Getting along, getting along.
Damiana Barod had gone her courtiers one better; while they had come in regular Virginian clothing (which is to say, they dressed like obsessively disciplined peacocks), the temporarily-unqueened gueen of Virginia showed up in a business suit that would not have looked out of place in 2010. Whitman thought that she even wore it with a certain relief, but he wasn’t sure. In Whitman’s experience, Virginians tended to have a fairly loose definition of personal identity. That perceived relief might simply be as much a part of her current costume as her suit jacket and skirt.
But she at least didn’t seem unhappy to be here. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. President,” Damiana said as she shook Whitman’s hand. “We’ve been waiting a long time to have this conversation with someone like you.”
“If I had known you desired that, ma’am” – Whitman offered her a chair, in proper Boston Brahmin style (and him a good Ontarian!) – “I would have arranged for a visit earlier. And please: it’s Enoch, special circumstances or not.”
Damiana sat, and smiled thanks as Victoria handed her a glass of the Madeira. “Thank you, Enoch. It’s Damiana, naturally.” She lifted a glass. “To special circumstances.”
Whitman raised his own glass; slightly hastily, the two Virginians followed suit. “To special circumstances,” they responded. From the Virginians’ pleased reactions, tonight was everybody’s first chance to sample this particular vintage.