I know, I know. I totally suck, not updating and leaving you like that. This was due to the fact that my computer crashed and I lost this story. Again sorry, and thank you to those who are sticking with me.
Glinda heaved a sigh and tossed aside the petition she was reading. She dearly loved the Frottican people, but they could be trying. She hoisted up her heavy skirt (pale blue embroidered with red roses) and thumped her feet on the table in a severely unladylike manner.
"Miss Glinda the Hussy. I would never have thought you of all people would be the first to become senile."
She whirled around, gripping her chair and knocking over a vase in the process. Water sloshed everywhere and real roses clung next to the pretty embroidery on Glinda's now-damp skirt.
"Crope!" she cried, as a maid rushed in, gathering the shattered glass and mopping the water with a rag. "You've ruined it!"
"I haven't," Crope said, idly plopping down on a velvet chair and propping his own feet up on the coffee table. "Lady Iselda of Dixxi House spilled an entire goblet of red wine on her white dress, which, by the way, was encrusted head-to-toe with diamonds, and she got it out just fine. If a stain like that could come out, what's this then?"
Glinda glowered at him, dabbing at her dress with a silver doily. "I am not senile."
Crope chuckled. "Of course not, dear."
"What are you doing here anyway, Crope? Who let you in?" Glinda snapped rudely.
Crope ran his fingers over his stomach, grown rather ample over years of primping and pageantry. "I have my ways," he grinned.
"Crope!" Glinda squealed. "You cannot keep telling people you are an ambassador from Ix! It's not right! And I suppose you told the guard that I speak Ixan and that I am some kind of channel between you and Ozma, making me out as something I'm not-"
"Dear Glinda," Crope said, "it seems every so often a little- oh what shall we call it?- a bud, yes! A bud, if you will. A bud of imagination bursts through that pampered skull of yours."
"I am not dressed to receive visitors," Glinda puffed.
Crope glanced lazily at the chandelier, ignoring her. "You'll never guess who arrived at my house last night!" Crope sang to her.
"Whoever it was," Glinda said, "they can wait. You-" she barked to the maid, staring at them, intrigued, "fetch Master Crope some tea- sugar and cream, is it, Crope? And bring up some of those petit fours." She turned to Crope. "I shall change, and then we will discuss your nighttime visitor."
Glinda entered her drawing room, freshly clad in a purple velvet evening gown and a purple silk turban (to hide the parts of her hair that were splashed by the water), to find Crope sifting through her petitions, pausing every few seconds to laugh at one or another.
"Listen to this: 'Miss Glinda, the elderly of Frottica would greatly appreciate larger numbers on the Frottican Clock.' Larger numbers!" he crowed. "Do you actually grant these?"
"I do," she said, laughing. Her bad mood had evaporated with the simple act of putting on new clothes. "Most of them," she added.
"I don't envy you," Crope confessed, sipping his tea. "To deal with these lunatics! What a career!"
Glinda sat back in her chair, munching on a little cake. "Edybay," she started, choking on a mouthful of crumbs.
"Please don't do that; you look like a cow." Glinda gave a muffled shriek and swallowed. "Anyway," she cleared her throat, "what were you saying about a visitor?"
"Oh, no, no, no, dear," Crope grinned. "You will meet this visitor yourself in person. Tomorrow at eleven for lunch."
"What?" Glinda sat up. "You come here, ruin my dress, tell me you have fabulous gossip, and then don't reveal it? Crope!"
"I told you, the dress isn't ruined. If you give it to me, I have a wonderful laundress who can-"
"That's not the point," Glinda interrupted. "You just breached a serious offense of rudeness. Oh," Glinda gave a little start. "I just remembered. I have a luncheon with the mayor of Red Sand tomorrow." She frowned. "Perhaps next week?"
"No," Crope said firmly. "Tomorrow. Tell the mayor you have contracted the flux. Just be at the Ozma Ballroom at eleven." He drained his tea and studied the grandfather clock. "Dear me, look at the time. I'll be going." Crope stood and walked out of the room, pausing at the doorway.
"You don't want to miss this, Glinda," he said quietly, in the most serious voice she had ever heard him use. She heard his footsteps down the hall.
Glinda sighed to herself. The things I do, she thought and she smoothed out a fresh sheet of parchment and dipped her quill in her customary dark pink ink.
Respectful greetings to the mayor of Red Sand from the mayoress of Frottica:
My dear sir Mayor,
I am terribly sorry to inform you that I cannot attend the luncheon we had scheduled for tomorrow at eleven. I am suffering from a severe bout of influenza…
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