There are fires lit upon the surrounding limestone plateaux, each vineyard erupting in celebration. One could see them all from the castle walls, Ille du Bouchard, Penzoult, Chinon. Lights were strung on the trees along the Vienne and boats decorated with lanterns move up and down the fast trekking river.
     The ville itself is full of its inhabitants and those of the smaller, neighboring villages. There is music, laughter, even a little tango in the cobblestone streets nearest the castle walls. Every restaurant is packed -- Orangerie, Trente Ans, Dame Lombarde's -- and the air smells of wine, bread, cheese, and the incense of burning grape leaves.
     The castle has never looked better. Over the past twenty years, the finishing touches on its complete restoration were made complete and it stands now overlooking the Vienne in a condition it has not seen since the 12th Century. Enormous, beautiful -- it is lit for the festival in amber floodlights. You could probably see it halfway to Tours.
     The gates stand open across the St. George Bridge, the invitation given to friends and family alike. Tomorrow, the ville will crowd in as the procession ends upon its grounds. But it shares the celebration with the ville just outside. Inside...
     The garden area of the Milieu and the orchards themselves are decorated. Tables have been set up in this vast and open area. Bundles and boughs of grapes and grape leaves and herbs and all manners of other cuttings provide a savory sort of decor, not only in the garden and orchards but upon the Logis Royeaux (the castle of the castle) itself.
     Upon the tables, the best wines from the casks, the best fruit from the orchards, a selection of the famous cabernet franc from the fields just beyond the limestone walls, cheese from the goats down the road, the prince of mushrooms gathered from the caves near the castle and around Penzoult. Sumptuous, yes, but natural. Of this land. The best it has to offer, laid out for all to enjoy. There is even tastings of the recent pressings -- a peek at wine five years from the table.

     There are twelve sections of gardens that fill the vast interior, separated by the cobbled pathways. In one section, lilies, the flower of France, grow in Gothic circles, and roses, expertly trimmed, form living Rose Windows in yellows, blush, red and white. In another, lavender and rosemary, thyme and basil grow, chaotic and yet there is an underlying pattern, undetected until the herbs bloom.
     A classical rose garden fills yet another strip of the Chateau du Milieu, girded by small, controlled grove of pomegranates.
     Interspersed in all this growth are statues of marble, of stone and bronze. Benches are situated near the fountain, and here and there along other paths. Leading from the gardens, several paths tend toward the bridge that leads over the interior moat and into the orchards.

     Near one of the trees, laughing brightly, is a woman, in her forties. Draped in brown-red hair, she stands tall and elegant, professional. But tonight, she's dressed in a comfortable rustic dress with a billowing white shirt. Costume, and not. A throwback to a time when suits and pleated skirts did not exist. The dress of a local maiden, in her cleanest outfit for a party. On her lips is a Scottish tinge, but her French is fluid and perfect. Not Genevieve, for she's slightly more Kindred, but a mortal of high station and in the know.
      A MacInveray.
      Running Midlothian Enterprises for Ian Dunross has fallen to her since the retirement of her father. She is no spring chicken: she's handled ME-East for ages now. And Sidhe has ascended to her father's throne, next to that of Ian's.

     Not so far from her? Robert LeGrasse, dressed sharply, but also mindful of the past. In vintner's slacks and a green shirt, he seems to step from the vineyard to the offices. A hard path for most of the earth, that transition, but Robert, the invisible hand behind BT's technology, seems to do it well.

     And did someone mention Genevieve? With features similar to Sidhe MacInveray, but definitely of the Kindred variety, Genevieve McMaster - lovingly called Jezebel - stands out near Robert LeGrasse. She links her arm in his, laughing at some tale being told. Tall and auburn-haired, Genevieve is the face of Toreador itself. There is no doubt she would be at a festival key to William's Chinon -- as friend, patron, partner, and council member, she holds a formidable space in their undead lives.

