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*****

It was a long night, and an early morning, but I did get the bungalow looking like it would pass even the most exacting inspection. I didn't take offence when Chitterleigh took out a white cloth and began checking surfaces, even underneath the icebox and behind the W.C. The motive behind this spoke more to him than to me.

Dinner, in the form of a salad with nuts, was prepared, along with some white wine chilling in the icebox. Bagoum's officer Lieutenant Banks made an appearance - I gathered he'd been out on maneuvers, and certainly his otter's fur seemed quite bleached by the sun. In an event, he lent my officer some flatware which, when I polished it, proved to be a mixture of sets liberated from an assortment of regimental messes. I contrived to match as much as I could and pray that Chitterleigh's father was near-sighted.

As luck would have it, it was a cool, gentle breezy day. They call it "King's Weather," though I think some of that is with an eye toward the old elf's comfort than any testament to his communion with Nature. It's said that His Majesty spends a lot of time in a belvedere in the Royal Palace, watching the Parade Ground through a spyglass. If he had, and if he had cared to, he could have seen a small ant-trap carrying me to Miss Eichelgruber's residence.

The Lieutenant jocularly referred to this as a "recce," though I think the point more was to be helpful. In the event, I suppose the recce was a good idea, since it did give me an idea of who the other guests at the luncheon would be.

Or, rather, guest, singular. Who turned out to be the old femme from the cavalry luncheon. The old mare glanced in my direction when Meadow let me in through the garden gate. For some reason, she smiled, which had me worried a little bit.

My early arrival caused a slight change in plans, as Miss Eichelgruber now saw that the lunch table could be set up in the garden, so with a little effort from me, the table leaves were disassembled and reassembled, with the settings replaced in their proper places by Meadow. She took a great deal of care in placing the glasses, china and truesilver, as she slowly bent over to set them.

Yes, I did notice. And the old femmefur noticed me noticing.

At the stroke of mid-day, there was a cheerful bell-peal, and the Lieutenant was admitted, bearing a basket of rather succulent-looking acorns. I think I would liked to have known where he got them, and I resolved to keep an eye for any leftovers.

The Lieutenant was formally introduced to Mrs. Truemane, and the frankly appraising look he got from her made him grin sheepishly and fiddle with his cravat, a state of nerves not helped by the fact that she was introduced as the day's chaperone.

There was something out of place, though, and I couldn't think of what it was until Meadow and I had served the first of the three courses. I bent down to whisper in my officer's ear.

"The mare, sir, is not using her ear-trumpet."

Chitterleigh's tail gave a violent twitch, and I could see him turn to Mrs. Truemane as I resumed my station elsewhere. He attempted to engage her in a conversation about the day's weather. The response he got was a pleasant smile and a nod. One or more attempts at conversation convinced him, evidently, of the safety of conversation not involving her. I chose that moment to check on how the main course was doing.

Meadow, when she came into the kitchen, smiled, and pointed to the ear-trumpet, which was safely tucked away in its carrying case, the straps on.

"Errr, Meadow?"

"Yes?"

"How long do you think we should...ah...give it?"

"Mrs. Truemane will let us know."

"How will...oh." I got the impression, quickly, that it wasn't going to be a matter of words that would allow Mrs. Truemane to know when the main course should be served.

The rather long interval allowed Meadow and I to have our own luncheon. She somewhat cheekily appropriated one of the gifted acorns, and split it between the two of us.

"Any reason you're watching the sun-dial so closely, Westersloe?"

After being briefly startled by the use of my first name (which few furs do), I told her about the second act that was set for that night. She wrinkled her small pink nose.

"Oh, ugh. Lord Twelveoaks."

"You know him?"

"He and my mistress' father are old friends. They go back a long, long way together, back to when they were clerks."

"What are they now?"

She raised an eyebrow, but then nodded. "I forget that you're a country boy."

"Well, we don't get much attention, and we return the same."

"You're not losing much. Lord Twelveoaks - that's the title, not his last name - is the Minister for Health Affairs."

"What, he looks out for plague?"

"If you want my opinion, he is a plague. And what's more, he has atrocious table manners."

"Rather odd for a courtier, isn't it? I mean, bad table manners?"

"You hear stories about what goes on when the ladies leave the table, Westersloe."

"Not a country girl, I take, with that knowledge."

A slow smile. "No, I was born here in Albric Tor. Nobody special, in case you're wondering. But I do all right."

She smiled when she saw me busy myself with my acorn at that comment.

