The Meaning Of It All (Monty)

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

59th Day of Summer, 512 AV "You's done gots ta been kiddin' me...?" Tock was glaring at her boss, hands on her hips, her don't petch with me look firmly planted on her face. He just stared her down, with that irritating, maddening calm composure of his. She couldn't remember ever seeing him lose his temper, in all the time she'd been working for him. Sometimes she wanted to smack him one, just to see if he'd react. Though knowing him, he'd likely just give her that look, and lecture her about how he was disappointed in her. Maddening man. "I don't see what the problem is?" he asked. "They seem like fine young gentleman..." "Didja see 'eir 'ands!?" she asked, throwing her arms up in the air. She stared at her boss like he was crazy. Jacques's face scrunched up in confusion. He opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, glancing over at the two teenaged boys waiting off to the side. Tock figured they were about fifteen or sixteen, both skinny, well dressed, and looking as though they'd never done a day's hard work in their lives. Jacques didn't seem to see any problem with them, however, and just shrugged and asked, "What's wrong with their hands?" "Oy, look!" she said, grabbing her boss by his shirt sleeve and dragging him over to the teenagers. She grabbed the brown haired boy's hand and held it up to her boss. "See?" The boy sputtered a bit, while his friend, a nerdy looking blond boy, watched in confusion. Jacques looked at the hand, then up at Tock, and asked, "I don't see what you mean?" Tock pulled on the boy's hand, ignoring his protests as she splayed his fingers apart. "No calluses!" she declared. "No scars! No nothin'! 'Ey ain't never 'eld a piece o' wood 'fore in their lives!" The boy sputtered a bit as she released his hand, looking between Jacques and Tock. Finally, he asked, "Does... is... do I not get the job then?" He looked quite distraught. Jacques sighed and laid a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. "No no no, you're fine," he said. "You'll have to excuse... Tock. She can simply be rather... loquacious." Tock planted her fists on her hips and snapped at him, "Didja jus' call me a crayfish?" She really WAS ready to hit him... Jacques and the two apprentices started laughing at her, and she didn't even understand why. When he caught his breath in between laughs, Jacques waved his hands at her and said, "No, no my dear... loquacious. It means... talkative..." Her eyes narrowed and her face turned red with a mixture of embarrassment and rage. She hated it when people used big words like that on her. It wasn't HER fault she didn't have the schooling to know what they meant. The apprentices were still laughing at her, so she screamed at them, "Whaddya laughin' at, huh!?" She was seriously on the verge of losing her temper. Jacques cleared his throat and laid a hand on her shoulder, but she shoved it off. "Miss Zipporah... please..." He looked her in the eye, using that look he always had when he was about to start lecturing her. She grit her teeth together tight, grumbling. She couldn't hit her boss... she couldn't... especially not after he just promoted her, and explicitly told her she had to work on controlling her temper. The moment drew out, everyone slowly settling into an awkward silence. Finally, Jacques said, "Miss Zipporah, Charles and Nathanial are both eager to learn. Perhaps they haven't done this sort of work before, but everyone has to start some time, yes?" Tock gave him an incredulous look. "But I done started when I were 'is big!" she protested, holding her hand down below her waist. "'Ow's fer I s'posed ta teach 'em, when--" "I'm confident you'll do fine," Jacques said, using his I'm the boss stop arguing with me tone. She glared at him, biting the inside of her cheek to keep herself from cursing him out. Finally, after several more assurances (both to her, that the boys would do fine, and to the boys, that she would not hurt them), Jacques left Tock with her new apprentices. She glared at them both, and they just stood there, looking awkward and pathetic. They didn't look like working boys at all. Finally, she said, "Tch, fine. C'mon..." She waved them to follow, and led them over to the latest wood shipment. She started digging through the lumber that had been brought in on several packed wagons. She picked out some choice pieces, and dropped them in one of the boys' arms. "'Ere," she said, "'old 'is..." "But..." he protested. She