     Dr. Gifford seems to be arriving in the middle of the party from the train. Bags taken up by staff to the rooms left available to guests as she goes down to the gardens, glancing around at the various people gathered here for the evening. She's somewhere between business and casual. No costumes here, simply American and Victoria. Slacks, flats, a light sweater. Reaching up to tuck one of the chestnut curls left down for the evening back behind her ear she pauses to take in the scene, obviously someone who isn't familiar with the chateau.

     If only the trees could be crowned with the tinkling sound of woman's laughter. Or any laughter, for that matter. Second best, of course, are hanging lanterns like pomegranates -- small but providing not only light but a light, ruddy hue. Like a blush hung upon Evening's own cheeks...

     In the midst of the pomegranate grove is Chinon's own incarnation, an unmarked bottle in his hands and amid the pouring. That bottle is surrounded by other bottles of various shapes and sizes, each one with a handmade label, signed by his own hand and made of his own hand, with artwork that is not stock -- each one is different. For those of sensitive natures, there follows the scent of plum, pomegranate, pear and apricot. Cordials are poured like potions from the hands of a magician. Or drugs from a chemist. If you have had the liqueurs, you would know there is little difference.
     William is dressed fairly casually for him these nights, tailored black trousers with an untucked white linen shirt -- the last linen of the season as summer has dwindled to the first part of autumn. Around him, his own gardens. The roses are still blooming, refusing to go peacefully into the sleeping time of year. The orchard's leaves are a mixture of red and gold, highlighted by the red hue of the lamps. The pomegranates are heavy with fruit just waiting to be picked and turned into more liquid.
     He is laughing at someone nearby. Davydd ap Owain ('Llywelyn'), who's dressed smartly but in blacks, and whose mouth is busy telling Sandrine and those others nearby the story of when he first saw Chinon after the defeat of Napoleon. "Tatters," he says, "...the whole bloody thing was one big ruin, with a capitol R. I told him he was crazy..."
      "And I am glad I don't listen to you," William counters, laughing. And pouring now a glass of wine. A much healthier volume of liquid. That much of the plum or pomegranate might kill a man...

     Ah, somebody she knows. Next to somebody she's met. Making her way through the tables, Victoria approaches the pouring of the liquor, grinning slightly as she waits for a moment listening the conversation.
     With the laugh of the lord of the manor, she smiles. Taking a chance to announce herself, "I somehow doubt that there are very many people that you'd listen to once you'd set on something." Of course, she's using French. When in Rome...

     That comment causes a round of laughter, including from William. Davydd rings out "That's the God's Truth," and pivots to see who let fly with that piquant observation. She doesn't really ring a bell -- seems maybe familiar...

     William on the other hand grins to see her and waves her forward. "Victoria Gifford, welcome to Chinon. There is espresso and tea beneath the tree there," he nods toward one of the trees in the Milieu's garden, a lone pear set apart from the orchards. "Ah, oh look," he grins and he gestures with his hand, a glass in his hand about to be drained, "... you remember that, yes?" The sundial sits proudly among the lilies of France.

     "Thank you, it's lovely. I've been looking forward to getting here the last couple of days." Victoria says with a beaming smile. A little less staunch than her usual borderline stuffed shirt self.
     Turning to the area that William gestures at she laughs lightly, "Of course I do. The sundial." She steps over towards it a bit, crossing her arms loosely, "Do you run out here starkers in the middle of the day sometimes just to show that you can like you threatened you were going to?" She turns back to the conversation and offers a hand over to Davydd, "Hello, I'm Victoria. We met a few years ago when I was up to Strathfayr for Christmas, but it was brief."

     Sandrine grins, her arm around Davydd's. She laughs brightly, bringing her glass of red to her lips. More than likely of the region. If so, then it's cabernet franc. The grapes of the Vienne and Chinon in particular.
     "Well, it is glorious now," Sandrine observes. Dressed in a deep blue cocktail dress, it clings at her bust and hips as if painted on. Perhaps it has. Her hair sweeps down over her bared shoulders. Indeed, Sandrine Jorgenson gets more than her fair share of second looks. She misses them, however, for her eyes remain squarely upon Davydd and those conversing in her circle.
     Sandrine tips her head as the woman approaches, going quiet as Davydd has an introduction.

