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It was Christmas Eve in The Server. Mistress Kou had set the weather to Blizzard. The snow was falling hard, thick and fast.

Olympe Viola Reese, sometime socialite and kuudere detective, watched the storm through the mullioned window of her first floor room (2nd if you’re American) in a luxurious country house in the Mellow West. It was of course Cowley Court, the extensive rural base of the fabulously rich Lord Yuzu, who had the eccentric hobby of living a Jazz Age life styled as a sort of a Downton Abbey/Jeeves and Wooster crossover.

*Hard and thick is good on a boi on a hot summer night,* Olympe thought, *But this is too much. You’ve definitely gone too far this year, Mistress Kou. What if the lake freezes over? What will become of the Boxing Day Regatta?*

She sipped her hot toddy pensively, put the glass down half empty, and turned to the mirror to check her cocktail outfit. It was an off the shoulder, floor sweeping number in bright scarlet, which exposed much of her upper torso; a revenge dress of the first order.

*It’ll do,* Olympe told herself. *There isn’t anyone special special here tonight, and I won’t need to change for dinner.* At that moment the gong rang for cocktails. She smoothed on black opera gloves and slipped a Dior sunburst ring onto her right index finger.

A variety of guests had assembled downstairs. Olympe circulated and introduced herself to those she did not already know and then, a major shock!

“Mr Maybe!” It was the tall, dark, handsome stranger who had literally swept her off her feet some months earlier, to use her as a lucky charm in high stakes games at the Great Nijiiro Casino. Olympe melted a little seeing him again, but, since he had left her abruptly with an unfulfilled promise of further delights, she greeted him with hauteur.

“I hadn’t expected to see you here, Maybe,” she drawled. He coloured a little.

“My apologies. Things got very busy very quickly after our last meeting.”

“You call it a meeting? I call it an exploitation! You can’t kidnap a girl to make her your gambling talisman, then run off without even giving your real name. It’s bad form.” Olympe’s eyes flashed lightning. “I won so many Coins for you.”

“I’m very sorry.” He hung his head contrightly. “Nothing would have pleased me more than to… entertain you… at greater length, but urgent business intruded itself most inopportunely.”

“No doubt,” the tall blonde sniffed, and took a long draw of her French 75. “So what is your name, actually, Mr Maybe?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! My name is Orion, after the constellation of the hunter.” He briefly sketched the ancient sky figure in words.

“The constellation of the hunter?... I have only ever learnt three constellations. The Plough, Cassiopea, and er… Thingy. The hunter is, um… Yes! Thingy. So you’re Thingy? Ha ha! Well, Thingy, there’s some bones I want to pick with you.”

He smiled nervously.

The dinner gong rang, preventing them from continuing their intercourse. Orion looked slightly relieved.

In the ensuing wrangles about the order of precedence for seating, made worse by the informal nature of this Christmas Eve “supper”, they became separated. They ended up glowering at each other from a distance, too far apart to converse about intimate matters.

The excellent meal and wines somewhat dulled the fires of Olympe’s ire. In fact she began to feel rather drowsy, so she excused herself from after dinner card games to make an early night of it.

*I need to keep myself in top form for the regatta,* she told herself as she made ready for bed. She changed her evening outfit for casual silk pyjamas, removed her make-up, and got into a welcome bed.


* * * * *

It must have been after midnight when the detective’s dreams were disturbed by the quiet opening and closing of her bedroom door.

“A burglar!” she thought, grasping for the neat little automatic pistol hidden under her pillow. “Who’s there?” she quavered timidly, hoping to put the intruder off their guard while she snick-snacked a round into the chamber. She activated the laser sight, sweeping the beam around the room. It glanced across a tall, dark figure, who froze with their hands up.

“Don’t shoot! It’s me, Orion,” he whispered. “I came to make a proposition to you, Olympe.”

“I’m not that kind of girl, you cad!” she spat. Actually it was not the first time she had entertained a boi after midnight -- Olympe wasn’t a nun -- but she had standards. “It would break my Dari’s heart if he found out I had someone in my room,” she said. *Roger doesn’t count,* she thought to herself.

“No, I’m not interested in you that way, Olympe,” he said.

“What!? You absolute bounder!” she snapped back furiously. “How dare you stare at me all evening in my magnificent dress and not have indecent thoughts about the contents?”

“No, I mean of course you’re very attractive, my dear,” Orion protested, trying gently to shush her. “But I really have a business proposition to discuss with you.”

“Oh yes?” Olympe put the pistol down and switched on her reading light. She swept the duvet off herself and stretched her long, silk clad legs to the floor. It was chilly. She noted that Thingy was wearing a tactical black cashmere turtleneck jumper and black corduroy trousers. They displayed his splendid figure to subtle advantage, but Olympe was not swayed in Thingy’s favour. She went to the window and threw it open. Freezing air and snow began to blow in.

“If you’re here on business, why are you dressed like a burglar?” she demanded fiercely. “You only need a raccoon mask and a swag bag to complete the picture. I suppose you lost all your Coins at the Casino, and thought you would swipe my cocktail ring to pawn it.” Olympe was outraged. “If you need some moolah just ask for it, Thingy, I’ve got plenty to spare,” she stated angrily.

Orion stepped to her side.

“You don’t understand. I don’t need your Coins. Just listen for a minute and I’ll explain. Wait, you’ll catch cold.” He leant out, intending to pull the window shut. Olympe swiftly unended his legs and pushed him over the low sill.

“Ow!” There was a rustle and crunch of vegetation as Orion fell into the shrubbery below. He scrambled to his feet, dusted himself off and called up to her.

“May I hope to see you at breakfast?”

“Not if I see you first!” She slammed the window shut and went back to bed.

To be continued…

Christmas Day

Olympe had hoped for breakfast in bed, however the demands on the kitchen of the day’s coming feast precluded this. So she dressed in fashionable ski resort wear and went down for the usual morning buffet. The tall blonde Lieutenant Lauren Grace Clark was already picking at some Canadian bacon and waffles.

“Hey, Pia!” Lauren stood to hug and kiss Olympe. “Merry Christmas. This Cowley is a swanky place for sure. Thanks for the invite.” Olympe had recruited the athletic Coast Guard into her crew for the Boxing Day Regatta. “Let’s go and look at the lake after you’ve eaten.”

Olympe engulfed coffee, a poached egg and two slices of buttered toast, because Christmas Dinner would begin around noon. The two girls went out to see what delights the snowy estate could offer on a Christmas morning. There was a horse-drawn sleigh, crewed by a bot, awaiting whatever demand a guest might put to it.

“Oh hai!” Olympe said. “Good morning.” She felt it was right to be polite even to bots.

“Merry Christmas,” the driver replied. “Where does Sir wish to be conveyed?”

“Um. How about around the lake?” she told them. “I want to see the conditions for tomorrow’s regatta.”

The bot made tongue clicking noises and shook the reins. The horse clip-clopped into motion, its hooves ploughing intermittent furrows in the thick blanket of snow. The sleigh was drawn smoothly towards the dark expanse of Cowley Court’s boating lake, where in good weather guests could disport themselves in various rowing and sculling craft. It was also used as a runway for Lord Yuzu’s flying boat.

The winter scene was bleak and beautiful. The undulating grounds of the Court, uniformly carpeted in pure white, relieved by dark lines and blobs of paths, hedges and copses, formed a monochrome landscape of a type rarely seen. The sun stood low in a blue sky studded with clouds which promised more snow. Olympe gathered her Moncler puffer coat around herself, and put on a chunky pair of Dior sunglasses as a shield against the glare.

As the sleigh turned to follow the edge of the lake, she perceived a tall, dark and possibly handsome figure on the other side. If it was Thingy, she wanted to avoid another close encounter. But there was a broad stretch of cold water in between them, so Olympe put the apparition out of mind while she and Lauren checked the surface of the water. Despite the cold, it was obvious that such a large lake could not be frozen overnight. There was no fear of the Boxing Day regatta being cancelled. Reassured, they determined to enjoy the rest of their ride.

