A/N: Yes, another EXITING installment of my wonderful story. Does anyone
realize how had it is to write while listening to Tori Amos, or anything,
for that matter. Does this only apply to those of us in need of Ritalin,
or everyone?
I showed up at the palace gates on a drizzly day. Litter was floating aimlessly in the gutter, and the resident alley cats were crouched in doorways, keeping dry and just waiting for someone to step on their tails so that they could attempt to claw out the bewildered person's eyes as they stood there-stunned and dripping wet.
I had no clue what was to befall me at the palace, whether I would come home that night or be shown to the dingy servants' quarters at the bottom levels of the palace. I had little time to ponder my fate, as a large, gruff, and quite hairy woman came and escorted me into a small, dark cloakroom. She told me to wait until called for, and so I sat, on an upturned bucket, and waited.
Time crawled by. I counted the coats, trying to figure out which covered wealthy folks and which attempted to warm the scrawny bodies of the poor, in the palace begging the Queen for more handouts, and a warmer place to spend the night. I thought about Riff, guessing he was standing on some busy street corner, with a pile of newspapers, The Transylvanian Moon, stacked beside him, wondering how long he'd been standing and how much longer until he could crouch against the papers, pull out the novel he always kept in his pocket, and block out the rest of the world.
I don't know how long I sat there-it must have been less than an hour- when the woman who had showed me in escorted me to a large, open room. I expected to be given instructions by a housekeeper, telling me which rooms to mop, which to sweep, et cetera. Instead I was greeted by the queen herself, and, standing next to her, the tall, lanky, and obviously very horny prince-Frank.
I showed up at the palace gates on a drizzly day. Litter was floating aimlessly in the gutter, and the resident alley cats were crouched in doorways, keeping dry and just waiting for someone to step on their tails so that they could attempt to claw out the bewildered person's eyes as they stood there-stunned and dripping wet.
I had no clue what was to befall me at the palace, whether I would come home that night or be shown to the dingy servants' quarters at the bottom levels of the palace. I had little time to ponder my fate, as a large, gruff, and quite hairy woman came and escorted me into a small, dark cloakroom. She told me to wait until called for, and so I sat, on an upturned bucket, and waited.
Time crawled by. I counted the coats, trying to figure out which covered wealthy folks and which attempted to warm the scrawny bodies of the poor, in the palace begging the Queen for more handouts, and a warmer place to spend the night. I thought about Riff, guessing he was standing on some busy street corner, with a pile of newspapers, The Transylvanian Moon, stacked beside him, wondering how long he'd been standing and how much longer until he could crouch against the papers, pull out the novel he always kept in his pocket, and block out the rest of the world.
I don't know how long I sat there-it must have been less than an hour- when the woman who had showed me in escorted me to a large, open room. I expected to be given instructions by a housekeeper, telling me which rooms to mop, which to sweep, et cetera. Instead I was greeted by the queen herself, and, standing next to her, the tall, lanky, and obviously very horny prince-Frank.
