Fey King, Part 1-- the Ballroom

   It's Twelve-ten in the Other World now, and the ball has nearly an hour to go.  The young men and women will still be dancing in the hall, music ringing from the orchestra chamber above, pinging from the chandeliers  and wine glasses.  Young ladies should never drink wine--it is most unbecoming; but they will insist anyhow.  Their cheeks flushed with spirits and pleasure, they'll take their gentlemen by the hands, and smile, and perhaps flutter their fan.  An alluring glance does much for a gentleman in the flames of passion, and more for the dandies 'suffering' the same.

     The King will sit and watch, though the Queen has long since gone to bed.  He, too, is drinking something; although none of the dancers can guess what it is.

    Wine, they venture to their partners at a turn.  It looks like wine.
   Mead? the partners return.  It may be mead.
    Rose-petal wine, the ladies counter.  Rose-petal wines in pinks, reds and golds; like drinking a sunset, they say.
    Perhaps, concede the gentlemen.  But among themselves they agree: sweet honey-mead of clover and sunshine--summer distilled for the tongue's pleasure.

  They continue to speculate, these dancers, as if a night of music and movement were not employment enough for them.  Why does the King always stay, they wonder, while the Queen always retires so soon?

  What interest can the sporting of the young hold for one so old? they jest.

   The King, ancient but youthful still, merely sits on his throne; sipping his unknown drink and watching the dancers.  It amuses him that they think he cannot hear them.  He can hear it all perfectly well, down to the whispering of lovers in the far corner of the hall; and this is part of the reason that he stays.  His people are such high entertainment.

Dearest Helvetia; a Letter never sent.

Dearest Helvetia,

  I am sitting here today, in the park, eating maple sugar candy and mulling.  The sun is shining brightly down on me today, with a kindness that says summer is over and soon we shall have to say goodbye for the long winter.  But for today the breeze is gentle and welcome, the grassy moss beneath this tree is soft, and the children on the playground are noisy.

  There are fairy mushrooms behind me, of that peculiar orangey-brown tint that only mushrooms get, and a tiny plant to my left that has bitty violet blooms. 
  The alarmingly large caterpillar (alarming because I first spotted it crawling up my leg) has crept off somewhere and I cannot see a bit of it's white and black fuzz.  The wind is having quite a time in the trees, so I am trying to soak in as much leaf-talk as I can before they fall and the sky is just icy blue between dark branches.

  The maple candies are a lovely golden color in the sun, but as for the shapes...I cannot for the life of me decide what they are supposed to be.  The one next to me looks rather like a fancy pudding, back when jello molds were all the rage.  There is another that might be an almond, or some kind of melon.  But I shall pretend it is a dirigible, instead.  And the third will be...the guild symbol of some steampunk union.  'Brass Welders United', perhaps.
  But the pudding still looks like a pudding.

This town is quite pretty, to be sure.  Built on the hills and into the valley, it is full of trees and sudden, surprising views of the sky, and has a teeny tiny main street with old brick buildings and a clock tower.  At night, when the street lights are lit, it looks tiny and perfect; like a miniature or a movie set.  I will take pictures for you.  I feel rather like the only thing this town needs is the ocean, and it would be perfect.

Yours,
    Nicolaus