FicWad

Disclaimer: Elizabeth Peters, Vicky Bliss series: Borrower of the Night (1973), Street of the Five Moons (1978), Silhouette in Scarlet (1983), Trojan Gold (1987), and Night Train to Memphis (1994); and Jacqueline Kirby series: The Seventh Sinner (1972), The Murders of Richard III (1974), Die for Love (1984), and Naked Once More (1989).
Notes: Written for Sophie Richard for Yuletide 2006. See also Michelin's Bretagne: Guide de Tourisme (29th ed.; Paris, 1981) and Kummerly+Frey's map of France (Bern, 1983). Village and saint mentioned herein are fictional. First-run betas: So much gratitude for the extreme patience of Mauvecloud (typos, etc.) and Charles-my-sister (canon). Second-run beta: Qwerty, thank you! Also, thanks to mjj, ttg, and qwerty for encouraging the sufferer (she needed it).



Rosanna flew down the stairs of the tower, which had afforded
her weary eyes only fleeting sanctuary from the tasteless
fashion ensembles of the Dark Lady, for indeed she had found
herself trapped in this dark castle overrun by the Dark Lady's
worshippers, their minds clouded by ripped bodices, overwrought
adjectives, and layer upon layer of elaborate subordinate
clauses. At the heavy tread of footsteps below, Rosanna
frantically assayed each door in the corridor until at
last one yielded beneath her trembling fingers, yet even
as she tumbled into the convenient broom closet, upsetting
a pail and several mops, the horde of pursuers had attained
the hall. As she crouched among the cleaning supplies, her
generous, curvaceous bosom heaving, straining against her
lacy camisole, she heard their leader shout, "Find the
reviewer! I am certain the wench is here somewhere!"


1.

"The joke mail," Gerda said dourly, flicking a postcard out of her daily mail heap toward the trash. The card slid over the desktop to collide with my rump, which had been parked on that corner of her desk. "It is not amusing. They think -- what? To waste the time of the worker peoples."

Gerda's marxist uprising was lost on me. I'd been wasting the time of the worker peoples myself all week, hiding in their offices to avoid Herr Doktor Anton Zachariah Schmidt, director of our glorious National Museum. I automatically scooped up Gerda's contribution to the revolution, which had failed to scale the barricade of my behind. We sell postcards like this in our own gift shop; the picture on the front was some sort of folk costume on a mannequin. If the local dirndls that I adored had been redesigned by prudes, they might have looked like this: a high necked, long sleeved, long-skirted black dress with a black apron to boot. But what made it stand out were the sinuous curves of colorful, bright embroidery that flowed over the shoulders and edged the apron, and that towering, looping, starched confection of fine, white lace that sat on the mannequin's head. Just what I needed to see: another folk costume that probably looked adorable on the natives. Thanks to my hearty Scandinavian ancestors, I'm nearly six-foot and generously proportioned, so "cute" is the last word that springs to anyone's mind. Actually, no words at all spring to most men's minds; they empty out completely when they get to my chest.

I flipped the card over to see which museum had produced it -- and was immediately rendered speechless by the address on the back. "Brunnhilde Karlsdottir," it said, care of the National Museum in Munich. The postage was French, the date on it obviously wrong. The message? "C'est cele qui tant digne d'estre amee, Qu'el doit estre rose clamee."

I didn't have time to work up a suitably operatic storm of rage because while I was distracted my doom had descended upon me. Here was the proof that I could never be a professional detective: I'd let myself be trapped in an office with only two doors, one leading into Schmidt's office, the other now filled to bursting with Schmidt himself.

"Vicky! Liebchen!" he caroled. "At last, I have found you!" That red, puffing face, which made him look more like Father Christmas than ever, told me he'd already visited my (empty) office in the central tower.

"Sorry, Schmidt, just heading out -- running late, so busy, no time!" I balanced on the balls of my feet, preparing to make a break for it the moment he'd cleared the door. In most offices, I understand, it's considered bad form to bowl over your boss, but Schmidt continues to find me brilliant and fascinating no matter what I do. This is his problem, not mine.

"/Nein, nein/," he said, standing stolidly in the doorway and wagging his finger at me. Schmidt may be foolishly convinced of my charm, but he's had years of experience with wrangling employees. He had no intention of giving me an opening to escape. "You must hear of this. I have had a reply!"

"Listen, Schmidt --" I pleaded.

"As I have told you myself, you are far too modest. She has found your manuscript sehr interresant!" Schmidt said happily. He lifted what appeared to be an airmail envelope. "She looks forward to meeting this writer."

"My . . . what?" No. He couldn't possibly mean what I thought he meant. "Schmidt," I said slowly, patiently, "what did you do?"

"Aber natürlich/, I have sent the most recent of chapters," he said proudly. "You see, /liebchen, she has called them a 'talented contribution to the genre.' Yes, that was my opinion as well."

"Shut up, Schmidt," I mumbled. Schmidt is an internationally respected authority in art history and a wizard of museum administration, but his taste in popular literature is atrocious. He likes his horrors penny dreadful, his mysteries hard-boiled, and his romances sodden with smut. I'd been catering to his latter interest by tossing out chapters of an absurd, endless romance novel for several years now. Schmidt's never questioned my output during work hours; he just assumes I'm so gifted that journal articles and fiction flow from my brain with equal alacrity.

Gerda knows better. She's always looked askance at my frivolous ways, so it came as no surprise that she was looking beatifically smug. After all, she'd been the one to bring the initial fatal inquiry to Schmidt's immediate attention when she'd spied it in her mail pile; Schmidt's all-time favorite romance writer (after me, of course) had written to the museum in advance of an upcoming research visit. He'd leapt on the acquaintance like my Doberman pinscher Caesar on a raw steak. As for the author, I don't even have to identify her -- everyone's heard of her. She has reserved seating on the best-seller lists these days. She'd even been tapped to write the sequel to Darcy's /Naked in the Ice/, and Schmidt had been as rapt over the publicity uproar as my uncles back in Minnesota for the NFL playoffs.

