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Poofy, part 2: Mother-daughter bonding...
Dec. 16th, 2011 07:42 pm"What are the Flowers of Death, mother?" Asked Jeanette Antoinette.
They had been strolling in the gardens behind their house. The gardens were lush, well laid out and secluded, with here and there a small bench, an arbor of grape vines, or a small sinister altar made of ancient stone. They had reached the end of a dark grove of trees where Mother had set up several straw and wooden targets in the shape of men.
"Open the bag, there's a dear." Mother replied, as Jeanette gingerly reached into the clanking damask bag at her side and started fishing out small daggers, pretty metal stars with razor points and an assortment of long hairpins. These were then laid out on a small, roughhewn wooden bench off to one side, and the ladies took positions facing the middle target. "I think we can start with the daggers. Assemble your accessories, Jeanette!"
Jeanette quickly slid daggers in sheaths strapped to ankles, to arms, down her back. The unusual stars were pinned as brooches to her sash and chest, with a little difficulty. The hairpins were neatly tucked away in her chignon. "But you haven't answered my question, mother. I've been studying so much, but I barely know anything about the Flowers of Death, and that's what you mean for me to be, isn't it?"
"Head up, Jeannette! Back straight! Arms delicately to the sides, elbows out! Chin elegantly forward! Now...glide and strike!" Jeanette took several quick, delicate, gliding steps and with each one reached for a dagger and hurled it at the target. Within ten steps the straw bale had been impaled in the head, heart, spleen and best-not-mentioned-bits.
"Now my dear daughter, it's not so easy to explain the world of the Flowers of Death. We are a complicated people, by necessity. We have to balance between emotion and discipline, between morality and the laws of our culture. For centuries, the Flowers of Death have protected their families and their countries from harm, protecting kings and queens from those who would supplant them. We hide in plain sight, from those who assume that our gender itself is an assurance of our harmlessness. Shruiken, now--glide and strike!"
The girl balanced on her toes, did a complex arabesque, and let fly the stars until all were embedded in the head of her target. "But kings and queens do get into trouble, Mother. There was Mary Stuart and her husband, and that was terrible and bizarre! Don't other countries have Flowers of Death to protect their sovereigns?"
"Not every country has them, no. And having them, or being one is no guarantee of safety if you're a ruler."
"Being one?"
"On occasion, one can reach the throne as a Flower of Death. As the female Tudors have done."
Jeanette stopped and gaped at her mother. "You mean to say that Queens Elizabeth and Mary Tudor were assassins?"
Her mother laughed. And hemmed. And hawed. "Not...most of the time. Now, hairpieces! Glide and strike!"
The target, after a flurry of arms flinging silk and steel, had a fetching and painful-looking new hairstyle.
"Well done, dear. I think that's enough for today." Jeanette gathered up the weapons and finery and tucked them all back into the bag. "Now, keep in mind that it's a most dangerous game we play. You're learning fast, and learning very well, but this is the sort of game where you don't get credit when you lose. Things can go wrong very quickly, despite everything you've done. And you can lose more than your good name if you lose..." Her mother quickly turned, with her straw sunhat in her hand, and threw it with all her strength at the target. The hat sheered off the faux head in a ripping cloud of chaff and flung straw. As Jeanette watched, her mother glided over to the fallen mound, retrieved her bonnet and tied it daintily back onto her head, humming slightly.
"Now, I think we'll be in time for a tidying up and some lunch if we leave now. And then, I think, a carriage ride. I hear His Majesty will be hunting again this afternoon. Such opportunities shouldn't be left alone..."
They had been strolling in the gardens behind their house. The gardens were lush, well laid out and secluded, with here and there a small bench, an arbor of grape vines, or a small sinister altar made of ancient stone. They had reached the end of a dark grove of trees where Mother had set up several straw and wooden targets in the shape of men.
"Open the bag, there's a dear." Mother replied, as Jeanette gingerly reached into the clanking damask bag at her side and started fishing out small daggers, pretty metal stars with razor points and an assortment of long hairpins. These were then laid out on a small, roughhewn wooden bench off to one side, and the ladies took positions facing the middle target. "I think we can start with the daggers. Assemble your accessories, Jeanette!"
Jeanette quickly slid daggers in sheaths strapped to ankles, to arms, down her back. The unusual stars were pinned as brooches to her sash and chest, with a little difficulty. The hairpins were neatly tucked away in her chignon. "But you haven't answered my question, mother. I've been studying so much, but I barely know anything about the Flowers of Death, and that's what you mean for me to be, isn't it?"
"Head up, Jeannette! Back straight! Arms delicately to the sides, elbows out! Chin elegantly forward! Now...glide and strike!" Jeanette took several quick, delicate, gliding steps and with each one reached for a dagger and hurled it at the target. Within ten steps the straw bale had been impaled in the head, heart, spleen and best-not-mentioned-bits.
"Now my dear daughter, it's not so easy to explain the world of the Flowers of Death. We are a complicated people, by necessity. We have to balance between emotion and discipline, between morality and the laws of our culture. For centuries, the Flowers of Death have protected their families and their countries from harm, protecting kings and queens from those who would supplant them. We hide in plain sight, from those who assume that our gender itself is an assurance of our harmlessness. Shruiken, now--glide and strike!"
The girl balanced on her toes, did a complex arabesque, and let fly the stars until all were embedded in the head of her target. "But kings and queens do get into trouble, Mother. There was Mary Stuart and her husband, and that was terrible and bizarre! Don't other countries have Flowers of Death to protect their sovereigns?"
"Not every country has them, no. And having them, or being one is no guarantee of safety if you're a ruler."
"Being one?"
"On occasion, one can reach the throne as a Flower of Death. As the female Tudors have done."
Jeanette stopped and gaped at her mother. "You mean to say that Queens Elizabeth and Mary Tudor were assassins?"
Her mother laughed. And hemmed. And hawed. "Not...most of the time. Now, hairpieces! Glide and strike!"
The target, after a flurry of arms flinging silk and steel, had a fetching and painful-looking new hairstyle.
"Well done, dear. I think that's enough for today." Jeanette gathered up the weapons and finery and tucked them all back into the bag. "Now, keep in mind that it's a most dangerous game we play. You're learning fast, and learning very well, but this is the sort of game where you don't get credit when you lose. Things can go wrong very quickly, despite everything you've done. And you can lose more than your good name if you lose..." Her mother quickly turned, with her straw sunhat in her hand, and threw it with all her strength at the target. The hat sheered off the faux head in a ripping cloud of chaff and flung straw. As Jeanette watched, her mother glided over to the fallen mound, retrieved her bonnet and tied it daintily back onto her head, humming slightly.
"Now, I think we'll be in time for a tidying up and some lunch if we leave now. And then, I think, a carriage ride. I hear His Majesty will be hunting again this afternoon. Such opportunities shouldn't be left alone..."
