The door fell apart in a flight of splintering wood, heavy chunks falling, lighter pieces soaring through space. Glad that I was protected from the fall-out, I still covered my head, closed my eyes, and tried not to breathe in the fragments of sawdust, if there was such a thing, mingling with the dusty air inside the palace.
All around me I heard lots of shouting and hollering. The queen was screaming, mainly cursing, I’m pretty sure, although I couldn’t understand her words since they weren’t flowing out in English, but in some high-pitched, almost musical yodeling. The guards were busy adding in their grunts and snorts, all three of them in bass cleft.
And scores of black boots were charging forward — shiny, leather boots. That was what I could see when I finally opened my eyes to peek out from under the table. It was like a dance of boots, all of them shuffling forward and back, sideways and around in circles. The clatter of weapons meeting, like children banging tin cans together, except higher pitched, made me feel like covering my ears.
The table where I was hiding was up against a wall, so the fight was all in front of me, which I appreciated greatly. That meant my back was protected, and I had only to worry that someone might crawl underneath the table and seize the excess fabric of my dress, which was so abundantly splayed out all about me.
But no one seemed aware of my presence or where I was hiding, and the battle continued. I wondered how it was possible that it went on and on. Three men and one half-crazed queen against an army of men? It sounded like at least twenty soldiers had thundered inside the chamber after breaking down the door. What were the spares doing while the battle raged?
Perhaps, it was the whole politeness thing going on, with soldier against soldier and no one wanting to gang up on their advisory. After all, what did I know about Fae politics?
At one point, I heard the voice of Queen Moragana insisting that her men find “the Pooka’s human.” That irritated me – the fact that the queen didn’t remember my name and that she’d referred to me merely as a human and not as Timothy’s wife . . . (or the wife of Prince Nardon of Donic, as some of the Fae had called him) . . .
Even so, I guess I should have called out to let someone know where I was, but who should I trust? The queen who had kidnapped me or the queen who had trapped me into wearing a Fae necklace that I didn’t want and which had made me sick?
Uncertain and not hearing the voice of anyone else that I knew, like my beloved husband and his guards, I wiggled more tightly up against the wall and kept mum.