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A quote: “If you do not expect the unexpected you will not find it, for it is not to be reached by search or trail.” ~~ Heraclitus
I’ll start with a story …
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The Royal Historian Pembrook was mildly surprised by the summons, but as he approached Her Majesty’s private apartments he grew convinced there may be congratulations coming his way for the wildly popular tome he produced profiling the Royal Couple from first meeting to present day. Produced under official seal, the reading public were enthralled.
Pembrook strutted into her inner office, chin up, eyes sparkling until he saw his private portfolio spread out on her desk.
It was a blow to the gut, and he could feel the blood drain from his face. Who was the traitor in his midst? The turncoat who spirited this off to Her Majesty. He was done for …
She looked up over the sheet she was reading to hold his gaze. In her 80s, her eyes were still brilliant blue, her once golden hair now silver, pinned up in a far more casual style than Pembrook would expect. She waved a hand at him.
“Sit, Historian. Sit before you fall down.”
He did with relief. He was going to keep his head. For now.
She smiled, “I did enjoy your official biography of the King and I, Pembrook. A little tame, a little too deferential but you got most of facts and events right …”
He raised his eyebrows at “most”.
“Really, Pembrook, as a Royal Couple we were boring. We lived a quiet and uncontroversial life. No arranged marriage here, a love match and a grand friendship that developed through our years,” she paused, wiping a tear away. “Only old age and death have parted us and how I miss him.”
He was stunned at the revealing moment. He had not fully believed the stories of domestic bliss he was fed and recorded. That’s why the portfolio …
Her smile this time was a little wicked, “There are things you don’t know, Historian. And not this back-stairs gossip and stable tales,” Her hand slapped close the portfolio, “Wicked tales born of envy and jealousy. Tales you were waiting to publish upon my death. Oh, no, sir, I will tell you things that will stand your jaded outlook on its head.”
She flicked her hand and a trio of tiny lights streaked across the room, soon followed by a crowd of other lights, like fireflies at dusk in the lowland meadows. They swarmed the wall behind her, pulling back a panel and pulling objects to set on the desk.
Her Majesty’s eyes were as bright as the tiny lights, a halo glow about her head as she nodded at the glimmering glass shoes before her.
“Let me start at the beginning.”
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Yes, I went way over 200 this time, but I was having too much fun with the story. Feel free to have as much fun yourself.
Now, it’s your turn.
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. featured image, cropped, Adobe Stock standard license.
Wombat Lace says: Bravo, Darlene! I always wondered what “happily ever after” looked like!
Cameron says: I sat across from grandma and took the offered coffee. “So what do you think?” she asked, indicating her hair and makeup.
“You look like you were in a brawl with a citrus factory and won a Pyrrhic victory,” I replied.
She laughed. “Oh darling, I have missed our sparring sessions. How long has it been?”
“Long enough for me to forget why I stopped coming. Speaking of which, we’re running out of time.”
“Fair,” she said. “Now if the doctor is accurate, I’m probably down to my last few months and I’m tying up the loose ends of my estate. So I’ll get to it. What do you want?”
“Nothing.”
“Nonsense. You know what I have and you can’t tell me you want nothing from it.”
“Grandma, we never got along and you were forced to raise me. So I simply took my leave and made something of myself. I don’t hold a grudge and you have ignored me for years. I’ll show up at the funeral, make nice with everyone and leave.”
Two months later, the inheritance arrived and it was more than I expected. The memo line said “Nothing.” The note said “You’ve done well. Good luck.”
Wombat Lace says: “Orange? Are you nuts?” I asked as I sat down next to her. “What is it now, Seelie? ‘Hunger Games’ -Senior Edition? You know how bad dye is for your hair?”
She laughed-light, musical, tinkling. Exactly what you would expect from someone named Selena Sinclair. “It’s not dye, darling, You’ve taught me better than that. It’s a weave, see?” Sure enough, the orange tresses were skillfully woven in with the platinum. I had to admit, after the initial shock, it actually looked good.
Seelie. We’d been friends since kindergarten, despite her being a “girly girl” while I was more of a tomboy.
And here we were, still friends, decades later, she with her storied career as a famous actress, me with my humble little herb business.
She turned to me now, one finely arched eyebrow slightly quirked. “Did you bring it?”
I pulled the plain glass Mason jar filled with green ointment out of my purse. “Of course.”
“Thank heaven. I ran out yesterday and already the wrinkles are showing. Tell me, darling, why not use some of this on yourself?”
At that moment the restaurant manager approached. “Miss Sinclair, such a privilege to have you and your mother joining us today. May I bring you a sample of Chef’s latest sensation? Compliments of the house.” As she smiled, nodding graciously, he bowed and left.
Seelie’s smile faded as she looked at me. “Darling…I can’t bear it. What is it? Everyone asks, ‘What’s your secret?’ and I’d love to set you up for life by sending my rich friends to you. Is it magic?”
“No magic, Seelie… but It only works when I give it away.”
Plays put on by local troupes are always a bit of a crapshoot. Sometimes you get something spectacular, and sometimes you get something so clumsy it’s downright painful.
The classics are always a particular risk because you bring expectations to them as an audience. I’ve seen “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” put on by some of the world’s greatest Shakespearean actors, and I’ve seen it put on by high school kids looking for extra credit in English class. I’ve seen errors handled so well that you’re left feeling it really should’ve been that way, and perfect yet somehow wooden delivery make a scene fall flat.
But I’ve never seen anything quite like that night’s production. The actress portraying Titania had that ageless look some women get as they enter their seventies and eighties, her eyes bright and demeanor commanding.
As the play progressed, things began to take on a dreamlike quality, more than even the most expert of staging could account for. Passages that might otherwise have dragged seemed to glide along, and before I knew it, the footlights were dimming as the house lights were coming up. Already the ushers were urging dazed audience members to shake off their awe and rise from their seats to proceed to the exits.
To this day, I remain uncertain whether we might have experienced a bit of actual faerie glamor that evening.
Wombat Lace says: Nice, Leigh!
John says: I so enjoy reading Friday Fiction and the after comments.
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