Chapter 8

The sun was up, the room was a cheerful yellow ... the sheets were white with daisies. She rumbled awake. Never before had she farted ... excuse me ... passed gas ... on awakening. The language she spoke was familiar enough to wonder where she had heard it ... but unknown enough that she passed it off as nonsense... ‘better than groaning,’ she thought.

She swung out of bed and into her bunny slippers. They were right where she had left them last night. The fuzzy blue robe was folded over the footboard. It was a Tiffany, Please garment. Today, she was not going to be dressed in Tiffany, Please clothes. The Cunard Line had packed her trunks and flew them ... free of charge ... back to the States on the same aircraft returning her murderers.

Wait! Murderers?

That made her give a start, and a think.

Eh ... whatever it was flew away like a plump of geese heading south, or a murder ... there was that word again ... of crows startled out of their foray into a wheat field by a shotgun toting farmer.

A disconnected thought occurred. Crows can count to three. She could picture it ... three hunters entering a field of crows ... the crows left. Two hunters left ... the third stayed ... the crows stayed away. Four hunters entered a field ... the crows flew away. Three hunters left leaving one hunter ... the crows came back ... BANG! The hunters could do this all day ... the crows always came back. Four enter ... three leave ... BANG!

Whatever! One word said or thought by all the disdain a fifteen year old highschool member of the ‘high table’ could muster.

‘The things I learn in school. Hmm?’

Today, she would supervise daddy’s minions as they closeted her clothes. Ooh ... That was a Tiffany, Please habit ... Servants are ‘less’.

Her mother’s picture ... IT’S BACK! ... yes mom ... I’ll try.

Breakfast in the kitchen...

“I’m BACK!”

‘Where have I been?’

The almost human watcher summoned the surgeon.

‘What?’

The watcher ran the review.

‘That’s not supposed to happen.’ The surgeon thought, ‘I need to study the back files. Give it a few more days. What’s on her agenda?’

‘Summer camp,’ ‘Uhoh.’

‘What?’

‘Sailing lessons.’

‘Oh, gods,’

‘You called?’

‘The girl.’

‘What about her?’

‘Sailing lessons.’

‘We’ll fix that.’

At the table, she sneezed ... three times.

“Oh!” she clapped her hand over her mouth. The empty scrambled egg dish was closest.

“EEW!” said the staff.

The upshot was house arrest ... for everybody.

‘A little drastic,’ said the surgeon.

‘It worked,’ said the gods.

‘Can’t fault you there,’ said the surgeon.

‘Any port in a storm.’