Here’s another silly “Imperialist Lyniezia” related story for the writing group I started working on a few weeks ago. It’ll possibly do with some tweaking before I try to finish it! By the way, the protagonist is the same character as “Mystique Lastrange” in “An unfinished Megan story”. Based on prompts provided by Joan Opie.
Miss Blondine Scarlett (or so she was calling herself at the moment) had finished dressing and, looking her reflection up and down in the full-length mirror, just knew she looked stunning in the current iteration of her latest signature look, comprising a bright red tea dress, matching hat, gloves, shoes and (of course) lipstick. It would be sure to turn heads, not only of passing Lyniezians in their dreary casual attire, but also of the guests of the Tymena Gentlewomens’ Society’s monthly Afternoon Tea. At least, those of ladies from the other world: demure ‘English roses’ in their pretty floral attire or elderly grande dames quietly tut-tutting their disapproval to one another. They’d been indoctrinated to cloak themselves in mock humility; beauty was a duty and “modesty” a virtue, no doubt in deference to their lords and masters: the dominant male. Her own people, of course, would recognise and appreciate the effort, even though she hoped not too many would recognise her. At least, not openly, anyway.
As much as she looked the part, though, she wasn’t sure she felt it. An uncomfortable feeling of nausea, which had been churning around in her stomach all morning, lurched up and threatened to erupt. Barely digested remnants of scones and cucumber sandwiches would not be a welcome addition to her ensemble, nor to the pristine carpets of the two Misses Lancaster, her hostesses. Though outwardly the epitome of the ‘English rose’, as immaculate in their manners and virtue as in their appearance, Miss Scarlett knew full well that every rose had its thorns. Handle them carefully, lest you be pricked.
Even with that in mind, she decided she simply had to go. Not only because it was one of the few occasions in this Goddess-forsaken country where she could be amongst people of the better sort, where for once she could almost pretend to be who she really was, but also because it was a good place for intelligence-gathering. Beneath their elegant facade, the ladies of the Society were survivors, those who had lived through conquest and ignominy, yet learned how to make their way in this strange new world. One way or another they had found their way into positions of some importance, and the connections they provided were invaluable. Every idle word, every morsel of gossip, might yield valuable information to further her great agenda. Besides, though there were many thing she was not looking forward to in the upcoming gathering, they were too trifling to daunt her. Her discomfort- she was sure of it- must be something physical, not psychological. She must have a quiet word with a certain good doctor… tomorrow, perhaps. A couple of tablets from the medicine cabinet would have to do for now.
En route to the front door, Miss Scarlett glanced through the glass door into the living room and could not help but notice that a certain picture was hanging at a rather awkward angle. It was the reproduction portrait of Queen Moriana Renavam II dressed in warrior garb, one of the few figures of Lyniezian history Miss Scarlett deemed worthy of admiration. It guarded a secret safe, which held important family treasures from the old world, and if the picture had been disturbed, something was very amiss. As such, the only course of action was to detour into the living room and, with the windows set to translucent, remove the picture and check the contents of the safe. The furious honking from the taxi waiting outside would not deter her. She found almost everything in its place: gilt-framed photographs of long dead relatives; a broken statuette of Bellerophon riding Pegasus which had been a childhood favourite; and a jewellry-box meant to contain, amongst various decorative pieces her mother and grandmother had collected over the years, the all-important signet ring which was proof of her true identity, once a symbol of power that had been handed from mother to daughter for over a century. However, much to her horror, the ring was missing. The feeling which came over her did not bode well to her flagging constitution, and the condition of her stomach which might let rip at any moment. It took some moments for her to compose herself, both physically and mentally, before retracing her steps to the door and relieving the taxi-driver of his impertinent impatience. Whoever was responsible (Myria, the new cleaner, perhaps?) would have to be dealt with later. Preferably with a very sharp knife.
To be continued…
Tales of Lyniezia 