The sleigh slid on counter-clockwise around the shore, while the eminence noir was walking clockwise. So it happened that the two travellers met near the south end of the long water. The walker held up their hand to stop the sleigh.

“Me tapaamme jälleen, Yancy,” they said, the breeze whipping white vapour from their mouth. They bowed to the girls. Lauren smiled broadly, because this was a ruggedly handsome boi.

“Oh, it’s you, Tsuchimursu,” Olympe replied. “Merry Christmas. What are you doing at Cowley? It’s not your usual kind of scene.” Tsuchimursu, a taciturn Mod generally preferred the seclusion of his distant home among the forests and lakes of the Watery South.

“Olen Mod-asioissa,” the tall boi told her. He took the horse’s reins in his strong hand. “Kuunnella. Kenet tapaatkin, ole heille erinomainen. Tämä on hyvän tahdon aikaa kaikille.” He let the reins go and smiled from his grey eyes outwards.

“What do you mean?”

“You understand me well enough,” Tsuchimursu told her. And he went on his solemn way.

“What was all that about, Pia?” Lauren asked. “What language was he speaking?”

“English, durr!” Olympe did a double take at her companion. “Didn’t you hear English?”

“No-wah! I didn’t understand a word, except the bit where he said you understand him okay.”

“Well, I heard him speaking English, or maybe French?” Now she thought about it, she couldn’t say what language the Mod had used, she had just understood it.

“What did he say, then?”

“He told me he was here on Mod business, and I should be excellent to whomever I meet, because this is the season of goodwill to all.”

“That’s a very proper message for Christmas, anyway,” Lauren agreed. “But let’s go back now, I’m getting cold.”

“Yes, and we must change for the feast.”

Olympe pondered the Mod’s words as the sleigh returned to the Court. It was all very well to try to be excellent to everyone, but a sensible girl needed to have some discrimination. She decided to rely on her detective instincts, if a doubtful situation confronted her.

* * * * *

To be continued

It was after 11 when the sled reached the great house. The chilled girls disembarked and rushed to their rooms to change for the Christmas feast.

Olympe now found herself on the horns of a serious dilemma. Her policy on visits to Cowley Court was to choose outfits calculated to annoy Lady Sakura, Yuzu’s wife, while entertaining the Lord himself to the extent she would always be invited back. So she normally wore outrageous flapper costumes, showing a lot of leg, or shoulder, or both. On some occasions, outrageously gorgeous, highly structured gowns like the red revenge dress from yesterday. Now Tsuchimursu’s instructions weighed on her mind.

*Why was I always horrid to Sakura? What did she ever do to me?* the chagrined girl considered. *Apart from trying to trick me into marriage with the Princess. And there was the incident with the fetish, but really that wasn’t her fault. Anyway, it’s different now I’m a girl. I’ll turn over a new leaf.*

In the end, Olympe did a simple make-up befitting the 1930s, and slid into a seasonal green silk maxi dress, cut on the bias so it draped superbly. It clung to her upper body and hips, while the fuller skirts and sleeves swayed with her movement. It was half backless, the deep V cutout plunging to a lightly belted waistline, and she went braless. A long rope of pearls completed the look, languid, sensual, and sophisticated. Satisfied, she slotted plain gold studs into her ears, and spritzed with Creed Royal Oud, a scent designed to enhance the wearer’s authority.

The gong rang. Olympe put on short white kid gloves and picked up a small black clutch bag for something to make an admirer carry for her.

As she processed down the main stairs she was joined by Lauren, who had gone old school in a US Coast Guard dinner dress blue uniform, with trousers rather than a skirt.

“Lauren, you look so smart!”

“You’re looking a million Coins yourself, Pia. Makes me wish I had worn a gown.”

“You can’t go wrong with a smart uniform, darling. Yuzu loves them.”

Lauren was so tall and masterful that suddenly Olympe wanted to be squired around by her all evening, but she knew Lauren didn’t lean that way, so she just walked alongside into the main drawing room, where the guests were assembling in their varied finery.

The party was so large that in place of a formal dinner, the feast was to be served buffet style in several rooms, allowing a lot more mixing of the guests than usual. This turned out to be a disadvantage to Olympe, when Orion was able to slide up next to her in a queue for wine.

“You look quite stunning, Olympe,” he complimented her. “What a splendid dress.”

“Of course it is. What do you want, Thingy,” she replied testily, then remembered her new life mission. “I’m sorry, we got off on the wrong foot yesterday. Let’s make up our quarrel and begin again.”

“Nothing would please me more, darling girl,” he said smoothly, and subtly guided her to a quiet corner where they could nibble and converse privately.

“Nice work but I’m still going to call you Thingy,” Olympe told him.

“It can be your pet name for me. Tell me, Olympe, would you really have shot me last night?”

“Of course not!”

The tall boi seemed relieved.

“You were in front of the dressing table. If the bullet had gone through you it might have it one of my bottles of Creed parfum.”

“Good Goddess!” Thingy seemed suitably deflated. “Well, Creed is expensive so I can understand. But listen, Olympe, I thought we had a bit of a thing, you and me.”

“It’s true you overmastered me when you took me for your gambling companion, but I was in a weak position that night. Now I am in full possession of my powers, and I have my boifren to think of.”

“Who’s your boyfren? Anyone I know?” Orion asked.

“I don’t know who you know because I don’t know who you are, Thingy. You’re still a mystery but if I want to find out I will, you can be sure.”

“I’ll save you the trouble. I’m Lord Kaki’s son.” His face stilled into a withdrawn expression because he knew she knew full well that Kaki and Yuzu were great rivals, and Olympe was technically the Frog Prince. Her Husbando the Princess Onecornchippy was a major figure in Yuzu’s faction in the Imperial Court. So they might be considered on opposite sides.

“Kaki’s son, eh? Revealing that to me you’re thinking enemies to lovers, I can tell,” she twitted him, and he smiled.

“It’s true you’re attractive, Olympe, and normally I’d be angling to get you away from your boifren, but the fact is there’s something else I need to… Well, it’s difficult to talk about here.” He glanced around the room, where other couples and small groups were chatting, and someone could easily eavesdrop on conversations if they wanted to. “Might we meet outside later?”

“I’ll be in the rose garden after coffee.” And Olympe swept away to enjoy the many opportunities of the party.

* * * * *
To be continued

The kitchen had provided a menu of festive foods from several cultures. Thus Lord Yuzu’s guests were able to graze on delicious Malaysian curries and American soul food, as well as traditional British roast beef and goose. All to be washed down with a variety of excellent wines, beers and mulled punches.

But Olympe only picked at these delights. Her dress was tight enough to leave her little capacity for gorging, besides, there was a tricky assignation in the Rose Garden to think about. Rather than gobbling and gulping, she circulated with a strategic plate and glass for camouflage, and subtly quizzed the guests for information about Orion. She allowed her interlocutors to assume a possible romantic interest as the reason for her questions.

Once she had gleaned some useful clews, Olympe took a hot glass of mulled wine and slipped out through the tall french windows to the rose garden.

The paths had been cleared of snow, however any rose bushes which kept their foliage still wore white shrouds. In a few places, the hardiest specimens had pushed brave blooms through their freezing blankets. Olympe sniffed at red furled petals, but their scent was dulled by the cold. She felt chilly and began to regret agreeing to meet Thingy out here. She warmed herself with a grateful pull on her wine.

There was a manly crunch of gravel behind her. She turned to see Thingy approaching, a curious expression on his face as he scanned her tall figure, compounding what might be anxiety, gratitude, and could it be some degree of sexual interest? Where would that come from?

“Thanks so much for meeting me, Olympe,” he began.