turned to glare at him. It was the brown haired one, Charlie, she thought. His clothes looked too expensive for her tastes. She silently vowed to ruin them before the end of the day. Grease and sawdust were part of the work, and these boys needed to learn they weren't going to become carvers without getting their hands dirty. "We thought we were going to learn carving," the other one, Nathanial, said. Tock growled and threw a piece of wood at him, causing the boy to stumble back as he clumsily caught it. "Aye, ya is," she told him. "First lesson is pickin'' out good wood, an' 'elpin' carry it..." The lads shared a distraught look. They clearly had no idea what they were in for... * * * Some hours later, but still well before it was supposed to be quitting time, Jacques walked up to Tock and her two new apprentices. She had them helping her sweep up between the storage racks, and scrubbing out the pots they used to mix stains and water treatments. They were both filthy, and looked quite miserable. Though Tock was elbow deep in the same filth, never being one to make someone do something she wasn't willing to do herself. With any luck, the boys would learn their lesson from today that this kind of work wasn't just about the artistic parts. Everyone did their share, even in the slimy, dirty, grunt work. She had decided to give them a week, minimum, before she let them hold a chisel. If they made it that far, they'd earn enough of her respect to learn some real lessons. "Miss Zipporah?" Jacques asked, nodding for her to step aside with him. "Do you..." he looked her over, frowning at how filthy she was, "own any... nice clothing?" She frowned at him, not having a petching CLUE what he was going on about this time. "Whazzat, Bossman?" she asked. She looked at her clothes. "I ain't fer wear nothin' ta work but work clothes! An' 'ese blokes needs fer ta learn..." she gestured to the two boys, but Jacques cut her off. "No no no," he said, waving his hands dismissively. "I mean, do you own... a dress...?" Her eyes narrowed. She wiped her sleeve across her face, wiping off some sweat but leaving a trail of grease behind. "Why...?" she asked him, her voice laced with distrust. "Well," he said, "Mr. Marshall, our new client..." Tock crossed her arms and scowled at Jacuqes. She KNEW who Marshall was, and hated it when he didn't get straight to the point. "He has... invited us to a dinner..." He looked over her filthy appearance again and added, "A rather nice dinner..." * * * Just past lunch, Tock stormed into the Zeltivan Glassworks. She was still covered, from head to toe, in sawdust, dirt, grime, and sweat. Her boss had let her off early, insisting that she go out and get herself a new dress (she'd told him that she owned one, but he had protested that it needed to be silk, not cotton. The very IDEA of wearing silk had put her into a rage. He's also rather strongly suggested some makeup, and implied, without quite being unreasonable about it, that her future among the crew and her pay bonuses might just be affected by this evening. She was in a right foul mood, most especially since he hadn't even ASKED her if she WANTED to go! He had more or less insisted on it, despite the fact that Tock had planned to spend this evening going over her designs for her monument. Yet now, those plans were ruined, because her boss had decided she needed to be present for this stupid social function. So she was pissed off. She needed to vent. She wanted to drink, but her boss had also made a point to mention she watch how much alcohol she consumed at the dinner tonight, since she had to remain 'ladylike.' She assumed that ALSO meant he wouldn't want her drinking before the dinner. Feh. "Glassman!" she called out, storming through the Glassworks without giving a damn if she was interrupting anything. "Oy, Glassman! Git yer skinny arse out 'ere!" She was in a horrible mood, and if she couldn't drink, she needed her friend. She had so very few friends in Zeltiva. And of the few she had, there was none she trusted or cared for as much as Monty. He'd comfort her... he'd make her feel better. She was clutching Handy against her chest, stroking the back of the wooden hand, hoping her baby would soothe her. But she needed words comfort, not hugging comfort. When Monty presented himself the first words out of her mouth were, "It's not fair! I's gots my bloody statue ta work on, 'ow's I s'posed ta git anythin' done!? Bloody inconsiderate, I tells ya! Ain't nobody gots no respect what fer a girl's schedule!?"