     "Merci," William interrupts his conversation with Victoria Gifford, to thank Sandrine. "I know you love him, but you cannot listen to him," he murmurs in aside. As if it wasn't meant to be heard by Davydd and the rest. A wink tells the truth of it. "Before I go any further, Victoria, this is Sandrine Jorgenson, you may have met at the show?" He posits that, he's not sure actually. "Sandrine," William follows warmly, "...this is Victoria Gifford," not Maximilian's Daughter, "... visiting again from America." He twists, "Eros!" A man in black, with dark brown hair and a professional if casual air about the gardens, "Could you bring me the carafe, espresse, please..."

     Davydd looks at Victoria a moment, then perks up: "Oh, right. The American Doctor." He snaps his fingers. "And the art show, aye. Staying for good are you?" He pauses there, allowing Sandrine to give greetings and vice versa. He takes a moment to drink some of the wine.

     Likewise, any conversation about naked sprinting at noon to look at the sundial are postponed momentarily...

     Eros Foury, one of the many members of Chinon's household here on-hand to help, brings a service of coffee to the liqueur table...
     More wine is brought, and fruit and cheese and other delights (fish from the Vienne even and chocolate from the chocolatier in the old section of the ville) are brought out.

     Also lingering in the garden are several young men, some from the vineyards and vintner's crew, several Italians. Italian moves as much as French, Gaelic and English in the garden at the moment...

     From beyond the gate, there's the yapping of a dog, followed by husky laughter, audible only to those near enough to overhear. A few beats on a drum, and more laughter, the sound of a heavily laden wagon rolling away, the drums receding with the wagon. The sounds get fainter, but are replaced by the thread of a flute picking up among the increasingly distant rumblings. It, and the occasional playful-sounding barks of the dog, grow gradually nearer to the gate.

     "Oh, yes," Sandrine nods, recalling. "Welcome back again, Doctor. A pleasure to see you. It's a good time to be at Chinon, yes?"

     Smiling to Sandrine, she nods, "We did, briefly again. But it's lovely to see you both here, I wasn't sure if I'd even have met anyone else." She waves a little to Jez over by the trees but doesn't move over towards her as yet, instead staying with the current conversation.
     "I'm not sure, actually. I've been thinking about it. I'd have to settle some awkward things back home, but it's not out of the question." She shrugs a little, "But, either way, I'll probably be on the continent for Christmas."
     Stepping over when the espresse is brought, she takes one of the cups that accompanies it. Nodding her thanks to the server first and then William before turning back to Sandrine with a smile, "It's a marvelous time, yes. Everything's so festive. Which... makes sense for a festival."

     "There's nothing like Christmas here," Sandrine says. Not that she's ever been to America, but she's heard. "Europe created Christmas, yes?" A joke. "I am only teasing, but traveling is a nice thing, especially during holy days," that's an archaism, "...and festivals," Sandrine observes.

      William chuckles quietly at that. It appears that the answer on running starkers will have to wait. "J'excuse," he says, "I will be back momentarily...be merry without me..." Cordials in hand, he steps away from the gathering that had congealed around him and the pomegranates and heads toward Genevieve and Robert.
     Apparently he had promised them a tasting minutes ago now and is just now making his way back.

     Davydd sips at the wine, then lowers it for a moment of conversation. His mouth hardly knows what to do! "Everyone knows that Wales created Christmas," he murrs, laughing at his shite already. "But it's good to see you still here. You should visit us in Wales if you haven't had a chance to see it yet. I hear it's a lot like your Oregon. Trees, rivers and salmon..." His accent is a tripping, lilting tangle. He speaks rapidly -- the Welsh tend to do so -- his words punctuated by laughter as if to give you cues to follow along.
     Davydd pivots briefly, head turning to the sound of a flute being played nearby. He can't help himself. He twists back to look at the two women. Surrounded by women again. It's a gift Llywelyn seems to have.

