The ring Clarissa sneezed; not a delicate, lady-like sneeze as her demeanour and clothing suggested but the kind of sneeze that made people look round wondering where the horse was. Her assistant, Godfric, looked up from his desk. "Are you ok, Clarissa?" he said, his tone balanced carefully between concern, which he knew she hated, and irritation, which he knew she hated more. She glared at him. She was wearing her uniform, a third thing she hated: a tight-fitting narrow-waisted navy blue jacket with gold piping and epaulettes over a severely starched white blouse and atop a heavy, ankle-length black skirt. The hem of the skirt was bordered with the same gold piping as the jacket. Her shoes were actually boots, which put her right on the line with the Chief Constable, who set the dress code and liked to see people adhering to it. He believed that you had to be believe in law and order to be a policeman. She was taking her thin, leather gloves off and shaking her pale hands: she was convinced that the gloves were too tight and restricted blood-flow to her fingers. "Necromancy," she said. "I've been allergic to it since I was a child." Godfric nodded and bent his head over the paperwork again: he was filling out one of seven forms needed for his annual wand-licence renewal. Something Clarissa had just said tweaked his frontal lobes though, and after a moment he lifted his head again. Clarissa, meanwhile, had sat down in her desk chair and hoisted her skirt up to her knees and was pulling her boots off, sighing with satsifaction as the first came free. "What do you mean, since you were a child? Who performs necromancy around children?" Clarissa shrugged. "Lots of people," she said. "If you know necromancers, anyway. I imagine normal people don't--" "They don't", confirmed Godfric. "--but Dad was a police officer too and he was working undercover, so we hung out a bit more with necromancers than was normal. I suppose, it's not like I had any other childhood to compare it too." Godfric set his pen down and moved a sheet of paper to cover the form he was filling in to make sure nothing spoiled it. "Wait," he said. "You always tell people your father was a greengrocer." "He sort of was," said Clarissa, grunting as she pulled and tugged on the other boot. "He used that as an undercover identity for the last eight years before he retired and afterwards he just kept the job going." "Ok," said Godfric. He tapped his thin lips with a finger, his eyes staring at the wall above the door but not seeing it. "Ok, so that would mean... no. No?" "No what?" said Clarissa. She dropped the second boot on the floor and massaged her foot. "Oh that feels good. Why does it always take six months to break a pair of boots in?" "Your father was Arthur MacIntosh?" said Godfric, sounding as though he didn't believe the words he was saying. In truth he felt oddly distanced, as though someone else were using his mouth for him. "Yes," said Clarissa. "Only, don't tell anyone, ok? People act all funny about it." "Arthur MacIntosh!" Godfric stood up, knocking his pen off the desk and the paperwork all askew. "Good lord, Arthur MacIntosh!" "Like that," said Clarissa. "Only usually with a little more shouting." "I'm not surprised," said Godfric, feeling his knees start to shake. "Your father was Arthur MacIntosh! You're the heir to Arthur's Ring!" "Last legal claimant extant," said Clarissa. "According to the lawyers, anyway. But yes."
2 comments:
Hmm, I wonder what inspired this?
The ring
Clarissa sneezed; not a delicate, lady-like sneeze as her demeanour and clothing suggested but the kind of sneeze that made people look round wondering where the horse was. Her assistant, Godfric, looked up from his desk.
"Are you ok, Clarissa?" he said, his tone balanced carefully between concern, which he knew she hated, and irritation, which he knew she hated more. She glared at him. She was wearing her uniform, a third thing she hated: a tight-fitting narrow-waisted navy blue jacket with gold piping and epaulettes over a severely starched white blouse and atop a heavy, ankle-length black skirt. The hem of the skirt was bordered with the same gold piping as the jacket. Her shoes were actually boots, which put her right on the line with the Chief Constable, who set the dress code and liked to see people adhering to it. He believed that you had to be believe in law and order to be a policeman. She was taking her thin, leather gloves off and shaking her pale hands: she was convinced that the gloves were too tight and restricted blood-flow to her fingers.
"Necromancy," she said. "I've been allergic to it since I was a child."
Godfric nodded and bent his head over the paperwork again: he was filling out one of seven forms needed for his annual wand-licence renewal. Something Clarissa had just said tweaked his frontal lobes though, and after a moment he lifted his head again. Clarissa, meanwhile, had sat down in her desk chair and hoisted her skirt up to her knees and was pulling her boots off, sighing with satsifaction as the first came free.
"What do you mean, since you were a child? Who performs necromancy around children?"
Clarissa shrugged. "Lots of people," she said. "If you know necromancers, anyway. I imagine normal people don't--"
"They don't", confirmed Godfric.
"--but Dad was a police officer too and he was working undercover, so we hung out a bit more with necromancers than was normal. I suppose, it's not like I had any other childhood to compare it too."
Godfric set his pen down and moved a sheet of paper to cover the form he was filling in to make sure nothing spoiled it. "Wait," he said. "You always tell people your father was a greengrocer."
"He sort of was," said Clarissa, grunting as she pulled and tugged on the other boot. "He used that as an undercover identity for the last eight years before he retired and afterwards he just kept the job going."
"Ok," said Godfric. He tapped his thin lips with a finger, his eyes staring at the wall above the door but not seeing it. "Ok, so that would mean... no. No?"
"No what?" said Clarissa. She dropped the second boot on the floor and massaged her foot. "Oh that feels good. Why does it always take six months to break a pair of boots in?"
"Your father was Arthur MacIntosh?" said Godfric, sounding as though he didn't believe the words he was saying. In truth he felt oddly distanced, as though someone else were using his mouth for him.
"Yes," said Clarissa. "Only, don't tell anyone, ok? People act all funny about it."
"Arthur MacIntosh!" Godfric stood up, knocking his pen off the desk and the paperwork all askew. "Good lord, Arthur MacIntosh!"
"Like that," said Clarissa. "Only usually with a little more shouting."
"I'm not surprised," said Godfric, feeling his knees start to shake. "Your father was Arthur MacIntosh! You're the heir to Arthur's Ring!"
"Last legal claimant extant," said Clarissa. "According to the lawyers, anyway. But yes."
Greg - probably an endless question session with Max about Lord of the Rings.
Hmm, I rather like the dynamic between these two. Will we be seeing them for another visit?
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