Mistress Duenna

The Oak Door

The door guarding the entrance to the Headmistress’ executive suite stood for more than two centuries.
Some claim it older than Lady Stælweorth herself. It was an enormous thing, taken straight from the land of giants. Artisans, now dead and buried, had crafted the door from a sectional cut of a two thousand year old tree plucked straight from the heart of land’s ancient forest. If the iron hinges ever failed, the combined strength of eight able-bodied men would be required to resurrect it. The brute force required to simply open and close the door was remarkable in itself.

Slow to open. Slow to close. The metallic hinges, forged from a blend of super-heated iron and carbon, were twisted and warped by centuries of the stress and strain generated by the door’s fantastic weight. When maintenance workers suggested the hinges be repaired or lubricated, Lady Stælweorth vehemently refused. She rather enjoyed the diabolical creaking sound. It was rumored that she once remarked to an inferior that it was a fond reminder of the delightful sound that small animals make while slowly being tortured to death.

The Brass Lion

The exterior of the door was adorned with a shiny brass lion. The impressionistic and flamboyant style of the metallic sculpture could be seen in the exaggerated size of Lion’s chest, the detailed dreadlocks of its mane, and an angry scowl that was more Human than beast. The brass Lion’s primary purpose was a warning to those who wished to visitor. Yet, a thick brass ring used for knocking hung from its long sharpened fangs. The Lion’s protruding eyes, filled with the determination of a hungry predator, were sculpted to create an eerie illusion that, regardless of where one was standing, the eyes appeared to staring directly back. Embedded within its terrifying visage: a warning. Stern, and without a modicum of concern:

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here!

Those who enjoyed legends and folklore claimed a Human soul, one of Lady Stælweorth’s ex-lovers, had been entombed within the brass vessel. Condemned for all eternity as punishment for an unforgivable and egregious indiscretion of the flesh. Many claimed to hear the man’s futile cries for mercy by pressing their ear to the surface of beast’s hollow belly. The spell used to imbue the brass lion with a human soul was said to be her final act of magic before taking her vows and embracing the frock and habit of the Order of St. Chastity. Regardless of one’s susceptibility to the allure and appeal of mysticism, it was customary for all — mystics and non-mystics alike — to cross themselves in the presence of the brass lion. For good luck. Just in case.

Publicly, Lady Stælweorth claimed that she herself did not believe in such nonsense. However, she made no effort to dispel such myths as rather enjoyed the power they gave her to intimidate and cast fear into the hearts of those who dared to question her authority. No one knew with absolute certainty what Lady Stælweorth did or did not believe. But the one thing upon which everyone agreed: she had an affinity for the macabre.

Brass on Brass

Mistress Duenna, summoning the sum total of her courage and internal fortitude, seized the brass ring with the thick fingers of her red fleshy hand. At that precise moment when brass collided against brass, she could have sworn that she heard the Lion’s baleful roar protesting her presence. Terrified, her entire body shook with fear, horror, and disgust. Her blood felt as if it had suddenly grown cold. After hesitating, she eventually struck down hard. Brass on brass. Again. And again. The frequencies and the energy emitted by the sound of the brass instrument sent a cold chill up and down her spine. Moisture formed across the surface of her back, underneath her arms, and behind her knees. The room began to spin. Mistress Duenna struck again. And then again. She stood, listened, and waited.

Nothing.

Had she applied sufficient force? It would be unwise to reveal herself timid and weak. On the other hand, she dare not project hostility. She tried again.

Still no response.

Her hands shook. Her knees quivered. And her cheeks grew hot and wet. As she breathed, her belly extended outward and sagged. Then, as she exhaled, it somehow tucked itself back inside her unusually large ribcage. Beads of salty sweat dripped down from her scalp, flowed across her forehead, and settled into the corners of her eyes. The Mistress wiped the moisture from her face and wagged her tongue like a dog after a long walk. She tried to stay calm. She focused on her happy place. In her mind, she pictured the image of a freshly opened bottle of red wine and imagined the fragrance of the fresh cork. She began to feel a sense of hope and relief.

If there was no response a third time, it meant the meeting was to be cancelled and she could return to her room.

With measured and deliberate force, she pounded the brass ring for the final time.

Still no reply!

Perhaps Lady Stælweorth had forgotten. Perhaps she would fail to appear. The Mistress decided to count to three, and then, barring response, surreptitiously skedaddle.

One Hallelujah,

Two Hallelujah,

Three Hallelu ––

Just as Mistress Duenna released the brass ring and turned to escape, an imperial disembodied voice spoke from behind the door. “You may now enter.”