“I’m cold, Thingy,” she cut him off.

“I can see that.” His eyes again drifted below her face.

“Lend me your jacket, please, and stop looking at my chest, it’s such a cliche.”

“I’m sorry.” He immediately took off his dinner jacket and draped it over her shoulders. She felt his body warmth before it faded, and drew the large garment close around her.

“Thank you. Well then, let’s walk. Tell me what you have to say.” She began to lead him towards the western aspect of the Court, where sunset still stained the sky orange and pink.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” Thingy opened. “I want to engage your professional services as a Pie Girl.”

“WTF’s a Pie Girl?” Olympe said in shock. “It sounds lewd. You must know I’m a detective, not a, a… I mean I won’t do something filthy just for pay.”

“No, it’s not lewd.” he hastened to assure her. “Well, it’s a bit lewd, perhaps, depending how you look at things. A Pie Girl is a girl who hides inside a giant pie, then at a crucial moment during a dinner party, she jumps out and does a song and dance routine. It’s meant to be sexy but all in the best possible taste.”

“Humf!” Olympe snorted angrily. “Rampant sexism. Why there aren’t Pie Bois I can’t possibly imagine. Disgraceful. Where’s this party and why do you need me for your Pie Girl?”

“It’s a New Year’s Eve party at Barking Towers.”

“Your father’s place?” Barking Towers was another country estate, some miles away from Cowley.

“The same. It’s a big affair. Much revelry will occur. And I know you’ve worked before as a Cocktail Bunny and a Skimpy Barmaid, so you’ll be perfect for this job.”

“If you’d done your homework thoroughly, Thingy, you’d know those were proper undercover detecting jobs, not just flashing some skin for cash. Though the tips were good. I still fit into the bunny costume, you know.”

“I don’t doubt it, my dear. No. While I know you’ll look gorgeous, the reason for being the Pie Girl is to get you inside my father’s place to do some detecting for me without any suspicions on his part.”

Olympe’s interest was piqued. In truth, she craved attention and excitement; Thingy’s wild proposition might offer both in heaping measure. But she was still wary. She wanted to learn more about Thingy from other sources as part of her decision making process.

“I’m too cold to talk more now, Thingy. Meet me again after the regatta tomorrow. Here, take my glass, please.” She drained it and flounced back indoors, still wearing his jacket, which had Thingy’s smartphone in the pocket.

Olympe’s departure was sudden and unexpected. Thingy was left staring after her. He smiled. She didn’t see him raise her glass and touch the lipstick stained rim to his lips.

The post-prandial party was in full swing. Groups of guests had broken out for quizzes or traditional boardgames in the library. Some lively youngsters were dancing to gramophone records in the ballroom.

Olympe ignored these pleasures and rushed up to her room, where she connected Thingy’s smartphone to her own by USB cable. She tapped a message into her device and hid both handsets on top of the wardrobe. Then she changed her sandals, carefully spilt some brandy on the borrowed dinner jacket, kissed the collar to leave a partial lipstick print, and took it back downstairs to hand in for cleaning.

Thingy was waiting for her when she returned to the party. He looked slightly out of place in just his shirt and bow tie, compared to the other boi guests. Olympe took his hand and pulled him to the ballroom, where lively jazz was playing. Most of the bois had doffed their jackets, in daringly modern style, so Thingy fit in well. She drew him into hold, then corrected herself and allowed him to take the male lead. The record was changed, a new tune began, and he swept her off in a simple foxtrot.

Or rather, he tried. It was quickly clear that Thingy wasn't at all a good dancer. He didn't have two left feet, but he had more than one. Fortunately Olympe was very good at ballroom, and coped with her partner's inept moves. In fact, she began subtly to lead him, so that by the end of the third dance, they were moving together as a couple, and enjoying it.

*Time to dump him, leave him wanting more…* Olympe told herself. She leant her head on his broad shoulder, and kissed his white collar gently without him noticing.

“Thank you so much for those lovely dances, Thingy. Now I should dance with other bois, otherwise someone will start a rumour about us.”

“But Olympe!” Orion looked downcast for just a moment, then his spirit bore him up. He bowed and kissed her hand. She spun away before he could remember to ask about his dinner jacket.

The wily minx danced two more dances with different bois, and one with a petite girl, whom she squired ably around the floor. Then she took a quiet leave, as if to answer a call of nature, but she raced to her room to check the progress of the intrusion software she had set in motion earlier. The ICE-Breaker, remotely controlled by Chanmi, her cyberpunk sidekick, had done a major number. All the secrets Thingy had entrusted to his phone were laid bare, copied to secure cloud storage for later analysis. The phone’s battery was nearly drained, so she leant out of her window and threw it into a snow covered rose bush. Then she went to bed with a volume of Edwardian ghost stories.

* * * * *

**The 2nd Day of Christmas**

Boxing Day, a curious holiday on the 26th of December known only to the British, dawned crisp and clear. The light snow of the night had cleared away, leaving a startlingly clean and cheerful blue sky, and a gentle, though rather cold, breeze.

Sports is something the British like to do on Boxing Day, usually as spectators, however the more energetic take part in locally organised team games such as football (soccer if you’re American) or field hockey, which give everyone a chance to run around and work up a healthy sweat. Plus they can be played by bois and girls together. But if you’re posh and have access to a decent size boating lake or a good length of river, a rowing regatta is something you might do.

The lake at Cowley had a large boathouse which lacked much in the way of facilities, because it was assumed that you would go back to the Court if you needed a shower or something. So Lord Yuzu had caused the lakeside to be equipped with temporary structures for changing rooms, a spectator area, catering facilities, and luxurious, discreet Portaloos. Spectators were already arriving to watch the various clubs and their supporters unload and set up boats for the judges' inspection. A camera drone was swooping over the lake, doing practice runs. Yuzu’s blimp floated serenely overhead, to remind competitors of the aerial party promised to the prize winners.

Olympe had entered herself into Girls Single Sculls and Thames Skiff Single Sculls (with Chanmi as the passenger.) She had got together a solid crew for the Thames Skiff Quad Mixed Sculls, and had high hopes. But she knew the best way to ensure wins in local regattas is to write the course rules, and she hadn’t got onto Yuzu’s organising committee.

So the scene was set for an epic day of one of the world’s worst spectator sports.

To be continued...

The reason why rowing is a bad spectator sport is that all the boats and crews look more or less the same, they’re going in the same direction, some a bit faster and some a bit slower, and you can only actually see them for a short part of the course, even on a lake, unless you brought binoculars, which no-one does.

The use of camera drones has improved things a lot, though. If the organisers have enough Coins the whole race can be televised by drone, and displayed on jumbotron screens with computer graphic overlays. Lord Yuzu, of course, had more than enough money. He was basically funding the whole regatta to show off.

Thus it resulted that Olympe’s failure in the Girl’s Single Sculls was witnessed in 8K by a large crowd. She caught a huge crab at the start and nearly capsized, recovered, sculled like a demon to catch up, but two other girls were just as fast down the middle of the course. So she came in a disappointing fourth of six in the heat, and did not advance.

*Try harder next time,* Olympe told herself. And she cheered heartily for the winner, a very tall girl with a navy blue bob cut -- Tomoko Dammijj -- who was one of Olympe’s crew for another event later in the programme.

The slow progression of races wound on like creaky clockwork. The spectators circulated between the refreshment tents and the waterfront bleachers. Olympe visited the loos and cursed her All-in-One rowing uniform, which provided excellent coverage out on the water but made a simple wee a difficult undertaking.

Her next outing was also a failure. The eccentric class of 2-seat Thames Skiff with one sculler and one passenger attracted only two entries. (Thames skiffs, like other rowing boats, are classed according to the number of rowing seats on board. They can accommodate up to three passengers in addition to the active crew.)