"Anyway, Lord Greenleaf - that's Mistress' father - works in the Protocol Office. He gets to plan the parades and ceremonies and the like. Which is rather like playing with toy battle-ants, only his are much bigger and make louder gronking sounds. As I said, they're old cronies, Greenleaf and Twelveoaks."

"But you don't like Twelveoaks."

Another nose-wrinkle. "He's a blowhard who got where he is today by essentially repeating the same old nonsense over and over again until furs think he's merely retelling essential truths. His latest thing is The Future of the Elvish Race."

Meadow caught sight of a dropped pawkerchief from Mrs. Truemane, and our conversation was interrupted by the need to serve the main course (a chilled cucumber and cruton soup). The previous course had barely been touched. I also noticed that both Miss Eichelgruber and the Lieutenant had pushed their chairs in somewhat closer to the table and away from Mrs. Truemane, who had happily cleaned her plate.

Meadow and I served the main course, bowed, and bore the plates we'd cleared rather quickly out of the garden.

"The Future of the Elvish Race, you said."

My colleague rolled her eyes. "It's been something that the Ministers have been Studying, Debating and Considering for years, now. There's probably a whole chamber you could fill with the assorted scrolls of their memoranda and deliberations."

"Is all that talk bad?"

Meadow paused in the act of cleaning a plate and considered that for a bit. "I know you're from Elfhame, Westersloe, I can hear it in your accent." She looked at me. "You must have seen what's happened there."

I nodded. "Well, I mean, it was all the wars we fought in over the years. Elfhame was always loyal to the Crown..."

"Over a lot of generations?"

I could only nod to that. "And then when you have crop failures, and furs get sick...well..."

"Do you think there are other places like Elfhame?"

"I don't know. I mean, Elfhame wasn't all that big to begin with."

"What do you think the population of Faerie is doing, Westersloe? Really?"

I thought. "Growing slowly, I'd imagine. I mean, Albric Tor seems pretty busy and all."

"Would it surprise you to know that the city is 5,000 elves smaller than it was at the start of His Majesty's reign?"

"Well, out of how many?"

"A fair amount, but suppose I told you that it was the same in practically every kingdom, principality, barony and bishopric in Faerie?"

"Do they know why?"

"If they knew exactly why, they wouldn't have filled up that chamber with all those studies, would they?"

"I suppose. So how does my officer's father fit into this?"

"Have you ever heard of a changeling?"

"That's an old tale. It's what mothers tell their children when they're naughty, that they'll be traded for a Lowfolk child and sent from Faerie."

"Were you told that?"

I thought. "No. I just read it in the storybooks."

"It's not a story. It really does happen. It's not law - not now, anyway - but there are a fair number who send their children away, not long after birth, to the Lowfolk country."

"What, sent away from Faerie?!"

She put a finger to her lips and shushed. "Yes. Twelveoaks is a big backer of it. Says it brings "hybrid vigour," as if we elves were ants being bred."

"Is he right?"

Meadow shrugged. "Who knows? It's only been happening in significant numbers during the last two generations or so. They didn't talk about this in Elfhame?"

"I was an only child. Literally."

Meadow looked at me, horrified. "Literally? You're joking. Was it that...?" She saw my expression, and looked abashed. She apologized.

"No, I think it's about time I heard this, and better from you, Meadow, than from a squaddie. So what's Twelveoaks going to do?"

"There's going to be a law proposed...when, I don't know, they're still working on it...that's going to require that all Faerie-born be raised in Lowfolk country."

"Oh, that's absurd. No one will stand for that, Meadow."

"You were an only child, you said?"

"Well, yes."

"How did you stay home in Elfhame?"

"A special exemption...oh."

"And no one in Elfhame fought, even when the last draughts were drained off and sent elsewhere?"

"I can't believe it. I mean, how can the Lowfolk teach our kin anything?"

"They probably can't. Have you seen your comrades?"

"Look, I'll grant you, a squaddie is a squaddie, but..."

"Well, that's the future of Faerie, right there." She dried a glass. "You were on a farm, weren't you?"

"Orchard."

"Did they ever cross-breed trees?"

"Sure."

"Did it always work?"

"Well, an elf isn't a tree."

Meadow looked out the window, to see the pawkerchief drop again.

"No, Westersloe, an elf isn't."

The main course, which looked delicious to me, hadn't been touched by the two squirrels. The spoons hadn't even moved. Catching sight of us, the two moved apart quickly, their ears turning red, with some sheepish chittering.

Mrs. Truemane didn't bat an eye, but finished her soup with evident pleasure.

We decided to dispense with the third course, and quietly (and quickly) padded back to the kitchen. Meadow again apologized.

"It's a rotten thing to talk politics, Westersloe, and I'm sorry."

