Bee ended up needing two more rest stops, and the supposedly three-hour ride took five hours. At last, they reached a sign saying “Welltoudere,” the name of their destination, next to a very old statue of a mustachio’d man with a sword.

“Weird statue,” said Bee. (While depictions of military-type people were not taboo, they were also no longer the subject of commemoration in Kandra).

“Apparently Welltoudere is a converted aristocratic estate,” said Foxglove.

“Oh,” said Bee. That would explain it.

There wasn’t a lot else left to hint at the history of the place as they walked past wheat fields and dinky little cottages – except that when Bee and Foxglove reached the particular cottage they were looking for, they saw a fancy bronze coat of arms beside the door, another self-important seeming statue to the side, and topiary bushes in the shape of a bear and a lion. Sweetpea barked at the bear. Frustratingly, it failed to respond to her.

If I may make a little aside: it may interest you to know that Sweetpea’s kind had once been tamed from wild bears – well, bear-like animals, you get me – and not wolves as is the case with dogs on Earth. Hence I’ve called these creatures beardogs. Some varieties of beardog could get as large as a pony, though Sweetpea was more or less just… dog sized. Her physique was maybe closer to that of a dog than a bear, but she had adorable round ears and an adorably tiny little bear tail, and would sometimes stand on her hind legs adorably, especially when begging for food.

Bear in mind – perhaps you won’t be able to get bears out of your mind at this point; if so, I apologise – but, bear in mind, Bee and Foxglove were still witnessing a cottage*. It had a thatch roof and only two windows that they could see from this angle. Its size hinted at a cozy living experience, not a grand one. No one got lost looking for the bathroom, if you get my drift.

*As far as I’m concerned, “pun not intended” is for the weak. As a narrator, I consider it my solemn duty to always double down on my puns.

Foxglove looked at Bee, checking in with her nonverbally, and, seeing Bee’s consent, she rang the doorbell.

A man wearing a fine black suit opened the door. He wore a thin black moustache and stood with impeccable posture. “Ah, Lady Foxglove, Lady Bee, please, do come in.”

Foxglove raised her eyebrow at Bee. They allowed themselves to be ushered in.

“Ah, of course, our guests, good man,” came a squeaky voice. Foxglove looked down to find a boy of perhaps ten years old bowing to them formally. The boy reached out to kiss their hands in turn. “Vincent Montgomery de Welltoudere the Second, at your service, mesdames,” he said.

“Oh, um, thank you,” said Foxglove. She looked to the adult, who seemed to be standing to attention. “Welcome to our home,” he said. “I am Winston, Vincent’s ba– butler.”

“Were you about to say babysitter?” asked Bee.

“Alas, a slip. You might, indeed, say that I have been put in charge of the young master’s wellbeing, as his parents most regrettably find themselves indisposed.”

(A well-organised postal system is a marvel, but even that could only do so much. Bee and Foxglove had passed the mail rider on their way to Welltoudere, carrying a letter for them explaining the situation).

“Are you… really… um… aristocrats?” asked Bee.

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

She was always the blunt one. Foxglove shot her a look, which she missed.

“As you are no doubt aware, the aristocratic system was formally abolished two hundred and thirty-three years ago. My dear friends the Welltouderes do, however, keep some of their old customs. And, ah, young Vincent does particularly enjoy play– I mean, acting this way. So, humbly, I oblige.”

“Yes, yes, that’s all very well,” squeaked Vincent gruffly. “Would you bring us some tea, Winston, my good man?”

“Of course,” said Winston. He gave a short bow and swept out of the room.

Bee watched him go. He must have practiced that walk.

“Do have a seat,” said Vincent, gesturing. Bee shrugged and sat down. She was looking at some of the rather nice knick knacks on the walls and shelves. Nothing made of gold, but quite a convincing low-budget aristocrat aesthetic.

“Now, I am given to understand that you would like to hear about magic,” said Vincent.

“That’s right,” said Foxglove (struggling not to squeal at Vincent’s cuteness). “Can you help us?”

“Of course,” said Vincent. “With humbleness, I’ve been told that I am quite the prodigy. Everything my dear father can do, I’ve learnt to do in my few short years upon this Earth.”

Bee perked up. “Really?”

“Would you like a demonstration?”

“Yes please!”

“Then, ladies and ladies, stand back!” said Vincent with a flourish. (Bee and Foxglove were both sitting. They decided not to move. Vincent didn’t seem to insist).

Vincent closed his eyes, frowning with concentration, and muttered some kind of incantation to himself over and over. After a good minute of this, he opened his eyes and triumphantly opened his fist. There was a small flash of light and a popping sound.

Foxglove clapped (she was enchanted by this child, if not blown away by the act of magic in itself). Bee remembered, too late, to try and look impressed. “That’s… quite something,” she said.

“What else can you do?” enthused Foxglove.

Swelling from this attention, Vincent went to a shelf and took down an old looking knick knack. He placed it on the table before them. It looked like a rather fine old compass, though too large to be practical for taking on a journey, unless it was a ship’s compass or something.

“Observe, the pinwheel has stopped moving.” He blew on the glass casing and stomped on the ground a little bit. The pinwheel, as he called it, did seem to be very sensitive to movement, but his stomping only affected it minimally.

“Watch,” said Vincent, before whispering his mantra to himself over and over. He frowned in intense focus, and placed his hand beside the pinwheel. It began to spin.

“Oh, wow,” said Foxglove, clapping again. This time Bee was prepared to clap on cue as well.

Vincent looked at Bee. “Would you like to try?”

“Oh, um, ah,” stammered Bee.

“I got this on my first try, so perhaps, if you’re gifted, you could too! Just say to yourself the mantra, ‘The power is within me, inside me, and beyond me.’ Repeat that a few times, feeling the power inside you grow, then will the pinwheel to move.”

“Um, okay…” said Bee. “The power is within me, inside me, and beyond me.”

“Say it like you mean it!”

Bee obliged, repeated it a few times at Vincent’s urging, then reached out to the pinwheel.

Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move, thought Bee urgently.

This may be a good moment for an impromptu psychology lesson. You’re probably aware that basic human needs like love and appreciation are infinitely more interesting to the soul than conceptual things like money, which can lead occasionally to irrational behaviour around these not-inherently-valuable pieces of metal and paper. Well, there are other things like this that the soul and brain don’t… really understand.

Case in point, the word don’t. When a human brain is presented with don’t, or any kind of negation at all, really, it responds in the same way as a hungry belly would respond when presented with a plate full of banknotes. Which is to say, it doesn’t. On a visceral level, the brain removes the word don’t and only pays attention to whatever is left: in this case, the single word, move.

In this case, indeed, the little wheel did move. In fact, it became a blur. Then it flew off its support and pinged off the glass.

Don’t do that, don’t do that!! thought Bee. A more primal part of her brain understood her command, loud and clear: Do more of that.

The glass shattered. The pinwheel’s wooden support itself span around. The table collapsed. Then, for no reason at all, it caught fire.

*

Bee apologised about as much that evening as she had ever had occasion to apologise, including that one time when she had accidentally poured her friend a glass of vinegar instead of wine, which he then proceeded to reflexively spit over his bride’s wedding dress.

When it came time to go, Bee apologised once more to Winston outside the door.

With a wry smile, Winston quietly said, “Don’t apologise. I think you gave Vincent the most exciting moment of his life today. I’m sure his parents will agree with me that that was worth trading for a little mantelpiece toy.”