Zephyrin stood as the servant drew back a chair for him before joining the small group of noblewomen at a circular table. A ring of firestones set in scones glowed above them, staving off the seasonal chill.

“Thank you very much for joining us, dy Valensis. I,” said a middle-aged lady in distinguished preamble, laying a cream-colored glove on her chrysanthemum-wreathed bosom, “am Duchess Arthénoïdaline dy Coàntal. These spiritual souls,” she continued, gesturing to her fan-fluttering companions, each presenting ample proofs of the deleterious effects of centuries of inbreeding, “are the Duchesses Amalthéa dy Salance and Oristaline du Pleÿ, as well as the Countesses Galaxeria dy Duhlhuin, Tintinnabulina dy Leste, and Brociliandra dy Mélès-zur-Seïc.”

Protuberant and decidedly favoring the mandibular element to the detriment of the maxillary, the atavistic mouths of the women contorted into a series of painful grimaces that Zephyrin tentatively identified as welcoming smiles, which he returned after a moment’s hesitation. Even if it weren’t for their peculiar fashions, their traits alone would have marked them as belonging to the rarefied stratum of Gaulyria’s social hierarchy.

With dinner plate-sized foreheads whitened to a sepulchral white, hairdresses exploding upward as if firecrackers had been detonated within them, wide-set, chameleonesque eyes and thin lips smeared with an incarnadine pigment derived from the mashed innards of some monstrous species of Primævan beetle, they were the quintessential representatives of an elite sub-type of the nobility that had gone extinct long before Zephyrin’s native time.

Arthénoïdaline grimaced-smiled. “I am sure you are wondering why we have called for you, dy Valensis. Allow me to explain. The duchess and countess,” she said, indicating a woman of perhaps thirty years of age and another no more than half that, “both bear a wombchild close to their hearts. They will bring forth new life in time for nature’s resurrection.”

“I rejoice to hear such glad tidings,” Zephyrin said cautiously. What have I gotten myself into now?

The lady called Oristaline favored him with an indulgent look. “We do not require much of you, dear boy. You simply need to remain in our company for a mere hour while we converse. Seeing that Zephyrin was no closer to understanding now than before, she elaborated, “As is well known in our enlightened era, the objects contemplated by an expectant mother alter the physiognomy of her unborn. If she has the misfortune of apprehending too frequently the base and repulsive, her child can only be similarly disfigured. Conversely, to behold beauty is to see it reproduced in her child.”

“…I see. And this theory is… scientific?”

“But of course!” rejoined Arthénoïdaline enthusiastically. “It has as its most fervent exponent an authority no less illustrious than the famed Delonius. To give you an anecdotal but no less convincing proof, my own mother had nothing pass before her eyes during her pregnancy that was not calculated to please the eye and lift the mind to raptures of delight, while assiduously taking care to not so much as lay an eye on a mule during her pregnancy, and you see what is the result of her prudence,” the lady told Zephyrin, revealing a row of scraggy teeth as she smiled.

Why a mule, of all animals? wondered Zephyrin; but, rapidly coming to the conclusion that the workings of Exalted minds were as inscrutable as their mode of speech, he merely said, “I will be honored to remain as long as it pleases mesdames.”

After this acquiescence was met with universal approval, the older of the two pregnant women spoke up eagerly. “Pray tell us, dear child, what reasonable object your mother contemplated, when you nestled beneath her heart. For you to have turned out so well, she must have seen objects of rare beauty indeed!”

Zephyrin paused. He supposed that apart from her husband, the expecting Mari Calon’s gaze had principally rested on the farmstead’s livestock, when it was time to fill the pigs’ trough, milk the cows, or to behead and pluck a chicken for supper. “The fair creatures fashioned by the Intangible Essence in His infinite wisdom”, he replied.

“My own mother favored swans,” said the young Amalthéa in a slurring sotto voce. “I do hope my wombchild will have your eyes—sky blue is such a spiritual color.”

