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You have been here since the close of day, attracted to the structure by the shimmering golden inlay and the colored lights that blanket the floor. It was late afternoon when you found this place, and you took advantage of the last of daylight by spinning under the kaleidoscope. You watched in self-satisfied glee as the rainbow clung to your ivory pelt—oh, Sheba darling, you were a sight to behold! But, the sun was soon gone, and you stood in the middle of the pavilion, frustrated, not having indulged your vanity nor your curiosity to their fullest extent.
So, you lingered. You would spend the night, and in the morning you’d have another twirl, poke around, and see if you could dislodge any of the colored glass for your hair. Such pretty trinkets weren’t meant to remain in this abandoned structure so deep in the woods! Searching for a place to sleep, you came across a little group of trees nearby. They would shelter you from the wind well enough, you decided, and with that, you settled in the grove for the night.
You have always been a light sleeper; you have fallen into the habit for your own protection, since more often than not, you are alone. This time, a snapping twig awakens you. You sigh softly in irritation, most likely it is just a deer in this part of the forest, but it is best to be cautious. Straining your ears, you pick up a rhythm—it is hoofbeats, and whatever is making them is heavy. No, you will not emerge tonight; this giant can have the woods to himself.
Soon though, you hear more hoofbeats. Others are approaching, and from the sound of it, they have gathered at the base of the rotunda. You can hear the low murmur of conversation, and your eyes narrow. What are these whisperers doing, so late at night and so deep in the woods? The thought of secrets brings a light to your eyes, and you listen harder, trying to decipher what they are saying. From your place though, you can hear nothing distinct. The lure of eavesdropping pulls you from your hiding place. You are light on your feet, to be sure, but you will have to move carefully to conceal that milky coat.
Luck is with you. There is a large tree just ahead, and you float silently behind it. Yes, now you can hear…a familiar voice? My, my, if it isn’t Confutatis herself. From the information she shares—someone named Morir has been promoted to duke, whatever that means—and the tone of her voice as she says it, it sounds like she is in charge here. You lean forward eagerly, wanting to hear more…and that is when your luck runs out. A root creaks beneath your shifting weight, and you curse inwardly. Making a snap decision, you emerge from the wood and into the clearing. “Pardon me for interrupting,” you purr, bowing to Confutatis, “But I heard your voice, O queen.”
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