as his mouth cracked into a large grin and he brought the glass to his lips. “If you say so, boss.”
“Should I bring anything?” Allabva still didn’t want to appear useless. Especially not to Delgan.
“Strawberry!”
“Like, one strawberry? I don’t think we have any right now.”
“No, the cream punch. It’s strawberry, and it tastes so fresh. How did they make this before the strawberries are out this season?”
Allabva had completely forgotten about the cream punch again, feeling the strength of her inner turmoil instead. “Oh, yeah. It does taste rather fresh, doesn’t it? Let me have some more of that.”
She snatched the glass away from Delgan as if to make sure he wouldn’t finish off the punch by himself, and took a large swig. If anything, it seemed to taste even fresher after she accepted his invitation to dinner.
“Where does that put us?” Delgan asked. “Is it just dinner, or is it… Well, I’m assuming Brel and Alvern will probably be an official item by the end of the evening.”
Delgan had no idea how close he was to the mark concerning the Brelin affair.
“I’d say it’s just dinner so far,” Allabva said. “We’ll see where this goes.”
“Sounds good to me, and I’d say it sounds like you have a sensible head on your shoulders. I’d even say I like where this is going so far myself.”
“So do I,” Allabva breathed. It felt nice to open up a little more. Then she surprised herself. “But to be frank, I feel like next week is a little too far away. I don’t want to put upon you and your folks, so let me check with Mother, and maybe you want to come over on the weekend? We could cook and, I don’t know.”
“Cooking sounds nice,” Delgan replied. “Let me know what your mother says, and—”
Allabva took his hand and led him back to the Observance. Then, letting it sink in that she was beginning a courtship, she let his hand go and proffered him the glass of cream punch. “Come on. We already talked to your folks; come make some small talk with Mother and Mellier.”
“Sure thing,” Delgan said.
They made their way back to the square and found Allabva’s mother at the edge of the green, laughing with delight as Mellier danced in a manner that almost nobody except a child his age would, his movements committed, betraying excess energy, and comically ridiculous.
“Mother, did you try the cream punch?”
“Of course. I’ve been coming to these since before you were born. What makes you think I wouldn’t know exactly what the best food and drinks are going to be?”
“Good point,” Allabva conceded.
“I really liked your Greenstones’ Dance. It was well organized, and you looked so lovely and happy dancing.”
“Thank you, Mother.” Allabva had had enough praise for one evening.
“And I see you brought your dance partner. Hello, Delgan.”
“Hello, Mistress Roalke. I really like the cream punch, too, but I think my favorite dish tonight was the garlic and rosemary pheasant.”
Mother looked at Delgan appraisingly with an eyebrow cocked, then at Allabva. “You told him. You told him, right?”
Allabva shook her head, but her mother wasn’t convinced.
“No, I know you told him.”
“Told me what?” Delgan tried to puzzle out the exchange between Allabva and her mother.
“That’s my recipe,” Mother answered.
“You made that?” Delgan sounded impressed.
“Well, no, not exactly. Tonight’s dinner was a cooperative effort. All the pheasant was prepared the same way, but they cycle through recipes throughout the town every year. This year was my recipe. I didn’t personally cook the pheasant here tonight, but I directed its preparation.”
Delgan still appeared impressed. “Well, it was incredible.”
Mistress Roalke waved him off. “Okay, don’t push it too hard.”
This seemed to be going well enough in Allabva’s eyes, but then she saw that blasted Nomord again, this time on a different hillside, staring across the distance and straight into her.
No. She recovered faster this time. She was having a good time, and perhaps setting a courtship in motion that could last her entire life. She would not let some ominous, feather-brained Nomo-Nomo mess up this evening for her. Maybe Brel was right to jump in.
“Hey, Del, how about tomorrow?” She tore her eyes away from the horned equine and gave Delgan her most engaging smile. Then, before he could react, “Mother, I’d like to invite the young and esteemed Master Dlorovin to dinner tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Mother asked. “But there will be work to be done, and you’ll be tired after this late evening. Do you think you’ll be done in time?”
“Absolutely.” Allabva held her mother’s gaze firmly, her expression committing to do whatever it would take.
“I’ll help cook,” Delgan bargained, “and I’ll bring my xylophone and play for you.”
Allabva was taken aback. This was even more than she was hoping for. “You don’t have to play for us.”
“I want to,” he affirmed.
“Very well,” Mother said. “Delgan, we’d be honored to have you, but you don’t have to cook for us, either.”
“Why wouldn’t I cook? I think it sounds like fun. And I thank you for the invitation.”
“You know what?” Allabva intoned abruptly, her immediate mission having been accomplished. “Let’s dance a bit more.”
“Alright,” Delgan said, and walked her onto the green, where he again showed his competence in motion. Allabva could do worse than Delgan Dlorovin.
They continued dancing together, lively and slower tunes alike, Allabva occasionally making eye contact with Brelin and receiving overly encouraging gestures and facial expressions, until Mistress Tunnigan took the podium a final time for the evening, thanking everyone for attending and wishing all a good night.
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