Meanwhile... (2/2)
“I'm sorry. I'm very very sorry,” Celia said, sobbing, and the Mousewife just sat down and rocked her, and shushed her.
“No, no, it's fine. Everyone needs a good cry now and again. Would you like to crumble a cracker? It's soothing for some of my little plushie babies. Well and the living ones too. Though they usually just eat them.”
Eventually she got ahold of herself, and patted the Mouswife's arms. “I'm alright. Thank you. Can you put me down please?”
“Oh certainly!”
“And also not mention this to anyone? Ever?”
“Oh, certainly!”
LUCK+1
Celia almost laughed to see it. It had been a good while since her luck had gone up. She shook her head, and fluffed her red hair. “So. It's been a long day. Let's start over. Why are you here in my office?”
“Oh well Mister Threadbare said since I was between jobs I could go and talk to you since you needed a new assistant and all.”
“You're hired.”
“Just like that?” The Mousewife clapped her hands. “This IS my lucky day! I'm so glad I came to see you here.”
“Well, you're the only one who's applied,” Celia said, shrugging. “We've had the advertisement out in the paper for weeks now, and not a single person has come to apply.”
“That's strange,” The Mousewife tugged her whiskers. “The feller by your house told me that you weren't seeing applicants for the job at your home anymore.”
“Fellow by my house?” Celia frowned. “We most certainly were seeing applicants. We would've if any were there to see.”
“Oh yeah, he was going up and down the street making sure he spoke to any golem he saw coming. I didn't know what he was about when I first saw him! I almost got to your walk before he caught up to me, he looked right worried, he did. Then he set me straight. So I guessed since you weren't seeing any applicants at your home anymore, I'd have to go to your work to apply.”
Celia blinked. This smelled of shenanigans. But why? What was the point? She decided to worry about it later. “All right. Well your first job as my assistant is to run down to the kitchen and tell them to send up all the snacks and drinks that they used to before last week.”
The Mousewife stood still.
“Is everything all right?”
“Oh yes ma'am...” her voice was hushed, but her tail was lashing in what Celia rather thought was glee. And she was rubbing her hands together. “Are you telling me that you are getting poor service? And that I might have to speak to a manager?”
Something in her tone seemed almost unholy. Celia blinked, suddenly wary. “Yes,” she said. “I normally put out snacks and drinks for my guests. It's basic hospitality.”
“So it's just rude and mean and shameful! Oooh! Oooh! I'll get to use my secret weapon!” The Mousewife was practically vibrating with excitement, now.
“Yes, that's about the size of—”
The Mousewife was gone, leaving a swinging, open door behind her. “—it,” Celia finished, wondering what she had unleashed upon the world. Then she shrugged, and called in the next petitioner.
The next few petitioners went without incident. One was a headache and a half, but nowhere as bad as ghost paw paw and his lawyer army.
The fourth one nodded to her, took off his hat and suddenly turned into a dwarf.
Celia had her hand on the switch to the crossbow array under her desk, before she realized that she knew him. “Hidon? What are you playing at?” She moved her fingers carefully off the diplomatic incident waiting to happen.
“We don't have much time,” he said. “Tomorrow Easterlynn-Proudsmythe is going to reopen discussion on the Human Marriage Purity act.”
“What's left to discuss? We settled that,” Celia frowned. “Much to my displeasure, I was outvoted. I was hoping you'd stand against it, but you and your comrade abstained.”
“We debated it long and hard, Bazdra and me,” Hidon said. “We decided dwarves shouldn't be having a say in who humans want ta marry. We talked it over with the king and he agreed, and said that Humans are too horny anyway. They'd be changing the law back in a few decades at most when the current batch of kids rebels against their parents and all that.”
“It doesn't always happen like that,” said Celia, before belatedly remembering her struggle against her father, and the rebellion she'd aided to defeat him. “Well not always, anyway.”
“Of course,” said Hidon, clearly not meaning it. “Anyhow, this time around, Gladys has come to us and asked for our support.”
“Okay, that's usual. I've done that myself when I knew something troublesome was coming up,” then she frowned. “She's expecting this one to be that troublesome? What's she trying to change about the Purity act?”
“They realized that they're going to have some trouble if it gets disputed and they have to determine what exactly constitutes a human.”
Celia started to laugh, and stopped. Hidon was dead serious. Hidon was usually always serious.
Then she thought about it, really thought about it, and her eyes opened wide. “Oh! Oh. Oh... Huh. That's... a bit outside our paygrade, isn't it?”
“I think so too.” There was a slight note of relief in Hidon's voice. Then he grimaced again. “But she doesn't.”
“I think that's the safest tack to take. Saying that the government can't and shouldn't determine the measure of humanity,” Celia rubbed her chin. “If you and... does Bazdra feel as you do?”
“Yes.”
“Good, then we'll need to talk to at least one of the others, two more to be safe...”
That took a few more minutes to wrap up, and Hidon disguised himself once more before leaving. Celia shook her head at the drama of it, but that tickle in the back of her head was starting to turn into an icicle. Hidon didn't have a dramatic bone in his body. He wouldn't be doing this if he didn't see the need.
Glancing at the clock, she frowned. Where was the Mousewife? She'd sent her down nearly an hour ago. What kind of assistant took that long to get a simple errand done?
A few more petitioners came and went, and then came a surprise, as a somewhat-familiar beastkin darkened her door.
“Oh! You're the actress... ah...” Celia tapped her desk. “Lafoot, right?”
“Lafeet. Jean Lafeet,” the woman smiled, shutting the door and giving her an appraising look. “You seem to be doing a bit better tonight. I am glad.”
That brought back a reminder of worse times, but Celia brushed it aside. “Oh believe me, your performance was the high point of that night. How have you been? What can I help you with?”
“Ah, it is a small thing, of little importance. You recall my asking if we could put on our play for the festival?”
“Of course. Have you spoken to the festival director yet? Just mention my name, and that I'm backing you... oh, she'll need a paper, maybe. Hold on.” Celia scribbled out a note, then looked up to see the bunnykin looking very puzzled.
“Is something wrong?”
“She? The festival director is a woman?”
“Yes,” Celia nodded. “Her name is Charlotte, I believe. Yes, Charlotte Spongefish.”
“The man I spoke with said that I was a director, and that you had removed us from the program,” Jean said, ears furling in confusion.
“I said no such thing.” Celia frowned, and added a few more lines to the note. “It sounds like Charlotte's got an incompetent assistant. That's something we have in common, I'm sorry to say. I might be in the market for a new one if that Mouse doesn't show up soon.”
“Mouse? A small Mouse woman?”
“Oh, is she around outside somewhere?” Celia glanced up. “I sent her for snacks two hours ago.”
Wordlessly, Jean rose and opened the door.
And there, working her way down the line, pulling a trolley full of biscuits and beverages, chatting with everyone and handing out goodies, was the Mousewife.
“If you're letting her go, we could always use someone to help with catering,” said Jean. “She's been at it for quite a while now. Truly a godsend, and she quite improved the mood out there.”
Celia rose, hopped down from her chair, walked over and shut the door. “Nevermind. Think I'll keep her after all.” And for the first time that night, she smiled and meant it. “So, here's your note. Go and ask for Charlotte this time. Don't let anyone give you the runaround. Ah...” she pulled out the pen. “Just to make sure, what's the name of the play you're planning?”
“A classic one,” Jean said, straightening up. “A musical, with a lot of swashbuckling, and roguery, and audience participation. It is called the Pirates of Bun's Dance...”