Olympe had chosen Chanmi the cyberpunk for her passenger. Chanmi was trim and light, since she had got serious about cardio in recent months. Also they had gone in boats together before, and both knew each other was steady. So Olympe had high hopes. She scooted away from the stake pontoon with an impressive racing start. The other girl, someone from a local club, was undismayed by the widening gap, though. She put her back into her work, caught up and simply powered through Olympe, and got half a length in front quite easily. Exultant, her passenger began to call the strokes and encourage her sculler to even greater efforts. Chanmi looked across at the shouting passenger, looked at Olympe’s anguished face, and opened her mouth.

“Shut! Up!” Olympe panted fiercely, in time with her strokes. Chanmi’s face fell.

They managed to keep in touch until the finish, so there was no clear water between the boats. It was a disappointment even so. Chanmi looked ready to cry.

“Chanmi, I’m very sorry I shouted at you,” Olympe told her. She gave her a hug.

“What? I only wanted to help.” Chanmi hugged her back.

“You helped very well by being quiet. Remember, this race was single sculler and a passenger. Not a cox. The passenger mustn’t coach the sculler, it’s against the rules. They’re going to be penalised or even disqualified.”

So it happened. The judges assessed a penalty of one length for the coaching incident. They measured both hulls and awarded Olympe the win by 30cm. The new loser looked downcast; her passenger was trembling on the edge of tears. Olympe went to console them both.

“I'm sorry to win like that,” she said, and went to shake their hands. “Cause you guys were better today. But anyway, you didn't get disqualified, so you came second and got a time.”

“Yeah,” said the passenger. “Nothing worse than a DNF.” (Did Not Finish.)

“Hey, it was fun to race you even if I only won on a technicality. If you're ever in Server City, maybe we could go out on the East River, just for a laugh?”

They exchanged contact details, then Olympe and Chanmi had to go to round up the crew for their big race.

*One more chance. I must make it count*

The Thames Skiff Mixed Coxless Quad event was raced in one heat of four boats.

Lauren Clark was in the stroke seat, the giant space marine Major Tomoko Dammijj at 3, her shipmate Sergeant Lastovskyte -- the token boi to make it a mixed crew -- at 2. Olympe was at bow, responsible for steering, and tactical management of the race. Chanmi was their passenger, tasked with sitting silently in the stern sheets and not touching the rudder lines.

The first lane was occupied by a crew from Barking village, deadly rivals with the Cowley boat in lane 2. Olympe’s crew was in lane 3, and a boat from Much Marcle occupied lane 4.

Things got off to a bad start. Barking went off like a rocket, followed by Much Marcle, with Cowley in close touch. Olympe’s rudder tugged the boi off the stake boat -- clearly he hadn’t listened to the instructions to LET GO when the umpire called the start. This spoilt their first effort and entangled Chanmi in the lines. She was squeaking with dismay as the other boats surged away.

Olympe was torn between an appeal for a false start and an attempt to get back into the race, decided to carry on because with the other three crews already pulling away fast the umpire would be hard to persuade. Much worse followed. The wrench dealt to the rudder had sprung a leak in the transom. Chanmi quickly freed herself from the cords and began to cry out for the spray of chilly water squirting into the stern. It was obviously dangerous to carry on, so Olympe ordered her crew to paddle light, and turned the bows towards the nearest landing pontoon as soon as the umpire’s launch had passed them.

Five minutes later the disappointed crew were consoling each other with kisses, hugs, and mugs of hot chocolate. It was a sad end to the regatta. The only consolation for Olympe was that Much Marcle won splendidly after Barking and Cowley got their blades entangled during an unnecessarily close encounter due to their bad steering. She had an affectionate memory of the village where once on holiday she had fallen into a river of wine and had to send herself home by parcel post.

“It’s the taking part that counts,” said Major Dammijj, and they all at least pretended to agree.

< < < < < > > > > >

After Lord Yuzu had given away the prizes, Olympe handed her ticket for the blimp party to Chanmi. Chanmi was pleased as there would be some hunky rower bois there, and she knew Olympe wouldn’t miss going, since her irrational fear of heights would have made it torture.

“What will you do instead, Pia?” she asked.

“A hot bath, a good supper, and watch Flixnet or maybe just read a book. I’m tired and I want to relax and recover myself.”

The weary girl took a very long bath. Feeling somewhat restored, and very hungry, she changed into a simple, elegant, short sleeve tea dress in dark blue with a small Paisley print pattern, and went down for the informal supper buffet. She cheekily loaded a tray with a mound of dainty sandwiches and savoury nibbles, and took it back to her room with a bottle of champagne. She put the champagne outside on the window sill to keep it chilled.

Olympe changed into her silk pyjamas, with her kimono as a dressing gown but she left it untied because the room felt pleasantly warm. Finally she settled down with a tumbler of fizz and a plate of food, the spectacular Japanese robe draped loosely around her. She let her mind wander over the day’s events as she grazed on her impromptu finger buffet.

She had entirely forgotten the appointment with Thingy she had made on Christmas evening.

Orion had not forgotten, though. He was keen to advance his covert scheme to the next stage. Having searched in vain for Olympe in the various drawing rooms, he decided to check her bedroom.

There came an unexpected rap on the door.

“Who is it?” Olympe asked, disturbed to be surprised at her slobbish feast.

“Orion. I mean, Thingy.”

“Oh!” Olympe said, suddenly remembering they had planned to meet after the regatta. “You had better come in.”

Thingy was looking ruggedly handsome in a chonky Fair Isle cardigan over a white tee-shirt and blue jeans.

“Take a pew,” she directed him languidly, and finished off her second glass of champagne.

Thingy took the stool from the dressing table. He sat stiffly upright, trying not to eye Olympe too obviously, though her silk PJs clung pretty closely to her svelte figure as she half reclined in the only armchair. Her face looked different without make-up. The square line of her jaw was emphasised by indirect lighting from several standard lamps, but her eyes were in shadow.

“You look jolly nice, Olympe,” Thingy offered as his opening gambit.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she warned him. “I never forgot our appointment. Why I let you in is that a bedroom is nice and private for a discreet consultation. And I do mean consultation,” she emphasised, “This is not a tryst.”

Thingy nodded. He could not forget that the last time he was in Olympe's room, she had threatened to shoot him. Her pistol was smol, but she handled it with confidence.

“Have you got some Coins?” Olympe asked.

“Not with me. Does it matter?”

“I charge 50 Coins an hour, plus expenses, for my private investigation services,” Olympe informed him. “I’m afraid I can only give you a few minutes pro bono for you to sketch out the basics of your case.”

“Right, yes, of course, very professional. Actually, I can pay you digitally if I can find my phone. Which reminds me, what happened to my dinner jacket yesterday?”

“I handed it in for cleaning.”

“Was there a phone in the pocket?”

“No, I checked. You should always check the pockets when you put something into the laundry. You lost your phone, then? Perhaps it fell out in the rose garden. It must be somewhere under the snow. I could probably detect it for you but I’m not going out now after I’ve bathed and changed.”

“If I gave you my number, you could ring me and it would be easier to find.”

“And then you would have my number, which I don’t want to give you at the moment. Anyway, as I said, I’m not going out now.” Olympe refilled her glass with champagne. Pointedly, she did not offer any to her guest. “Thingy, you’re wasting your pro bono time.”

“Sorry, I’ll get to it directly. As I said yesterday, there’s a big party on New Year’s Eve for my father and a number of his bachelor friends.”

“Isn’t he married?”

“He is, but Mummy is spending New Year with her cousins in space, so Daddy has taken the opportunity to relive some of the wild days of his youth. His friends aren’t bachelors either, for that matter. Anyway, I’ve been tasked with arranging a special surprise entertainment.”

Olympe uncrossed and recrossed her legs. She wondered if it was really wise to involve herself with a room-full of half-drunk middle-aged bois hankering for their long-lost salad days.

