A great, shield-shaped chasse-mouche of mahogany, pulled by a velvet rope in the hand of a small, yawning kitchen boy, swung back and forth over the polished board to discourage the circling flies and also to cool the diners. Regardless, beads of sweat ran down the water glasses filled with cool spring water and oozed in golden beads of oil from the cheese. Perspiration also shone on the faces of the servants, who moved quietly around the table, removing plates, offering dishes and replenishing water and wineglasses. Christien was impressed. His own meals were Spartan indeed in comparison, and that was on the rare occasion when he dined in his rooms instead of a restaurant. Familial boards were not a large part of his life in spite of invitations from friends and former sword masters Gavin Blackford and Nicholas Pasquale, Caid O’Neill and the Conde de Lérida, and also the Kentuckian Kerr Wallace when he and his Sonia were in town for the winter. Christen was reasonably certain any leftover food would be enjoyed in the kitchen by the more privileged house servants, yet the array was a telling indication of the bounty produced at River’s Edge.
