Mythilda carried Lady Haythorne’s laundry to the poshest district in Dawn.
Now… I am sorry, but I must explain a few things about humans and the Holdings. You might become confused otherwise and blame me for having been too vague. Do not worry. My detour will be as brief as possible.
As I said, the Holdings were independent provinces. Each Holding was ruled either by a Laird—a man—or by a Lairdessa—a woman.
The capital of each Holding was named after the Holding itself. So the capital of the Holding Dawn was the city of Dawn. But the residents of the Holdings referred to every capital as being the City Proper. This practice can confuse outsiders. Think about it. Since all seventeen capitals were called the City Proper, then how are you to know if I am talking about Dawn or Dusk? It comes down to context. If I am recounting events that occurred in the Holding Dawn, then the City Proper I am referring to must be the city of Dawn. Got it? No? Do not worry. I will do my best to keep you from becoming confused. Now, let’s talk about the humans who lived in the Holdings.
Humans were lumped into one of two groups—the commoners or the nobles.
Nobles carried various titles during the stages of their lives. As children, nobles were called either Lads or Lasses depending on their gender—as in the Lad Charles or the Lass Christine. Upon reaching adolescence, a noble was known as either a Master or a Maiden. They kept that title until they married, then they were called either Lord or Lady.
Blech! That is too many titles. I am glad I was a commoner. We did not use titles in front of our names. Everyone just called me Izzy. That system was so much simpler. I would have hated being called the Lass Izzy—or rather, the Lass Isobel. Nobles always used their birth name. Until they got married, that is, then they used their surname. Being called Lady MacDonald would not have been too bad. But Isobel. Blech! Nobody ever called me that. It would have been easier had my parents just named me Izzy to begin with.
Do not get any ideas, Mister. Call me Isobel even once and I will slap you so hard you will feel it for a week. I am an Izzy, not an Isobel.
There. That wasn’t too bad, was it? I bet you feel silly for thinking I would go on and on about human customs. And so you should. Nothing I say is trivial. Never forget that.
Why are you eyeing me with such a suspicious look on your face?
Ah. You suspect that I will give you another lecture regarding human culture later on. Did my smile give me away? Okay, Mister, I admit it. I may have to provide more details about the Holdings, but that will not happen for quite a while.
Oh! Do not groan so. It does not become you. Now, stop interrupting me by thinking so loudly and just listen.
So… Mythilda walked through the poshest district in Dawn. She tried to work out what “getting herself into the family way” meant as she strolled along. You see, Mythilda had no experience with such worldly matters. I shall explain why much later.
When all of a sudden…
“Psst. Mythilda,” whispered a voice.
Mythilda halted and looked around. She spotted three elven youths—Arthur and the twins, Olwen and Owein—lurking in an alley. Mythilda knew them well. They had played together in the Faerie Square when they had been wee children. As a girl, Mythilda had even had a crush on one of them. Then she had gone to work for Madame Januarie. She had drifted away from them a bit. Even so, they were elves. That meant they were family.
“What are you lot doing here?” hissed Mythilda as she approached the trio. “Why aren’t you all at work?”
“Skivin’ off, ain’t we,” replied Olwen.
She was the group’s leader. Her brother and Arthur acted as her lackeys. Based upon what Myth told me about Olwen, I cannot claim to like her. Olwen was too vulgar. And she was trouble. Do not dare to say, “But Izzy, did you ever meet her?” No. I did not. And do not dare to reply, “Then don’t you think you are being unfair to poor Olwen?” No. I am not. And how dare you take her side! I should punish you for speaking to me with such impertinence. Yes. Perhaps I shall refuse to talk to you for a week. Maybe your precious Olwen will keep you company. Bah! I know her type. That cheeky hussy, flaunting about in such a way that everyone develops a crush on her. Excuse me while I simmer for a moment… Okay. I feel better. Let’s resume Mythilda’s story…
Olwen pointed at a basket that Owein was carrying. “We aim to have a bit o’ fun with the poshies. How ’bout it, Mythilda? You up for a spot of swine sloppin’, yeah?”
Swine slopping was a favorite pastime among elven youths. The elves would mix mud, sludge, and horse manure together in a bucket. Then they would roll this foul concoction into balls. These, they would throw at some posh human who, “had it comin’ to ’em.” Swine slopping was the elven youths’ way of exacting justice upon humans who had abused the elves. The youths kept lists of targets who deserved a good slopping. Slopping the most deserving targets gained the triumphant elf praise from his or her peers.
Like most elven youths, Mythilda enjoyed a spot of swine slopping. But not when she was working. And certainly not when she was delivering a load of clean laundry for Madame Januarie. There would definitely be consequences for doing that.
Mythilda shook her head and said, “Nah, not today. I have work to do. Madame Januarie would nail my ears to a wall if slop dirtied this clean laundry.”
Olwen smirked. “Look at you, little Miss Hoity-Toity with your posh job. Us that dinna have it so good dinna much care what Madame Januarie, or any other human, thinks. That hag I work for can take my job and shove it up her arse. Run along, Mythilda. Be a good little girl. But we aim to be misbehavin’.”
“Yeah. Run along, little Mythilda,” added Owein.
“Oh! Little Mythilda doesn’t want us to slop the nice humans,” smirked Arthur.
Mythilda looked down at the trio. I do not mean that she thought she was better than they were. No. She literally looked down at them. Mythilda was six inches taller than any of the trio were. She wondered if any of them grasped the irony of calling her “little.” Shaking her head, she thought, Probably not.
Aloud, she said, “Who are you going to slop today?”
“Well, we were gonna slop us some SEBies,” answered Olwen.