“And that’s the party where you want me to be a Pie Girl?”

“Exactly so.”

*Things might get pretty wild,* she worried to herself. *Maybe I should bring a bear spray.*

“Would you just refresh me on exactly what you want me to do as the Pie Girl?” she asked.

“You’ll be hidden in a large pie. At the crucial moment of the evening, which is midnight, you jump out of the pie and do a song and dance number. Or maybe you can throw poses and recite a poem. Something appropriate to the occasion, and it’s got to be a bit naughty. Well, it’s the overall performance which is naughty. Everything is in the delivery. You remember Marilyn Monroe singing Happy Birthday, Mr President?”

“Of course not. It was like 100 years ago. I’ve never even seen the video, but I get your point. Her performance was so erotically suggestive it entered popular culture as a signifier of public sexual allure so powerful that it's still a reference even now. So basically, you want me to become the centrepiece of a rather louche entertainment.” She nommed a sandwich. “I suppose it’s one up from being a stripper.”

“Not at all, no. I mean yes. I mean it's nothing like being a stripper. Everything will be done in the best possible taste. You jump out of the pie, do your piece, spend a few minutes chatting to the guests, get back in the pie and are wheeled away. Then you start the real mission. The detecting part. That’s actually the objective. The Pie Girl bit is just a kind of camouflage.”

“So you say, but I have to get through the Pie Girl scene or there won’t be a detecting part. What sort of costume do you want me to wear, Thingy? I won’t do it nude but as you know, I’ve done Bunnygirl and Skimpy gigs so I don’t mind wearing something a bit scanty. I won’t shave my legs though.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Part of my rebellion against the Patriarchy.”

“Oh.” Thingy was nonplussed for a moment. “I see,” though he didn’t. “Well, maybe something with trousers or heavy tights, then? I hadn’t given it much thought. Have you got any ideas?”

“There’s nothing wrong with hairy legs, Thingy, I bet yours are like a lumberjack’s. Anyway, I’ll do some research, check my wardrobe. I don't mind shopping for something special if necessary, because I'll send you the bill. I’ll think about songs and poems too, and give you some options. Now, what about the pie? How large is it? I don’t like confined spaces.”

“I have a diagram.” Thingy gave Olympe a folded A3 sheet of maths paper printed with a scale drawing of an ornate pie in three elevations, and some close-up sketches of various details. She checked the plan carefully, because she didn’t want any mistakes about the dimensions. The pie seemed large enough for her to sit or kneel comfortably inside, and change position for the break-out move. The crust was decorated on the outside with New Year symbols such as stars and bells. The domed lid was equipped with discreet vision slits, much like the commander’s cupola of a main battle tank, concealed in its complicated decoru. It hinged open in two parts. There were cold pyrotechnic launchers to make the bust-out surprise more dramatic.

“It looks like a damn fine pie!” she judged. “May I keep this, to help me envision it?”

“Sure. It’s not made of pie, of course,” Thingy pointed out. “It’s a wood framework, a bit like a vat or barrel, with plaster decoration on the outside.”

“Is it finished?”

“Yes. I’ve got it stashed in a coach house at the pub in the village.”

“The Lamb Inn? Let’s go and see it tomorrow afternoon. I should have some ideas about my costume and performance by then,” Olympe suggested.

“Certainly. We can meet at the Lamb at say, 2 o’clock? The lunch rush will be over by then.” Olympe nodded her agreement. “Now, about the rest of the mission…” Thingy began, but she cut him off.

“We’ll talk about that when we look at the pie. I’m too tired now. Good night, Thingy.” She got up to open the door for him, and he felt obliged to leave.

< < < < < > > > > >

On The Third Day

Cowley Court relaxed gracefully into the languid interval between the Christmas and the New Year celebrations, when even detective work is usually slack. The media replaced Christmas specials and carols with end of year reviews and quizzes, interspersed with adverts for next year’s holidays.

Olympe woke up with pleasant aches from her exercise at the regatta, and forwent her usual morning run. She dawdled in her room with a pot of coffee, researching possible poems and songs for the Pie Girl mission, and checking her wardrobe. She found a poem she would like to recite, Promise, by Jackie Kay, which she translated from English to French, then back, and rewrote to make it work better for her Pie Girl purposes. *It mustn’t be too serious,* she thought. *I need some good moves too -- shouldn’t be hard to think of something* But the idea for a costume eluded her.

By 11 Olympe was rather hungry. She decided to go to the Lamb Inn for an early lunch. She put on a casual blue mini dress over nude leggings, a pair of Chike Shearling boots by Jimmy Choo, and her Moncler puffer coat for warmth. Then she walked the 3.2Km (2 miles if you’re American or British) to Cowley village. The pub was moderately busy when she arrived, however the landlord was happy to seat her in the lounge bar, where she ordered a crab roll, salad, chips (fries if you’re American) and a pint of Mellow West bitter.

“I like a girl with a good appetite,” the old gent informed her, which could have seemed a bit sexist but actually came over as warm and avuncular.

“I've got a real appetite today!” Olympe told him.

The pub was a mellow, comfy place. Its ancient stones and beams had been sympathetically brought into the modern era with full respect for their passage through the ages.

The centrepiece of the room was a vast fireplace, heaped with chunks of glowing wood, an ecological nightmare but so appealing was the magic of the flickering light of its flames and occasional sparks, that you forgot the utility of electric heat pump driven underfloor heating. Such an innovation would have been an insult to the uneven flagstones, worn smooth by the feet of centuries, which comprised the floor.

The walls were hung with some well chosen works by local artists, depicting landscapes, animals and country life. There was an excellent lack of horse brasses and antique tools, which are the typical signifiers of a lame, off-the-shelf attempt to make a country pub seem ‘rural’. The ambience pleased Olympe greatly as she tucked into her food.

People dining alone are liable to eat too fast because they haven’t someone to talk with, so Olympe slowed herself down with her smartphone, researching some ideas she had begun to develop for her Pie Girl costume. It would have been rude if she had had a table companion.

She was barely able to pace herself, the food was so delicious and she was so hungry. She ate all the chips. *Still, I used a lot of energy yesterday, so it's fine.* She followed up with a piece of Christmas pudding with brandy butter, and a filter coffee to finish.

The clock began to approach 14:00, so she put away her phone, satisfied with the progress of her fashion planning.

At 5 to the hour, the heavy door of the pub creaked open at the commanding arm of Thingy. He glanced around the bar, failing to notice Olympe, who was in a fairly dark corner. Thingy ordered a pint of strong, Extra Special Bitter, and a packet of crisps. (Chips if you're American or Japanese.) He watched the landlord pump the beer with the look of a boi who had a proper thirst on him. Olympe, feeling full, happy, and slightly buzzed, stepped quietly to his left side and tapped Thingy on the right shoulder. Thingy turned to his right, found no-one, continued the circle, and discovered her.

“OOB!” she grinned.

Thingy smiled broadly. “Hello, Olympe.” He almost went to kiss her cheek, but remembered himself in time. “Will you have something?” He gestured at the beer pumps, and the upended bottles of spirits feeding the optics behind the bar.

“Just a half of whatever you’re having, please, Thingy. Have you eaten?”

“Yes, I had lunch up at the house; it was a good buffet, but a bag of crisps seems essential when drinking pints.”

“I had my lunch here. It was excellent.” Olympe asked for her bill, and Thingy stopped her.

“Let me get that for you,” he said. “After all, I did ask you to meet me here.” She acquiesced with a smile and a nod. He laid some Coins on the bar top to cover both their orders.

They took their drinks back to Olympe’s dark corner, and stretched their long legs in front of them. Thingy was wearing mustard yellow moleskin trousers, a grey, cable knit jumper, and a brown tweed shooting jacket, accessorised with a charcoal Baker Boy hat, and a Camel Thompson tartan scarf to bring all the colour notes together. She noted that his oxblood Chelsea boots were unsullied by snow or mud, and concluded he probably drove down. It was a well assembled outfit, combining traditional rural themes and a dash of modernity.

