. . . Truffles continues

Interlude

THE ELABORATE BEAUTY of Butter’s Dance Extravaganza wasn’t what it seemed, a lesson Morgan first learned while helping search for a pack of panic-stricken Ott. The younglings had scattered from their pouch when their parent collided with a servo barkeep, hiding being their innate response to attack and less than helpful in a room full of ornate sculptures, pillars, and annoyed dancers. When the lights went up, Butter serselves had fled and the extent of sers fraud was exposed. None of the beautiful “structures” could stand up to a firm push. None of it was real.

He’d come to realize Butter needed to believe sers own deception, the Atatatay refusing to relinquish it even when, as happened often, dancers stumbled through one of sers faux waterfalls and ripped the flimsy plas thing apart. Repairs were done in secret.

By this kinder, soft light, the Extravaganza was charming. Morgan led Sira through a maze of what appeared to be marble columns and twinkling tiled walls—most with waterfalls, sers species partially amphibious and serselves prone to longing—past enchantingly decorated ballrooms, each for a different style of dance, all crowded with happy beings gyrating in their way to excellent music.

Why point out to his Chosen that there were staff throughout whose sole job was, in Butter’s words, “to optimize the experience” by moving the flexible walls in or out of each room to make those dancing within feel they were lucky to have any floor space? Why mention if you stayed too long without buying an overpriced drink from one of the many servo dispensers, the music quality would drop abruptly?

Details. The illusion was—

Is anything real here, other than the dancers?

—not fooling Sira in the slightest. Grinning, Morgan shook his head. Not much.

Silence. Then, firmly, It’s very—artistic. Fingers squeezed his; with her free hand she pointed into the ballroom next in line. “You keep passing them all. How about that one?”

Stone spires depended from the ceiling, some meeting those rising from the floor. They glistened as if wet, and what floor he could see between the slow-moving couples, triples, and other groupings might have been water. Reflective threads with dewdrop tips dangled from hovering portlights, and all the place needed was a sharp plummet in temperature to match a cave he’d sheltered in once.

And almost lost his life, there being hungry things waiting inside.

“Not far now,” Morgan said, tucking away that particular memory. “There’s a special room. You’ll see.”

“Hmmm.” Been here before, then. A lock of hair slipped around the back of his neck, then flicked his ear. It wasn’t to dance. Is it now?

“We’re here,” he said hastily, ushering Sira into a longer room than those previous. There were dancers in the middle of its floor, but unlike the rest of the Extravaganza, these walls didn’t move. Tables set within curved easi-rests lined the outskirts, except for the space reserved at one end for a smallish stage and at the other for the largish owner. The stage was occupied by a trio of Thremms whose cheek pouches bulged: freshly fed. Ready for the main act, then.

About to go around the dancers and head to where Butter squatted in all sers splendor—to get his business over first—Morgan paused. He looked down at Sira.

She looked back. While he sensed nothing but her presence along their link, a warmth forever part of him, were her eyes wistful?

Business could wait. Morgan glanced around the room, spotting a pair of Humans who moved well to the music. After an instant’s study, he drew Sira into his arms, rewarded by her dazzling smile.

So far so good. Dancing. How hard could it be?

He took a step, miming the actions of the taller of the couple, and stepped firmly on Sira’s toes.

They both lurched, laughed, and it wasn’t hard after that.

Especially when the singer took the stage.