Categories > Original > Fantasy > Replicas
The little river port of West Flute was the kind of town a wanderer would pass by - not because it was dangerous or inhospitable, but for apparent lack of interest. A smithy, a print shop, and a gift shop that sold kitschy knick-knacks, silly things that had no purpose other than to be bought; a few small inns, one or two of which served homey food; a thriving population of pseudo-depressive hack poets; a manse for the town's most influential family; a reclusive young painter who lived on the edge of town, a grumpy potter or two, a few merchants . . .
. . . and one dollmaker.
Beatrix Gordon didn't consider herself strange. That made one. She had blown into town one day like a stray scrap of paper, freshly expelled from Wizard Academy in Myravol. She sported cropped blonde hair, a bouncy nature, no husband (this had elicited scandalized gasps from the town gossips - what woman traveled alone?!), a strange speech pattern, and (perhaps most incriminating). . . pants. Yes, that Beatrix was a bad one, sent from the big cities in the northernmost parts of the kingdom for the sole purpose of corrupting the innocent children of West Flute. And she had the nerve to set up a doll shop, right near the Central Plaza of the town! She actually spoke to people without provocation! The woman smiled at unmarried young men, for god's sake. Scandal!
It was a problem that was easily remedied. Beatrix was shunned, cut off from society in one fell swoop. Well, almost . . . her dolls were so exquisite, so unbelievably entrancing, that the townspeople found themselves grudgingly buying her beautiful wares. They simply couldn't help it. This, luckily, could be down with a minimum of talking to the bizarre young woman.
Beatrix watched as Ma'am Larce, the blacksmith's wife, left with a small but incredibly detailed doll in hand, a present for her young daughter. "Thanks so much for your patronage! Enjoy the doll!" she called out, waving enthusiastically. The gentle tinkle of the bell on the door of her shop was the only reply she received. Beatrix sighed and stuffed the payment she had gained for the toy into her apron pocket, dusting wood shavings off her lap. "I think they're starting to like me more," she murmured brightly to herself. It had been five months since she had moved to West Flute, and the young dollmaker had deluded herself into thinking that her customers were a little warmer now than they had been. "Why, Mr. Young smiled at me yesterday!" she added, addressing an unfinished doll on the counter. She picked the small, roughly carved mannequin up and held its blank face a few inches from her nose, speaking earnestly to it.
"Of course, he could've been sneezing. But I think it looked like a smile. And when I thanked the fish monger for selling me that trout on Tuesday, he told me to go drown myself - and usually he's a little more snippy than that!" She lovingly brushed a bit of lint off the doll's face with her thumb and smiled at it. "They'll get used to me soon enough. And then we'll have lots of friends, won't we?"
Beatrix set the doll down again, and another sigh pushed its way up between her lips. Won't we? She felt like a small child in a schoolyard, watching as the other children played . . . hoping fervently that one of them would say, oh, look at that girl. Let's invite her to play with us . . .
"I'm not a child," she said aloud. More silence met this assertion. Beatrix was about to let out her third sigh of the day when the shop's bell tinkled again, signaling the entry of a customer.
"You are Miss Gordon, am I correct?" A tall, slender figure stood silhouetted against the bright light filtering in through the door, catching motes of wood dust in the feathery halo around its edges. "I need a moment of your time."
The man stepped inside, closing the door carefully behind him. He grimaced in irritation as the bell jingled cheerfully at his back. He certainly was tall - over six feet - and under his midnight blue silk hat, his glossy black hair splashed into amber eyes. The delicate features of his slender face were arranged into an expression of haughty distaste as he surveyed the shop.
"I'm Beatrix, alright," she replied. The young woman bounced out of her chair behind the main counter, brushing fragments of choppy blonde hair out of her wide hazel eyes, and held her hand out to him. He stared at her hand with mild disgust until she awkwardly lowered it again, biting her lip.
"I am Leonard Flute," he began. His voice carried the tone of someone who is used to being not only obeyed, but adored. "Great-Great-Great Nephew of the founder of West Flute," he added smugly. "My father is the mayor."
"Um . . . yes, I know," Beatrix replied slowly. "I've heard. You, um . . . you mention it to no one in particular as you walk . . ."
"Well, if I'm walking about the town, people ought to know who I am," Leonard bristled.
"Sort of sounds like you're talking to yourself, though," Beatrix remarked innocently. "People might think you're . . . y'know . . . a few pages short of a novel."
"I think it is you who should be concerned with appearance, Miss Gordon," Leonard snapped. He opened his ornately embroidered coat and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. He tossed it to Beatrix, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. "Well, read it."
Beatrix opened the paper and scanned it, her smooth brow furrowing in confusion. "What is this? It's . . . it's just a horrid piece of poetry."
Leonard flushed scarlet and snatched it back, quivering with rage. "That is my poetry, miss Beatrix. You must Have taken the wrong piece of paper." He shoved the scorned poem back into his breast pocket and pulled out another sheet, thrusting it at the young artist.
Beatrix took this one as well, bemused, and began to read. "A . . . a petition?" she mumbled. Her eyes widened as she continued to read. "A petition to evict me?!" She put the paper down and stared up at him, uncomprehending. "What - what for? I haven't done anything! You can't do that to me!"