They sipped the dark ESB, a senior beer which demands respect. Its pepper and citrus notes belied the apparent weight of the brew, giving it a refreshing quality a London porter might have lacked. Thingy crunched his crisps, took manly swigs of his pint, and exchanged small talk with her about the regatta. When they had finished drinking they sat in silence for a couple of minutes, watching the fireplace. Olympe intensely felt Thingy’s presence beside her. His male strength, his physical solidity seemed to create a gravitational pull. It was like being drawn into orbit as a binary star.

*The last thing I need is another lover!* she told herself sternly, *However much the ideal romantic hero he may seem. It would get in the way of the job in hand.* She broke the spell by turning her mind back to the case.

“So, Thingy. The pie,” Olympe announced. “We had better go and look at it.”

< < < < < > > > > >

“Yes. Quite right.” Thingy tipped the dregs of his beer down his throat and took their empty glasses to the end of the counter where the dead ones were gathered for washing. The landlord nodded thanks. Thingy murmured to him and was handed a key. He led Olympe along some crepuscular passages to a courtyard out back, surrounded by what obviously used to be stables and tack rooms, and now were additional guest bedrooms and utilities of various sorts. Thingy unlocked a double set of stable doors and went in. Olympe followed. It was too dark to see much until he snapped the lights on.

“Wow!” she exclaimed. It’s one thing to look at a scale plan and create a mental image of an object. It’s quite another thing to stand and face the physicality of the actual construct.

The pie was beautiful. It closely resembled a huge, perfectly baked, hand-raised cold water crust pork pie, with lots of decoru to embellish the plain side walls and the dome; plenty of New Year symbols like babies, stars, sunrises, explosions of fireworks. The 13 signs of the Imperial Zodiac were cast in order around the circumference. The entire thing was mounted on a subtle platform with six concealed castors to let it be moved around easily.

“Honestly, Thingy, that’s a work of art!” Olympe declared. He smiled in appreciation of her compliment.

“Yes. I’m rather pleased with how it turned out. Would you like to give it a go?” he suggested.

Thingy opened the lid and helped Olympe to climb inside. She crouched down and Thingy closed the top over her. It was close and dark. Meagre rays of light came through the vision slits. She practised the method of opening the leaves of the hatch, until she felt confident in managing it. Then she got back inside and prepared to give her performance a rehearsal.

“I’ve got three ideas for my turn, Thingy. Let me do them one by one and you can choose the best.” Her voice was rather muffled but he could make it out.

“Yes, please go ahead.”

Olympe had already picked the piece she liked, her adapted poem, so she had prepared two more, a crappy one and a terrible one. She did the crappy one first, then the terrible, and finally the one she liked. Thingy naturally decided that the third item was the best, and they agreed to use it.

“How about the dance?” he asked.

“I’m thinking of slow moves and poses, rather than a full-on dance. Kind of like vogueing. I’ll do a dramatic reveal and throw some shapes, then climb out of the pie to mingle.”

“Sounds good. Look, this whole thing is pretty important, Olympe, so I want to do some rehearsals,” Thingy emphasised.

“Yes. I understand. Perhaps we can meet here again tomorrow.”

“Yes, please. So, about your costume.”

“I’ve got a couple of good ideas I’d like to model for you,” Olympe told him. “But don’t forget this Pie Girl act is only half the job. You need to fill me in on the detecting part too.”

“Yes,” Thingy replied. “Well, it’s rather tricky but the basic thing is…”

Suddenly Olympe’s phone warbled an alert.

“Sorry, I have to check this,” she apologised, and thumbed up the notification. “OMG! Sorry Thingy, I’ve got to go. This is a run-don’t-walk situation.” She jiggled up and down in her excitement. “A fully thermal lined black midi dress with built-in bra pads!? So many ways to style it. I must have one!”

Olympe left the pie barn at speed, tapping her phone anxiously for more information. Thingy was left alone with the pie and his thoughts.

“Girls!”

< < < < < > > > > >

Orion locked up the pie hangar safely and drove back to the Court. He didn’t pass Olympe on the way, so he concluded she must already have gone back in a taxi, but this was an incorrect assumption. He did not have detective skills, or he would have realised that her cab should have passed him on its return to the village.

In fact, Olympe had been so excited by her fashion find that she had gone into a local coffee shop to use their WiFi. She did an in-depth trawl on her phone to secure a copy of the wonderful dress in the right size. It took some work, since the item was a limited edition by a boutique Scottish designer. She hugged herself with joy once confirmation of a successful purchase popped up. Only then did she walk back, and arrived at the time of gloaming.

On gaining her room, Olympe changed into a strappy, knee length, little black number, with a bolero jacket to cover her shoulders and arms, and left her legs bare. She painted her toenails red to match the soles of her black sandals, made up with smokey eyeshadow, and put on long, dangly, gold chain earrings to add a bit of sparkle. The accent helped bring out the flecks in her hazel eyes. Finally she anointed herself afresh with Creed Erolfa, her everyday Go To scent. Its familiar perfume brought a welcome impression of sunstruck Mediterranean coasts into her sensorium. Her ensemble was completed with a neat, black leather clutch bag, hung from her shoulder by a delicate chain.

She found Thingy alone in a drawing room playing Patience.

“What a lovely outfit!” he exclaimed. “Is that the special dress you wanted to buy, Olympe? I thought it would be longer in the skirt.”

“Yes, no, the one I successfully acquired is midi length. It will arrive by the end of the week.” She pulled up a chair to sit at his cards table, took up a rather casual pose, leaning back with her bottom on the edge of the seat, and her legs stretched out straight, crossed at the ankles. “I might use it for the Pie Girl job.”

“I’m sure whatever you decide will be for the best, my dear. You’re always impeccably turned out, whatever the occasion.” He scanned her legs, wondering if he could describe them as coltish, and realised they were indeed covered in fine blonde hair which actually barely noticed against the colour of her skin. He looked away before she could catch him staring, and gathered up his unfinished hand of cards. “I should tell you about the detective part of the job.”

“Yes, please. I feel I have the first bit pretty well under control. I need to think through the second phase.”

“Okay. Now, to be serious for a moment, I gather you’re British.”

“Half-British, half-French, and 200% awesome,” Olympe smiled. “I’m fully at home in both cultures.”

“I must warn you that what I have to say may come as a shock to your British half.”

“What’s going to shock me?” Olympe sat up and forward, tucking her legs under the chair, agog to know. Her eyes, fixed on his face, widened with anticipation, and her brows arched slightly. “Is it dreadfully salacious?”

“Not really, but it's pretty bad. You may know that my father and Lord Yuzu are great rivals at cricket.”

“Oh I know! There was a case a few years ago concerning a cricket match between their two teams. A silver cow creamer was involved somehow. I heard some of the details from Ms Moon Potato. She was here when it all took place.” Olympe shuffled her bottom properly onto her seat and took up an easy normal pose.

“I wasn’t here then, but from what I’ve heard about that match, the cow creamer was a crucial factor. Perhaps we might compare notes about the incident?”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t here when the match was played.”

“I see. Well, I should like to talk to Ms Potato if I may.”

“I’m sorry. She’s visiting relatives IRL during the holidays. Please send a message to the office. We can pick it up in the New Year. If that will help.”

“Thank you. Anyway, the fact is that the fallout from the cow creamer incident inspired my father to embark on a very dark line of astrological research. He succeeded after nearly two years of effort. The result of this eldritch programme is an uncanny artefact which can be used to subtly yet materially affect the course of a game of cricket. It’s a predictive tool which informs the bowling team’s captain of the best way to set his field. Basically it’s a cheat mode.”

