Margaret is composing herself. She begins practicing the Paris Nocturne for the umpteenth time. Cook enters the music room carrying a stilletofone wrapped in black satin. “Your instrument is here. It came via courier with the particle board order Mr. Spencer made yesterday. Shall I place it on the stand?”
“Oh yes, yes, please set it up for me! I’ve been waiting for days for Duke Armondo to return it. I love the instrument, Cook, you know I do, but getting it tuned is such a royal pain. And the shipping costs! Portugal isn’t around the corner, you know. Spencer tells me it’s over 20 hectares to the south of Framington.” She rises from the musical chair and goes to stand in front of the large instrument. Stroking the stilletofone with the large copper bow, she starts to play the difficult yet haunting Caterwallian Advance. Sounds of a lemur in mourning fill the room.
Cook bows at the waist. The cat gut strings attached to her left wrist provide a remarkable accompaniment to Margaret’s elegant rendition of the tragic mourning melody. “Well, I shall leave you now, Misses, and go to prepare dinner for your guests. The Partucci family will be here any minute. Their instruments are set up on the lawn. May I be frank?”
“Oh please, don’t change. You’re so much prettier as a woman, but be Frank if you must,” Margaret replies.
“The staff is looking forward to the concert and it would be a kind gesture, on your part, to dismiss them from their duties so they can attend. I know Ethylburnt would enjoy seeing her godson after all these years. He’s singing the lead.”
Margaret studies the back of her hand and the nail polish she’d applied earlier than morning. “Hmmmmm…. Well…. Yes, I suppose that would be sufficiently humanitarian of me. Clear it with Spencer first, though. He may wish to have the vestibule completed by dawn.”
###
So ends the 435th day of captivity.
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