Page 84 of Orc'd At A Wedding
"Your aunt is at the bar," he whispers.
"Of course she is."
"Your ex-boyfriend's mother is near the ice sculpture."
"Noted."
"Your mother is approaching from the eleven o'clock position."
I take a long breath.
My mother arrives in a floor-length champagne gown, her hair in its signature ruthless chignon, her eyes already performing the rapid assessment she deploys on every situation before deciding how to engage with it. She looks at me first, then up, considerably further up, at Olog.
A lesser man would fidget under that look.
Olog meets it with the serene, impenetrable stillness of a mountain that has been standing for several thousand years and expects to continue doing so.
"Olog," my mother says finally, extending her hand with the careful graciousness of someone making a calculated diplomatic gesture. "Bliss has told me very little about you."
"That is her prerogative," Olog replies, and takes her hand with enormous, careful gentleness. "You have a beautiful venue. The load-bearing columns are structurally excellent."
My mother blinks.
"Thank you," she says, apparently deciding this is a compliment.
"I assessed the building's integrity when Bliss informed me we would be attending. I like to ensure the environments she occupies are sound." He says it with complete sincerity, as if this is standard conversation, and my mother stares at him for a moment with the expression of a woman trying to find the angle and failing to locate one.
"Right," she says. "Well. Drinks are?—"
"I'll get Bliss's drink," Olog says pleasantly. "Champagne, and she prefers it cold rather than room temperature. If you'll excuse us."
He guides me toward the bar with his hand warm at the small of my back, and I watch my mother stand very still in our wake with admiration I have never seen on her face before.
She looks, I realise, slightly impressed.
Aunt Susan findsus twenty minutes later near the string quartet.
This is inevitable. Susan is a woman who has spent sixty years treating every social gathering as a competitive sport, and I have historically been one of her easiest targets. She arrives with the specific bright-eyed energy of someone who has been saving up her opening remarks, and she looks at Olog with a smile that doesn't entirely reach its destination.
"Well," she says. "Aren't you something."
"Good evening," Olog says.
"Susan," I say.
"I was just saying to Margaret that Bliss has certainly made an interesting choice." She tilts her head at him, the gesture she uses when she is deciding whether someone is worth her sustained attention. "And what is it you do, exactly?"
"I run a security firm," Olog replies. "Executive protection, risk assessment, threat mitigation. We work primarily with high-profile individuals who require discreet and reliable support." He pauses, just briefly. "I find I am very good at identifying and neutralising threats to the people I care about."
Susan's smile stays exactly where it is, but something behind her eyes recalibrates.
"How fascinating," she manages.
"It is. For example, I have noticed that Bliss's stress cortisol levels increase measurably when she is in close proximity to certain family members." He says this pleasantly, informatively, the way someone might describe the weather. "I have found that a direct and early conversational intervention tends to resolve the issue efficiently."
A silence unfolds.
Susan looks at me.
