“Isn’t there anything? Anything?!”
Prince Elliott’s temper was out of control today, as per usual. His fiancée, who’d shut herself up in the dungeon, had made a fool of him. He needed to do something, anything, to get back at her or he’d never calm down.
Initially, Elliott had just planned to make her beg for her life, but now things had gotten far out of hand. The goalposts were moving, but... Well, he’d just pretend not to notice that inconvenient detail. Living in the now. That was Elliott.
George Ferguson, the son of Duke Ferguson, had served as Elliott’s adviser until just the other day, but he’d been forced to step away from their group of close associates for unavoidable reasons. His fiancée had returned from a trip abroad and now had him completely under her thumb, so he was prioritizing his education as family heir. She was putting him through the wringer from morning to night, day after day.
When Elliott saw how ragged George looked, he couldn’t help but cry for his friend. Elliott knew it had to be this way, but still. He suspected that the fiancée in question was an agent of his own enemy, Rachel Ferguson, summoned to take George out of the picture. Rachel had used an ally that her target couldn’t fight back against. How could she be so underhanded?!
In the name of world peace, and the dazzling future that awaited him with Margaret, Elliott reaffirmed his determination to make Rachel say uncle, no matter what it took. That said, Elliott was always on the back foot, and he’d yet to beat her. He’d held meetings with his associates, but no one had ever managed to suggest a cunning enough plan. If they had, he’d have beaten Rachel by now.
As everyone pondered the matter and groaned thoughtfully, Margaret entered with tea.
“Here you are, everyone!”
“Thank you!”
The men crowded around the tea their “angel” had brought them while Margaret glanced through the meeting’s minutes.
“Having trouble coming up with a good idea, Prince Elliott?” she asked him.
“Yeah, nothing feels right. And she probably has a counter to everything we come up with.”
The prince was overwhelmed, and he hadn’t even begun to fight.
Looking through the list of previous attack plans and their disappointing results, Margaret pointed to one line. “Prince Elliott, you don’t have to come up with a new idea. Why not improve upon something Rachel did to you, and turn the tables on her? This is the best she could come up with. If you expand on it and send it right back, there won’t be anything she can do, right?”
It was merely a casual suggestion, but Elliott slapped his thigh and declared, “That’s it!”
The prince was rather dull-witted.
Elliott set about cheerfully constructing a new plan, displaying quite a few traits that called into question his capacity as a future ruler.
After spending her day in sloth and indolence, as per usual, Rachel set about making her bed so she could go to sleep.
“Hmm.”
Just as she was considering whether to put a few drops of lavender oil on her pillow, she heard the creak of the door opening and the footsteps of several noisy guests descending the stairs—the prince and his entourage, of course.
“Oh, my. Fancy seeing you at this hour,” Rachel said.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Sorry to bother you, Rachel!” Elliott replied enthusiastically.
“You really are a bother.”
Rachel was a little confused to see Elliott so oddly energetic when it was already night. His excessive exuberance likely meant that he wasn’t quite right in the head.
Elliott was holding something that looked a lot like a violin. No, it was a violin. Behind Elliott was Sykes, carrying two barrels. Margaret, holding a bunch of pots, followed behind Sykes. And behind Margaret stood another guy, whom Rachel couldn’t even remember the name of, with a bunch of empty cans. Bringing up the rear, the prison guard held up a triangle, looking sick of this already.
Rachel pressed a hand against her forehead. “I have no idea what all of you are up to.”
“Mwa ha ha ha ha, what do you think, Rachel? Take a guess!” Elliott said gleefully.
“Collecting garbage, perhaps?”
“Is that a prince’s job?”
“Well, coming down to the dungeon when he has no good reason to isn’t a prince’s job either, I’m sure.”
The bizarre band began laying down the junk they’d brought in the front room of the prison.
Once she saw their setup, Rachel figured out what they were planning. Those pots were supposed to be a drum set.
“I see. You plan to keep me from sleeping, is that it?” Rachel asked.
Elliott smirked, posing with the violin as he addressed Rachel in an affected manner. “We wanted to have a little night practice and needed somewhere where it wouldn’t matter if the sound echoed. We decided no one would mind if we used the dungeon. We’re just going to play on our own, so feel free to go to bed—it really doesn’t matter to me.”
Elliott’s face practically shouted, “Got you!”
“Now, I don’t mind if you listen, of course. I’d love to hear your impressions when we’re finished.”
The group all made a show of putting in their earplugs and tuning their “instruments.” Elliott’s violin squeaked like an iron door that hadn’t been used in a century. Sykes whaled on the barrels like an idiot, raising a thunderous roar, and Margaret hit the assembled pots with a stick, producing a high-pitched metallic clanging. The guy named Wolanski, if the name they called him by was to be trusted, shook some empty cans dangling from strings, while the prison guard, whose mind seemed to be elsewhere, struck the triangle at arrhythmic intervals.
An unruly cacophony filled the dungeon. They were all just making awful sounds independent of one another, so even with earplugs, it still hurt to listen.
“This is surprisingly fun!” Elliott shouted.
“Wa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!” Sykes cried, embracing his inner percussionist.