Mistress Duenna’s chest deflated and her shoulders slumped. The extra-large bottle of delicious red wine mysteriously delivered to her chambers earlier that day would for now just have to wait.

A Dramatic Entrance

Grimacing, Mistress Duenna seized the iron handle with both hands, dug in her heals, and pulled with all of her might. The door managed to budge, but after opening a mere two inches, it stuck. She cursed with the thick brogue of her native tongue. She released her hold, spit into each hand, then firmly gripped the handle with both hands. Her swollen arthritic knuckles turned white, resembling the misshapen stones of a rocky shore, smoothed by crashing waves and bleached by eons of salt and sunlight. And oh did they ache.

The floor was slippery with dirt and dust. She wedged her back foot tightly against the raised edge of a brick tile and placed her front foot against the wall. She pushed, and pulled, then pushed and pulled some more. Slowly, she finagled the door open, just a bit at first, but then a bit more, and a bit more, until the gap in the doorway was not quite sufficiently wide for her midsection to pass through comfortably. And just then, as if the monstrous door was taunting her, it jammed thoroughly and would budge no further.

Mistress Duenna, with a physique somewhere between portly and stout, had no choice but to try and squeeze her body through the gap side-face. Just as her navel reached the edge of the door, she became stuck. Unable to breathe, she feared that, if she did not free herself soon, she would most certainly faint. Overcome with humiliation, she redoubled her efforts. In a state of panic, she resembled a frantic hog trapped within a slaughterhouse. Her cheeks, puffy, and swollen, turned the color of raw mutton. She flashed an awkward smile across the room towards Lady Stælweorth, hoping that perhaps the vision of her struggles offered a certain degree of comedic value. She was wrong.

“Yes, My Ladyship. One moment, My Ladyship,” said the Mistress, slavish, servile, and obsequious. “Just a wee bit more. Almost there.” She continued to twist and wiggle, wriggle, worm, and squirm. “You … wished … to … –. Then, just as suddenly as she got stuck, she managed to free herself. Her words, previously muffled, now exploded from her chest. “– SEE ME?!”

Lady Stælweorth rolled her eyes and twiddled her thumbs. “You certainly have a flair for the dramatic. Leave the door! Come. Please. Sit down.” Lady Stælweorth motioned towards an armchair facing her desk, pre-positioned in preparation for their meeting.

The antique chair was made of an auburn wood, adorned with thick crimson leather, and fitted with brass feet. The back of the chair, concave and oblong, rose unusually high above ones head. The seat was softened with pillows covered in purple satin silk and the back decorated with expensive green velvet. Smaller and less ornate than Lady Stælweorth’s, it was similar in style and worthy of distinguished guests. Mistress Duenna wondered how many royal bums had aided in the creation of the permanent imprint in the shape of a Human buttocks.

As if deliberately, the chair was positioned too far away from Lady Stælweorth’s desk. After careful consideration, Mistress Duenna felt she had no choice but to reposition it. Another obstacle deliberately staged for the Lady’s entertainment? First, Mistress Duenna attempted to dead-lift the chair. Her eyes bulged like a toad as she huffed and puffed. With bent knees, arms stretched, and elbows locked, she lift. However, like the door before it, the furniture behaved like a spoiled and rebellious child.

Unsuccessful, the Mistress modified her approach. Moving directly behind her wooden foe and utilizing her formidable body mass, she compelled the chair to scooch forward. Once moving, the brass feet slid across the brick surface creating a heinous high-frequency pitch that assaulted the nervous system.

Lady Stælweorth leaned back into her chair with steepled fingers. Her thumbs rotated around each other, first in one direction, then the other. While officially impatient and annoyed, in reality, Lady Stælweorth rather enjoying herself. Of all her duties, few brought greater pleasure than the torture of Mistress Duenna. She had anticipated a modicum of entertainment, but the spectacle exceeded her wildest expectations.

Eventually, Mistress Duenna had succeeded in relocating the chair, but to her dismay, the left front foot had fallen into a crevice. The resulting state of imbalance caused the chair to rock back-and-forth. More importantly, it no longer directly faced Lady Stælweorth’s desk. Exhausted, frustrated, and flabbergasted, Mistress Duenna walked to the left side of the chair in an attempt to remedy the situation. With bent knees, a straight back, and her chin raised high in the air, she lifted one corner of the chair and thrust it forward.

Pleased with success, Mistress Duenna crossed herself, looked upward to thank the heavens, and sighed, before flopping backwards into the chair. With one hand covering her heart and the other wiping sweat dripping down her face, she pretended to take interest in the chamber’s decorations to buy herself time to catch her breath and compose herself.

