“And possibly—”
YES. EVERYTHING. WITH A RIBBON.
When the shop bell had jangled the purchaser out, Druto looked at the coins in his hand. Many of them were corroded, all of them were strange, and one or two were golden.
“Um,” he said. “That will do nicely…”
He became aware of a soft pattering sound.
Around him, all over the shop, petals were falling like rain.
AND THESE?
“That’s our De Luxe assortment,” said the lady in the chocolate shop. It was such a high-class establishment that it sold, not sweets, but confectionery—often in the form of individual gold-wrapped swirly things that made even larger holes in a bank balance than they did in a tooth.
The tall dark customer picked up a box that was about two feet square. On a lid like a satin cushion it had a picture of a couple of hopelessly cross-eyed kittens looking out of a boot.
WHAT FOR IS THIS BOX PADDED? IS IT TO BE SAT ON? CAN IT BE THAT IT IS CAT-FLAVORED? he added, his tone taking on a definite menace, or rather more menace than it had already.
“Um, no. That’s our Supreme Assortment.”
The customer tossed it aside.
NO.
The shopkeeper looked both ways and then pulled open a drawer under the counter, at the same time lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Of course,” she said, “for that very special occasion…”
It was quite a small box. It was also entirely black, except for the name of the contents in small white letters; cats, even in pink ribbons, wouldn’t be allowed within a mile of a box like this. To deliver a box of chocolates like this, dark strangers drop from chairlifts and abseil down buildings.
The dark stranger peered at the lettering.
“DARK ENCHANTMENTS,” he said. I LIKE IT.
“For those intimate moments,” said the lady.
The customer appeared to consider the relevance of this.
YES. THAT SEEMS APPROPRIATE.
The shopkeeper beamed.
“Shall I wrap them up, then?”
YES. WITH A RIBBON.
“And will there be anything else, sir?”
The customer seemed to panic.
ELSE? SHOULD THERE BE ANYTHING ELSE? IS THERE SOMETHING ELSE? WHAT IS IT THAT SHOULD BE DONE? “I’m sorry, sir?”
A PRESENT FOR A LADY.
The shopkeeper was left a little adrift by this sudden turning of the tide of conversation. She swam toward a reliable cliché.
“Well, they do say, don’t they, that diamonds are a girl’s best friend?” she said brightly.
DIAMONDS? OH. DIAMONDS. IS THAT SO?