adventures

adored her, wanted her close to him so completely and utterly . . . If that was what Michael Doran
was really like, then how could she ever have considered going to bed with him? In the real world,
she was a lonely woman, approaching middle age, who had pathetically grabbed at her first and
probably last chance of happiness. An empty boy with a cute smile. Perhaps she should stay here.
Moody glanced around the gathering with a sneer, turned to his fellows and raised his fist in a
power salute. 'Hi!' he shouted.
They saluted back. 'Ho!'
Moody spun on his heel, and led the dwarves towards Bernice's table. Gushy took the seat next
to Bernice. 'Gosh, you do look pretty in your dress.'
Cute, to Bernice's trepidation, sat down on the other side of her. 'She's beautiful . . .' he
sighed.
Bernice concentrated on the doorway.
'The crowd don't seem to be entirely happy with your presence,' Wolsey observed to the
dwarves.
'Rumplephobia,' spat Moody.
'There is a lot of post-dwarf and even anti-dwarf feeling,' Liberal explained. 'Even amongst the
dwarf community. Some say that we should abandon Dwarf as a social construct altogether, and
just get on with being short.'
'Could be because of the Ogre,' Laddish interjected. 'Last year, he was guilty of a number of
unnecessary actions which went well beyond the spirit of the game.'
'He went around killing people,' said Bitchy, 'and tried to blame it on us, because he killed each
of them in the manner of one of our names. Well, six of them, anyway. He decided that the best
way to incriminate Lazy was not to bother.'
'Ogre?' Bernice perked up. 'There's an Ogre in this Kingdom that actually kills people?'
'Ooh, he's a bad sort,' Candy put her hand on Bernice's sleeve. 'But he doesn't exactly live
round here.'
'Then where –?'
But Bernice's question was interrupted by another cry from the MC. 'Prince Charming!'
The Prince was dressed in an extraordinary costume. He wore a long military coat, and a pair
of britches, with a peacock waistcoat, a red sash, and a cummerbund. He marched down the
steps, glancing around the room proudly, aware of the attention and adulation he was getting.
After a moment of feigned uncertainty, doubtless to allow the commoners to gaze on him some
more, he spun on his heel and headed for Bernice's table. He hitched one foot up on to a spare
chair, slapped his thigh and grinned at her. 'What do you think of the get-up?'
Bernice slid her fan from her sleeve, and tapped his boot with it gently, looking him up and
down. 'Ridicule,' she told him, 'is nothing to be scared of.'
He laughed indulgently, and took his seat opposite her, earning a glare from Cute. From the
other side of the room there came a fanfare. The majority of the other guests had arrived. Candy
pointed out two of them to Bernice, women in huge platform shoes, with extraordinary wigs,
garish make-up and vast dresses. They were as well endowed as Candy was. 'Two of my lot. Sisters,
if I remember rightly. I must speak to them later.'
'Your lot?'
'Dames. You know. Ladies of a certain age.'
'Yes,' laughed Wolsey, draining his first champagne stem of the night. 'Too old.' Then he
stopped in mid-sip, his ears visibly pricking up as his gaze chanced upon one of the new arrivals.
'I say. Hel-lo!'
Bernice followed his eyeline. Through the crowd was moving another humanoid cat. This one
wore an elegant lace gown, the same silver as her fur. On her feet were a dainty little pair of
boots.
'Puss in Boots . . .' murmured Wolsey.
'I've warned you about your language before,' Liberal told him.
'That's her name.' Wolsey rose to his feet, purring, and adjusted his cravat. 'I'd heard that
another of my kind would be coming to this ball, but I could scarcely hope that she would be
so . . . soft-furred and silver.' He rubbed his paws together. 'Let's hope she hasn't been neutered,
eh?'