The Lion’s Den

The Lady’s chambers were dark, damp, and stale. Musty. And dusty. Like a dungeon. The torches burning on the walls cast shadows across the ceiling and walls like demons. Except there was no music. Lady Stælweorth sat at the focal point, ghoulishly illuminated. On the leading edge of her desk was an intimidating nameplate inscribed with an flourishing Gothic font raised in golden ink against a polished ebony background:

Lady Ira Stælweorth, Headmistress

The room was scarcely adorned, perhaps intentionally, giving the eye little else upon which to gaze. Decorations are a frivolity, Lady Stælweorth frequently opined. Most conspicuous was the lack of any personal décor. No family crests on display. No degrees. No awards or certificates. Nothing that served as evidence of her superior intellect, elite education, or a privileged upbringing. No portraits chronicling a proud family lineage boasting famous ancestors, military heroes, politicians, and so forth. Most notably absent were the intimate family portraits of beaming parents with beautiful young children mounted in their laps for all to see and admire.

There were no portraits hanging on the Lady’s walls at all save one: colorful oil-painting floated high up on the wall aligned precisely behind Lady Stælweorth’s desk which created the illusion of a ghost hovering over her head. It was a portrait of her much younger self, painted during an epoch long ago before Lady Stælweorth lost the physically capacity to smile. It was hard for her those who knew and worked with her to imagine a time when Lady Stælweorth was young and attractive. Perhaps in her youth, she had been vivacious, full of vitality, and blessed with virtue, kindness and idealism. Now, two images, vertically juxtaposed, contrasted the polar opposite personalities of the very same person.

In her youth, she had been blessed with long flowing red hair that hung down to her waist ending a series of tightly wound curls. One could almost visualize her curls bouncing up and down as she skipped and played as a young child. Her features had been both pleasant and striking. She had a button nose, a petite mouth, and attractive dimples just above the corners of her smile known to as kisses. If the portrait were to be believed, the color of her young eyes were a kaleidoscope of earthy tones similar to the yellow, orange, and brown leaves of cherry trees in autumn. Now, an elderly woman, her eyes appeared to have no color at all, although few bothered to pay any attention. The deep wrinkles on her face suggested that her hair, if any still remained, was likely a ghoulish shade of white. The crevices in the skin surrounding her mouth reflected the fact that she had rarely smiled since the days of he carefree youth.

Besides the behemoth desk and matching chairs, the only other structure in the room was a pair of matching bookshelves positioned in the corner of the room. Lined across the full width of the top shelf was a dusty and dry series of fifty black leather-bound volumes, entitled ‘History of the Modern World’. On the shelf below, bound in a variety of colors, sat an equally comprehensive series devoted to the vast history of the Human religion and philosophy. Below that, on the shelves which stood at shoulder height, a panoply of popular titles, badly worn, suffering from broken spines, loose pages, and dog-eared covers. Occupying the bottom shelf were stacks and bundles of yellow papers, crumbling documents, sealed envelopes, and an alphabetized collection of confidential personal dossiers accumulated over the Lady’s many years of loyal service as headmistress to the convent and boarding school for young women from royal and aristocratic families.

The Inquisition

Lady Stælweorth reclined back into the soft cushion of her chair and cleared her throat. “You seem distracted, Mistress Duenna. Is there anything that you wish to confess?”

“Apologies, My Ladyship,” Mistress Duenna crooned. “And, no. Nothing to confess. Nothing at all,” she said, struggling to relax as scalding anxiety pumped blood to the extremities of her face and neck. She could feel her heartbeat pulsating within the capillaries on the surface of the bulbous tip of her nose, which, as a result of many years of heavy drinking, had transformed into what was commonly referred to as a potato nose. Mistress Duenna forced herself to smile appropriately. Serious, yet innocent, and nonchalant.

Lady Stælweorth made brief eye contact, then diverted her eyes in disgust. “Well then. Mistress Duenna. How — “

“I-am-fine-how-are-you?” interrupted Mistress Duenna, speaking in the steady rapid-fire cadence of a overly medicated woodpecker.

“Well, I am –“

“Be-a-u-ti-ful-weather-we’ve-been-having-don’t-you-think?” Mistress Duenna abandoned her smile momentarily to take lick her lips and swallow. Gulp! Then, she took three or four breathes in rapid succession and held her breath as if preparing to swim under water.

