And so it begins,

The doorbell rang ,'Ordinary, so stop this jumping nonsense!' I could hear Monty's vice scolding over my shoulder with his know every thing tone. It jangling every nerve as Phoebe gave a startled shook. Although this was a delivery eagerly expected and highly anticipated, she jumped all the same a bundle of nerves. Everything about the last two weeks

'Two weeks, and we have been officially missing for seven!' She thought of the two of them quarreling as they did over numbers. 'Seven? Are you sure about that?' She could remember their constant corrections. She had become out of joint, and surreal to her. They were right there eating dinner early in June. Then gone without a trace then declared dead that July. Then came the initial letters from a law firm she had never heard of, informing her of the formalities observed in the disappearance of her uncles, the wait made mandatory prior to informing her, the government acknowledgment of her claims as sole heir and inheritor since their presumption of death was certain given their notorious exploits.

'Notorious? Surely “HEROIC” should be the better choice of word.'. Everything here should be cut and dried, stamped, verified, legally filed, filled out in triplicate, and approved from the court systems she had been made to avoid all of her life. 'All of this is nothing but trouble, if you ask me!' But at last she yanked open the front door to a perfectly ordinary delivery carrier, dressed up in formal greens. His clip board at the ready tired eyes fixed in place.

“Miss, Please sign here, here, initial there and hand printed plus signature at the bottom” He said in a monotone drone as he has said nothing but this to every doorway all day long, faces had long ago stopped being faces, but doorways of the inconsequential. Day after day Year after year until he too could retire and start to enjoy Florida just in time for the inevitable heart attack two days later.

Scanning the pre-printed page from 'The Law Offices of March, Quiggly, Innish & Dover' was written in excruciatingly fancy cursive at the top with addresses claiming to serve New York, Boston, Chicago, London, Paris, Berlin, Sarajevo, and Beijing. Sighing she got on with the obligation.

“Boxes one thru fourteen are in this shipment, shall we bring them inside?” With the sound of the word “we” there seemed to grow out of nowhere extra delivery people ready to haul the whole mess into her front-room. “Perhaps given the size of delivery, you would rather they be left on the porch?” He gestured over his shoulder to the slab patio that routeenly found it's self filled with hungry iguanas and the odd aligator that found it's way to the suburb. The Latter burned into early memory as a sworn enemy.

“No, inside will be fine, plenty of room to sort, right in here.” She said in an unexpected squeaky voice, like she would leave them outside?!? No, never! Not for those awful gators. Worse than raccons. Phoebe gestured with the hand not holding the pen, which she had unconsciously started to grip like a short bladed weapon, poised for the unexpected.

Silently, like pall bearers, the four of them managed to carry in each box in turn. One by one wordlessly pressing on with the silence of the grave. Green polished shoes soundlessly creeping over tile till all the boxes were accounted for. Like caskets almost filling the room.

“Uh, I admit, I don't know the proper procedure for this, do I tip you?” She furrowed her brow passing him back his pen settping to the side to put her hand into her jacket for her wallet.

“No, Miss.” He said with a dismissive wave.”We make deliveries like this all the time, these are paid to do so. I guess your Uncles saw to every detail.” He paused his deminor shifting. He smiled as she caught the gold fleck in his brown eyes. “I could tell you stories...” He started, but instantly silenced himself, as if giving away trade secrets. “Perhaps it would bore you, given the history we see here.” he finished in lame explanation.

'Not as many as we could tell YOU, my good sir!' She smirked remembering the last PTA meeting that Uncle Monty was Allowed to go to with out Finnegan. The last box entered, delivery men vanished, and the door closed in a whoosh that almost make a “pop” sound.

Looking out the window she could see no van or truck...had she zoned out so completely as to miss their exit? To be fair, it had been a very trying time. It's not like they were not experienced, and if anything had a method. After all she pointed her finger in the air and mumbled under her breath “Pheobe everything has a method.”

