Even in a dream, even at a posh ball, the Nac Mac Feegle knew how to behave. You charged in madly, and you screamed . . . politely. “Lovely weather for the time o’ year, is it not, ye wee scunner!” “Hey, jimmy, ha’ ye no got a pommes frites for an ol’ pal?” “The band is playin’ divinely, I dinna think!” “Make my caviar deep fried, wilya?”