Lady Stælweorth paused. Believing that it was finally safe to continue, she began speaking again.
“Well. To be perfectly honest, it has been a bit humid for my –“

“And-how-is-your-health-is-your-gout-still-acting-up? Such-a-pity. Me-me-my-self-have-been –“

“Mistress Duenna!” Lady Stælweorth barked with shriveled brow , jaw clenched, and nostrils flared. She shifted forward to the edge of her seat, assuming an intimidating position, her eyes filled with murderous rage as her her tiny hands twisted into raven claws. After her weaponized stare silenced Mistress Duenna, Lady Stælweorth inhaled deeply and settled back into her chair. “Please, Mistress Duenna. Please restrain yourself. You are testing my patience and equanimity, and these are personal qualities in which I take great pride. As a member of my staff, you are expected to carry yourself with a degree of composure, dignity, and self-respect at all times. Do I make myself clear? If you interrupt me again, I shall reassign you to the kitchen where you shall be scrubbing floors and washing dishes with the scullery maids. Do I make myself clear?!”

“Oh, yes, My Ladyship,” responded the Mistress, her head bobbling up and down.

“After all. You are not in trouble. And if you have done nothing wrong, why you have nothing to fear,”
sang Lady Stælweorth as a micro-expression resembling a smirk flashed briefly across her face.

Mistress Duenna’s eyes lit up. “Yes? I mean, no!” Attempting a comedic gesture, she wiped away the sweat from her brow, flung it on the ground in front of her. “But of course! Trouble? From Moi? Trouble? What trouble?” She craned her neck, glancing over each shoulder, then underneath her chair. “See? No trouble! No trouble t’all,” she jested anxiously. “Because trouble,” the Mistress declared with serious and scientific certainty, “is bad, and, therefore, cannot be good. That’s what I’m always teaching me girls. ‘Girls‘, I say to them, ‘trouble is bad. Especially for girls. And especially so for young girls. ‘It is best to … stay … out … of … trouble,” she declared with each word punctuated with a wag of her pointed index finger.

The Girls of St. Chastity

Lady Stælweorth reacted to the reference, shifting her weight abruptly from one side to the other. “Yes. The girls.” She paused for emphasis. “Funny you should mention the girls. How are they?”

Sensing danger, Mistress Duenna’s posture stiffened. Her eyelids fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird.
“The g-g-girls?” she stammered.

“Yes. The girls. How are they?”

“Why … w-why they are f-f-f-fine. B-b-b-better than fine. They are wonderful! Couldn’t … be … better!” She clenched her right fist and threw a tiny punch into the air. “Angels. Pure angels. The lot of them,” she smiled and nodded.

Like a jungle cat stalking its prey, Lady Stælweorth sat motionless. Staring. Studying. The room grew deathly quiet. Not a sound could be heard except for the intertwining chorus of melodies and harmonies of a thousand tiny violins performed by the powerful rush of air flowing through Mistress Duenna’s nose hairs.

Tell Me About Mataya

“Tell me about Mataya. How is the dear girl. Any troubles?”

The left side of Misstress Duenna’s face began to twitch. Her chest expanded and contracted spasmodically as she
gulped for mouthfuls of air like a writhing fish stranded upon dry dock. She choked as she felt the noose tightening around her neck. “M-M-M-Mataya? You mean … Mataya-Mataya?” She bit down on her lower lip as her gaze at Lady Stælweorth’s face while avoiding prolonged eye contact as if the Lady Stælweorth’s eyes were a pair of blazing stars.

Lady Stælweorth leaned back in her chair and twiddled her thumbs.

“Well, she … she is … is a … a k-k-kind girl. Yes! This is true!” the Mistress said, as if speaking to herself with genuine surprise, pleased at the truthfulness of her own words. “Everyone is in agreement on that point. “She is a very … kind … girl. Ask anyone!” She immediately regretted her poorly chosen words and cowered backwards into her chair.

“I am not asking anyone. And I am not asking everyone. I am asking you.”

“Yes, My Ladyship. A gigantic heart this one has. Filled with nothing but warmth and purity.”

“Purity? Hmm. Pure in what way?”

“Kindness?”

“Are you asking me? Or are you telling me?”

“Telling, My Ladyship. A heart filled with warmth and kindness that pretty one has.”

“Well then. Tell me a story of the purity of her warmth and kindness.”

“A story? My Ladyship?”

“Yes. Describe to me an act of this girl’s kindness. Or perhaps some kind words she has spoken to yourself or others. Surely there must be something you can think of. A kind deed. Kind words. One you yourself have personally witnessed.”

“Well,” the Mistress contemplated. “Take her animals for instance. She is so very gentle to her animals. She cherishes them, she does. You should see her! She takes most excellent care of them. Why, I was saying just the other day that she takes better care of her animals than most people take care of their children. She certainly has a way with the beasties. She calms them. Soothes them. It is as if she speaks their very own language. It is magical to behold.”

