When Writers Go Bad: Chapter Seven
Thunder clapped outside, and a heavy rain pounded against the windows of Viscomtess Christine de Chagny's bedroom. She'd been sitting on the edge of her bed, sniffling slightly as she took in her surrounding, when a knock came at the door. Rising, she left her white handkerchief upon the bed, unlocking the door and opening it. "Yes, hello?" she asked. But the hall way was empty, there wasn't a soul.
A rather annoyed cough by her feet alerted her to the presence of the person who had knocked. Well, really, the plot bunny who had knocked.
"Oh!" she exclaimed in surprise, stepping back and out of the bunny's way. It had a tray balancing on it's long ears, a large bowl of steaming soup sitting on the tray. Her stomach grumbled, for she had never gotten to finish her dinner, and that had been nearly three quarters of an hour ago.
Carefully, the small rabbit gently hopped into the room, managing to get the tray onto the table. "Thank you very much." It held out an ear and glared rather rudely at her, expecting something. Confused, she just stood there for a moment, before she realized what it wanted. "Oh! Yes, of course, hold on!" Going to her dresser, she opened up her little purse and pressed a sous piece (she wasn't paying any attention to the mark of the coin, grabbing the first piece she found) onto the plot bunny's ear. Its scowl turned into a bright smile, and, quite satisfied with the tip, it hopped out the door, which Christine then closed, sadly listening to the click of the automatic locks, shutting her in her prison once more.
Christine was getting extremely tired of being abducted and locked up all the time.
Sighing, she settled into a chair with the soup, and had just raised the steaming spoonful to her lips when a large, metallic banging noise issued from the room next door to her's. She jumped, managing not to spill the soup in the bowl, but the spoonful landed on the side of her nightgown. Christine was beginning to think this was just not her night, and, rather annoyed, she set the soup back up on the table, and rose, going to the side door that led to the room from whence the racket came. She rapped on the door, and asked "Excuse me, but could you keep it down in there?"
Christine got no answer, and, to her surprise, instead, heard the locks clicking and the door was swung open. At the doorway, similarly dressed in night attire, was Marguerite Blakeney, who looked a combination of cross and tired.
"I'm sorry, I know you said something, but I can't hear you over the noise."
With the door open, the din that came from Lady Blakeney's room invaded Madame Chagny's as well. She struggled to hear what the other woman said, but had no luck.
"What?"
Unfortunately, Marguerite could not hear the response either. "What?"
"What?"
It would have continued thusly for several minutes had not Marguerite rolled her eyes and shut the door. The noise level dropped in some frequency, and was drowned out whenever thunder clapped outside.
"What on earth is going on in your room?" asked Christine.
"The heater's not working. I did as those girls said and used that odd little contraption on the desk – What did they call it? A tele…tete….oh, I don't know! In any case, I managed to tell those odd little rabbits what the matter was. So, someone came up. I tried explaining to them that simply banging on it with hammers probably wouldn't help, but, they don't talk, you see, and….well, that's really it."
Christine blinked, still slightly confused, but politely said "Oh."
And so, they stood there rather awkwardly for a moment.
"Um…would you like a chair?" Christine asked, pulling out the one she had been sitting in when the banging occurred.
"Oh, thank you." Marguerite sat down, and Christine sat on the bed, both still silent.
Finally, Christine broke the ice and said "I don't think we were quite properly introduced today." With that, she stood and curtsied. "Bonsoir, madame, my name is Christine de Chagny."
Marguerite did likewise. "Bonsoir, Madame de Chagny, I am Marguerite Blakeney."
"Um, this is probably the oddest question I've asked anyone before, but what time period did you say you were from?"
"It was 1792 when my husband and I left. How about yourself?"
"1881."
"My goodness!" exclaimed Lady Blakeney. "That's over a century. I never expected to be talking to someone so far away as then."
Christine was frankly just as fascinated with the concept. "You live during the French Revolution?"
Marguerite sighed. "Yes, though I wish I could say I did not. France has gone mad."
Christine pushed a stray lock of her blonde hair behind an ear and responded "I understand. I have quite a lot of experience with madmen."
"Do you?" Marguerite asked, leaning foreword in her chair. "Well, I'm always up for a bedtime story."
Christine was about to try and explain the strange case of the Phantom of the Opera to Madame Blakeney, when the door to the other room – the one not occupied by Marguerite – was flung open.
In the doorway stood Cosette Pontmercy, clinging to the blanket she'd brought from her own room, cowering at every new clap of thunder.
"Pardon moi, madams, but, you see, I can't stand thunder storms, and-" A particularly loud "boom," rang across the cloud, and Cosette yelped, nearly tackling Christine to the floor as she rushed into the room and grabbed the nearest living thing, clinging on for dear life.
"Can't….breath…." Christine whispered as the girl slowly began to squeeze the air out of her lungs, though entirely unintentionally. Marguerite managed in helping to get the terrified child off the soprano, and comforted the quivering woman as best she could.
"There, there, it's alright. It's just a bit of a loud noise."
"Yes," agreed Christine. "It's nothing compared to what's coming from Lady Blakeney's room."
Cosette then began to cry, gently dabbing at her eyes. "Marius always holds me when there's a thunder storm. Marius, I miss you!"
No doubt, the love struck pup in the other hallway was echoing similar words.
The display of affection put all in a rather darkened mood, each pining for their separate spouse, sighing and slumping as they sat.
"Well," began Christine, trying to right the situation. "We won't be able to sleep so long as those rabbits insist on using those hammers, so we might as well have a little soirée, hm? Try and sort through all this confusing mess and laugh about whatever stupid thing our husbands have done."
It appealed to all, and so, they sat and talked, and finally started feeling a little bit better. They continued the little party, giggling madly at stories they shared, or shivering or sobbing, depending, long into the night, until the plot bunnies finished "fixing," the heater.
They rapped at the door from Lady Blakeney's room to Christine's, and the later rose and answered. The bunnies, decked out in tool belts and caps, looked as though they had somehow started a flash fire, since more than a few were a little blackened. They bowed respectfully, the one who had knocked handed Christine a note, and they all promptly hopped out of the room.
Confused, Christine unfurled the slip of paper and read aloud: "'The demon heater has been abolished. All appliances in rebellion will be treated in the same manner.' What on earth does that mean?"
Nervously, Marguerite entered her room only to give a furious scream.
"They've beaten the thing to a bloody pulp! And it's as hot as a jungle in here! Those idiots!"
Timidly, the other two women poked their heads in the door. Indeed, the heater was quite the worse for wear. It had been dented so horrible that it no longer was a rectangular shape. Sheets of metal were coming off and wires were poking out. The poor thing was smoking, and it looked like one of the drapes had caught fire, though it had been extinguished.
Christine and Cosette looked at each other, and wisely shut the door, each returning to their respective rooms; the string of oaths that followed were far louder than the previous banging, and even the thunder was having competition.
To Be Continued….