[Montaine]

Montaine had, that day, been working with an apprentice of his own. Young Jonathan Foglehorn was the son of a pair of well regarded pseudo-aristocrats from up the fancy part of town. However, the term ‘well regarded’ was used in the most diplomatic of senses, attributed to the family due to the age of their name and not earned through any great deed. They were ‘well regarded’ in the sense that they could claim heritage in the city right back to the Valterrian, or so they claimed, and the other wealthy men and women of their social circle looked upon them with envious eyes. Amongst the common folk of the city they were seen at the same standard as the rest of the folk up Rose Avenue: shykers. John Foglehorn had been loath to enter into employment, but an artist or craftsman in the family had been the fashion of the season back in the spring of 511 and his parents had insisted he do his bit to raise the prestige of the Foglehorn family name. Montaine had found him irritating and clumsy at first, always dropping things and scratching things and messing up the tool rack. The other workers were well aware that he was only there because Calbert wanted to gain a favour with his folks. So the boy was ignored for a time, and he didn’t like that. At first John, or Fogle as he had been dubbed by his colleagues, was more than happy to be left loll about workless and wafting to and fro, but eventually that grew tiresome and he grew tired in turn of the crew’s lack of interest in him and lack of respect for his name. He became petulant, demanded attention and something to do. Mory, Banden, and Monty insulted him and teased him and made blithe reference to the flaws of the upper class in his presence. Joseph, on the other hand, saw an opportunity that the others missed. In hindsight Montaine considered it obvious, and had frequently wondered why he could not see it when Joseph so clearly good. But Joseph had always been a good man. It was such a shame that they had lost him during the storm. Joseph gave the boy the attention he thought he sought. Under the pretence of indulging the boy’s unyielding narcissism he would talk to Fogle all the time, he would show him what he was doing, get him to do little jobs, provide him a supportive figure in the face of the others’ malicious mocking. It came to the point when he wanted to work, when he wanted to show Joseph that he could. As he began to put effort into his job his previously ardent critics began to come around. They still teased him, of course, he was still the new kid, but he was slowly gaining some respect. Real respect, earned respect, not respect that he had inherited from his lineage. And when autumn came and working son fell out of fashion’s favour, and Elizabetta and Gulliver Foglehorn requested that young John return home permanently, he respectfully declined. When Joseph died it fell to Montaine to take up the boy’s care. Though Fogle was technically Calbert’s apprentice the boss rarely intervened on the day to day workings of the shop itself, and neither Mory nor Banden were likely candidates for a responsible figure for him to follow. At first Monty was resentful of the task, but as the lad’s eagerness to work, and his love of the art revealed themselves he began to warm to him. Monty spent most of his days split three ways between fulfilling his work orders, improving his skills and mentoring the apprentice. On this day, however, he had managed to find a way to accomplish all three simultaneously. ‘Monty, this is hard,’ Montaine sighed and rubbed his forehead, ‘I know, that’s why you’re doin’ the bubbles, an’ I’m doin’ the fish. Jus’ go slow, no sense in rushin’. If you rush, you’ll have to do it over an’ it’ll take twice as long,’ Fogle frowned, ‘But what if I get it right first time?’ ‘You won’t. Not every time at least, you gots a dozen bubbles to do an’ if jus’ one is faulty, the whole thing has to get reblown,’ An order had come in for a very particular piece. A Mister Darvell desired a single pane adorned with etches of fish and bubbles and kelp along the base. Etching glass was a very delicate matter, as it severely weakened the glass and left it liable to break under stress. There were a number of methods for such things, including using acid on the very glass itself to eat away at the surface layer. This was perhaps the most effective method about which Monty knew, however he was not nearly skilled enough to pull it off, and the material costs were abominable. Instead they were simply carving on the glass with Calbert’s diamond cutters. They made very shallow indentations, deep enough to be seen but not so deep as to shatter the piece. Together they had completed the line of kelp along the base and now moved on to their individual tasks. As unpractised as Monty was, he was still the more experienced of the two and so claimed the far more difficult task of tracing out tiny fish. When they were finished, Monty breathed a sigh of relief. A single mistake, a single flaw, was permanent, and if it was so great as to be unacceptable the entire piece would have to be recycled and they would have to start from scratch. ‘It doesn’t look very good, Monty,’ The glassworker raised an eyebrow at his young apprentice and smirked. He took the pane and carefully reversed it, revealing their finished piece. The images were mirrored, but didn’t look nearly as rough or amateurish through the smooth, untainted side of the glass. The two, tired colleagues leant back on the marver and appreciated their combined efforts in silence for a while, until the peace was broken by a grubby, young woman storming through the workshop, yelling and shouting and seeming for all the world really quite annoyed. Monty turned to face her as she approached and opened his mouth to speak, but was instead cut off by her furious complaints. When she finished he shot a look to Fogle and he slinked off. ‘What’s up Tock?’

OOCI cannot believe I finished with that. Sorry for the wait, this completely slipped my mind. A bit of a long one to start, but still only two thirds the length of yours. Unbelievable.