Lady Stælweorth slumped in her chair. She felt weary and, much to her surprise, found that she was not relishing the private inquisition nearly as much as she had anticipated. Anxious to retire for the evening, she decided it was time to cut to the chase.

“Yes. The animals. That is fine. Very fine. But what I would like to know, Mistress Duenna, is how she relates to other people.
People, such as, say, yourself?” Having launched her salvo, Lady Stælweorth reclined back into her chair, folded her arms, and studied her adversary as she waited for a response. When none was immediately forthcoming, she continued. “Rumor has it that Mataya has become, how shall we say, your … nemesis?

“Nemesis? My nemesis? Oh, my goodness. Why, no of course. Not in the least. She is a … l-l-lovely girl. A pure delight.”
Mistress Duenna lifted her bottom lip up and over her top lip, nearly reaching her nose. Then, she pulled back the corners of her lips and executed a frequently-rehearsed smile.

“I am waiting. Speak up! Is there something that you would like to share? If so, spit it out!”

“No, My Ladyship.”

“She does seem to have acquired a reputation for being somewhat … rambunctious. A mischief-maker? A prankster? Hmm? Does any of this … ring a bell?

“Oh, well, that is perfectly ordinary for a girl of her age. It is to be expected in my experience, which, of course, is nothing compared to My Ladyship’s vast worldliness. It’s just that, I would be alarmed if the opposite were true. It is a natural adolescent phase. One which she will grow out of in due time. Of this I am positively certain.”

“Yes, perhaps. What is more troubling are reports that she frequently gets the other girls into trouble by encouraging them to participate in her myriad plots and schemes. Would you say that this is accurate?”

Feigning shock and ignorance, Mistress Duenna placed a hand over her heart. “Plots? Pooh! Schemes? Nah! What plots? What schemes? ‘Tis nonsense. Idle prattle is all. The poor creatures are bored and truly treasure the telling of tall terrible tales and recounting ridiculous rumors. ‘Tis their favorite sport.”

“Why yes, they do. They most certainly do. Naturally. Girls of this age when placed within a disciplined environment such as ours tend to become … rebellious. Recalcitrant. Risque.”

“Revolutionary!” the Mistress rejoined as if playing a word game in which she had just scored triple points.

“Revolutionary. Yes. I like that. Thanks you. What a wonderful word. Ooh. Wait. This is fun, isn’t it?. Here is an even better word. Hooliganism. And here is another word. Rampant. Is hooliganism running rampant through this school? Through my school?

“Rampant? Well, I think that word is a teeny bit excessive.” The Mistress pinched her fingers, squinting hard at the fictitiously microscopic space between her thumb and index finger.

Mataya the Bold

Lady Stælweorth scowled. “Excessive, you say? Let’s explore that shall we. Has this girl not been found wandering outside the dormitory onto school grounds under the darkness of night … on your watch?”

“Well, yes, but … I –“

“And whose responsibility is it to prevent such behavior? Whose responsibility is it to watch over these girls and to keep them safe?”

The Mistress gulped. “Mine?” Her eyebrows shivered like caterpillars suffering from apoplexy.

“Can you explain to me how this girl managed to open a locked gate to which you and I hold the only set of keys? Hmm? Does she possess the power to walk through solid objects? Does she have supernatural powers that allow her to transport herself through space and time? Or is she sneaking into your office and borrowing your keys while you are three sheets to the wind?”

Mistress Duenna shrugged her shoulders. Eternal silence filled the room.

“Fine. Never mind that. Would it not be accurate to say that Mataya is an unusually defiant girl? I hear the other girls consider her to be their ringleader and have have given her nefarious nicknames, such as ‘Mataya the Boldacious‘.”

“Actually,” Mistress corrected timidly, “recently they have shortened it to simply ‘Mataya the Bold‘. [Gulp.] Or simply ‘Mataya the Brave‘.”

“What concerns me more is her reputation as being somewhat of a lackadaisy. Would you say that this characterization is correct?”

“Well, yes, but only because she is such a bright and industrious girl who routinely finishes her work quickly; ergo, creating the mere illusion of lollygagging. But this is nothing that I cannot handle.”

“Is that so?”

“Y-y-y-yes, My Ladyship.”

“You are certain?”

“Oh, yes, My Ladyship.”

Lady Stælweorth glared with cold steely gray eyes. A faint expression of approval, masked by the ancient features of a wrinkled and wizened face, appeared in her brow. The color of her eyes turned black as coal. The Lady’s sallow skin began to show signs of warmth, and her lips curled ever-so-slightly upward into something that could not quite be called a smile. A grin perhaps.