"No, no. I'd rather hear it from you. Shall we change the subject?"

We were having some difficulty, with fits and starts that stuttered out, when we were joined by Mrs. Truemane, who gently clopped in, unbuckled her trumpet-case, and sat down to a helping of rhubarb tart. She looked up at my puzzled and astonished expression.

"You'd think that silly ass of a father of hers, being a politician, would know how to phrase things, wouldn't you?" She wickered in delight, and gave herself a heaping spoon of cream.

Meadow leaned in to her trumpet. "Left it open, did he, ma'am?"

"As open as that great big acorn-muncher of his below his nose. Said to me, my dear, "Now Agnes, I want you to be in that house at all times when those two are there - don't leave them in that house alone." Twit."

"Ma'am? Um...where is...?"

"If he's got any common sense, off in that alcove in the garden. Thinks he's putting one over on me, he is. Hah!" A heaping forkful of tart was chewed with relish.

I have to say that my acorn-muncher was open, as well. She looked at me, and shook her head.

"I hope that's youth, boy, and not something else. In my day, when I was a young filly (and that was a long time ago, and what of it?), we didn't bother with such things as chaperones."

Another slice of tart, with lots of cream, was demanded.

"Heavens, no. Why, let me tell you, when I met my first husband, he didn't shilly-shally. The first chance the two of us got..."

Between bites of tart-and-cream, there followed a startling description of what evlish stallions could do when the mood struck them. For that matter, a startling description of what elvish ex-fillies - and they certainly had to be ex-fillies -- could do when the mood struck them.

"All this assorted nonsense about propriety and rules and observance of norms? Rubbish, my dears, complete rubbish. Well, at least we so-called furs of quality have an excuse. What's your excuse, boy?"

"Ma'am?"

She pointed with a fork at Meadow, who was smiling sweetly.

"Now, when I was mistress of a household, I used to have dozens of servants. Had quite a turnover below-stairs, bless them with Fuma's scent. Oh, yes, scullery maids were lucky to last six months, bless 'em again. Never batted an eye, I did. Paid 'em off, set them up in trade, got in a new batch. Made sure one or two of the footfurs were off limits though. Private stock, y'know." She winked at me, and then looked me over with the aid of a lorgnette.

"Hmmm. Small and tawny was usually brawny, though."

She was looking at my boggled expression with a puzzled air, and then turned to Meadow, and enquired whether I had performed one of a series of four actions with, or preferably at, her. Meadow shrugged her shoulders, and leaned in to the trumpet.

"He's a country boy, ma'am."

"Oh! One of those rustic chivalry types?"

"I think so, ma'am."

"My third husband was like that. It took forever to break him in, but it was worth it. I can't think why he was so shy at first, he should have been proud of it. If that ghastly ass Twelveoaks wants vigour in our race, he should get a company of grain-wenches, some nice strapping country boys, and a few casks of wine. Mix with moonlight and a few fiddles, and there you are! Used to never fail, you'd always have a nice round of weddings some months later."

Mrs. Truemane dabbed her lips with a napkin.

"I'm going upstairs for a nap. Wake me when it's time to send that nice young Lieutenant home."

She paused at the stairs, and wagged a finger at me. "Now, you be a good little elf, and remember to clear that table, first. If you break anything, hide it under the rug. I won't tell Miss Eichelgruber."

After she left, Meadow was laughing too hard to press her advantage, and the moment passed. We finished the tart together, and after finding a harpsichord tucked away in the corner of the salon, I sang some old, rustic folk melodies. Ones whose lyrics would have disappointed Mrs. Truemane, but were still appreciated by Meadow.

The sun-dial was getting dangerously late in the afternoon when the two of us reluctantly agreed we had to do something. Meadow took me by the paw, and led me outside, to the edge of the garden alcove. She whispered to me, and on the count of three (wait for it, as my drill sergeant would have said), each of us discreetly cleared our throats.

There followed a pair of startled squeaks, followed by some indistinct rustling. It took the better part of five minutes before Miss Eichelgruber and the Lieutenant reappeared. Meadow and I bowed, and I noted to the Lieutenant that we had another appointment. He sighed, and looked unhappy. His companion looked wistful, but asked Meadow to fetch both my hat and the Lieutenant's, and they said good-bye to Mrs. Truemane, who looked cheerful, refreshed, and full of vim. I know that, because she expressed her vigor with a paw when no one was looking.

On the ride back, I felt something in my hat, and upon investigation, found it was a note that had been placed there. I thought it was very decent of my officer not to ask me what the message was. While flattering, it could hardly be repeated.