"Esther M. Friesner - At These Prices" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friesner Esther M)

“Ma’am,” he said in a tremulous voice. “Ma’am, forgive my outburst. I—I
assure you, all will be well if you will only give me permission to have—to have just
one—just one small cup of—”
 Bella’s gaze followed Bixby’s own to the object of his desire. “Coffee?” she
said, puzzled at the fuss. With brisk competence she strode over to the carafe, filled
the one hotel mug not residing in the wreckage of her suitcase, and thrust it upon
him.
Bixby raised the cup with shaking hands that had begun to go ashen and
gnarled. A general air of gauntness was slowly creeping over his entire body, but as
soon as he downed the first sip, his skin regained its rosy radiance, flesh again amply
padded his bones, the shakes fled from his limbs, and a smile of pure contentment lit
his face.
Then he took the second sip, and a look of utter horror overcame him.
“This—this isn’t—this isn’t Tiernan House Blend!”
Bella rolled her eyes and yanked a handful of brewing packets out of the
pockets of the almost-purloined robe. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that I can’t
take the coffee with me, either?”
“If those are our complimentary coffee packets, then what in the name of the
blesséd Mill did I just drink?” Bixby cried.
“My coffee. I always bring a couple of extra packs with me, older stuff I
picked up on other trips. Trips when I stayed at good hotels,” Bella added, unable to
resist getting in a jab.
Bixby was beyond insults. He had the look of a man steeped neck-deep in
Fate. Dismay died, resignation remained, together with the noble resolution to make
the best of a god-awful situation. He ceremoniously raised the mug to his lips and
drained it dry. He then fell to one knee and offered up the empty cup to Bella.
“Hey, if you want a refill, get it yourself. I’m not your servant!”
“Nay, but I am yours. For behold, you have brought me the sacred brew out
of your own possession and stores, and of my own free will have I drunk it. Thus
have I wiped out all past allegiances cemented by this selfsame sacred beverage. For
in sooth, just as the used grounds, of hallowed memory, are cast away when their
purpose is done, so too does each fresh brewing renew and remake all the bonds
that unite master with—”
“If I give you more coffee, will you shut up?” Bella cut in.
Bixby raised his eyes to hers. “I will do more than that, milady, if that is what
you want.”
“What I want,” Bella said harshly, “is to be out of this loony bin, back in my
own home, with no more stupid hassles about a few eensy-weensy, legitimate
souvenirs.” She spread her hands, indicating the filched flotsam that had spurted
from her valise.
 Bixby sprang to his feet, tugged his forelock, and said, “At your service,
milady.” With that, he scurried to the broken suitcase and fixed it in a breath, using
two paperclips and a keychain. He then repacked it quickly and skillfully, even
prying two framed art prints off the wall and adding them to the plunder.
Bella gaped as Bixby shut the suitcase. It wasn’t so much that he got it to
close with all that swag inside, but how he closed it: No-hands. All he used was an
alien word of power and a snap of his well-manicured fingers. “What did you—?
How did you—? Did I just see—? Am I going nuts or what?”
“Nay, milady, you are not mad; I swear it by the blesséd Mill which grinds the
beans of bliss exceeding small.” Bixby was back on one knee again, his head bowed