Rayleigh sat squarely at the head of the round table, as naturally as if he were in his own home.
One hand rested on the edge of the table, the other lay casually on his knee, and his whole bearing declared, "Of course I'm the host here."
"I took quite a liking to young Boer," he said, his voice slightly tipsy but still clear and strong, "so I invited him over for a drink."
He tilted his head, cupped a hand beside his face, and leaned toward Shakky's ear, lowering his voice while deliberately letting everyone hear:
"Do this old man a favor. Bring out the good liquor you've been saving, and put it on my tab."
There was a hint of childish slyness in his tone, along with a plea to let him save face in front of company.
Shakky smiled helplessly, her smile holding both indulgence and resignation toward him.
"Honestly," she said, standing up with an affectionately reproachful tone, "what difference does it make whether it goes on your tab or mine?"
She rose onto her toes and reached for the liquor rack above the counter. Several dust-covered bottles stood there, clearly treasured stock that had gone untouched for years.
She carefully took one down and gently wiped the dust off with her sleeve, her movements almost ceremonial.
Carina sat beside Boer, holding a bottle of juice in both hands and taking little sips. Her cheeks puffed in and out like a little squirrel eating.
She released the straw from her mouth, her eyes filled with curiosity. Lowering her head slightly, she leaned toward Boer's ear and whispered so only the two of them could hear:
"Hey, Boer," she asked, her voice soft and eager to learn, "who is Miss Shakky? If she's with Uncle Rayleigh, she