Monday January 26, 2009
The Queen shivers and before she opens her eyes she smiles and kisses the calf of the Duchess of Ten Sleeps, her hands above her head on the Duchess’s thighs. The Privy Maid lifts her head from the Duchess’s breast as the Queen chuckles and stirs, her thighs opening as the fingers of the Countess My Lady Dinsmere stir in the white feathers puddled there. The Privy Maid rolls off the bed and naked pads through drifts of feathers, shreds and tatters of pillows and bolsters, duvets and robes, nightgowns and chaise-cushions, chemises and mattresses. She rings the bell that sits atop the commode and stands there, yawning, brushing feathers from her hair, scratching at the fluff of white goosedown caught in the dark tangle of hair about her sex, watching as the Countess My Lady crawls over the Queen’s leg to settle between her thighs, as the Markgreifynja Katrín Fjalarsdottir on her hands and knees, her impossibly long hair like a golden cloak over them, leans down, the first to kiss the Queen’s mouth in a shocking breech of morning protocol, but no one seems to mind. The Queen’s hands are busy pulling the Duchess’s Stiléan knickers over her hips. The Duchess’s hands are busy between the thighs of the Markgreifynja.
There is a knock at the door, and the Privy Maid opens it. The girl with the tray of steaming chocolate tries to step into the room, but the Privy Maid blocks her, takes the tray from her, smiles tightly. “You must go,” she says. The girl’s trying to peer over her shoulder.
“Mm,” says the Queen. “Charlotte?”
“Just the chocolate, ma’am,” says the Privy Maid, setting the tray down on the commode.
“Set it down, set it down,” says the Queen. “Come back to bed, Charlotte. Come back to bed. I want your little mouse to suck.” But the door is still open, and the girl still stands there, eyes wide, watching the bodies move on the bed in the morning light, the Queen’s hips rolling under the Countess My Lady’s moaning mouth, the Queen’s hands buried up to the elbow in the Markgreifynja’s hair, the Duchess her head beneath the Markgreifynja’s hips, her feet slipping a little in the feathers everywhere.
“Go,” snaps the Privy Maid, but the girl in the doorway does not move.
“Who is that?” says the Queen, her head upside down, lolling from side to side. Her eyes half-lidded but sharp and bright.
“Just the girl with the chocolate,” says the Privy Maid.
“But who is it?” says the Queen. “She looks so alike you, little mouse.” The Markgreifynja cries out.
“Anne,” says the Privy Maid, and then, “my sister.”
“Oh,” says the Queen. “Oh my.” The Duchess is laughing somewhere under the Markgreifynja. “Tell her to come here. Come here, girl. Come and kiss your Queen.”