Infante

“Elaine Dexter?” the adult spoke.  His voice was exactly as one might expect, as if the skies had opened and a higher power had spoken, words reverberating as if they rattled the walls.  The fact that the syllables were as deep and slow as they were made his voice sound distorted, akin to how I’d once heard an altered baby who had a crying scream of an adult.

“Yes, Lord Infante,” Lainie said.

> > [...]

His voice boomed, “I had a glance of you once, when you were still on your mother’s breast.  You became frightened at my voice and squawked, interrupting me.”

“I-I have heard the story, Lord Infante.  I am dearly sorry.”

He laughed, and I imagined, had he had a normal voice, it might have sounded warm.

“Not to worry, dear child.  I have a good recollection for people and events, and I don’t use it for nursing grudges.  Stand, now.  Look me in the eye.  Let me see how you’ve grown.

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