Bullets of sweat began to drip down Mistress Duenna’s forehead, the salt stinging her eyes and blurring her vision. She sensed that was being played. That she slowly been had backed into a corner from which she could no longer retreat. The room was slowly being drained of breathable oxygen. Her precise fate not yet revealed, Mistress Duenna hoped that the end would come soon so that she may retreat back to the safety of her private chambers where she could lick her wounds and drown her humiliation.

The Trap Set

“Mistress Duenna. “Lady Stælweorth paused such that her next words, once spoken, would carry sufficient weight, ensure comprehension, and provoke a serious and honest response. “I am going to ask you a very simple question.” She paused again. This time even longer. The silence was deafening. The anticipation designed to torture. “I suggest that you answer … honestly.”

Lady Stælweorth then affected the longest of all emphatic pauses. When she finally began to speak, she spoke slowly, with crisp diction, and a carefully chosen and sufficiently simple vocabulary. She crossed her arms on top of her desk, leaned as far forward as she possibly could, and looked Mistress Duenna straight into her eyes: “Are you capable of controlling this girl, or not?!“

“Oh, yes, My Ladyship. I most certainly can. You can rest assured of that! After all, I am the adult, and she is the child. Why, an adult unable to manage a child entrusted in her care? That would be a disgrace. Would this not be a definitive declaration and an irrefutable indication of complete and total incompetence? I, myself, am a professional, after all. I have devoted my entire life to the perfection of my solemn duties. Is it not my responsibility to properly supervise and discipline this — albeit impetuous, petulant, and occasionally impudent — child in order to transform her into a graceful, rarefied, refined lady, ready to be accepted as a member of society’s genteel class? Is it not the goal of this school to transform girls into charming, talented, and intelligent young women armed with sangfroid and savoir-faire?

And have I not excelled in the fulfillment of my responsibilities? I believe that I have, and I believe that I will not fail her. Nor shall I fail you. Why, I would be compelled to resign my post in disgrace if this were not the honest truth. I shudder at the thought. It would be such a disgrace. The stain on my reputation that would never fully fade. I do not believe my heart could bear such an unspeakable scandal.” Maximizing the melodrama, Mistress Duenna gripped her chest with both hands and swooned as if the mere suggestion might actually cause her to faint.

“You are certain?”

“Aye. Yes. Absolutely, My Ladyship. I am completely, positively, and unconditionally certain.” She nodded, and not with just her head, but with her entire head, neck, and torso. Then, just as she felt she had achieved a certain degree of composure, her eyes crossed and became stuck. She blinked hard several times in an attempt to uncross them. Struggling, she began to blink so rapidly that her eyelids resembled the wings of a hummingbird.

Lady Stælweorth beamed with smug satisfaction. “Wonderful,” Lady Stælweorth cooed. “Yes. This is very good, indeed. It is more than good. It is rather fabulous.” Lady Stælweorth leaned back in her chair, cautiously guarding the victorious trickery yet to be revealed.

Mistress Duenna, while still quite flustered, had allowed wishful thinking to invade her stream of consciousness. Her physical symptoms abating, she began to breathe comfortably for the first time since entering Lady Stælweorth’s chamber of horrors. She rolled her shoulders in backward circular strokes and stretched her neck in all three degrees of motion. Oxygen-rich blood flowed freely to her chest, head, and face.

The Mistress leaned back and relished the sweet inebriating air as it entered through her nostrils and expanded in her chest. Then, through her oval lips, she exhaled with clear satisfaction. Then, the deep sigh –a final handshake signifying the closure of a successful transaction with a subordinate and superior. A splendid smile suspended from one ear to another, lifting itself right up underneath the base of her nose. “Wonderful!” giggled the Mistress.

“Magnicient!” Lady replied.

“Superb!” gefawed Mistress Duenna.

“Delightful!”

“Stupendous!”

“Extra-or-dinary!”

Mistress Duenna hesitated as she enthusiastically searched her lexicon for a superlative so as to continue the delightful game of words. “Miraculous … no … wait … I’ve got it. I’ve got it. Divine.”

As Mistress Duenna basked in self-admiration, savoring this singularly prideful moment, she payed little attention to Lady Stælweorth’s body language. She failed to detect the eyes which had all but closed. Nor did she see the forcefully extended lower jaw and the resulting dimples of fury that had formed just below Lady Stælweorth’s ears. As glorious as it was brief, the Mistress’ feelings of relief were doomed. She should have know that it was never meant to be. Wishful thinking. Looming behind the Lady’s façade of approval lie a carefully constructed deceit.

