“When you walk,” Troy says, taking a few steps in front of me, “Walk with a purpose. Don’t slouch. Don’t look at the ground. Look ahead. Lift your chin up. You’re better than everyone else. Start believing it.”
I take a few careful steps, and he turns around to watch, “No!” he exclaims, “that’s just terrible. What are you doing? You need to learn how to walk. Grace, Mela, grace.”
I take precisely 2 more steps.
“No!” He takes a deep breath, “Like this,” he walks a few more steps, “See? Don’t walk with your legs too far apart. Keep your steps small - you are a lady, after all. For goodness sake, child, bend your knees! You are by no means a penguin! Don’t cross your arms, you’ll look angry. You’re not angry, are you? Don’t be angry.”
“I’m not angry yet.” I mumble.
“Good, now step.”
I take a step.
“With grace.”
And another.
“I suppose that’s better.”
And now exactly 5 more.
“Smile, Mela, this is hardly considered torture.”
“No, really, I think it might be,” I glance around the empty streets surrounding us.
“Hardly, child, hardly.”
I take a few more steps, then turn to look at him, “Is this really necessary? I mean, really? What does it matter, how I walk?”
“It matters,” he states flatly, “Now walk.”
I take several more steps.
“Too clunky, still. You walk as though you’re a young man, instead of a lady.”
“It would be a great deal easier to be a man,” I observe my brand-new patent leather, shiny, shiny, shiny shoes with exactly twelve buttons on each one, and a small heel - two inches, perhaps. Beautiful things, however painful they may be. Lovely. Maybe better suited to stare, and not as much to wear.
“Mela, watch yourself.”
“Of course,” I mumble.
“Will you stop that mumbling? It is not becoming, nor fitting for a girl of your position. You do not mumble, you speak, with poise and grace.”
“Fantastic. So now not only do I walk poorly, I also speak poorly.”
“Neither is sarcasm flattering.” He adds.
I smile patronizingly, “of course.”
“Now walk,” he pauses for a few seconds as I pace back and forth, “I take care of this town, it’s social issues, it’s financial issues, it’s legal issues… all kinds of issues. I have influence, not only over the people in this town, but over several very important people in high places. I have a reputation to protect. You are my granddaughter, and my only living heir. The issues, the influence, the reputation… it falls on you, as well. You must learn to deal with such issues as may be presented, you must learn how to use influence wisely, you must learn how to gain - and to retain - respect. This is important, Mela. It is not child’s play. You will be a very important and powerful woman. I wish for you to do well in the position that you have been thrust into, but it is not for me to decide. Learning the skills you need, wisdom, intelligence, modesty, integrity - among others - it all begins with simple things. A graceful walk, a coherent voice, a well-fitting outfit. From small things we often learn things that are really and truly important. Appearances, of course, are important to some extent, but more important are the qualities you gain by polishing appearances.
Don’t act as though I am torturing you by making you to look and to act the part you’ve been given. You are here for a reason, Mela. You are my granddaughter for a reason. Your mother died when she did for a reason. You fall in love for a reason. Don’t act as though this is a burden. Though it can be a trouble, it is yours. You cannot run away from it, you are nobility. What you must decide is if you will take it upon yourself willingly, or forced. Will you accept the path laid out before you, or will you run away?”
“Catch her!” a voice rings out from around the corner, shortly followed what can only be described as a parade of characters; a cloaked girl carrying a large bundle of… something in her arms, followed by a masked boy of about the same size, followed by a much smaller boy with a paper bag over his head, who was then followed by a dog, and after the dog, two cats. And all this party was followed by three men on horses, two more dogs, two men on foot, and one very fat, very old, very angry woman in bedclothes.
And if there’s anything at all that I know about the world, it is that you do not want to mess with very fat, very old women in bedclothes.
“What in the world is going on here?” Troy’s voice booms over the ruckus.
To my fascination, everyone freezes and turns to look at him.
“My Lord! What a surprise!” One of the men on horseback exclaims, dismounting.
“I imagine so,” Troy says unhappily, “What is the meaning of this, Yorke?”
“This trio,” the man, Yorke, explains, “was caught not only trespassing, but also destroying the property of Madam Muldrich, here.”
“Indeed!” Adds the indignant bedclothes woman, who is presumably Madam Mulrich.
“There was a fourth, sir, but he got away,” Yorke studies the ground in embarrassment.
“I see,” Troy says, turning to the three children, “and who are you?”
“Artists!” The elder boy exclaims.
“Artists, you say?”
“Of course,” the boy continues, “the world is our canvas.”
“And what are your names?”
They remain silent.