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

"Whazzup?" Tock shouted, clutching Handy to her chest for dear life. "Whazzup!?. Oy, Glassman, I tells ya what's up! Silk! The bloody wanker wants me in silk!! Ya know what I does the last time get a bloke put me in silk? I bloody smelted iron in the shyke! An' ya know what else!?" She advanced on him, shifting Handy to her belt (the Automaton, quite used to this, simply looping his tail around her belt without hesitation), and threw her arms around Monty, burying her face in his chest. She wailed, "'E bloody 'ell petchin' wants me fer ta been all poshy!!!" She straightened up and leaned back, looking into Monty's eyes with a mixture of anger, depression, and pure, utter, panic. "I bloody gots work fer ta do, mate! An' 'e bloody sat me down fer a bleedin' bell, a 'orse petchin' BELL, Monty! An' what tolds me," she made a face and did a rather poor impersonation of her boss, "'No swearin' an' no 'orsin' 'round an' no contraptions at the dinner table!'" She shook Monty, looking up at him with pleading eyes, "Contraptions, Monty! 'E bloody called my babies 'contraptions,' an' even worse what said I can't brings 'em! Ta a dinner! Ya know 'ow much 'Andy loves playin' wit' the silverware! Whazzai, s'posed ta tell 'im what 'e's gotta stay 'ome!?" From her belt, Handy waved when he heard his name. He wasn't able to follow most of the conversation, and perhaps wasn't capable of the level of emotion Tock attributed to him, but he did rather enjoy playing with silverware. Or tools. Or coins. Or anything else Tock commonly handled with her own hands, the memories of which she had programmed into him. "An' 'e wants me ta been all ladylike," she continued, barely pausing for breath. "I ain't fer been no LADY my 'ole life! I don't know 'OW! Oy, Petch ol' Marshall, anywho!" she made a disgusted face at the thought of their all-important client, who was quite an up-and-comer among the Sailor's Guild (and likely with his eye on a spot among their precious Administrative Committee). She let out a whimper, laying her head against Monty's chest again. She was whiney and grumpy and NOT looking forward to squeezing herself into a silk dress one bit, thank-you-very-much!

[Montaine]

Montaine was well aware of the traumas that upper class clothing and high society etiquette could have on the uninitiated. His own boss had been attempting to boost his reputation amongst the wealthier members of Zeltivan society throughout the summer and he had found the entire process deeply unnerving. It felt almost as if Calbert was attempting to fundamentally alter his person into someone else, someone new, someone more pleasing to the potential client’s eye. Needless to say the young glassworker resisted as much as he dared. The previously infrequent arguments between employer and employee had become for more common, and far more heated, of late. It occurred to him that the skills the old man wanted him to learn were also those he most despised in his boss, the schmoozing and the sweet talking and the deceit. Ultimately they reached a tenuous middle ground. Monty would attempt to integrate himself into a wider social circle and ingratiate himself amongst the elite, so as to increase his potential buyer base, yet would not be required to go so far as to tread on his tender principles. Such delicate diplomacy was perhaps not the best way to communicate the potential benefits to Tock, however. Not simply that, but Calbert had been training Monty for this human gentrification for years. He had taught him such unusual words that a pauper boy from beggar town had no real right knowing, like calibre, condolence and cantankerous, though admittedly Joe had taught him the last one but the old man was the inspiration. He had ensured that the boy could observe and identify the people that passed by the market stall every day, to size them up and estimate the likelihood that they might make a purchase. He taught him to be calculated, cautious. All of these little lessons that seemed inconsequential at the time added up to one great big skill. Monty could handle a dinner party. ‘Petchin’ Lhex, he wants to send you to a fancy dinner? Don’t he know you at all? I dread to think what’d happen if we let you loose on all the petchers an’ shykers up the rich part o’ town,’ Monty said, patting Tock’s head as she rubbed grime into his work linens, ‘I’m sure they could do with a bit o’ your lip, but I doubt it’d do any good for your sales. Let’s get out of the workshop, hey?’ Mory and Banden kept glancing at him. As much as they liked Tock, bawdy and ballsy as she was, their capabilities at dealing with emotional women were not quite as exemplary as their talent for lewd jokes. The roaring of the furnaces also hindered any attempts at long conversations, so Montaine grabbed his coat off the hook and led Tock across the street and sat her down on the bottom step leading up to his apartment. He leant on Missus Nolty’s wall and sucked his teeth as he contemplated a solution to his friend’s predicament. ‘Maybe you’re looking at this the wrong way. You say you’ve got work to do, but, well, this is work too ain’t it? The old man always says posh dos are precision affairs anyway, all calculations an’ all that, an’ he’s been to more’n his fair share,’ he said, raising his eyebrows but not daring a comforting smile lest she think he was taking her situation lightly, ‘Look at it like a project,’