The devil had played her winning hand and was time to lay down her cards. “Excellent,” Lady Stælweorth hissed. “Ex-ccc-ellent.”

The Trap Sprung

Lady Stælweorth prided herself on being resourceful, meticulous, and fastidious. Others used words such as such as mercurial, callous, and cruel. In any case, she knew how to play the game of life. She had no objection to being loved or respected. She simply had no use for either. What she craved was fear. She thrived on the euphoria of the looking into frightened eyes.

Ordinarily, she relished the game of cat and mouse. However, it was getting late, and Lady Stælweorth’s body ached, nowhere more so than her purple, blackened toes. Despite the joy of the evening’s entertainment, she was overdue to take her evening tonic. And so, it was time to finish off her opponent. While Mistress Duenna continued to prattle unaware, Lady Stælweorth concluded that it was time to deliver the fatal coup de grâce.

“I am so delighted. Because, Mistress Duenna, I have … an assignment. For you. An assignment which you yourself have testified to be adequately equipped.”

Boom!

A clap of angry thunder emanated — not from the sky above — but from the cold earth below. The breathable air had been depleted of oxygen, robbing the Mistress of her ability to speak, breathe, or think. Mistress Duenna’s ears filled with the roaring sound of an ocean storm. Her visions blinded by white light.

Mistress Duenna’s body collapsed. She closed her eyes and buried her chin deep within her ample bosom. Her throat was swollen with the putrid flavor of excruciating defeat. Ensnared within a trap of her own making, she lost control of her bodily functions. Her head surged to one side, then snapped back violently to the opposite extreme. Her spine, rendered supple, offered no resistance to the force of gravity as if made of soft rubber. After flopping about randomly with increasing severity, indicating the possible onsets of a seizure, she suddenly stilled, her head once again settling within the pillowed cradle of her chest. Foam frothed in the corners of her lips as she awaited her sentence.

“Mataya has been summoned to the Eyrie by her father. She is young. She cannot possibly be permitted to travel alone. She must be accompanied by an adult. The Church requires a compagnon de voyage. And for this task, I have chosen … you.”

The jagged words flew past Mistress Duenna’s head like shrapnel from an exploding grenade. Time began to distort, moving forwards, and backwards, speeding up, and slowing down. Finally, time seemed to freeze. Deprived of her evening refreshment, she felt both hot and cold at the same time. Dazed, and confused, her fragile mind exploded. She shot up from her seated position, and with a casual flick of her wrist, sent the mammoth chair tumbling clear across the room. Standing tall and menacing, she loomed over the edge of Lady Stælweorth’s desk with elbows locked and palms pressed flat against the surface. As her brow churned, her fingers curled, scratching deep grooves into the wooden surface. She growled with the threatening ferocity of an animal trapped with no choice but to turn and face its predator. “You tricked me!“

Lady Stælweorth dimmed her eyes and raised her brow. Mistress Duenna’s delicious histrionics were an unexpected bonus. She had expected her to plead, beg, and pray, but this unexpected outburst was even more delightful. She turned her head slightly to one side, feigned fatigue, then raised the back of her hand to her mouth, stifling a fictitious yawn. “Yes. I suppose that I have. How very rude of me. Please. Do forgive.”

Realizing the folly and futility of her position, Mistress Duenna lowered her head, took a step back, and bent the knee. “Oh, please, M’lady. I beseech you. Choose someone else! Anyone else. Anyone but me. Please! Do not make me do this thing that you ask!”

“Begging. How droll.”

Confession

“Wait!” hollered Mistress Duenna. “I lied!”

Lady Stælweorth sprung up within her chair, her words rife with sarcasm and contempt. “What’s this you say? You lied? To me? You lied to me? I am shocked. Shocked and vexed.” She tapped her fingers on her desk. “Oh, my. What to do. What to do.”

“Yes, I did, M’Lady! I confess. I am guilty. B-b-b-but it’s not my fault. I’m … I’m … afraid. Fearful. For me safety. I cannot control the girl. She is a genius of naughtiness, I tell you. A mastermind of mischief and mayhem!”

“Oh, Mistress Duenna. Such melodrama. And over a young girl?”

“Do not let her virginal appearance fool you! She is pure evil. Possessed. By a demon. She casts spells. Magic spells. Wicked spells. Spells that really work. Ingenious at that. Once, she threatened that she would make a giant wart grow on the tip of me nose! And she can do it. I swear it to be true. And she commands an army of hobgoblins. You know, numens? Sprites? They steal me keys and misplace me eyeglasses. And they control an army of satanic vermin. One morning, I opened me closet and found a rat as big as a dog with teeth as sharp as daggers. The beast would have bit off me whole arm had I given it half a chance. And Saints preserve me, it spoke — in the devil’s own tongue — a curse me thinks, but I can’t be sure as I don’t speak devil.”

