18. BLATANT BICCY BRIBERY.

Mibbet took control back and saw that the committee did not look happy at what had just happened. They may not be able to do a lot, but they could be a tremendous pain in her hindquarters. If not properly pacified, they would be passive-aggressive (more than they had been so far, I mean.)

So Mibbet resorted to the time-honoured tactic for dealing with power trippers everywhere. Outright bribery. She fished Rosalind’s memories for something suitable, eventually finding her mark; she called in a maid and fished several coins from her pouch.

“We could be here a while,” she said, “send out for 3 mixed packs of Madam Monchies finest.”

If the room could have fallen any more silent, now would be the moment. Sending out for biscuits was one thing, but these weren’t just biscuits; they were Madam Monchies (which totally earned their capitalisation, by the way.) These were the kind of biscuits you brought out when the in-laws who disapproved of you were visiting (you know, the one who runs their finger along the top shelf to check for dust. I mean, who dusts their top shelf?) There were peace offerings, then there was this.

Committees, it seemed, were bound by ancient rules. You could try to bribe them with coins, and they would be outraged. Favours were instantly rebuffed with disdain. But they had one fatal weakness, good biscuits, like a wild beast on a rampage, you could theoretically tame them with food. You just had to stare them down first (and hope they didn’t bite you on the arse as soon as you turned your back.)

Mrs Beaton seemed to have become the primary spokeswoman at this time, others could try to speak, but they would soon be glared into submission by her if they were unwise enough to try it. Theoretically, she should be waving the white flag at this time, but no Beaton ever surrendered truly (at least not in a way that could be understood as surrender.) “I suppose that we should discuss the primary reason we’re here”, she ventured. (This definitely wasn’t a white flag, no no, it may be a little bit bleached out and vaguely flag-shaped, with two holes for fastening to a flag pole, oh and being waved around on the end of a stick, but a white flag? Perish the thought.)

*Ahem!* The Colonel attempted. “Yes, yes, things did get somewhat off track there for a while; it must be the old injury playing up; doncha know when one gets low on energy, it leaves a feller quite out of sorts."

(This was in no way to be construed as him asking for a bribe, oh no-no-no. This was him quite rightly discussing the issue of the hazards of low energy and old wounds and how they could be countered quite handily should a sufficiently nourishing, and may I say even sugary, starched baked good is provided without questioning it in the least.) The other Committee members, of course, nodded along and (purely out of concern for the poor Colonels health, of course. Nothing to do with the delicious, crumbly, but not too crumbly goodness of.... where was I? Oh, yes. Nothing at all to do with the possibility of good snacks, I’m sure.)

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Thus, snacks were provided, and lo, the committee was tamed. (At least until nomination time, they become quite feral in that time period and are known to turn on each other, remember, during election season, be sure to separate your pet committee members to prevent injury.)

Mibbet pondered, Plotted, and Planned, but as a frog, what the hell did she know about civil engineering. She knew how water worked (hard not to when you live in it), but structure-wise, she didn’t have a clue. She offered up a prayer to Wannashowa, just on the off chance that such a god had conveniently popped into existence in the duration of the meeting (With how long it had felt to drag on, several universes could have popped into existence without her knowing.)

So she dredged her mind, desperately thinking of all she knew about water. It was wet, it was good to swim in, fish never bothered getting out to use the toilet. (Rude buggers). Sometimes these odd fuzzy creatures badgers, no.... beavers that’s it, piled up a lot of wood and made big ponds for some reason she never understood. She knew some water ran down streams and rivers unless something got in their way. These two little pieces of information snapped together in her head, along with the mental image of ponds, and she reached a revolutionary (at least as far as frogs go) concept. Could they farm water? Herd it into one place and trap it? She could imagine frogs for miles around, gathering happily at giant ponds. So she doodled an idea.

“Could we do this?” She asked?

“A Reservoir?” Said Mrs Beaton with a scoff. “Princess, I don’t know what you think our budget is here, but it barely keeps us in biscuits, let alone something like this.”

“Oh, leave that bit to me.” Replied Mibbet with a chuckle, Rosalind was going to be screaming at her for a while if she did this, but she had some semblance of a plan. “First things first, we need workers; I can sell off a few of my old dresses to help on that front.” Rosalind was indeed not happy until Mibbet pointed that out with the old, led to more space for the new. That and a flash of memory of her history lessons, which touched upon the issue of revolutions, and how a populace deficient in things they needed while royals had plenty, tended to result in royals rather deficient in the head department

“But, but, MY DRESSES”, Rosalind wailed; in order to comfort her, Mibbet flashed up mental images of the purchase regrets and objects they resembled (big top, beach ball, 99 red balloons that had a regrettable, albeit brief, and explosive, dalliance with a pin. And last but not least, a severely discomfited flamingo), and then mental images of things that were out of season. Rosalind, thus mollified, the planning began.