“Kaki cheats at cricket!?” Olympe relaxed against the chair back. “I should say that’s just not cricket, only I know from experience that Yuzu cheats as hard as he can at nearly everything, so I can hardly blame your father for wanting to get even.”

“He hasn’t started yet. The device has been created and delivered. He showed it to me and, to be honest, I disapprove of the whole idea. Whatever Yuzu does is a matter for his own conscience. If I’m going to play for my father’s team, I want to play fair. So I’ve had a mundane replica made. I want you to switcheroo the copy for the working unit. Otherwise this summer’s Mellow West village league will be a literal bloodbath!” Thingy looked deadly serious.

“What actually is this arcane tool you want me to do a switcheroo on?”

“It’s called the Astro Bail,” Thingy told her.

“You mean Astrolabe, which is an odd machine a bit like a globe made of all strips of metal in a kind of framework and depicts the constellations and planets of the celestial sphere.” Olympe perorated, shaping an invisible version of the instrument in the air with her hands.

“No, that’s an armillary sphere,” he corrected her. “I definitely mean Astro Bail.”

“I’m sure there’s a thing called an astrolabe,” Olympe insisted. “I used to work in a wine shop and there was a red wine named Astrolabe and had a roundy star thing on the label but the computer kept printing the price tickets as Astrobale. The manager got so annoyed. You can’t imagine!” She chuckled at the memory.

“That was just a wine label, though. However you're actually right, an astrolabe is a real thing,” Thingy allowed, “Something like a planisphere, only much more elaborate. But I'm talking about the Astro Bail. Different spelling.”

“What’s a planisphere?” Olympe asked curiously. “Is it something round like the, er, armiger sphere? What you said before, I mean. A kind of globe?”

“An armiger is someone who’s entitled to hereditary arms. Nothing to do with spheres.”

“Doesn’t everyone have arms, unless you’ve had a dreadful accident?”

Thingy sighed in frustration. “It’s not arm arms, Olympe, it’s… Tchoh! Look,” he frowned at her, “We’re getting way off the topic. Just be quiet and let me explain. I’ll make everything clear enough for your pretty little head.”

Olympe sniffed sharply and her nose twitched. If she had been a witch, something bad would have happened right that instant. Her face froze in an expression a more emotionally intelligent boi would have taken great alarm at.

“Please do enlighten me,” she said, in a cool voice which dripped with sarcasm but Thingy took no notice because he was glad she was going to shut up and let him talk.

“Thank you!” he said in a rather condescending tone of voice. “Lend me your phone,” he commanded her, “I’ll search up some pictures to show you the difference.”

“Ta guele!” Olympe exploded, her fists clenched in her lap. “Use your own phone!”

“But you know I lost it!” he protested weakly, rocked practically onto the hind legs of his chair by the sudden detonation.

“You dicchead! You should be more careful! You should be better prepared!” The irate blonde leapt up to pace around and better strafe the shrinking Thingy with verbal rage. “Why are you such a useless clown? Roi des cons!” She threw her hands up and stabbed the air to make her points land harder. “Just buy a new phone! How hard is it? They aren’t expensive! You can get one in like an hour from Amayzone! Even out here! They deliver by drone!” She pointed at Thingy. ”Meet me again in one hour and I’ll give you a new phone!!”

Olympe stormed out muttering something else in French. It was probably for the best that Thingy barely understood a word of the language. He followed her with his eyes.

“She’s beautiful when she’s angry!”

< < < < < > > > > >

An hour later Orion was moping in the Library, where he had gone to look for a picture book of ancient astronomical instruments, and hadn’t found one. A footboi entered, bearing a silver salver on which lay a glossy new Motorola phone with a big screen and a lot of cameras. Thingy picked it up, and found a small envelope underneath.

“Thank you,” he dismissed the servant.

The note was written in a firm, bold hand, not at all girlish.

>>>


Dear Lord Orion,

You may think I’m a silly girl but it seems you need me to get into your Pie, dance at your father’s party, and steal his Astrobale.

You had better find a way of explaining it to me properly, or I won’t do it.

Yours sincerely,


Olympe Viola Reese

PS: There’s a burner SIM in the phone. You’ll have to get your old number back and download your contacts and everything.

PPS: The screen lock code is 1337

PPPS: Once you’ve decided what you want to do, send me a handwritten note.

PPPPS: NO, I will not give you my contact details!



<<<

The final line was ruled through but still legible. It made Orion wonder if Olympe had changed her mind after writing it, and forgiven him enough to allow him to visit her bedroom. However, a rare spark of male intuition informed him that a very apologetic thankyou letter would be the safest way to approach the tooled-up spitfire. He was on a countdown to New Year’s Eve, and he really had no-one else he could trust to carry out the Pie Girl investigation.

Orion went to his own room to sit down with a pen and several sheets of Cowley Court writing paper.

< < < < < > > > > >

While Orion was trying to formulate his strategy for rapprochement, Olympe already had taken positive action. She went on Amayzone and ordered a new phone to be super express freighted to her at Cowley. However she found she was too angry with Thingy to give it to him in person. Instead she wrote a letter, and asked Michiko-bot, the butler, to deal with everything. It was the kind of routine country house party goings-on that Michiko-bot had expansive databases regarding.

She changed into cold weather running kit to do an early evening 5K before dinner.

The midwinter sun had already sunk below the horizon, leaving the western sky a dramatic mix of pink and orange. The snow-clad estate glowed blue-white from reflected moonslight. Many congenial trails threaded among the Capability Brown inspired vistas. The broad, important paths had low-key, warm white, always-on LED lighting, which provided sufficient illumination for safe transit at any time. But in her current mood, Olympe sought out the dark places, paths where the LEDs would activate at your approach and switch off behind you.

She was cruising in a moving pool of light through a wood when she saw another halo ahead, only it was static. Perhaps someone was waiting for her, or maybe it was just a deer. She slowed down as she drew near the lit area.

Light snow began to fall, softening the view, though it was not thick enough to worry about it covering the path.

A girl stepped from among the trees to wait at the side of the path. She was smol, her body contours concealed by a long, warm, light-brown sheepskin coat. She wore winter boots crusted with snow. A wonderful mane of platinum blonde hair, gathered loosely into a lush ponytail, spilled out from her dark, Cossack style fur hat. Her face was pale, skin alabaster fine with a blush of red on her cheeks though she wore no make-up, and her eyes, her eyes! were shimmering blue stars. Olympe did not recognise her as a member of the house party.

The girl held up a mittened hand, as if hailing a taxi.

Olympe stopped within conversational distance, puzzled as to where the mysterious girl might have come from.

“Um,” she said eloquently, “Are you lost? I can help you to the house. My name’s Olympe,” she smiled.

“Am not lost. Am liffing in smol house over there.” The girl waved vaguely. Her accent was eastern European.

The vast estate contained any number of follies and outbuildings; towers, bowers, greenhouses, stables, workshops, the Frogarium, and so on. Some would surely be habitable for days, if you didn’t need a lot in the way of modern conveniences. If you were the kind of girl who knew what to do with a hand trowel.

“Isn’t it cold?”

“Am very comfortable, except for heart. It aches for loff,” the mystery girl explained.

“Sorry, I don’t know who you are but if you came here to meet me because you’re in love with me, I’m afraid there’s a bit of a queue. Metaphorically.”

“Am Snihuron’ka,” the girl stated, as if that were explanation enough. “I do not loff you, Olympe, but I need to loff someone who loffs you.”

“Sounds complicated.” Olympe checked the progress of her run on her phone, decided she had done enough. “Look, how about we walk together and you tell me how I can help.”

Snihuron’ka smiled and linked her arm with Olympe’s. The tall detective guided her onto a path which would curve back to the Court. They strolled within the rippling effulgence of LEDs activated by their slow progress.