SEBies was the elves’ name for humans who belonged to the Society for Elven Betterment. The Society’s goal was to improve the lot of the elves. While this was a noble ambition in theory, the Society thought it alone knew what was best for the elves. It wanted to force the elves to assimilate into human civilization. Elves, after all, were too childlike to decide their own course. And that attitude explains why the Society did not work in practice. Elves were not children. Well, their children were children—but that rings true for every species. Elves managed their affairs quite well when they were left alone. They did not need some well-meaning—but misguided—human movement to determine their fate for them. Indeed, the elves preferred the blatant discrimination displayed by most humans to the meddling of the Society.
“Then we thought, ‘Nah.’ It’s too nice a day to waste on those mugs, innit?” said Olwen. “So we reckoned we’d slop that posh nob Master Absalom.”
Mythilda gasped. “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “Slopping that nob is a bad idea.”
“Why’s that, then?” answered Olwen. “He ’as it comin’.”
Master Absalom did indeed have it coming. Just two weeks earlier, he had injured an elf severely while racing his carriage through the Elvenhome. He did not even stop to see if the old woman he had run down was alive. Absalom was a spoiled Daddy’s boy who thought Nisse Cul Tairna revolved around him. And his clothes had too many ruffles.
Now… This is an important life lesson, Mister, so listen closely. Never trust a person who willingly wears clothing embellished with ruffles. I mean… They are ruffles. Blech! No fashion ever was as revolting as ruffles were. Even the name—ruf-fles. Blech! It sounds like a dreadful canine disease. Do not even talk to a person with ruffles on their clothing.
“Sure, he deserves a good slopping,” said Mythilda. “But his dad is Lord Falkirk. He owns half the Elvenhome. He can make life miserable for us all.”
“More miserable than it is already?” said Olwen. “That’d be a tall order, even for a smarmy nob like ’im. Nah. Mister Fancy Ruffles is gettin’ slopped. Run along if you’re scared, little Mythilda. But we’ve got some sloppin’ to do.”
Mythilda shook her head again. Then she went on her way. As she walked, Mythilda mulled over whether she should find Elder Gareth and tell him about Olwen’s plan. Slopping Master Absalom seemed rash, even for Olwen. It was certain to cause trouble for all the elves.
But she had laundry to deliver. Running through the City Proper with a load of clean laundry would lead to some consequences. Besides, the elven youths followed a code: you never ratted out your fellows. Doing so might result in a thorough slopping.
Mythilda delivered Lady Haythorne’s laundry to the sensible girl, Myrtle. Without delaying, she began to journey back to Madame Januarie. She had not gone far when…
“I demand that you give these Conies a good thrashing.”
There, in front of Mythilda, was Master Absalom in all his ruffled hideousness. Clumps of slop speckled his dandified finery. Blobs of slop even clung to his pencil-thin moustache. You know the sort of moustache I am talking about. Its owner is always so proud of it, trimming and styling it with care. Everyone else, meanwhile, giggles behind his back because it is so unsightly.
Olwen, Owein, and Arthur were kneeling on the ground before Absalom. Four guards of the City Watch stood over them.
Spotting Mythilda, Absalom pointed at her and said, “And thrash that Coney, too, for seeing me in such a state.”
Mythilda froze. She did not run. Nor did she protest her innocence. Doing either would have made things worse. When dealing with the City Watch, fleeing and arguing were two of the worst things an elf could do. Particularly so at times like this when a prim, highborn brat was directing the Watch. No. Her best option was to take a thrashing. Afterwards, she could limp home. Once there, she could tend to her wounds and weep until she fell asleep. With luck, Madame Januarie would understand and allow her to keep her job.
Olwen, on the other hand, was not as levelheaded as Mythilda was. She was a firebrand—a dim-witted firebrand.
“But she dinna do nothin’!” shrieked Olwen.
“Nothing,” replied Absalom. “The word is nothing, you stupid Coney. No. Actually, the word is anything. She didn’t do anything. And that doesn’t matter. All Conies need a good thrashing from time to time. It’s the only way to keep you animals under control.”
Mythilda bowed her head and gazed at the ground. She hunched her shoulders, doing her best to look like a good, docile elf. And she bit her cheek to keep her tongue in check. Stay calm, she told herself. Let that swine humiliate you. It’s just words. Don’t fight back. Let them thrash you. Then it will be over. You’ll be fine. Bruised maybe, but you’ll survive.
Olwen, unfortunately, was not going to let it go. “Posh pig!” she bawled. “Animals, he calls us. Well, we ain’t the ones who smell like horse shite.”
Absalom sneered. He pointed at Olwen and the boys. To the guards, he said, “Give these Conies a good thrashing. Pay special attention to that gutter-mouthed bit of trash there.”
He looked at Mythilda.
“But this one,” he said as he walked over to her. “This one is a rather attractive breed of Coney. Perhaps a more delicate hand is required to teach this one its lesson.”
He reached his hand towards Mythilda and caressed her cheek.
Mythilda could put up with a lot of abuse from humans. They could call her Coney, and she would not respond. They could thrash her, and she would not retaliate. But the moment that pampered swine caressed her cheek, he crossed The Line.
Mythilda clenched her right hand into a fist. Without thinking, she punched Absalom’s nose. Had I done that, nothing would have happened to me. The law would have protected me. Nobles could not treat commoners like that. Under no circumstance, however, did the law allow an elf to punch a noble. Not even in self-defense. There would be consequences for what Mythilda had done.
Absalom staggered backwards, clutching his nose. Blood trickled down his hand and face, blemishing his fancy ruffles with crimson stains.
“Run!” shrieked Olwen.
Mythilda and the other elves dashed away as the guards tended to Absalom.