If he ordered me snails, he could eat them himself.
I knocked on his door before going to my room. I heard a clatter of dishes behind the door, and then it opened to the man himself. “Ah, Jolie. You … Pardon, but do you realize your attire is the same as when you paid me such a delightful visit yesterday in Old Barataria?”
“Thanks for noticing.” When I’d put the clothes back on last night, I hadn’t anticipated an all-night elven paternity intervention followed by makeup sex. “I need to take a quick shower and then will come back for lunch. It’ll take a half hour.” Give or take thirty minutes.
“You are welcome to avail yourself of the shower in Eudora Welty’s rooms. I could be most helpful with your toilette.” He grinned, and I grinned back. One of these days I would agree to one of his smarmy suggestions and freak the hell out of him. But not this one, and not today.
“I’ll see you in a few.”
“A few what, Drusilla? Truly, your modern folk have the most disagreeable habits of language.”
Whatever. I unlocked my door, retreated to the quiet warmth of my room, and gave a longing look at the neatly made bed. I’d rather eat and nap than let Jean drag me all over the frozen city. I was part elf, after all. I now had an excuse for my winterphobia.
The hot water of the shower finally beat the rest of the chill out of my skin, and I took my time choosing layers of clothing that would add warmth without bulk: a T-shirt that said NEW ORLEANS: IT’S NOT THE HEAT, IT’S THE STUPIDITY, a thin black sweater with a tight weave, a bulkier red sweater, and black cords. Two pairs of socks, one wool. I finished drying my hair, looked at my makeup bag, and left it closed. This wasn’t a lunch date. Normal women carried oversize purses filled with cosmetics and personal items. I walked across the hall carrying my ugly coat, the elven staff, my boots, and the messenger bag containing my portable magic kit.
Jean must have heard me because he flung open the door to his suite and greeted me before I had a chance to knock.
He too wore layers. He’d added what looked like a long, fitted suede jacket over his usual white linen tunic. I fingered the lapel; it was thick but soft. “This is spiffy. Did you buy it or tan it?”
“It was given to me in trade by an Acadian who wished to purchase a pirogue. In those days we did not experience such winters, so I had little use for it.”
I couldn’t help myself. “And what year might that have been?”
He pursed his lips and shrugged. “I do not recall, but believe it was before the war.”
That would be the War of 1812. “It’s held up very well.” Of course, so had he.
“Merci. And I must say you look…” He appeared to struggle for a word I wouldn’t find offensive. Captain Lafitte and I had very different ideas about the proper attire for a woman, modern or otherwise. “… warm.”
“Exactly. And I’m hungry.” I eyed the room-service cart buried under silver-covered dishes. “You didn’t order snails, did you?”
“Mais non. I inquired, knowing how anxious you were to sample these delicacies, but the weather delayed the ship filled with escargot for the hotel.”
I started to explain that a shipment of escargot differed from a ship of escargot, but why bother. Thank God for blizzards. “That’s a real pity.”
Much to my surprise, he had ordered burgers dressed with bacon, creole chutney, and cheddar cheese. Extra fries had been piled onto his plate in an artistic pyramid. I’d have to jog through the snow to work this off.
I gave him a mock salute. “Congratulations, Jean. You have discovered hamburgers, a great American tradition.” The few times I’d been around him during meals, he’d proven to have an adventurous palate—developed at sea, no doubt, during a time when one ate whatever one could catch, trap, or plunder from an enemy vessel. If he’d ever resorted to trying long pork, as roasted human flesh was called due to its supposed porklike flavor, I didn’t want to know.
“Our mutual friend Rene introduced me to this hamburger delicacy, although he has been unable to explain to me why it is called thus when it contains no ham. No pork at all, in fact.”
I stopped with a French fry halfway to my mouth. I thought it had something to do with Hamburg, Germany, but wouldn’t bet on it. “Did he explain why French fries are called thus even though they don’t come from France?”
He picked up a crisp potato and studied it. “I beg to differ, Jolie. Even in my youth, we consumed frites at my home near Bordeaux and later in Saint-Domingue. We did not have the sweet red sauce, however.” He dumped a quarter of a bottle of ketchup on his plate and dragged a fistful of fries through it.