In order to tell this story properly, I need to go back a little bit further—even before the beginning. Our island is shaped like a horseshoe. Some people say it is a circle, but the enormous bay makes it look kinda horseshoey. All of our towns surround the bay. Our great and mighty and majestic king only comes to our end of the island once every two years. He goes to the other end on the years he doesn’t come here. This ensures that he only has to travel one week a year. The rest of the time, he sits in his magnificent castle and eats steak. He loves steak. Well, he did love steak. He’s dead now.
There are two villages on the way to the Fortenbare end of the island. The king used to roll through each village and wave heartily from his carriage. There was music and dancing and singing. The celebrations were fake, of course. I have it on good authority that Green Vale was paying people to cheer, and Millbranch was offering free nights in jail to those caught not cheering. Rumor has it that one old man (who couldn’t hear thunder in a thunderstorm) is still in prison from the king’s last visit two years ago. He still has no idea why he’s there.
Sometimes, the king would stop by unexpectedly at some poor villager’s house. He’d eat her stew and claim it was the best he ever tasted, then drop her a few coins so she could buy a goat. It was his way of reminding people he existed. He’d give them two years to totally forget, then remind them all over again. They paid their taxes, though. The travel guards saw to that.
Anyway, on this trip, he arrived at Fortenbare during a light rain shower. We all had to line up in our finest serving suits. They were emerald green with gold buttons. My friend Mollyanna wore a dress. She looked quite cute. I can still see her thick blonde curls sticking out from underneath her serving cap, and the dimple in her right cheek was just precious. I’ll likely never see her again, though. It’s too bad. This murder charge has just gotten everything out of sorts.
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So, I guess I should tell you about the events that led up to the king’s death. First of all, the king was allergic to rain. He probably said that four-hundred times during the week he stayed with us. I am not sure how anybody could be allergic to rain. Rain is rain. It falls. It waters our crops. It fills our reservoirs. It makes sure our streams are deep enough for fishing. Rain is a good thing.
Our all-mighty and all-knowing and all-powerful king managed to catch a cold on his walk from his carriage to the front doors of Fortenbare Manor. He started sneezing into his lacy hanky immediately. Since the hanky was lacy and therefore had holes in it, the royal snot ended up all over the butler. The butler hated it, but his face remained unchanged.
“Come, sire,” said the butler. “Let us get you out of this miserable weather, and into clothing more suitable to long life and happiness.” He said this in the calmest manner possible, but I could tell he was grossed out beyond belief. The royal wardrobe was heaved upstairs, and the royal pajamas were placed upon the snot-ridden king. He stayed in the guest suite for the next nine days.
On the morning of day ten, he hopped out of bed and declared that he was healthier than a newborn ballaboo and demanded a hearty breakfast. A hearty breakfast was created, and the king looked like a new man. He even declared that he could use a “triumphant feast.” Preparations began, and so did the trouble.