     Genevieve cannot handle a function where she stands alone. And so, Robert's the companion of the moment, her arm around his. Of course, she's the first to notice William approaching, and Genevieve gives a small wave his direction.
     "Guillaume, Laird," the word used as its true titling, "...Robert and I were wondering when we'd see you again."

     Really? Robert looks content at the moment, his red-blonde brows arching at the comment.

     There's a brief wave given to William as he heads off, she will have more than enough time to catch up with him on whatever needs catching up on later. Her attention still with Davydd and Sandrine, smiling still, Victoria takes a sip of her coffee, nodding, "I've heard it's lovely, I'm afraid my chances to travel have been pretty limited, though. I'll be sure and add it on my list though. I don't get to enjoy the countryside in Oregon all that much, either." She shrugs slightly, seeming to think that's the way things go.
     Eyebrows going up slightly as she sees someone else. One of those ancient observers that her sire's always sending her off to exchange greetings with. Waving a bit before turning back to the couple apologetically, "I'm sorry, there's someone over there I should talk to. Are the two of you staying here at Chinon during the festival as well?"

     "Oh aye... we'll be here for a few nights, soaking up the luxury," Davydd chuckles, pausing to take another swallow of the cabernet. Damn. I might have to be carried to bed.

     There's a nod from Sandrine. "We will. Somewhere," she mock-looks-around, "...around here." In the palace. "Maybe we'll see you then."

     Victoria nods with a smile, "I'd enjoy that. Have a lovely time, which I'm sure won't be difficult." She adds a bit of ruefulness to it, "I'm off to meet my horrible fate." She wrinkles her nose slightly, "Luckily I brushed up on my active listening skills a few months ago so I should be able to make it." Waving slightly as she starts to step away, "Great to see you both again." And with that, the good doctor is lost to the party.

     "You are beautiful when you lie to me," William murmurs, leaning in to place a kiss of greeting again upon her cheek. He hands each of them a cordial, Genevieve first. Robert gets a wink with his. "Let me know what you think. You like it, you can take a bottle back with you. I cannot drink it all by myself..." he protests.

     Gradually, the flute draws closer, along with the dog, until a young man's voice commandingly tells the dog in low-pitched French, "Down, Capitaine... your mud and mine are the same, but my knees do not need them." It's followed by a laugh, and a whoofle from the dog, around the bend from the gate.

     Davydd pivots a moment to look at the gate and bridge, the source of music, then back to Sandrine. Did you hear that? He takes a moment for the dress again, emptying his (who can count?) glass of wine. Now free, his hand slips around her waist. "If we are going to have music, I saw we dance. You want to tango down the street?" Davydd laughs quietly, eyes crinkling in the corners and he leans in for a brief kiss upon his woman's cheeks.

     "A bottle? Between us?" Genevieve looks pained, but brings the cordial up to her rather sensitive Toreador nose. A smile draws her lips left and right, but her enjoyment is short. There is much noise coming from somewhere, breaking through the normal din of reverie.

     "Ah, William, you are a good man. No matter what Ian says." He too puts his nose into his glass, but then twists to see the flute-source.

     William gives Genevieve a look. Am I that stingy with alcohol? "No, each," he says in Gaelic. "However many you like. I have another batch from year before last that needs to be enjoyed." He was about to take a drink of the pomegranate -- reincarnation in a glass -- when Robert speak. It's interrupted for a warm rush of quiet laughter. There's no protest that follows that sentiment.
     The laughter is in turn interrupted for the sound of a voice, the music approaching and the sound of a dog barking. Not one of his. The greyhounds are either in the house or in the kennel (the Tour du Chien).

     Genevieve stares at the approaching wagon, along with her companion. "Guests of yours, Guillaume?" Genevieve says in Gaelic, leaving Robert to sort out her comment.

