A Dance For The Queen


(Credit: Zephyri on DeviantArt: zephyri.deviantart.com)

”Come, come,” the slave handler wriggles his pink sausage fingers at me, “aren’t you exited?”

“No.” My gaze is steady.

“Oh, but that won’t do!” He shakes his head and still shaking it continues, “when you stand in front of Her Majesty, you must bow low, like so,” his forehead comes within inches of his knees, “and you must assure her that it is the very greatest pleasure for you to be given into her service.”

I suck my teeth.

“Remember,” he smiles, “from tomorrow evening you will live in greater luxury than anyone in your tribe ever dreamed of. And all you have to do is dance for our most excellent Queen once in a while,” he gives me a conspiratorial wink.

“Gilded cage,” I mutter, “remember, my tribe would still exist, were it not for the Red Queen and her territory expansions.”

“Shush shush now,” he squashes his lips with one fat finger, “mustn’t call her that. Try on these.” He hands me an orange scarf and soft loose trousers. “Real silk,” he says.

Of course the monkey must be dressed up nice and bathed in rosewater before he dances for the Queen, I think, as I try on the clothes. But maybe, I let a finger run along the fabric of the trousers, maybe it will be possible to hide a knife in this fine silk costume.

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