Troy walks to the older boy and pulls the mask off his face, “Garret. Why am I not surprised?” he turns to the next boy, lifting the paper bag off his head, “and Hans, I thought better of you.” then to the girl, pulling back the hood of her cloak, “Sophie Chancing?” he seems taken aback.
“Yes, sir.”
“What would your brother say?”
“I would say that she needs to be in bed, where she belongs at such an hour,” another young man rides around the corner on horseback, dismounting in front of Troy, “I am terribly sorry, my Lord. I was not expecting this. I’ve been out looking for her for over an hour. I promise you it will not happen again.”
Troy massages his forhead with his thumb and index finger, “could someone please enlighten me as to what exactly is going on?”
“Of course, sir,” Yorke offers.
“Let’s go inside, first,” Troy suggests, but I hardly hear him.
I grin down at the red street beneath my toes. The wonderful, glorious street! Of all the beautiful things in all the beautiful world, this - this street, right here beneath me - this is the fairest!
“Mela Abbey!” Troy says, “come. Now.”
I jerk my glance away from the street to realize that the rest - yes, all of them - have already gone inside the house, “I’m sorry,” I mumble, following Troy inside.
“Keep an alert mind to your thoughts, child. We can’t have people finding out about this sort of thing right now,” he pauses as he pushes open the door, ushering me inside, “for your sake, Mela. Not mine.”
“Yes, sir.”
He nods and plasters a smile onto his face, “Act like a lady,” he whispers in my ear, pushing me into the drawing room.
“Good evening, everyone,” I announce as I plaster on my biggest, most gracious, most welcoming, most I-am-an-important-person-who-cares-about-you grin, “shall we discuss what brings us all here tonight?” I glance over my shoulder at Troy, who is looking at me like I just swallowed a live monkey, or grew a third ear, or something.
“Okay,” I continue, “why don’t we start by everyone telling me what their name is.”
“Do you really want to handle this?” Troy whispers to me.
“Well, you pushed me in first, so I figured that was the idea,” I hiss back.
“Well, no, it wasn’t,” he mumbles, “but you’re doing fine. Carry on, I’ll step in if you need assistance.”
“So,” I walk over to who had formerly been declared as Madam Muldrich, and ask her her name, anyways.
“Madam Annette Mudlrich.”
“And you?” I turn to the man sitting beside her.
He grins, the type of grin that covers his whole face, crinkling up his eyes and revealing crooked teeth, “John Anders, Mi’lady, of the City Guard.”
I turn to the next, a young man probably in his twenties with bright blue eyes, “Private Matthew Whitaker, of the Royal Service.”
“James Bethel, City Guard,” volunteers the dark-haired teenager next to him.
“Liddell Bethel, also of the City Guard,” his presumable older brother states.
“Captain Yorke Cooper, Royal Service,” he smiles and nods charmingly at me.
I turn to the next person, the youngest boy, “And you are...”
“Hanson Charles Bethel, artist.”
“I see. And you?” I turn to the other boy.
“Garret Remington,” he glances at Hanson, then at Yorke, then back at his hands and adds, “artist.”
“Sophie Chancing, artist,” she looks at the other two, “but I’m much better than they are.”
“Okay, and you?” I turn to Sophie’s brother.
“McKinley Chancing.”
“What happened?” I ask.
“It was her idea,” Garret says, pointing at Sophie.
“Shut up, moron,” she says, smacking him across the face.
“You can’t tell me what to do!”
“These children were trespassing!” Madam Muldrich shrieks.
“This is the third time this week we’ve gotten calls complaining about this, it‘s unacceptable, these delinquents should be punished!” Yorke accuses over Garret and Sophie’s argument, and Madam Muldrich’s wailing.
“They’re just young,” Matthew Whitaker reasons, “they just wanted to have some fun, be a little crazy. They‘ll grow up.”
“Are you suggesting that it’s alright to destroy someone else’s property?” Yorke exclaims, indignant.
“My property!” Madam Muldrich wails, “these evil, evil little children…”
“…and I’ll rip your tongue right out of your mouth if you ever…”
“…my petunias!”
“…I’ll take any responsibility…”
“…the destroying of property is a criminal offense…”
“…he’s your brother…”
I glance desperately at Troy as the arguments and accusations spiral out of control.
“Silence!” his voice booms above the rest, and the room settles to a hush, “We are not children, and we will not act as such.”
Hanson raises his hand.
“Yes, Hans,” Troy allows.
“I’m eight.”
Troy nods, “Alright, with the exception of Hans, we are not children.”
“I’m twelve!” Garrett pipes in.
“Doesn’t count,” Troy says, “you’re old enough.”
“If I am a child, does that mean I can act like a child?” Hans asks.
