35. JINGLY BALLS AND FANCY BALLS.

The Royal Rumour mill was working at full power today; it all started from one little word, the one weakness of gossips the world over. “Don’t tell anybody I told you but.”

As anybody who knows how gossip works could easily tell you, “Don’t tell anybody about this,” rapidly becomes “don’t tell anybody about this but grandma.”

Who then proceeds to “don’t let on I told you” her sister, her cousin, and the neighbour across the street. Who then proceeds to “Don’t let on I told you but,”.... well.... everybody, and their dog. (Who then probably proceeds to spread it even further, but since we do not speak canine, we can't really be sure on that. So don't tell anybody.)

That phrase has a magic all its own, a special vow of silence that seems specifically engineered to be broken. Upon uttering it, the only way word could ever spread any faster would be if you got a wizard to cast a spell to magically tattoo it across everybody's forehead backwards, so that next time they looked in a mirror, they saw.

Now the word was out.

“The Princess hears the words of the gods.”

“She sold her finery to help those hit by a drought, you know."

“She single-handedly helped lift an entire village out of squalor.”

“Because of her, the great waterway project started; it was her idea from the very start.”

“Even though she has a sickly body, she trains to protect us all; she even fights with the royal guards.”

Soon enough, the word Priestess became High Priestess, and barely had time to catch its breath before the word Saintess caught up and rapidly overtook it. People were raving about the so-called virtues of a girl they had never met, would never meet, and who they probably wouldn’t know if she smacked them upside the head, while stood underneath a flashing, enchanted sign, bearing her name, then introduced herself afterwards. With pictographic ID.

All that was before the royalist groups got their hands on it, and when they did, they didn’t even hesitate before taking it even further.

Then the new waterways were consecrated by the princess in the name of her god, and every theorist suddenly had something to say about it. Usually, along the lines of “See, see, I told you she was taking messages from a god, didn’t I say so? I knew I was right.” in a particularly smug tone of voice until the whole room wanted to throw something at them.

All of it was grist to the mill, and as we all know, the mill never stops, never slows, and what comes out from the movement bears absolutely no resemblance to what went in. The only downside, mills tend to crush things.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“So what’s so great about her anyway?” sneered Lady Snype. (Quietly, of course, and well out of earshot of anybody who could report it, after all, talking badly of somebody to their face just wasn’t done, it was much easier to get the knife in behind their backs.)

Lady Rotterdam-mung nodded her agreement, mainly because agreeing out loud came at a cost if you were caught, so she and her friends were extremely careful not to get caught. Lady Snype not so much, and that, at least for now, made her extremely useful.

“Oh, don’t say that”, replied Lady Rotterdam-mung sweetly, concern oozing from her every pore. (Given how slippery this particular lady seemed to be, oozing seemed an apt description). “The poor dear is such a pious soul and works so hard, I fear the burden of duty will prove itself too tiring for her, but we mustn’t doubt her I’m sure she will manage..... somehow.”

The seed of doubt was a hard to cultivate crop, but Lady Snype’s (unfortunately for her, or conveniently, for them, depending on your point of view) friends were experts in that particular field. Cultivation to them was a simple three-stage process. Step one, for a successful crop, sprinkle the seeds widely. Step Two, allow them to take root. Step three make sure they are fed a copious amount of bullshit, and most importantly, after that, let them grow on their own in the fertile field that is society. Only an amateur goes back to them.

So the two great socialite armies clashed; the battlefield was, of course, merely words. But words, as we all know, can cut a person, or even a society, to the quick.

On one side were the loyal followers of Princess Rosalind, the wise Saintess, the engineer of the great reforms taking place within society, she who could do no wrong. On the other side were the concerned citizens, worried about the fate of their poor dear Princess Rosalind, so young and such a sickly girl, yet still fighting to improve the kingdom. But she was not much more than a child; she would need a firm hand and guidance. (Funnily enough, the people who insist on this sort of guidance always believe themselves to be the perfect beacon to light the way, despite any and all evidence to the contrary.)

Fans raised fans and *gasps* showed the back of them to former friends they now wished to see the back of. Invitations were made, and invitations were cancelled, and the backroom politicking continued. Soon a stalemate was reached, where somehow The Princess was both, yet still somehow managing to be simultaneously neither. Both sides were insistent they were the ones in the right, and neither was willing to let the cat out of the box to figure out the truth. Truth, after all, always gets in the way of a good gossip.

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Meanwhile, back in the forge room, Rosalind sneezed yet again; she hated this cold. According to some stories she had been told by Sir Humphrey (Usually a reliable source of information), sneezing meant somebody was talking about you. Mibbet really wished they would stop doing that as she scarfed down yet another steaming hot bowl of chicken soup. Wasn't a cold bad enough all by itself?

Nearby Rascal and Alba playfully competed with each other for an iron ball about the size of a human torso. If Mibbet ever got her hands on the complete git who had decided the damn thing needed a jingly bell in the middle, she would shove it so far where the sun did not shine proctologists for generations would speak of the legend in hushed tones, and even the most seasoned nursing assistant would have a new amusing and/or disturbing tale to tell at the most inappropriate moments.