She was his escort, and upon the Marshall's summons, she did just that -- she stepped in first, though, heralding him as she had been properly instructed.
For all things in rhetoric, there were three points. Three elements. Three stages. A triplicate of procedure. All arguments must revolve around at least a trio of supporting details; all stories must have a beginning, middle, and end. All conversations an initiation, the discussion, and the closure. All letters a salutation, a body, and a valediction. Entering a room was no different.
(From the second edition of
The Qualotys of Conversation: To Understand Lyfe through Discourse, on page twenty-seven, the steps of a formal introduction of one party to another:
First, initiate conversation so that neither party is at odds or subject to discomfort.
Secondly, if the visit is one of formal business, provide reasonable information so that a dialogue may begin at your behest, but do not be the conversation's fulcrum or a relay of messages unless translation is required.
Third, assure the peace, for at times opposing beliefs may inspire one party to disagree with the other.
She had not memorized the book, of course, had found a great deal of it
boring, was even more grateful for the pages that had been ripped out by its previous owner, perhaps that they might be used better as papers to cleanse one's backside after a particularly ferocious
movement.)
The seamstress bore the rumpled look of a girl that had been crushed all day at a desk too small for her wide frame. Yet, as she entered, she quartered both of them, swept into a courtesy to the Marshall, and -- despite the presence of various others who might have more pressing business -- said: "
Messa Rain, this is Marshall Emory. A friend, my occasional employer, and -- and an astute judge of character. I should hope you afford her the same respect as you have given me."
She put her right heel in front of the toes of her left foot, then pivoted to face Mikael. There was a momentary glance given the Marshall, a girlish excitement trilling in her eyes --
do you see how well I'm learning, do you think the Proctor would be proud of how fine a job I am doing -- before she said, "Marshall, this is
Messa Rain. I encountered him in -- in the woods on my return trip from Darkenhold. He brings with him some rather distressing news regarding the safety of Aleksei River. I thought it best to direct him to you. He has been relieved of -- of his weapons for now until you may confirm return of them to him."
She stood stiffly, hands clasped against one another in front of her belly, a passive stance she had put to almost nauseating practice in the chambers of Darkenhold, for
to speak well one must stand well, comport themselves with authority and grace, and remember foremost their reverence--She had interrupted. Her cheeks went hot.
"Oh.
Oh," she said, and if one did not know any better, they might think she had pilfered a grace or two from Rhaena Olwak. "Would -- would any of you like some tea?"