“Come, come now, Mistress Duenna. Calm yourself. Such superstitious hogwash. And from a full-grown woman of your advanced years? Just with whom do you think you are speaking? Do you take me for a peasant? A provincial clown who has never seen the inside of a book? We are living in the glorious age of enlightenment. Surely you yourself do not believe in such poppycock. More importantly, you characterized Mataya as a gentle, intelligent, and kindly girl. A girl with whom you enjoy an healthy relationship. But now you diagnose her as possessed? By a demon? A young witch who casts evil spells? Against you?”

“B-b-b-but it’s true I say!”

“Enough. This has truly been amusing, Mistress Duenna, but the matter has been decided,” said Lady Stælweorth, rubbing her temples. “It must be done, and if you refuse, who do you suppose shall take your place? Shall I escort this girl to the Eyrie?” She chuckled. “I think not.”

“To the Eyrie? The royal city? B-b-b-but she is much much too young. ‘Tis not a place to be trifled with. She is just a child and the Eyrie is not a safe place for –“

“She is quite young. A young woman, to be precise, and one that — according to you — is quite capable of defending herself. However, given her age, she cannot be allowed to travel alone.”

“But what business could a child possibly have in the Eyrie?”

“The details are confidential and none of your concern. However, I can say this. Her father resides in the Eyrie and has requested her presence. They have not seen each other for many years. Beyond this, I do not know, and if I did, I am not at liberty to discuss it with you. Your duties do not require such knowledge. You will receive further instructions upon arrival if need be. You have the benefit of simply doing as your told. No more. No less. This is a good thing. Consider it a blessing.”

“If the gentleman wishes to reacquaint himself with his daughter, would it not be more fitting for him to visit her here? Why, he would a guest of honor, fed the finest meals, given the finest accommodations. They could discover the cultural wonders of Megalopolis together. Pay visit to the finest museums. Be served the finest meals prepared by esteemed chefs in exclusive restaurants. They could attend the theater. The orchestra –“

“Mistress Duenna,” Lady interjected curtly. You are meddling in affairs which do not concern you. This request was submitted to me personally by the ambassador to the King. It is not your place, nor mine for that matter. Let me remind you that this institution exists at the behest of his royal generosity. It is out duty to obey. There is no choice in the matter.”

Mistress Duenna frantically chewed her nails.

“Of course, if you were to become ill — sufficiently ill that such an arduous journey would be untenable — well, in that case, I would be forced to find a replacement.” Lady Stælweorth clicked her tongue, grimly shaking her head. “But I would strongly suggest that … you … do … not. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, M’lady.”

“Excellent. That is all. You are dismissed.”

“Yes, M’lady.”

Mistress Duenna, staggered towards the door as if intoxicated. Just as she reached for the door, she froze, then rotated her shoulders with her right index finger raised high in the air and her mouth agape. “M’lady, if I might suggest –“

“Dismissed!”

Mistress Duenna stood fully frozen. Hope gave way to desperation, and from desperation to despair. Finally, despair turned to anger, and from anger to hatred. She clenched her fists and gazed upon Lady Stælweorth with murderous intent. She took a single step forward, then came to her senses. She turned and lurched towards the exit. With one swift kick, she spun the great oak door open with such great force that it rebound from the outer wall. The resulting shock could be felt throughout the basement and several stories above. Dust and debris rained down upon Lady Stælweorth’s head. The portrait perched behind Lady Stælweorth, rocked by blow, remained attached to the wall, but now tilted ever-so-slightly to one side.

Lugubrious and despondent, Mistress Duenna exited down the hallway unconcerned with the potential consequences of her blatant act of insubordination. She yearned for the warmth of the journey to sweet euphoria and inevitable oblivion. Arriving in her chambers, she picked up the double-sized bottle of dark red wine, seized the cork with her teeth, and savagely pulled until the cork popped. She spit the cork onto the floor, lifted the bottle to her lips and tongue, and chugged the aromatic liquid, managing to pour half its contents down her throat and into her belly with a single breath.

As warmth spread from her stomach to her head, she settled into the chair behind her desk. With a whimper, she placed her head down and slurred the words to her favorite childhood rhyme, peppering it with curse and vulgar slang. Soon arrived the welcome oblivion of unconsciousness. That night, she dreamt of ripping Lady Stælweorth’s head clean off of her shoulders and drinking her warm fresh blood.