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The Impatient Alpaca

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Krystal Harris

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“He thinned his eyes into razor slits and took a step toward Constance Brandley. “Let us be clear, madam. ‘Company’ implies one who is invited, one who is welcome.” Of course the chit didn’t back away. She angled her chin up in a like, defiant fury, and his annoyance only burned hotter. “You, in fact, are neither. Not for me. And…” He flicked an icy stare over her. “I suspect not for anybody.” She gasped. He continued over that indignant outrage. “Furthermore, if you are very interested in exchanging lessons on propriety and manners, let your first one be to advise you against visiting bachelor gentlemen.” There was a beat of silence. “All bachelors.” He puzzled his brow. “It’s just, you said you’d advise me against paying visits to bachelor gentlemen.” As she prattled, he searched for—and failed to find—any indication that she jested. “When in actuality, a woman concerned with propriety should steer clear of not just gentlemen bachelors, but all bachelors.” The termagant worked her gaze up and down his person. “Your inability to acknowledge those men outside the peerage is no doubt a product of your ducal status. Of course,” she tacked on.”

CompanyMannersBachelorsPropriety
Book:Five Days with a Duke
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“Courtesy, my boy,” he told his son. “That’s how they’ll remember you’re a noble, no matter what they think of the faith we keep. Yes, bend over backwards, if you must, but never let yourself be outdone in a generous nature, a fair mind, and good manners. Remember these three things, dear Ned, for no one can take them away from you. Leave the rest to God.”

MannersGenerosityNobilityCourtesy
Book:All Ye That Pass By: Book 1: Gone for a Soldier
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“Bright flashes of memory sparked through Kaz’s mind. A cup of hot chocolate in his mittened hands, Jordie warning him to let it cool before he took a sip. Ink drying on the page as he’d signed the deed to the Crow Club. The first time he’d seen Inej at the Menagerie, in purple silk, her eyes lined with kohl. The bone-handled knife he’d given her. The sobs that had come from behind the door of her room at the Slat the night she’d made her first kill. The sobs he’d ignored. Kaz remembered her perched on the sill of his attic window, sometime during that first year after he’d brought her into the Dregs. She’d been feeding the crows that congregated on the roof. “You shouldn’t make friends with crows,” he’d told her. “Why not?” she asked. He’d looked up from his desk to answer, but whatever he’d been about to say had vanished on his tongue. The sun was out for once, and Inej had turned her face to it. Her eyes were shut, her oil-black lashes fanned over her cheeks. The harbor wind had lifted her dark hair, and for a moment Kaz was a boy again, sure that there was magic in this world. “Why not?” she’d repeated, eyes still closed. He said the first thing that popped into his head. “They don’t have any manners.” “Neither do you, Kaz.” She’d laughed, and if he could have bottled the sound and gotten drunk on it every night, he would have. It terrified him.”

LoveMagicMemoryMannersCrows
Book:Six of Crows
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“Japan Today I pass the time reading a favorite haiku, saying the few words over and over. It feels like eating the same small, perfect grape again and again. I walk through the house reciting it and leave its letters falling through the air of every room. I stand by the big silence of the piano and say it. I say it in front of a painting of the sea. I tap out its rhythm on an empty shelf. I listen to myself saying it, then I say it without listening, then I hear it without saying it. And when the dog looks up at me, I kneel down on the floor and whisper it into each of his long white ears. It’s the one about the one-ton temple bell with the moth sleeping on its surface, and every time I say it, I feel the excruciating pressure of the moth on the surface of the iron bell. When I say it at the window, the bell is the world and I am the moth resting there. When I say it into the mirror, I am the heavy bell and the moth is life with its papery wings. And later, when I say it to you in the dark, you are the bell, and I am the tongue of the bell, ringing you, and the moth has flown from its line and moves like a hinge in the air above our bed.”

Poetry
Book:Picnic, Lightning
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