     An odd figure comes into view around the edge of the gate, dressed in reddish-brown trousers of a somewhat dark corduroy, paired with a cream-coloured tunic of Indian cotton. The shirt is long and a bit loose, the lightly embroidered cuffs falling against the almost delicate wrists. The black hair is pulled back into a short ponytail, soft leather boots on his feet, and a small dark mark stains the centre of the high brow, above the aquiline nose and full lips, above laughing aquamarine eyes that presently are locked in an amused battle of wills with a medium-sized black and white terrier. He has a burlap knapsack over one shoulder, his other hand clutching a flute as he bends to one knee.
     "Capitaine, you may lead and you may drive, but my footprints are still my own." What is a child of India, however marred by other blood, doing on the doorstep of Chinon?

     Indeed, most of the garden crowd turns now to see the approach. Sandrine nudges Davydd and looks in the distance to the gate.

     William is half-turned toward the arrival. For a moment, he simply stares. But then he smiles, remembering. He has a knack for remember faces, and this one he has seen now several times. "A wandering poet," he confirms. "From India. Some are storytellers, he collects them."

     Davydd pivots again also, his arm still around Sandrine's waist, she still held closely by that. "I haven't seen a troubadour like that in years," he murmurs.

     "Valmiki," comes the Plantagenet voice, lifting and carrying without sounding like shouting, "... this is a true surprise. Welcome to the Chateau of Chinon..." Surprised to see me again? Turning to Robert and Genevieve, William murmurs, "Pardon me for a moment..."

     "Of course," both Robert and Genevieve chime at the same time. Then, they stare at each other, with narrowing eyes. "Jinx," Robert says first, sending both of them into chuckling laughter as they take the first taste of their cordials.

     The Hindu straightens, blinking. That voice ... where have I heard that voice before?
     It does not take long for the cataloguer of fancy to recall, however, and Valmiki laughs, revealing neat, even white teeth, one tea-coloured hand lifting in salute, even as he uses his other hand, flute still in it, to lightly knuckle himself upright in a caress to the dog's skull. "Hail, then, to Chinon's gates. Again, I find myself thrown upon your mercy and hospitality, sir," he sweeps into a low bow towards William's approach, "myself, that is, and tonight's traveling companion. Capitaine Jean Louis Mercer-Devereaux. His lineage is impeccable, although his manners do not display his breeding to his best advantage, I fear."
     He peers curiously in the direction of the gardens and the milling people as he straightens again, the flute lifted in his fist to brush back blue-black strands of hair from his eyes. A small, fascinated but cheerful smile touches his lips, leaving them parted as if on the verge of some exclamation or query.

     In a long life, one might meet any number of strange beings. Vampires, angels, fairy champions, Crusaders, collectors of stories. And though strange, Valmiki isn't the only twisted fairy tale in this garden.
     William comes forward, playing warm and gracious host tonight. "Come in, there is plenty of food and drink, that goes for Capitaine Jean Louis Mercer-Devereaux, bad manners or no. In fact, if you would like someone to feed and kennel the Capitaine while you get a moment to relax..." It is not a Suggestion with a capital 'S', but it's probably not a bad idea.
     "The last time I saw you it was a Scottish winter," that's been a year or two hasn't it? "Please, make yourself at home..."

     He has not been outside for the last half-hour. Ian was milling about inside the Logis, speaking to the visitors less inclined to enjoy the moon or the cooling night air. Tag-team hosting can be terribly exhausting.
     But someone had suggested that Ian go outside. A staff member reported to another at the bridge, suggesting that one of the Lords should know.
     William seems up on things, however.
     "Valmiki?" Ian murmurs, stepping out into the gardens from the antechamber. This is unexpected. Ian, dressed in beige linen slacks with an untucked eggshell shirt, walks over to where Valmiki and William greet, his expression showing his surprise.

     Several servants move among the guests, bringing refills so conversations do not need to be interrupted. Laughter may be heard coming from the orchards and someone is singing in Italian about a cinnamon tree...

