To Peggy Powler, the heraldic motifs and quatrefoils decorating the main hallway ceiling were a bit much for her taste,
but decided not to mention it to Stanley Dawes, the man beside her with his cap in his hands. The gawking sorceress
automatically reached for her own wide-brimmed headwear and made another decision. Bugger it -she thought, this
Lord Tatem fellow can take as he finds, and held the strap of her satchel instead.
The other person was a Butler, who after recognising the stable-owner and frowning when his cold eyes set upon the
grubby-looking unshod female, waved a hand and allowed them entry. This same aloof servant now pointed to two
large over-stuffed button-back armchairs and croaked "Lord Tatem will see you when he's ready" and walked away
with what Peggy guessed, was a stick up his rear.
"Whey, he's a bit snooty" Stanley's companion muttered as she plonked herself down onto the plush seat and peered
up again at the four-lobed ornamental designs above her. Peggy had been in houses like this one before, the lavish
display of wealth never failed to amaze her when considering one's home is where one is at peace and such trappings
were obviously for others to appreciate.
Smiling up at the large bold prints of flowers, scrolls and foliage surrounding the clover-shaped plasterwork, the Last
Witch of Underhill thought such decorations were nothing more than the posters she and Mister Volcano used to put
up in the villages when the Carnival was visiting.
There were knights vanquishing serpents and other chivalric scenes that hinted of tales where humans valued honour,
another thing that drew a smile of the ogling magician. Certainly days of yore -she thought sarcastically as she moved
her interest to the fancy floor. This was patterned too and seeing Peggy's eyes track the symmetrical-pattern, Stanley
explained the hallway was garnished with encaustic floor tiles. A returning nod from the leg-swinging floppy-hat woman
was the payment for such a clarification.
As time waited in the high corridor with the pair of out-of-place characters, the reason why they were there came back
to upset any residue of placidity they'd been holding onto. For Stanley, it was to decline entering the Summertide and
Barnstead Hunt Horse Race and by doing so, also admit he wasn't even the assayer his father had been.
For Peggy, the purpose for her dangling her bare legs from a posh chair was to see if this Gnome-banishing blue blood
could ignite the gunpowder in her that she secretly wished for. It wasn't the plush surroundings or the waste of perfectly
good arable land that annoyed her, nor even the yarn about the Gnomes being ousted from their 'borrowed' underground
home. What really rubbed Peggy was the cruel waste of power that rippled its effect all through Stanley's business, his
employees and then to the little thicket where the Sprites lived.
Autocracy unbridled.
...................................................
Lord Archibald Tatem perfectly fitted Peggy Powler's bill. He was well-spoken -with a constant lilt in his voice that told
the pair in his home that they were obviously beneath his level of style. Haughty, with a pinched-face and hands that had
never held a shovel or tilled soil. With a quick glance towards the smaller person in the hallway -as if Stanley had brought
the poncho-wearing visitor in on the bottom of his boot, Lord Tatem lightly demanded -not asked, for the reason of the
stable-owner's tarriance.
Just as Stanley began to say his piece and explain that he wouldn't be attending the famous race, the sorceress' fuse
twitched in its ignition and so she wiggled her finger. Stanley stopped speaking and began to sneeze. Lord Tatem's
eyes widened as the big man in the tweed jacket jerked in the strange bout of sternutation. Every time it seemed the
sneezes seemed to abate, the moment Stanley went to pronounce a word, a loud 'atchoo!' would echo in the hallway.
Finally, Stanley shuffled towards the entrance and with the Butler appearing from nowhere and racing to open the huge
door, the poor sniffing and sneezing man sought refuge out in the open air. Archibald's stare moved from the buckling
man leaving his lush abode to the little vagabond gazing up at him. "Good heavens, do you think he is ill?" Tatem asked
without thinking the pint-sized uncouth oik was worthy of responding.
Peggy's grinned and replied "divna' yer' worry yer'self, me-old cocker, it's just hayfever. Now, about enterin' the race, how
much is it?" and absently reached into her satchel. Like many other times, the little Witch silently hoped the magical bag
would work its wonder and deliver what she required. With his gaze still on the still-open door, a bewildered Lord Tatem
mumbled "er, ten numma... half or the original wager, of course".
Sure enough, the delphian canvas pouch came through as Peggy's hand plucked out a velvet string-drawn sack.
"Ah' think this'll help Diabolus beat whatever nag yer'll be bringin te' the race" she said in a pleasant tone and dropped
the purse onto the chair where she'd been sitting. Now the dazed aristocrat's attention returned fully as he heard the
horse's name and gathered his words as the little woman walked away to join the head-jolting horse-trainer standing
on his expensive steps.