As the great ladies fell into talking, it did not take long for Zephyrin to understand that his presence was more desired than his conversation, four of the Exalted being quite content to nibble at their pastries and aspirate their tea while the two that were pregnant kept their eyes riveted on him. Ignoring the uncomfortable sensation of being watched as best he could, Zephyrin sat like a mannequin as he tried to glean insights into the court’s workings from their conversation. The initial results… were less than promising.

“…No, I’m exceedingly in earnest; a whole hour was required in the boudoir before I became a visible commodity once more!”

“I can well believe it, dear heart. My tresses were most recalcitrant after last week’s ball. How Monsieur Herault struggled to delabyrinthize my hair.”

“Can you not have recourse to Faramond’s services?”

“The queen holds him too tightly in her clutches to hope for that!”

“Beg pardon, darlings! I must void my nasal sluices!” said one lady, excusing herself as she offered a hand to the lackey. Though she took care to distance herself from the party, it was not long before a noise akin to the honk of a goose reached the table. Studiously pretending not to hear it, Zephyrin accepted the teacup offered by the servant.

“Mind how you handle that porcelain, dear,” advised Arthénoïdaline as he raised it to his lips. “It’s very fragile.”

“Ah! no more than our own human nature, surely!” interjected the lady introduced as Galaxeria, causing the profusion of blossoms on her dress’s bosom to tremble violently. Though the pathos of this statement was warmly received by the audience, they were soon distracted by a far-off rumble.

“I do hope we won’t have to fear the third element’s plummet,” remarked one lady. “Though I came prepared with my lady’s-retort—”

“—Tintinnabulina, you must make allowances for our young friend,” chided the one seated across from her. “Our words must sound strangely in his ear, accustomed as it is to the crude vernacular of the low nobility.”

“No, I believe I am acclimatizing myself to this delightful mode of self-expression,” said Zephyrin mildly. “A ‘lady’s-retort’ is an umbrella, is it not? But other equally charming possibilities readily present themselves to my mind: why not call it a ‘weather-braver’, or a ‘protect-pouf’?”

“Oh!! ‘Protect-pouf’ is simply delightful! Why, I think I shall use it from now on!”

Meanwhile, one of the ladies looked out at the unremarkable parterres with something of a mournful air. “Ah! How the day-lord’s courtship of nature’s mother has waned from its former ardor!” she lamented.

“Yes, the ruin of this year promises to be abnormally frigid,” rejoined another, regarding Zephyrin over her fan. “Thank the Goddess for these marvelous stones,” she said with an upward glance at the gems, “otherwise we would be parlor-bound nine months out of the year. Oh! One of them seems to be losing its virility!” Indeed, the red light emitted by one of the stones was noticeably dimming.

“Lackey, restore to that offspring of the earth its wonted vigor!”

The dusk-hued servant from earlier reappeared to do so promptly, infusing his mana into the stone until it glowed as brightly as a red-hot ember once more.

“How reliable these Primævans are. Not like the lachrymated mules of our homeland,” said Arthénoïdaline, as the servant retreated to his regular position at a distance from the gazebo. “It is well worth braving the stable for such quality.”

There’s that bizarre use of ‘mule’ again. This time Zephyrin expressed his confusion, being quite sure there was a facet of Exalted terminology that continued to elude him.

Oristaline laughed in a breathy, disconcerting staccato. “Ha! Ha! Ha! Chéri, by ‘the stable’, we mean the world! Soldiers are destriers, lackeys are mules, and priests are ponies, fat and amiably ambling!”

“So when the duchess spoke of ‘braving the stable…’ Zephyrin reasoned aloud.

“…she was referring to the city and its rabble, of course! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

“…of course.” Zephyrin paused, then suggested to the company, “That being so, mesdames and mesdemoiselles should perhaps recall that if the world is a stable, and its occupants mostly mules, they are assuredly long-eared enough to overhear and resent the moniker.”