"Oh, but we can. Two hundred signature, Miss Gordon . . . two hundred people who want you out of West Flute." Leonard glared down at her, his golden-brown eyes hard as stone. "Do you really think there's anything you can do about it?"
. . . and one dollmaker.
Beatrix Gordon didn't consider herself strange. That made one. She had blown into town one day like a stray scrap of paper, freshly expelled from Wizard Academy in Myravol. She sported cropped blonde hair, a bouncy nature, no husband (this had elicited scandalized gasps from the town gossips - what woman traveled alone?!), a strange speech pattern, and (perhaps most incriminating). . . pants. Yes, that Beatrix was a bad one, sent from the big cities in the northernmost parts of the kingdom for the sole purpose of corrupting the innocent children of West Flute. And she had the nerve to set up a doll shop, right near the Central Plaza of the town! She actually spoke to people without provocation! The woman smiled at unmarried young men, for god's sake. Scandal!
It was a problem that was easily remedied. Beatrix was shunned, cut off from society in one fell swoop. Well, almost . . . her dolls were so exquisite, so unbelievably entrancing, that the townspeople found themselves grudgingly buying her beautiful wares. They simply couldn't help it. This, luckily, could be down with a minimum of talking to the bizarre young woman.
Beatrix watched as Ma'am Larce, the blacksmith's wife, left with a small but incredibly detailed doll in hand, a present for her young daughter. "Thanks so much for your patronage! Enjoy the doll!" she called out, waving enthusiastically. The gentle tinkle of the bell on the door of her shop was the only reply she received. Beatrix sighed and stuffed the payment she had gained for the toy into her apron pocket, dusting wood shavings off her lap. "I think they're starting to like me more," she murmured brightly to herself. It had been five months since she had moved to West Flute, and the young dollmaker had deluded herself into thinking that her customers were a little warmer now than they had been. "Why, Mr. Young smiled at me yesterday!" she added, addressing an unfinished doll on the counter. She picked the small, roughly carved mannequin up and held its blank face a few inches from her nose, speaking earnestly to it.
"Of course, he could've been sneezing. But I think it looked like a smile. And when I thanked the fish monger for selling me that trout on Tuesday, he told me to go drown myself - and usually he's a little more snippy than that!" She lovingly brushed a bit of lint off the doll's face with her thumb and smiled at it. "They'll get used to me soon enough. And then we'll have lots of friends, won't we?"
Beatrix set the doll down again, and another sigh pushed its way up between her lips. Won't we? She felt like a small child in a schoolyard, watching as the other children played . . . hoping fervently that one of them would say, oh, look at that girl. Let's invite her to play with us . . .
"I'm not a child," she said aloud. More silence met this assertion. Beatrix was about to let out her third sigh of the day when the shop's bell tinkled again, signaling the entry of a customer.
"You are Miss Gordon, am I correct?" A tall, slender figure stood silhouetted against the bright light filtering in through the door, catching motes of wood dust in the feathery halo around its edges. "I need a moment of your time."
The man stepped inside, closing the door carefully behind him. He grimaced in irritation as the bell jingled cheerfully at his back. He certainly was tall - over six feet - and under his midnight blue silk hat, his glossy black hair splashed into amber eyes. The delicate features of his slender face were arranged into an expression of haughty distaste as he surveyed the shop.
"I'm Beatrix, alright," she replied. The young woman bounced out of her chair behind the main counter, brushing fragments of choppy blonde hair out of her wide hazel eyes, and held her hand out to him. He stared at her hand with mild disgust until she awkwardly lowered it again, biting her lip.
"I am Leonard Flute," he began. His voice carried the tone of someone who is used to being not only obeyed, but adored. "Great-Great-Great Nephew of the founder of West Flute," he added smugly. "My father is the mayor."
"Um . . . yes, I know," Beatrix replied slowly. "I've heard. You, um . . . you mention it to no one in particular as you walk . . ."
"Well, if I'm walking about the town, people ought to know who I am," Leonard bristled.
"Sort of sounds like you're talking to yourself, though," Beatrix remarked innocently. "People might think you're . . . y'know . . . a few pages short of a novel."
"I think it is you who should be concerned with appearance, Miss Gordon," Leonard snapped. He opened his ornately embroidered coat and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. He tossed it to Beatrix, a look of grim satisfaction on his face. "Well, read it."
Beatrix opened the paper and scanned it, her smooth brow furrowing in confusion. "What is this? It's . . . it's just a horrid piece of poetry."
Leonard flushed scarlet and snatched it back, quivering with rage. "That is my poetry, miss Beatrix. You must Have taken the wrong piece of paper." He shoved the scorned poem back into his breast pocket and pulled out another sheet, thrusting it at the young artist.
Beatrix took this one as well, bemused, and began to read. "A . . . a petition?" she mumbled. Her eyes widened as she continued to read. "A petition to evict me?!" She put the paper down and stared up at him, uncomprehending. "What - what for? I haven't done anything! You can't do that to me!"
"Oh, but we can. Two hundred signature, Miss Gordon . . . two hundred people who want you out of West Flute." Leonard glared down at her, his golden-brown eyes hard as stone. "Do you really think there's anything you can do about it?"
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