The wine helped.
Not in the grand, poetic way court poets liked to describe wine, with softened edges and loosened tongues and moonlight becoming romantic over crystal. It helped because Sylvia had enough energy to be ridiculous, Thomas had enough discipline to let himself be ridiculous in controlled portions, and the blue parlor was private enough that no one immediately came to investigate when Sylvia declared that imperial decorative fountains were 'a water-based aristocratic ambush.'
Thomas, who had spent the last hour learning that Sylvia's mind moved like a car with one wheel on fire, considered the statement with grave seriousness.
"I believe fountains are generally stationary," he said.
"That's what they want you to think."
"They."
"The fountains."
Thomas looked into his glass. "I see."
"You don't, but I appreciate the effort."
He smiled then, the softer one that made his eyes warm and his whole face shift from battlefield restraint into something dangerously human.