Walking past each box each almost as standard loading crate, easy to stock, easy to carry, if you were strong enough, and the contents manageable, she touched each one as she passed. Like military soldiers in rank and file in two solid rows in her living room, ready and waiting. Waiting.... Some things could wait forever but time goes on.

She noted that the last/first box set, had a sizable legal envelope taped to the top. Her name 'Phoebe XXXXX” written in Uncle Monty;s near-illegible writing, Now focused to the job that should have long started, she could see each box had written on it a designation: '1 Of 14~ OPEN ME FIRST' Followed in line with 2 0f 14 all the way to 14 of 14 in Uncle Finnegan's nearly calligraphist hand-style. 'Because we are thoughtful like that.' she thought in Finnegan's voice “Oh, of course, thoughtful.' Monty's voice chirped in.

“So this is what it feels like to loose your mind... “ She mused. Carefully pulling the secured tape from the box she held the thick envelope written in herown had. Written perhaps so long ago, that she was still in school? Large multi color crayon scrawl tok up most of the envelope. It took her back to those trying days. School was a nightmare. People accusing her of lies and story telling.

To be fair, if she were going to be the minstrel they wanted her to be, story telling should be like breathing to her, shouldn't it? Some days it was, and others...well not so much. Today? Today would be a sad song, with notes of longing, would'a could'a shoulda's and never-beens. Lots of life was like that, she mused while looking for the letter opener. The one shaped as a replica of Elizabeth's battle sword should do the trick, and pretty meaningful to her self at least. This was going to be a battle to get all this done.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Opening the top of the legal envelope, she pulled out what seemed to be a solid ream of paper. Top sheet from the redoubtable Mr. March & etc, stating the facts as she already knew them, followed by the papers declaring her uncles dead, those papers naming her as sole heir, last surviving ancestor of a long and historic line of 'HIOSTORIANS.

“Bull shitters.” She coughed under her breath. Who took pains to see that the records were set straight, wrongs made right evils vanquished, and bards employed to extol the virtues of the heroic, the punishments of the wicked were made known, and the Earth set back on it's rightful course again 'yeah, bullshit' She could hear Monty's sing song voice 'But bullshit with panache!'

Several sheets in, after a cursory skim, provoked a gasp. She clasped her handover her mouth with a chuckle. Here it was. Or maybe 'here it started', the beginning of the tales. Listed were the titles, ALL the titles of her name. The Lady Phoebe, Warden of the Northern and Southern Slopes, Liege Lord of the Miners of Delphi, Heroine and Liberator of the Land of Dumfordt, High Cleric Emeritus of the Citadel Church of the Holy Orders, it simply went on and on. Flipping through to the end, she could see that is was three pages long, single spaced. It seemed as if NOTHING was left out in the story of her name over twenty years of role-playing and endless character sheet over every edition.

'Well if you have to memorize it, just make it a song, and that ought to help, right?' It was as if she heard Monty now, speaking in her ear.

A memory flashed, the second day of kintergarten lettering homework scattered all over the living room floor on top of the horrendous carpet that Finn had insisted it was a rare find and well worth the investment. To Pheobe it looked like innumerable worms all tied together in one giant knot.

“Uncles, why don't I have a last name? All the others do, I want one too!” Her squeeky little voice peeped over piles of homework.

“Dearest, a last name is often most desired by the peasantry, to explain where their father was.” Finnegan said barely looking up over his atlas of tropical islands.

“Sometimes old chap, it also explains where he WASN'T!” piped Monty swinging in from the kitchen flopping a still damp dish rag over his shoulder.

“In your case, you have a rare and fateful gift: YOU get to choose. Not many have that opportunity. Until your name comes to you, your titles should do, and hide you too. Some may want to do harm for the unguarded last name.” Finnegan said putting his fingers in the book looking down with his dark green eyes.

