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“Do come in, Finrod, there is no need at all to be alarmed.”
“Whatever’s the matter?”
“Maglor and I are having a spat.”
“We are not.”
“Ought I to come back?”
“No, not in the least, I assure you. Even the sight of you restores some complacency. I feel the storm in my breast waning at once.”
“Maitimo, now we shall be in a fight.”
I haven’t even taken off my coat. Maglor has his fists screwed as tight as walnuts, pressed against his hips. The sharp lines of his mouth remind me of my uncle’s expressions when he is displeased. Maedhros is lounging against the banister, as he would certainly not be if his father was here. In his embroidered waistcoat and open collar, he looks as if he has not a care in the world. This makes me think that whatever is amiss is not too serious—but it also does nothing to alleviate my suspicion that I shall have to endure one of Maglor’s moods.
I care deeply for Maglor; he is an intelligent conversationalist, a ready wit, and a striking talent. However, he also carries an air of classic tragedy about him that sometimes swirls up into a real thundercloud.
“The cook,” Maedhros explains, “Forgot to procure any kidneys at the butcher’s, and thus there will be no kidney pie at our table tonight.”
I grimace. “I’m not fond of them, myself.”
“Nor am I. Loathe the sight of ‘em. But Maglor is—fond, that is, and was rather disappointed.”
“I can live without a kidney,” Maglor cries—which, if Fingon had arrived before I, would have opened a new and unrelated debate, “But I do not believe that it is too much to ask a prepared menu to be properly heeded! There are no oysters, either, and I have reminded her of those thrice.”
I am not quite sure what to say. We keep a cook, yes; indeed, we have more servants in my house than Uncle Feanor or Uncle Fingolfin share combined. Therefore, I am no expert on a dinner differing from what was planned—at least, I do not think I even could be.
I do not pay attention to such things.
“Maglor was mildly annoyed, at first,” Maedhros confides in me, as if his brother does not stand just there. “But then of course, I had the audacity to be grateful that we should be spared those culinary oddities—and it is the betrayal that irks him.”
“It is your mockery that irks me now,” Maglor snaps, and he stalks into the parlor.
“Is Fingon coming?”
“Yes, he is.” Maedhros chuckles, then sighs. “I must go make my amends to my brother for the mischief my tasteless palate has made. Will you have some tea, at least?”
I do take tea. Maglor swoons over the sofa, and Maedhros and I take two of the wingback chairs. We have had many a caper in this parlor, and though Maedhros is currently occupied with coaxing his brother back to good humor, we may have another today.
Fingon arrives when the first pot of tea is finished.
“I am very sorry,” he says, his face all aglow with February chill. “I was detained, because Father reminded me that I have not practiced my fiddle in a week, and I do not like to fall behind.”
“Nor do you like him to be right?” Maglor prods.
Fingon shrugs stiffly. “He was right this time.”
“We are glad you are here now,” Maedhros says. “We have tea, and gingerbread.”
Maglor huffs. “She remembered that.”
“Maglor has been deprived of kidney pie and oysters, lately,” I say, feeling obliged to explain.
“Pity the cook.” This, from Maedhros.
Fingon grimaces. “I don’t care much for kidney pie—Grandmother has served it before—but I do love oysters.”
“Little sea-slimes,” Maedhros drawls. “Vile.”
“You don’t like anything,” Maglor says. “So you cannot be the judge of what is good. Oysters are a delicacy, you know.”
“A favorite of Casanova, too,” Maedhros agrees, with a grin. “Perhaps I ought to reconsider, and pinch my nose while I do it. Fingon, you’ve failed me on oysters. What other secret loves do you harbor?”
Fingon sits upon the settle and considers. He taps his fingers against his knee, two together, which I think I have seen Uncle Fingolfin do. “Gingerbread is excellent,” he says carefully. “If I am thinking of sweet things, there is nothing better than a good chew of licorice.”
“Lord!” Maglor exclaims, disgusted. “That really is the English in you.”
Fingon’s dark brows draw together like wings flexed for flight. “Awfully bold, coming from a lover of kidney pie!”
I intervene, or try to—first with a glance at Maedhros, who does nothing, and next by suggesting that we play a round of pinochle. This takes, and we sit at cards, but then of course Fingon says,
“Do you really… still not like anything, Maitimo?”
“Hmm?”
“To eat, I mean.”
“He picked over a plate of roast chicken last night, so even the standbys are as good as nothing.”
“Maglor.”
“What? It’s true.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, never mind, cano. The chicken and I had a falling out. It is nothing serious. Nothing to my current state of disfavor.”
“I shall ask Grandmother for her latest spices, and see if we cannot find something that you like.”
To all this, I have listened quietly. Now that I think of it, Maedhros’s eating habits are more restrained than his otherwise free-spirited enjoyment of drink and laughter and dancing. He seems to like plain bread and biscuits, sweet apples and lean meat, and very little else. It is wholly unsurprising that Fingon and Maglor both have an interest in his health.
We are forgetting our cards, and I surrender in good cheer to this bent of conversation, now that Maglor is laughing along with us all.
I wait for an appropriate lull, and then innocently, I say,
“Has nobody here tried head-cheese?”