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Tock allowed herself to be led, eyes still wide and frantic, and deposited on the step. She could barely sort through what Monty was saying. She didn't see how math was going to enter into this evening at all, though she was good at math. At least he wasn't using any big words though; Tock couldn't follow him when he used big words. She reached up and grabbed hold of his shirt, an idea suddenly striking her. "Ya gotta come wit' me, Glassman," she said. "Bossman says I's s'posed fer ta bring a date, but I ain't 'ad no date since 'at wanker left me. 'Cept 'is one girl I bedded, but she ain't fer no poshy stuff, an' I'd prolly git in trouble what fer bringin' a girl ta a party, anywho. But you..." She stood up and gripped his shirt in both fists. "Ya knows 'ow ta talk all poshy-like. I seen ya does 'er 'fore, were like switchin' 'ats, ya put on 'Poshy Monty,' an' were all prissy at 'at tailor guy. Ya gotta come wit' me an' does 'at!" She gazed up at him with pleading eyes. "C'mon, ya gotta! 'Sides which, I ain't want my bloody Bossman o' nobody else fer ta git the wrong idea. Dollin' me up inna dress an' tellin' me fer I gots ta 'as a man on my arm... next thing 'e'll be tryin' fer ta 'ore me out ta gits more business!" she threw her arms up in the air in desperation. "But I knows yer ain't git no ideas 'bout me," she said with confidence. "Makes me feel way better, 'avin' somebody what I trust 'ere, an' knows as 'e ain't gonna spend the night tryin' ta look down my front an' stick 'is 'ands, o' nothin' else, up my skirt. Ain't want nothin' up my skirt 'less I wants it," she thrust a thumb against her chest, "not fer ta 'elp close no deals wit' the Bossman..."

[Montaine]

As distasteful an idea as another haughty dinner up in the classier part of town seemed to the glassworker, the garrulous gadgeteer needed him. She seemed positively distraught at the prospect. Her work was important to her, paramount, he could understand that. If this dinner went poorly than it could only be to the detriment of her career. He would have to attend, at her request, if only to keep a keen eye on her, and keep her in line. Though that was a difficult enough task at the best of times, let alone when she was dressed up all fancy and under the scrutiny of wealthy clients. ‘Well, it’d be awful improper of me to refuse a lady’s askin’ for help, an’ I ain’t one to turn down a free meal,’ he said, smirking, ‘Gettin’ terrible sick of fish stew lately.’ At least that part was true. Monty had learned to cook from his father who, beloved as he was to the lad, was not a great chef. The glassworker had inherited his father’s prestigious talents, or lack thereof, and so the vast majority of his meals were roughly similar. Fish and, on occasion, a vegetable or two tossed into a pan of water over the hearth. Food in the harbour city was treated much like drink, unless you were rich you took what you could get. You wanted a drink? You drank kelp. You wanted to eat? You ate fish. That was the way of things. Of course, if you were wealthy enough, or well regarded enough, you could get other things imported specially. ‘But hey, you can’t jus’ rely on me to do your talkin’ for you. It’s your dinner after all, I’m jus’ the man on your arm. Talkin’ fancy ain’t no trick, you’s just go to concentrate. Make sure you pronounce your aitches an’ your dees an’ your ings,’ he nodded to himself as ticked them off in his head, then proceeded to concentrate on his own pronunciations, ‘Pronouncing all of the different parts of the words is half of the work, the other half is just throwing in some fancy vocabulary,’ he grinned, ‘Like vocabulary, you try it, it’s not so hard,’

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

When Monty agreed to help, Tock's eyes widened and she grinned wide. She threw her arms around the Glassman and planted a big, happy, but chaste kiss on his cheek. "Yer the best!" she told him, squeezing him tight and rubbing his back. Though her mood dropped back down a bit when he tried to explain posh-talk to her. She still couldn't believe how easy it was for him; like putting on a mask, he was suddenly speaking all proper-like, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. She pouted, throwing her arms up in the air, and told him, "But I ain't KNOWS no voca'blary! I ain't 'ad no good book-schoolin'... I means..." she frowned as if she had a bad taste in her mouth, and with great strain said, "I ain't hhhaad no book-schoolingk..." She frowned at herself, feeling ridiculous, and quite certain she didn't sound poshy at all... "I sounds like a bloody petchin'... petchING idiot," she said, scowling and plucking at the hem of her stained shirt. "Ain't no good fer soundin' diff'rent..." She grumbled, took a breath and slowly said, "I ain't no good fer soundING diff-er-ent..." She tried to think over what she was saying, somehow knowing she just did NOT sound right, but unable to figure why... She rubbed her hands over her face and said, "Oy, Jack's gunna bloody kill me... if'n I done petch 'is right good... err, Jack's gone ta bloody kill me if'n I done petches thhhis right good..."

