Page 10 of Tattle Tail
“What trick?” Tolerance sounded so innocent, so above suspicion.
“Convincing Lord Resolve that I would be his…breeder,” she said, the words tasting foul.
“There’s no need for such language, Peaceable. Try to live up to your name.”
This was impossible.
Nettle jumped into her lap, grabbing her attention. Tension drained as she stroked the wuap, who contentedly kneaded her paws into Peaceable’s thighs.
“Mother, you lied to me. You said you wanted me to help plan your New Year’s Eve party.”
“That’s been planned for ages, and if I had told you I also invited Lord Resolve, you would have canceled.”
True.
“He tells me you declined his offer,” Tolerance said, sounding irritated.
“Yes, because—”
Her mother spoke over her. “I don’t know why you’re so resistant to Lord Resolve. My family was great friends with his father’s family, and we’ve been happy for thirty years. Lord Resolve is agreat friendof the family.”
As subtle as a flick to the ear.
“Mother, Lord Resolve is a good male, but—”
“But what, Peaceable? Is he not distinguished enough for you? Not generous enough? He sponsored our move to Corra. Has he not done enough for the family? What more do you want, Peaceable? I do not know how you became so unreasonable when you were such an agreeable kit.”
To marry for love.
The sentiment was right there, but she could not speak the words.
Sometimes, Peaceable considered changing her name. She had been born during the civil war on Talmar, and her parents wanted a name to protest that war. Over her lifetime, the meaning morphed. Her name no longer meant finding peaceful resolution, but be nice, be pleasant, be agreeable.
Do as you are told. Do not argue.
She loathed it.
Marry who we say.
“I have a fiancé,” she blurted out.Fiancé? She could have started small with a suitor, but her brain jumped straight to fiancé.
“Oh?” Interest sparked in Tolerance’s voice. “Who is he? Who are his family? When can we meet him? You will bring him to the party, of course. I suppose we should meet him before then, to determine if he is suitable.”
“He’s suitable,” she said, her voice sounding thin. She grimaced; her tail close to her body. She was such a terrible liar.
“What is his name? What is his occupation?”
“He’s a pilot,” she said, closing her eyes. The lies just kept coming.
Tolerance made a noncommittal noise. Pilots had a reckless reputation. One particular reckless pilot sprang to her mind, along with his arrogance and an ego the size of the solar system.
And considerate enough to leave chocolate on my desk.
“Does this pilot have a name? How long have you been engaged? Why have you never spoken of this? Why must you be so secretive, Peaceable? Your brother does not behave like this. Armistice tells me what is happening in his life.”
On and on, Tolerance kept asking why and who and how. Peaceable tried her best to stick to evasive answers, giving half-truths about her fictional pilot fiancé, but to no avail. Tolerance would not be satisfied with anything less than a full pedigree, medical history, and financial statements. Possibly a DNA swab too.
Peaceable pinched the bridge of her nose, searching for patience to endure this. Finally, she could take no more. “Joseph! His name is Joseph Moonquest,” she blurted out.