"Diabolus...?" Archibald asked "Dawes is actually entering that hellion into the Hunt?" and watched the diminutive wayfarer
turn to look back at the surprised wealthy socialite. "Aye, M'Lord..." Peggy replied softly and stretched her smile with malice,
"...and Ah'll be ridin' him".
but decided not to mention it to Stanley Dawes, the man beside her with his cap in his hands. The gawking sorceress
automatically reached for her own wide-brimmed headwear and made another decision. Bugger it -she thought, this
Lord Tatem fellow can take as he finds, and held the strap of her satchel instead.
The other person was a Butler, who after recognising the stable-owner and frowning when his cold eyes set upon the
grubby-looking unshod female, waved a hand and allowed them entry. This same aloof servant now pointed to two
large over-stuffed button-back armchairs and croaked "Lord Tatem will see you when he's ready" and walked away
with what Peggy guessed, was a stick up his rear.
"Whey, he's a bit snooty" Stanley's companion muttered as she plonked herself down onto the plush seat and peered
up again at the four-lobed ornamental designs above her. Peggy had been in houses like this one before, the lavish
display of wealth never failed to amaze her when considering one's home is where one is at peace and such trappings
were obviously for others to appreciate.
Smiling up at the large bold prints of flowers, scrolls and foliage surrounding the clover-shaped plasterwork, the Last
Witch of Underhill thought such decorations were nothing more than the posters she and Mister Volcano used to put
up in the villages when the Carnival was visiting.
There were knights vanquishing serpents and other chivalric scenes that hinted of tales where humans valued honour,
another thing that drew a smile of the ogling magician. Certainly days of yore -she thought sarcastically as she moved
her interest to the fancy floor. This was patterned too and seeing Peggy's eyes track the symmetrical-pattern, Stanley
explained the hallway was garnished with encaustic floor tiles. A returning nod from the leg-swinging floppy-hat woman
was the payment for such a clarification.
As time waited in the high corridor with the pair of out-of-place characters, the reason why they were there came back
to upset any residue of placidity they'd been holding onto. For Stanley, it was to decline entering the Summertide and
Barnstead Hunt Horse Race and by doing so, also admit he wasn't even the assayer his father had been.
For Peggy, the purpose for her dangling her bare legs from a posh chair was to see if this Gnome-banishing blue blood
could ignite the gunpowder in her that she secretly wished for. It wasn't the plush surroundings or the waste of perfectly
good arable land that annoyed her, nor even the yarn about the Gnomes being ousted from their 'borrowed' underground
home. What really rubbed Peggy was the cruel waste of power that rippled its effect all through Stanley's business, his
employees and then to the little thicket where the Sprites lived.
Autocracy unbridled.
...................................................
Lord Archibald Tatem perfectly fitted Peggy Powler's bill. He was well-spoken -with a constant lilt in his voice that told
the pair in his home that they were obviously beneath his level of style. Haughty, with a pinched-face and hands that had
never held a shovel or tilled soil. With a quick glance towards the smaller person in the hallway -as if Stanley had brought
the poncho-wearing visitor in on the bottom of his boot, Lord Tatem lightly demanded -not asked, for the reason of the
stable-owner's tarriance.
Just as Stanley began to say his piece and explain that he wouldn't be attending the famous race, the sorceress' fuse
twitched in its ignition and so she wiggled her finger. Stanley stopped speaking and began to sneeze. Lord Tatem's
eyes widened as the big man in the tweed jacket jerked in the strange bout of sternutation. Every time it seemed the
sneezes seemed to abate, the moment Stanley went to pronounce a word, a loud 'atchoo!' would echo in the hallway.
Finally, Stanley shuffled towards the entrance and with the Butler appearing from nowhere and racing to open the huge
door, the poor sniffing and sneezing man sought refuge out in the open air. Archibald's stare moved from the buckling
man leaving his lush abode to the little vagabond gazing up at him. "Good heavens, do you think he is ill?" Tatem asked
without thinking the pint-sized uncouth oik was worthy of responding.
Peggy's grinned and replied "divna' yer' worry yer'self, me-old cocker, it's just hayfever. Now, about enterin' the race, how
much is it?" and absently reached into her satchel. Like many other times, the little Witch silently hoped the magical bag
would work its wonder and deliver what she required. With his gaze still on the still-open door, a bewildered Lord Tatem
mumbled "er, ten numma... half or the original wager, of course".
Sure enough, the delphian canvas pouch came through as Peggy's hand plucked out a velvet string-drawn sack.
"Ah' think this'll help Diabolus beat whatever nag yer'll be bringin te' the race" she said in a pleasant tone and dropped
the purse onto the chair where she'd been sitting. Now the dazed aristocrat's attention returned fully as he heard the
horse's name and gathered his words as the little woman walked away to join the head-jolting horse-trainer standing
on his expensive steps.
"Diabolus...?" Archibald asked "Dawes is actually entering that hellion into the Hunt?" and watched the diminutive wayfarer
turn to look back at the surprised wealthy socialite. "Aye, M'Lord..." Peggy replied softly and stretched her smile with malice,
"...and Ah'll be ridin' him".
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.