[Montaine]

Montaine stifled a giggle, ‘Well o’ course you ain’t going to get it right away, didya learn to carve in a day? Them what get book schoolin’ get book schooled for years, an’ I ain’t one o’ them, am I? I grew up poor as dirt, but the old man made me listen to him as he talked posh to the posh clients and he made me do the same. Years it took me, as long as it took me to learn glass. But that’s what I meant when I said look at this like work. You’ve got to learn it, like you learned to carve, an’ hammer, an’ make golems,’ The glassworker paused and furrowed his brows, ‘But I s’ppose it’s a bit late to start if’n we’ve got to get you ready for a dinner. When is it? ‘Cause if it’s in about five years, we might have a shot, else we’re going to have to get drastic,’ Calbert’s education had been subtle. So subtle that Montaine hadn’t realised it was going on until it was far too late. It had started with a sale, a simple sale of some statuette to someone senior from the sailing guild. Monty had been but a boy, a young lad of twelve years, who was assisting Calbert at their regular spot along the Market Road. This was part of the job, of course. Selling the finished product was how the glassworkers got paid after all; there was no sense in having one without the other. So, Calbert had ingrained in him, making the sale was just as important as making the glass. Enunciating clearly and pronouncing correctly and articulating skilfully all helped in convincing the customer of the skill of the craftsman. Monty had pointed out then that surely one’s ability to talk held little bearing on his ability to blow glass. Calbert had agreed, but pointed out in turn that a wealthy merchant’s wife from Rose Avenue or a esteemed member of the Sailor’s Guild had little knowledge of glassworking, but great expertise in orating, and unless he felt like giving each and every customer extensive lessons in glassworking and explaining just how and why their pieces were worth the price they paid for them, it was much simpler to just meet them on their own ground. ‘Okay,’ Monty said, ‘Let’s get the basics down, the important stuff we can’t do without. Repeat after me: Good evening, thank you for welcoming me to your home,’

[Minerva Agatha Zipporah]

Tock's Granddad hadn't taught her to talk posh to their clients. He'd been a woodworker, and his clients had always been common folk. People who needed tools, wagons, furniture, and the like. And Granddad had taught her that everyone was equal, and should be treated as such. Thus, the whole idea that she had to treat these clients like they were 'special,' and change the way she behaved for them, went against her most core ideologies. But she didn't seem to have much choice. Letting out a frustrated sigh, she ran her fingers through her greasy hair in a vain attempt to make it look sorta halfway nice. "It's in like, five bells," she told him. "But Bossman done said we's s'posed fer ta git 'ere in four bells, fer ta 'mingle an' make a 'pression.'" She took a breath, and begrudgingly tried to tackle Monty's first challenge. After a moment's hesitation she said, "Oy, good ev-en-ing, thanks fer 'vitin' me ta yer place..."

[Montaine]

‘Yes, well, that was-’ Montaine briefly paused to fix his face into a look of gentle reassurance, ‘Something. Well, keep at that, but let’s try sayin’ exactly what I say, okay? Good evening, thank you for welcoming me to your home,’ he nodded at her. This was going to be trickier than he had imagined, and he had hardly imagined it being a picnic. To teach a commoner to pass themselves off as a gentleman or gentlewoman of breeding and standing was a difficult task. To teach Tock was an infeasible impossibility. ‘The other, most important sayin’ you need to know is, “Dinner was delightful, good night,”’ Monty said, waving his hand and gazing into the air as he spoke, in the fashion of some of the classier speakers he had had the displeasure of spending time with, ‘You get those two sentences down an’ we’re laughin’,’ The detail of Monty’s plan to present a façade of false politesse rested largely on the garrulous gadgeteer speaking only when absolutely necessary. He had little doubt that to persuade the young woman to follow through with his scheme would be just as hard a struggle as getting her to correctly pronounce the word ‘your’, but it seemed the simplest course of action. If only she could learn the unavoidable greeting and farewell for the beginning and end of dinner. If she couldn’t…well, at least dinner would probably be quite entertaining. ‘So let’s do this caref’lly, one word at a time, an’ try not start speakin’ with ‘oy’, puts the poshies off,’