He'd written her back immediately. They'd corresponded. I'd initiated evasive tactics to avoid getting involved with any of it. So this was partially my own fault: I should have been paying more attention. Schmidt, bless his innocent, lecherous heart, had been so blinded by the barely clad bosoms that he hadn't even noticed that my most recent output was a parody of this woman's last book, /Passion of the Dark/. Hell, I'd even modeled the villainess on the author herself, complete with the glasses, the hats, and the weird outfits. From Gerda's expression, obviously she'd figured that out a long time ago, so what were the odds this woman hadn't? I'd be nothing but a handful of stale nachos to an author who was infamous for chewing up and spitting out her competition.

In two weeks, I had to be out of town.

"So when she arrives, we will --"

I ruthlessly cut Schmidt off in mid-spiel. "No, /listen/, Schmidt. You said in two weeks, didn't you? I'm already booked to present at a conference that week."

"Was ist's?" Schmidt and Gerda were both staring at me, with equal astonishment.

Gerda's eyes narrowed. She said, in a terrible and precise tone, "Bitte? I would know of this, I believe. Such things must be reported to me. You did not report this. It is impossible."

"Vicky, I am not aware of any significant conferences this month," Schmidt said, frowning thoughtfully. That was bad. He has a damn near eidetic memory, so he'd know, too.

I hastily slipped the incriminating postcard into my pocket. "It's the, ah, the preservation and curation conference in Rennes," I told him, hoping like mad I'd guessed correctly.

Gerda glowered, but Schmidt said, "Ah, that one? Yes, I know the director there." Of course he did, I groaned to myself. Schmidt knows everyone/. Still, I was relieved to hear that my informant hadn't steered me wrong. "But /liebchen, it is only small, so you must cancel. I will myself call and explain --"

"How can you suggest that?" I pulled myself up to my full height, a tower of scholarly virtue. "How would that reflect on the reputation of our National Museum? On our staff?" This is Schmidt's weakest point; I'd gotten my job in the first place after a hard lean on that reputation, hadn't I? "That would send a clear message to our peers that we don't consider them or their minor conferences worth our attention," I pointed out sternly.

"Ack, das ist recht," Schmidt muttered, looking troubled. "Yes, yes, it is important to maintain these ties, and our museum's reputation is --"

"However," Gerda spoke up again, insistently, "there is no record."

I often notice what Gerda is wearing because she has a habit of wearing outfits that would look great on me -- and had looked great on me when I'd worn them -- but look terrible on her. While I dream of being small, cute, and cuddly, she dreams of being tall, blonde, and buxom. So I couldn't help but notice what Gerda was wearing that day: a beautiful, peacock-blue silk scarf with silver fringe, which, as usual, made her look mousy and washed out. A scarf that she adored beyond reason. A scarf that she'd sighed over for months, whenever we'd passed that shop window on our way to lunch.

A scarf that I'd bought her for Christmas last year. Of course, I would never stoop to manipulating my co-workers to suit my own purposes; but needs must when Schmidt's at the wheel -- he drives like a maniac. I stared at her and tugged at my shirt collar, a gesture Gerda couldn't miss. One Bavarian Stand-off, now in session.

"Herr Direktor Doktor Schmidt," she said stiffly. "The fault . . . is mine. You will pardon this error, I hope. I am recalling now this conference. Fräulein Doktor Bliss did tell me of this. I did not enter it properly in the schedule."

Now Schmidt was gawking at Gerda, who was flushing a deep, unattractive shade of red. As everyone knows, Gerda is the deity of office efficiency. She does not make mistakes. I'm sure more improbable events have occurred, though none came to mind at the moment; it looked like I'd have two weeks in France to think of one. However, her pointed use of my full title like that didn't bode well for my future, so this year Gerda's Christmas scarf would outshine last year's, even if I had to raise llamas in my backyard and spin the wool myself.

"So," Schmidt was saying, disconsolate, "I see that it cannot be helped. Vicky, I know what sadness must fill your heart to miss such a prestigious visit to our National Museum."

"Oh, yes, I'm shattered," I assured him hastily. "Truly. But, like you said, our obligations to our peers are . . ."

"/Ack so/, but do not worry," Schmidt told me. He patted my hand kindly. "Papa Schmidt will obtain the autographed copy for you as well."

After I retreated back to my tower lair, I ferreted out the contact information from an old journal and made the calls. They'd had a suspiciously convenient withdrawal from their program and were spread thin as it was, so they were more than pleased to have a last-minute replacement. Gerda routinely lurks on my line during all my outgoing calls, so I didn't worry about them getting my registration promptly. Karl, our janitor, would throw himself to the ground and kiss my feet if I foisted Caesar off on him again for an extended play date, and Clara, my Siamese, might deign to allow Schmidt to coddle her for a week or so, though she'd make certain I suffered for it later. Now all I had to do was dash out a paper on -- something.

I pulled out that postcard and examined it again. The strange date on it was the first day of the conference. As for "Brunnhilde Karlsdottir," she was another well-known writer of overblown romances who'd crossed spears with the woman I was anxious to avoid. Like me, Karlsdottir specialized in medieval Europe, but her vision of the period was, as Schmidt put it, "most excellent imaginative!" Meaning just what you'd think it means. I'd made a festive bonfire of her last book. "So just what are you trying to imply, huh?" I snarled at the card.

The verse? That came from the Roman de la Rose. I accepted my latest floral tribute with all the surly gratitude it deserved.