This witticism was rewarded by a storm of mirthful giggles followed by a few complimentary remarks, but Zephyrin couldn’t find the opportunity to speak further. The women resumed where they left off and he was left to bide his time, waiting for an opportunity to take a more active role in the conversation and hopefully steer it in a more promising direction. Dashing his hopes, it abruptly took a turn for the romantic.

With a feeling of acute inevitability, he watched as Tintinnabulina languidly plucked a petal from her corsage. “See how faded it is. As the wilting flower is to the fresh bloom of spring, so is the kiss of a husband to that of a lover.” She blew it away with the faraway look of a tower-trapped heroine in her eyes as her audience sighed appreciatively. It was not long before another lady, inspired by this melancholy mood, gently complained that her suitor, “…has been inaccessible of late, preferring to wile away his hours in the meeting place of the living and the dead.”

“The library,” Duchess Oristaline kindly interpreted for Zephyrin’s sake. One of the countesses turned up her nose at the mere utterance of the word. “A ‘library’ is… well, if not uncouth, does the word not yet fail to charm the ear? It has in it no poesy. Now, do try this bonbon…”

“What of you, dear one? Has your eye arrested on a promising gentleman?” inquired Arthénoïdaline, addressing one of the quieter of the women present.

“To the great chagrin of my life’s seat,” sighed in response an obloid-faced lady—Brociliandra, was that her name?—who bore a striking resemblance to a praying mantis. “Alas! I am too intelligent to admire him, but not enough to keep myself from loving him.” A chorus of sympathetic murmurs. She continued, “I should take a page from the example of Madame d’Au, who swerves around love affairs as coach drivers do potholes. But is life worth living, if it is devoid of its spiritual joys?”

“Take heart from my own change in circumstances,” counseled Oristaline. “After a long desolation, my suitor has returned his attentions to me. Do you know what he breathed in my ear before I retired for the evening, just after the final dance?”

“Tell us with utmost haste, dearest Oristaline, or I fear to transgress the bounds of propriety!” said one lady excitedly.

“He spoke these words.” Oristaline wore a solemn expression; and then, in a disconcertingly successful reproduction of a baritone voice, intoned, ‘Mademoiselle, know that I keep the beast within me firmly in chains. But I don’t say I don’t let him test its length.’”

“Oh my!!” More fluttering of the fans; more speculation and commiserations; and then, it was time for the great controversy of the day.

“It is the love of beauty that unites us,” philosophized Arthénoïdaline, “Yet that same love sometimes gives rise to dissension in the midst of our pleasant society. For instance…” Arthénoïdaline glanced at Oristaline. “Ma chère, I believe you are in the habit of calling the west wind, ‘flower-spouse’. Whatever put such a notion in your head?”

“Is it not divine? To think of the wind caressing the lilies of the field with the tender affection of a lover…”

“Still, I cannot help but think it an abuse of language, which makes of our dear zephyr a polygamous paramour. How many wives will he have to care for, if we make him the spouse of the continent’s flowering meads?”

“To say nothing of the other three winds with which he must contend,” weighed in Tintinnabulina, her brows knitted in deep thought. “What should one think when the wind changes throughout the day, or multiple times during one conversation?

“Would not the usage faithfully reflect the inconstancy of men?”

Much lively discussion was there on this point, until it was unanimously agreed that ‘flower-spouse’ ought to be rejected for the zephyr, as prejudicial to that obliging wind’s good reputation, for while men as inconstant as weathervanes were surely worthy of reprobation, a wind could hardly be blamed for following its nature. This weighty matter being decided, and their reserves of confectionaries and tea running dangerously low, the ladies bethought themselves to adjourn their council, when the appearance of a passerby put a halt to their preparations.

“That stout figure… my dear Arthénoïdaline, is that not the Marshal dy Cassade?”

“So it is! He must join us!” The Duchess immediately dispatched her footman, while Zephyrin felt revive within him a feebly burning flame of interest that had so nearly been snuffed out by the prior proceedings.

Dy Cassade…here, at last, was a name that tickled at the edges of his memory, and it was that of a soldier.

Perhaps this gathering won't be a waste of time after all.