Page 16 of Gyft

“Ack,” the farmer’s wife says, blinking rapidly at the sight of her.

“Olivia,” I say stiffly. “Monesse M’irshlak, meet my bride.”

“Oh. Well, she’s not quite as bad as I expected.” The farmer’s mate realizes her faux pas immediately. “I mean, she’s quite lovely. For an alien. Odd color, isn’t she? I imagine we’ll get used to it.”

I imagine descriptions of my bride will run rampant.

“As you can see, we just finished bathing,” I say stiffly.

“Ahh, yes, I thought perhaps you might like to eat up here? I brought you trays. Otherwise, you’re both welcome to join the rest of the family, and the farmhands—”

“Thank you. We appreciate the trays.”

Exactly what I intended. I’d hoped to keep my bride undercover for a little longer. Now I find that I don’t care that the farmers think she’s ugly—but I care that they might hurt my bride’s feelings by saying so.

“Wasn’t sure what aliens ate,” the female says, gesturing to the twin souls hovering in the hallway to come forward. “Hope it’s not people,” she mutters nervously. “Brought an assortment from the garden, a steak, big enough to share, some fresh baked bread.”

The twin souls, a male and female, each carefully carry a tray. They enter the room, placing the trays on the side table against the wall.

“It looks delicious,” I assure her. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

The female looks surprised and I get that funny feeling again—the one that wonders why people think my rudeness is acceptable. Perhaps I should introduce the snot-nosed brats.

Everyone knows the M’rishlak’s waited until they were older to have seedlings. A little too long because neither seems up to the task of disciplining their brats.

I sigh. “Olivia, these are Monesse M’irshlak’s twin souls. Kyno and Brisa.”

The girl-soul snorts. “Well, she has fur like a housebeast on top of her head.”

Her brother snickers. “Like a delicate litten? Might have brought her warm milk to lap from a bowl. She can pee in the sand.”

The two erupt into giggles.

The Monesse of the house turns beet purple, but doesn’t seem like she’ll correct her seedlings. Instead, she’s about to excuse their actions.

So I take charge.

“Are you truly that mannerless?” I hiss. “In my day, such rude seedlings, twin souls or not, were disciplined! Smacked upside thehead. Might make you think twice if your parents did that before your parents are fined for insubordination toward the bride of the High Commander.”

“I-I apologize, Commander. They are but ninety cold seasons old.”

“Ten rotations of the sun is old enough to know better. Apparently, they’ve been coddled by their parents—for both being twin souls and living so near the deadlands. If that were taken away, perhaps they’d be more mannered when they are not so pampered.”

The female huffs. It is unheard of to criticize precious twin souls, a rare blessing. But I have never met any who were so rude, so utterly spoiled by their aging parents.

She nods jerkily, knowing I have the power to request their housing get yanked, and hastily ushers the two from the room. I guess the threat of losing their free home is enough to hasten her nestlings from our sight.

The door bangs shut.

“I must work on my manners, apparently,” I say to the bride, who’s sniffing the soup filled with garden produce. “The entire countryside thinks I’m abhorrent.”

Maybe it didn’t matter in the past, but it matters now. I don’t want them to think my bride has such a mannerless mate.

I mean... husband.

Chapter Eight

OLIVIA:

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