“You also get to make it a good one, think on that. Let's have none of that “Paper-bag Princess of Muddy Lawn”, alright? It was so like Monty, trying to be lighthearted, but also a smidgen serious as well. She pouted, she had one of her favorite tales of daring-do ruined by a 'bad choice of name” he said in a silly voice making grumpy air quotes puffing up his cheeks comically.

She never brought up the subject again. Besides, she had all THESE titles to be proud of, didn't she? More pages held more of the same. The Game Names, titles she had earned at her Uncles' side while righting the wrongs, and making the world spin, as you do when you are a child.

Being in the theater certainly made it possible for them to carry on, otherwise how could these outrageous people be involved in making childish, childhood stories come to life? Each time posting another slash in the imaginary Win Column. Each time hearing the cheers of the assembled throngs.

Throngs? Surly not. Perhaps a single throng. A throng. How many WERE in a throng? Maybe not more than five, maybe more if they had brought costumed girlfriend to be “in on” the tales meant to amuse a child left in the charge of otherwise wastrel uncles? Did it even matter now?

They were gone.

Leaving aside the papers she brought the letter opener to the first box. Neatly if excitedly scrawled in Monty's hand saying “Open me FIRST” like some kind of Yule Gift. She laughed in spite of herself. What is so very important, in these boxes collected over two lifetimes? Well...Maybe it was as important to be left with lawyers and delivered by spectral delivery men who had no truck or van and disappeared as if they never happened? She tore at the packing tape more quickly.

The note inside, now in Uncle Finnegan's cultured hand, started abruptly:

'Dear Niece, If I may be allowed to call M'Lady by so informal a title, it may have escaped your notice, but you must become aware of your heritage, not just earned Titles'

She glanced at the laid aside sheaf of papers in suspicion, 'But truly we are not, as you suppose, your true and honest Uncles, but agents of the Realm, pledged by our honor to raise and protect you, to keep you from the agents of the Secret Court who would harm you and see your linage put to an end.'

“More story telling? Even in death?” She rolled her eyes. “Ok...Big Joke. Nice. But also so sweet, like a last present.” She murmured The Secret Court, she remembered, a shadowy organization constructed of Nobility and their criminal flunkies, seeking to rule by subtle means or foul should the occasion warrant it. How many times had she uncovered their wicked plans in their plays and reenactments. She rolled her eyes, almost an audible action.

'This the first box has what you need to start your adventure, now that you are “Of Age”, and the Kingdom needs you and your much practiced hand. We know you are ready to face it all, and become victorious, all this training has not been for naught. Study this box well and see if it is not all true, and as we have said in action covert and necessary to train you in the arts of ruler-ship. As in this life you have what you needed, in the next part you must train in the arts of magic, a power denied here in this realm, but one in which you should wield some great authority, once you get your feet wet.

Much love and devotion, Your cunning Uncles Finnegan & Monty'

This needed coffee to process. So adjourning to the kitchen to invoke Our Lady of the Coffee Pot. Named some time in the third grade the second ghoogly eye had lost it's cover ages ago saring at her with Her one good eye. She collect thoughts before embarking on a tale which was only half remembered from childhood. Walking away from the box, on the top was a worn picture of a dragon, holding a coin as big as she was. Phoebe did a double-take.

“Lyra?” she gently whispered the name. “How?...HOW do I know YOU?” Focusing hard, it was NOT the coin that was as huge as a dragon, but that the dragon was only little more in size than the coin itself. Tears come to Phoebe's eyes. “Lyra, how could I have forgotten YOU? I've missed you so much!”

Phoebe put both hands suddenly into the box piled with spiral notebooks, each numbered, of course, and came up with a fair amount to take to the table for study. The back of her brain itched. There was something here that NEEDED remembering. That had to BE remembered, and SHE WOULD DO IT!

“Uncles, not Uncles, I will do this”

'I knew you would..' almost as if it were right in her ear.

'Me too.'