34. ONE FLU OVER THE FROG PRINCESS
Lesson learned here, thought Mibbet with a groan, just because one can go swimming in the ornamental pond does not mean one should wait a sec, one? Oh great, all those bloody stupid etiquette lessons had wormed their way into her brain, and now she was speaking Posheese. As if having a cold wasn’t bad enough already, I mean, whoever heard of a frog with the sniffles from cold water? Human bodies are such a nuisance.
“What did you expect?” Replied Rosalind rudely. “You’re warm-blooded and non-amphibious now, neither feature is known for weather resistance, and it’s late autumn. If you were still a frog, you’d probably be considering hibernation right now.”
“Hibernation would be preferable to this.” Growled our begrumpled grenouille grouchily, groaning as the cold decided to make her suffer more.
“Also, why the hell is it only one nostril gets all gooey and gross? Surely it would make more sense to get balanced nose flows? Somehow being all bunged up lopsidedly is irritating me even worse, and my head just feels fit to burst” Mibbet whined, as her maid Carrie Moore dashed in and presented a bowl of chicken soup (perfectly ordinary chicken soup, absolutely no ethereal or spectral healing traits were applied regardless of what those bloody smug gits who write self-help books may recklessly claim. No kind of soup, stew, broth, pottage, or Gumbo, without the addition of ingredients that are usually banned, will have any real influence on development. Except primordial soup, but that development is a bit slow to really count, and involves no spoons.)
Carrie very politely pretended not to notice the flu-ridden princess talking away to nobody; it was common knowledge royals were eccentric, but a wise person never said so aloud, and unwise people seldom remained working within the castle for long; usually, those with an empty head tended to leave sans that particular feature.
Besides rumour had it that the princess was a high priestess, and a very devout one at that, for all she knew she was talking to her god, and one did not judge how another worshipped or chose to pray (At least unless human sacrifice was involved in which case you could judge away, though a smart move was to do so quietly, and from a safe distance. Preferably after assuring no worshippers of said deity were present. Otherwise, you may just find yourself partaking in a pointed lesson on religious freedom, from a rather unique perspective.)
But she couldn’t help thinking, if that is the case, maybe the princess hears the word of the Wannashowa himself, that would explain where the sudden waterway rampage came from. Also, why she suddenly vanished and returned with a mysterious weapon, and what can only be described as divine guidance, maybe she’d tell the other’s in her knitting group about this. Matilda may be a little bit of a gossip. But she could make sure the girls all know that this topic is just between her and them, and then it won't spread. She could trust them to keep a secret, right?
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“Well, would ya look at that” spake the Angel (The Angel in question being Adrian’s long-suffering partner Cassie, not to be mistaken for Cassiel, she got really grumpy if you do that.) Wannashowa looked at the newcomer curiously. Until now, he hadn’t even realised that angels could look rumpled, yet here she was in all her shabby glory. Yet somehow, she managed to make untidy look good.
“Seems you got yourself a saint.”
“How does that happen? I mean, last month, I had three worshippers.”
“It is complicated, your holiness.” Replied Adrian smoothly, barely even acknowledging Cassie in the room. “Usually, it is because over fifty people have referred to them as a Saintess, in the context of your faith specifically.”
“Fifty people? OK, I’m not going to try to figure out the logistics of this. Both amphibians and gods are supposed to be immune to headaches, and this STILL gives me one. Also, who’s the new girl?”
“Names Cassie sir, your second Archangel, the paperwork says you’re entitled to two on account of the Saintess and all. So here I am. Pleased to meet ya.”
“Would it have killed you to tuck in your shirt before meeting our employer?” Groaned Adrian, pinching his forehead, in a manner uncharacteristic of an Angel so prim and proper. But Cassie, well, Cassie was a unique case, and as Adrian just verified, she could even give The Gods Themselves a migraine.
“Hey, I am as the gods made me. It’s not up to me to improve on perfection, now, is it? ‘Sides somebody has to keep you under control, or you’d be on another tidy rampage, you even iron creases in your socks, I mean, who does that? Lucky for us, I don’t think the new boss wears any or anything much really.”
“Thanks for pointing that out.” Grumbled Wannashowa, “I was quite happy being blissfully unaware of my nudity, then you come along, and in five seconds manage to make it weird. So thanks for that.”
“Anytime,” replied Cassie with a smirk. While Wannashowa considered that maybe, just maybe, smiting his new angel would be more trouble than it was worth. But briefly pondered it anyway.
“I apologise, Your Holiness. I forgot to mention my colleague here is somewhat unresponsive to sarcasm.”
“Not unresponsive to it, really, just find it much more entertaining to take everything more literally from time to time.” Cassie fired back, clearly ignoring the cold look that Adrian shot her way (which must have taken some effort; Adrian’s stare was usually cold enough to make liquid nitrogen look like midsummer in the outer circles of hell. Heck, it made Lake Cocytus seem like a holiday in the sun, and for Cassie, he reserved a special glare that was even colder than that.)
Adrian pondered the situation for a moment. “At this rate, you will have a grand temple by the time you hit a few hundred worshippers, Your Holiness. Maybe a new miracle is in order in the circumstances?”
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Colonel Mustard (Ret) was resting in a deckchair beside his beloved Begonias before behold, blessed rain bore down, briefly by the bucket. Before descending to a gentle drizzle, “Strange?” he noted, “usually it’s the rhubarb.”
Still, he wasn’t one to look a gift pour in the mouth, so he headed inside and dipped into the old change bowl. Carefully counting out his savings as he made his way to the shops. The shopkeeper noted with surprise that the Colonel (a well-known cheapskate) forewent his usually cheap biscuits, and in a miracle almost as great as the rain itself he went to the posh treats. Paused for a moment, before seizing a deluxe tin of Madam Monchies.