     A cheerful laugh, and Valmiki bows again, extravagantly. Apparently, his travels have not worn him so thin this time as the last; if he had a feathered cap, the gesture seems to say, he would doff it.
     "I have had never any cause to disdain your hospitality, sir, and every reason to praise it," the youth declares confidently as he again rises. "I will do as you bid, and le Capitaine may as well get his rest. I had not intended, in truth, to bring him along," he adds confidingly, glancing to either side of him as though sharing both a secret and a jest, "but he refused to be parted from my side, and so, my last gracious hosts made a gift of him to me. - Ah, m'sieur! Again, we meet. I apologize; it seems I have an unfortunate habit of turning up."
     The latter is directed to Ian, along with a suddenly almost shy smile, and a half-bow, bobbing as it is, down, then up. "I go where the gods decree, and it seems that my paths and yours keep criss-crossing in serpentine, sinuous fashion. Alas, as before, all I might offer are my stories, and my music." Valmiki opens his fist, allowing the silvery flute to roll, then rest, then closes his hand once more.

     Only now does Ian finally come in close, at William's shoulder. A pair they are. "All we could wish," Ian smiles, "...are your stories and music, Valmiki. You are always welcome around us." Oops. It is William's home, and Ian looks to William to confirm his statement.

     A servant leaves a platter of pears on a table and then appears at William's side. "Adrian," he says to the dark-haired young man (there appear to be a number of these on staff), "...if you could please set the Capitaine here," a look to the dog, "... up with a room at the inn," he grins, meaning the kennel tower, "... I would be most grateful. I think there is room. If not, have Nico take the puppies into the house. Thank you."
     Adrian bobs his head. "Naturalmente, signore," he says. Another Italian! He looks to Valmiki. "I will take him," he says in non-natural English, heavily accented. "With your permission.
     William grins, looking to Ian -- and taking a moment to look fully, it's been a while since he's seen him -- and then turns to Valmiki. "Of course, of course... maybe after you eat and drink you'll give us a little music, yes?" He glances to the orchards, "Though it appears the vintners are starting without us." He grins, then leans in toward Ian, an arm going around him for a moment. The following words are soft, and of different dialect of French than the typical Parisian variety: I have missed you, how is it going inside?

     Davydd and Sandrine wander among the roses, wine glasses in hand...

     "Of course, but one moment," Valmiki answers Adrian, with a quick smile. He drops again to his knees - this time, both of them, unmindful of the dust he might transfer to his corduroys, and faces the dog, looking into the soulful brown eyes. "Capitaine, my friend, you will dine as a king tonight, and rest as one as well. But for this night, we part ways. Now, go - and don't bite." That said, he jumps back up to his feet, with a quick bow to Adrian. "You may lead him, now, but be mindful - he is sensitive of his rank."
     Turning, then, he advances to William and Ian, the flute tapped to one temple. "I would be honoured to serenade such noble hospitality as you have given me, now and before. I fear my playing will seem harsh, following such gentility, but I will endeavor as best I may."

     "And have someone prepare a room for our new guest," Ian asks the departing Adrian. "And a place for his wagon?" There's delight in seeing Valmiki, and as William puts his arm around Ian, Ian does likewise. "I am sure you would like to freshen up a little? Your traveling is tiring?" A question as much as expectation.
     For William's question, there's a slow nod. A suggestion 'it's fine.' Ian would hate to take attention from the arriving guest, asking, "Of course, we'll want to hear where you have been recently..."

     Adrian nods to the other boss, smiling. It is impossible not to smile at him! And then he looks to the dog. Bite? He's only momentarily nervous, but then starts to lead the dog to one of the castle towers across the way. "Your room, signore," he says to the dog, seeming to take the 'station' thing seriously. "Tonight on the menu there is Anjou beef or venison..." his voice trails away quietly as he and the dog make their way to the Tour du Chien. He makes a gesture to Eros. See the sirs!

