For all that Wes knew, every scientist smelled like mould and rubber. Certainly the one sitting across from him at the dinner table did. The long, rail-thin man picked at his food with a tendril like hand and regarded Will's mother with a bemused look of contempt. Wes didn't know the look conveyed contempt; he simply knew that he didn't like Dr. Bronner one bit.
While he contemplated all of the reasons that he didn't like Dr. Bronner, from his golden rimmed glasses and his stained teeth to his yellow snake daemon that seemed to creep up out of the doctor's shirt, Wes hardly realized that his mother was dressed up and smelling like rose water. Whereas the man smelled like mould and rubber, his mother usually smelled like camphour and bed linen. Of course, Wes usually brought the stench of steam and coal into the house. In their daily lives, though, Wes and his mother seemed to have drawn a truce regarding their respective stenches. This life consisted of his mother engrossed in medical journals and patient files. Camphour and bed linen wasn't just something that lingered on her clothes.
Tonight, however, the dinner table was cleared of journals and papers. There were even candles twinkling on the dinner table. Wes cranked his neck at the pressure of a striped tie his mother had forced over his neck before Dr. Bronner arrived. He met the doctor's wry look and trained his eyes back on his food. Wes found most of the conversation hopelessly abstract and uninteresting. He was aware, however, of a certain degree of miscommunication between his mother and the doctor. This was because they were from different disciplines, of course. But they both knew enough members of the Society for Advanced Research to engage in idle gossip and professional politics.
It wasn't until Marie, the servant, cleared away the dinner plates and began pouring hot coffee that Wes heard something that interested him greatly. Dr. Bronner had slid his chair back from the table and said, "Do you mind?" waving a pipe in the air.
"No...please," Wes's mother had replied. This was unusual. His mother abhorred smoking.
Nonetheless, she had given her consent to the doctor's habit and soon trails of blue smoke wafted up to the ceiling. The smell of the tobacco brought back a memory for Wes, a memory of his father. Maybe. Certainly a man. It was gone. Then the doctor said, "How is our savage getting along?"
His mother's nose wrinkled, which it always did when Wes said something impolitic, "I know that he has arrived. He had a frightfully long journey. I didn't want to bother him."
"Well, the he should be used to it. You didn't put him with the other patients I assume. Can you imagine?" Dr. Bronner griped the pipe in his teeth and he smiled at the thought.
"No he is staying up on the ridge, in an old stone shelter."
"Ah yes. That was an old vision lodge. At least my research suggests this. So, when do I get access to him?"
"The papers are still being processed by the Research Council. I hope to hear word from them tomorrow."
"You know that I submitted my papers two months ago. I would expected you to do the same.
"I understand that Dr. Bronner. But you must realize that my patients..."
"Ah yes your ailing indolent invalids. Nevertheless, I would hate to report to the deans of the college that the sanitarium is not promoting the advancement of research. The college does contribute heavily to your budget."
"Yes. I realize that the deans..."
Their conversation went on in this vein for some time, dancing around the sensitive issue of funding and research. Meanwhile, Wes mulled over what he found interesting from the conversation, the references to the stranger he saw. The mere suggestion of the stranger in his thought sent Hilrithra into a tizzy. She was a mouse then a small bird again and hopped up and down on his shoulder.
Wes was aware that Dr. Bronner's daemon, the yellow snake was training its gaze on them. The snake was wrapped around his neck and undulated in the empty space above his left shoulder causing the two rows of black stripes along its back to ripple in hideous waves. It's forked tongue shot in and out. It's coal black eyes were piercing, inquisitive, and accusatory.
Wes felt very protective of the secret he and Hilrithra shared. This secret being, of course, that the stranger had no daemon. The snake daemon seemed on the verge of reaching across the table to pluck the secret from behind his eyes. It was frightfully long. It was insistently penetrating. Wes recoiled, shot up from his seat.
As he did, the doctor spilled coffee in his lap, "Damn it!"
"Oh, doctor!" his mother said. Marie was close at hand with rags and water. The doctor's daemon had all but disappeared, having slithered down into his shirt. Wes stared at him, watching the daemon's shape rippling under the doctor's shirt. From what Wes could tell, the daemon seemed to be entwined around the doctor's body.
He heard his mother's voice, "Wes...Wes...please apologize to the doctor."
"What?" he replied abstractly.
"Young man!"
"I'm...I'm sorry." But he wasn't really. Wes knew too well that just saying it and not being stubborn about polite forms of insincerity were crucial in moments like these. He wanted to disappear and apologizing was the quickest way to do so.
The scene around the dinner table finally settled down and everyone retired to the parlour. From the windows, Wes could see the few dim lights of the valley twinkle. Everything else was a flood of darkness. His mother expected him to sit quietly until the doctor took his leave. The doctor smoked another pipe, had another cup of coffee, then resolved to make his way back to the college where, apparently, he taught the Ethnologic sciences.
"Thank you Dr. Freeman for an extremely stimulating evening. I expect to see you tomorrow and begin work of course."
"Yes, of course. I'll be sure to have everything ready for you doctor."
"I'm sure. And goodnight to you young man..."
The door closed behind the doctor and Wes listened intently as his footsteps dimmed to silence in the night.