“No.”
He swears under his breath.
“Watch your mouth, Hans,” Liddell Bethel admonishes, “mind I don’t have to wash it out with soap and feed you to the gulls.”
Hans bites his lip nervously.
“There will be no feeding the gulls,” Troy states.
Hans lets out a sigh of relief.
“Of course, sir,” Liddell Bethel replies.
“Good. Now, shall we start with Madam Muldrich?” he turns to the elderly woman, “What happened, ma’am?”
“I was awakened from sleep by these… these hooligans, making a ruckus outside!” She exclaims, half indignant, half falling asleep.
“And what were they doing?”
“Painting my fence!” she yawns.
“Now that doesn’t sound so terrible,” Troy says, “your fence needed a good coat of paint, anyways.”
“No, no,” she mumbles, “not that kind of paint. They were painting words and pictures. Not whitewash. And they trampled my petunias…”
“I see,” he nods to the woman, “that will be all, Madam Muldrich. Mr. Anders, if you would escort the lady to her home?”
“Of course, sir,” Mr. Anders rises to his feet and offers Madam Muldrich his arm, which she takes, somewhat begrudgingly, and they exit out the front door.
“Now, Yorke, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
“As Madam Muldrich stated, they were defacing property,” Yorke sighs, “sir, you know that we’ve had complaints about this before. Now we’ve finally caught them in the act and have the opportunity to do something about this.”
Troy nods deeply, “and you?” He turns to the three “hooligans”, “do you have anything to say for yourselves?”
Garret speaks up, “I’m real sorry, sir, it won’t-”
Sophie smacks him, “shut your mouth!” then turns to Troy, “we have nothing to say to you,” she says with a toss of her hair.
Troy is silent, and everyone seems to be watching everyone else, biting their lips and clenching their fists.
Or in McKinley Chancing’s case, biting his lip so hard that it’s actually started to bleed, and tapping his foot rapidly. He stands up quickly, “I’m so sorry, sir,” he blurts out, “I’ll keep a better eye on her, I swear,” he glances over at Sophie, “I’ll make sure she starts behaving better, and-”
“You’re not the boss of me!” Sophie retorts, perhaps a bit too loudly.
McKinley Chancing glares at her, biting his lip again, “Be quiet, Sophie,” he turns back to Troy, “I am so sorry, sir. Anything I can do, really, I’ll do it, I swear. I’ll fix her fence and her flowers and whatever else Sophie messed up, and then I can -”
“Calm down, McKinley,” Troy nods at the couch, “sit.”
McKinley nods and does as he’s told.
“McKinley, this isn’t your fault,” he turns, “but Sophie, I do believe you’ve earned yourself a share of the blame. Along with you, Garret, and you, Hans.”
“What’s gonna happen to us?” Hans asks, sporting his best pout.
“You’re going to repair the damage you’ve done. I see no reason to take more extravagant measures. Do you, Mela?”
“Um, what? I mean, no, no, I don’t,” I blush.
“Good, then. So I will see you three tomarrow at noon, right in front of my house,” he glances around, “don’t think you can get out of it. If you don’t show up, I will involve your parents.”
“So what?” Sophie rolls her eyes, “my parents are out of the country. They could care less what kind of sh- I mean, messes I get into.”
“I’ll make sure she’s here, sir.” McKinley says, shooting a glare at Sophie.
“You can’t-” Sophie begins.
“You’ll be here,” he says through gritted teeth.
“Good,” Troy says, “And you two will be here?”
“Yes, sir!” they say in unison.
“Good. Then there is no cause for us to still be here. Go home and get some sleep.”
Everyone stands up and starts to file out, except for Yorke, who approaches Troy, “sir, I don’t want to undermine your authority or anything like that, but-”
“Then don’t, Yorke. Just don’t.”
“But sir-”
Troy sighs, “What happened to not undermining my authority?”
“They’re criminals, sir.”
“Oh, come on, you’ve never done something a little scandalous?” Troy chuckles and slaps him on the back.
Yorke blinks at him.
“Apparently not, then,” Troy says, clearing his throat, “It’ll be fine, Yorke, you’ll see. All children grow up one day.”
“Not all,” he says, glancing disdainfully at Liddell and James Bethel, who seem to be having a burping competition on their way out.
“They will too, one day,” Troy replies, “and they are still both younger than you.”
Yorke shakes his head, “What I don’t understand is how a good man like McKinley could have a sister like…” he glances over at Sophie, who is arguing with the aforementioned ‘good man’, “her.”
Troy shrugs, “Yes, well, it happens. Goodnight, Yorke.”
Yorke nods, “Of course. Good night, sir.” He follows the rest of them out the door.
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