     William looks between Valmiki and Ian. "Do not worry on the time," William notes to Valmiki. "There is plenty of food and drink. We would love to have music, but only after you enjoy this, hmm? And, I agree," a grin to Ian, "...you must tell us of your recent travels... and what has happened since leaving us in Scotland and finding us tonight in Chinon...."

     "Not my wagon, no - just a group of Travelers with whom I'd caught a lift for a while." When you travel on half-forgotten roads, you meet half-forgotten people. Valmiki relaxes, though remains as ever, suggestive of being on the balls of his feet, ready to move.
     To William's half-query, the Indian smiles readily. "Since Scotland? Why, sir, a world has been spent. Too much to tell it all in a single night - but I will do my best to entertain, and to earn my keep, and if I should fail... well. A wager, perhaps?" The blue-green eyes sparkle as he looks expectantly from Ian to William and back.

     "Not my wagon, no - just a group of Travelers with whom I'd caught a lift for a while." When you travel on half-forgotten roads, you meet half-forgotten people. Valmiki relaxes, though remains as ever, suggestive of being on the balls of his feet, ready to move.
     To William's half-query, the Indian smiles readily. "Since Scotland? Why, sir, a world has been spent. Too much to tell it all in a single night - but I will do my best to entertain, and to earn my keep, and if I should fail... well. A wager, perhaps?" The blue-green eyes sparkle as he looks expectantly from Ian to William and back.

     Ian laughs, "I've never been a betting man. I think it's William you want." Ian laughs more, knowing his very statement is debatable. Never a man to throw anything away, this is true, but he is a man that puts money behind educated guesses, that for most, seem like insane risks.
     "I will stay around to hear this, though," Ian confessing his interest.

     Wager? William grins at that. Normally, he is a betting man. "It is not much of a wager, Valmiki. I can't imagine you would disappoint. Who would bet against you? I never take a sucker bet," indigo flickers in the wink that follows the smile. "Alright," his hand gives Ian's waist a pat and then falls away, "... food, drink... enjoy and get settled... "

     Eros approaches William again and William turns to handle a bit of business for the guest. "Please have the staff ready a room for another guest. I think there is still plenty of room on the third floor..."
     "Of course, sir," Eros nods, smiling, and then to the new guest, "Would you like to go to the room now or have dinner first? I can have someone show you the way in a while. The castle is large," another smile, "...so we offer guides..."

     A soft laugh, but Valmiki shakes his head. "As you wish then, sirs. I admit to being a bit hungry. I never eat rabbit, you see, and my hosts, ah, were lacking in most other fare. And there was a slight misunderstanding..."
     He lets it trail off there, turning to regard Eros with curiosity. "Of course. I would not wish to lose my way, after all, in the course of my explorations, but if it is the same to you, and my gracious hosts do not object, I will spend the night out of doors, in kinship with the drowsing earth."

     "No objections," Ian grins. Indeed, there are others in the village who are camping where they may. "I am sure that William's staff may bring you food and blankets as you might need, then..."

     William nods to Eros, and Eros with a slight bow of his head will make sure it is so. He heads off to get it all sorted. William turns back to Valmiki. "It's a good night for it," for once this year the weather is surprisingly mild. After the downpours and heat waves it's a welcomed change. With a smile, William gestures to the surrounding tables. "There is wine, of course, cordials, there is goat cheese, mushrooms, fruit and fish as you might expect. There is coffee also if you prefer that...and of course if you want to pick a pomegranate from the tree," he points in another direction, "...be my guest..."

     "Pomegranates?" Valmiki's expression alters slightly, but he smiles quickly a moment later. "I may do so, thank you. I have not climbed a tree in long enough. I thank you both, then." With another bow, the Indian youth steps backwards, then turns, moving fluidly to the trees. The knapsack is dropped at the foot of it, and then he swarms up the trunk, disappearing among the rustling leaves. After a short time, there comes the haunting, sinuous melody of the flute, a snake-charmer's tune.

Posted by rowan at November 01, 2003 02:22 PM