“Percy,” Ewan interrupted, his voice dangerously low, “Lord Blackwood is seventy-three years old and weighs at least eighteen stone.”
“Yes, but his eyes still hold the spark of divine fire, and I thought?—”
“Stop,” Ralph was gasping now, tears of laughter streaming down his face. “Just… stop. You compared a seventy-three-year-old man to the god of beauty?”
“I emphasized hisinnerbeauty,” Percy said defensively. “The radiance of a noble soul transcends mere physical?—”
“This is precisely the problem,” Ewan continued, ignoring his friend’s continued amusement. “You cannot simply throw about poetic comparisons and expect to be taken seriously in society. These men have reputations, influence, power. They don’t want to be compared to mythological figures by a nineteen-year-old viscount.”
“Then how does one make proper conversation?” Percy asked plaintively. “If I cannot speak of beauty, of the divine spark I see in human nature, of the poetry inherent in daily existence, what is left to discuss?”
“Normal topics,” Ewan replied through gritted teeth. “The weather. Politics. Horse racing. Agricultural improvements. The state of the roads. Not the divine gleam in a septuagenarian’s eye or the ethereal quality of morning light reflected in someone’s spectacles.”
Percy looked genuinely confused. “But Uncle, that’s so… ordinary. So mundane. How can one forge meaningful connections through such banal subjects?”
“Ordinary,” Ewan said firmly, “is precisely what we’re aiming for. Ordinary keeps you from being labeled as eccentric or, worse, an utter lunatic.”
“But surely there’s room for a little poetry in conversation?” Percy asked hopefully.
“No,” Ewan and Ralph said simultaneously.
The lesson continued for another hour, with Percy’s attempts at conventional conversation proving almost as disastrous as his poetic ones. When Ralph attempted to engage him in a discussion about horse racing, Percy launched into an elaborate metaphor comparing thoroughbreds to “‘earthbound Pegasus, their hooves beating out the rhythm of mortal dreams striving toward divine flight.”‘
Ewan was not quite certain where he’d gone wrong in raising the boy for him to turn out so bloody dramatic.
“Right,” Ewan said when Percy paused for breath. “Let’s try something simpler. Ralph, ask him about his morning.”
“How was your morning, Lord Stonehall?” Ralph asked, his amusement a lantern light in his gaze.
Percy brightened. “Oh, it was absolutely transcendent! The golden sunlight of?—”
“No,” Ewan said sharply, cutting him off before he could go off on a tangent again. “Try again. Simple, direct,ordinary.”
Percy took a deep breath. “It was… pleasant?”
“Better. Continue.”
“I… broke my fast?”
“Good. What did you eat?”
“Ambrosia fit for the gods, with eggs that gleamed like tiny suns and toast golden as?—”
“Percy!” Ewan snapped, as Ralph roared uncontrollably with laughter at his side.
His eyes narrowed on his nephew, who shuffled his feet and tried to stifle a smile.
Was the imp deliberately trying to irritate him so?
It certainly seemed so, because he cleared his throat and said, “Sorry, Uncle. Eggs and toast. Very… ordinary eggs and toast.”
Ralph’s shoulders were trembling as he wiped tears from his eyes.
“We’re going to be here all afternoon,” Ewan muttered, rubbing his temples where a headache was beginning to form.
“Look on the bright side,” Ralph replied cheerfully. “At least he’s not waltzing into events on a pony.”
“Yet,” Ewan said darkly. “Give him time.”