“So, Snihuron’ka,” Olympe prompted, “Who’s this member you love, who loves me?”

“They is tall, so tall. They is swole. They is handsome, so dark, so handsome,” the snow girl explained. “Eyes are glowing opals, like embers of dark fire, waiting to explode in passion.”

“They does sound kind of hot. Is they a boi or a girl, or…?”

Snihuron’ka nodded. “A glorious boi. So buff! Name is Heaven’s Hunter.”

“Wait, you don’t mean Thingy? Orion!?”

Vigorous nodding. “Yes! Yes! Orion! Orion loffs you. I know it. Orion wants you so much for Pie Girl.”

“How do you know that?”

“I hear when I go to Rose Garden to look at party. I want to see him through window. You come out into snow. Your dress is so vunderful. Your nipples are twin peaks. Orion asks you to be Pie Girl.”

*That explains his wandering eyes.* Olympe thought. “I don’t think it was for love he asked me,” she said aloud.

“You do not see how he kissed your wine glass. Anyway I do not care. Snihuron’ka must be Pie Girl. Please! You help me. I will dance for Orion. I will make him loff me.” Snihuron’ka gripped Olympe’s arm with both hands. She pleaded sincerely, “Please help me!”

They walked on through the quiet storm in a down low glow of light. Snihuron’ka watched Olympe’s face as Olympe watched the snow, and the slow wheeling moons beyond, too rapt in an internal debate to speak.

*Does Thingy love me?* she wondered. *I don’t love him, however sexy he is. Love isn’t just about being sexy. There’s so much more!* she told herself. *A kind of sympathy, a fellow feeling. Wanting to support each other. Disagreeing and quarrelling and making it up because you’ve got a common purpose as a couple. I don’t know how to express it. I’m not a poet, I’m just some fool who decided to be a detective and help people.*

She frowned, and Snihuron’ka frowned too, trying to sense the progression of Olympe’s emotional voyage. *I always tell bois I’m dangerous to love and I don’t know if I love myself. But maybe Snihuron’ka could make it work with Thingy. She deserves a try, at least.* Olympe unconsciously patted her companion’s hand. Snihuron’ka smiled, and clasped Olympe’s arm tighter. *What if I bring her on the mission and let her do the Pie Girl dance instead of me? The distraction would help me sneak off to switcheroo the Astrobale. But it’ll only work if we can both fit inside.*

Olympe came to a decision. She sighed a cloud of glowing mist.

“Snihuron’ka, we’re going to need a bigger pie.”

< < < < < > > > > >

Dear Ms Reese,

I am very sorry for my stupid, inconsiderate, macho manner of speech last night, which caused you so much anger. You have every right to be furious with me. I have no excuse for my behaviour.

Thank you for my new phone. I have transferred my number (XXXX-XXXX-XXXX). I beg you to accept my apology, and contact me, so we may advance our joint enterprise.

I anxiously await your response.

Yours most sincerely,


Thingy

< < < < < > > > > >

Olympe read the letter for a third time, made a moue, and folded it away in her detective notebook. *He’s, what? 80% idiot,* she thought. *It’s quite a good note but why include his number when I told him clearly I don’t want to give him mine. I’ll reply by telegram.*

She looked out of a first class carriage window etched at the corners with complex patterns of ice crystals. The dark countryside was speeding past the early morning express to Server City. The trees were hung with hoar-frost. White, snow-covered fields of blobby, black-faced sheep who looked relatively warm, thanks to their thick wool. The local stations the train zipped through were wreathed in a chilly mist. The hurtling locomotive occasionally threw clouds of snow and ice into the air, which sparkled in its wake. Olympe reflected that the White Queen’s Narnia had had a stark beauty about it, even if Christmas was never celebrated.

Snihuron’ka seemed enchanted by the view. She sat quietly for the whole journey while the sky brightened, until the train reached the city’s outskirts, where the fresh snow began to give way to grey slush.

“Is so sad, when pure snow of winter must die in advance of spring,” she remarked.

“You’re not a city girl,” Olympe replied. “More snow like last night on top of what we had over Christmas simply causes havoc. But never mind. The bots will have cleared the main channels so the trolleybuses can run. We’ll get our Pie business done ASAP and return to Cowley this evening. If things go well you’ll be able to have your dinner in your little snow castle. If not, I’ll fix you up somewhere nice.”

Snihuron’ka apparently had only a meagre wardrobe. She had brought the same hat, coat and boots as when they met the previous evening, though she had dabbed on minimal make-up which dramatically enhanced her wild beauty. The hat was off and the coat was open, revealing a simple, pure white, midi-length shift dress with a fitted bodice covered with multicolour embroidery. You could tell from the fit that she was a mammal.

She looked serene and happy and wild and gorgeous, more like a force of nature than a girl. In this state Snihuron’ka reminded Olympe of Holo the Wise-wolf, who was the beautiful, primal Avatar carried by the Mod Skyen, but she did not have that aura of quiet authority which distinguishes a Mod. Basically she looked like a teenager who’s run away from home for an illicit adventure she planned rather sketchily, and yet she's totally content with her progress.

*Surely this girl is young and naive. I could have a safeguarding issue here.* Olympe told herself. *Thingy is like 30 years old. I’ll have to keep an eye on them.*

“How did you come to fall in love with Orion, Snihuron’ka, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I met him in woods. I was gathering mushrooms. He was riding horse. He looked so handsome, I loff him straight away. I was afraid of my heart. I hid. He did not see me.”

“So you’ve never actually spoken to him?”

“No.”

“Your plan is you dance, Orion falls in love, then you speak to him?”

“Yes. He will fall in loff when I dance.”

“Do you have a song ready as well as a dance?”

“Yes, I sing now,” she opened her mouth and took a breath, but Olympe shushed her.

“No, wait until we can practice with the pie. Have you planned a costume?”

“Yes, I shall dance sky-clad.” Snihuron’ka beamed proudly, as if this was the most cunning part of her scheme.

“You will not!” Olympe exclaimed.

“Are you my mother, to tell me what I can wear?” the girl retorted with a frown. “My body is beautiful. Orion will fall in loff with my graceful white limbs.”

“Look, I’m sure you look simply splendid in the nude but listen, I know how bois’ minds work. They find a girl more alluring when she’s got some mystery around her. Like my green dress you saw in the rose garden. The scoop back let Orion see there was no bra strap, and that would have got him a bit intrigued, but he couldn’t see anything else. Well actually, he did cop rather a strong hint of my nipples but that was just a mistake. I didn’t think about the cold. Anyway it probably helped. The point is, the dress got his imagination working, and imagination can be more powerful than reality.”

Snihuron’ka frowned. “Why for you did that, Olympe? Do you loff Orion?” she asked suspiciously.

“No!” Olympe protested, “He infuriates me practically every time we meet. We had such a quarrel last night you would not believe. I’m not speaking to him at the moment.” She sniffed and looked out of the window.

“Why do you help him as Pie Girl?”

“Well…” Olympe took a moment to gather her thoughts. “First because a Mod told me I should be excellent to everyone. You have to take notice of Mods because sometimes they bite. Also there’s some important stuff going on to do with cricket you don’t need to worry about, but I do. But anyway, now I’m doing it to help you. I mean you’re going to be the Pie Girl, not me. I just want to make sure you’re a huge success. Orion won’t even know I’m there. It's all going to be about you.”

Snihuron’ka smiled again. “I shall dance sky-clad.”

“At least look at the costume I have in mind for you, before you make a decision.”

“Where is costume?”

“I'm taking you shopping for it.”

< < < < < > > > > >

Olympe and Snihuron’ka went directly to the main branch of the famous Japanese department store Isetan, where the detective had been a royal customer for over a year. She had pre-booked a personal shopper and specified her needs in advance. The proposed costume was ready for Snihuron’ka to try on as soon as they reached the private fitting rooms.

“Why is cat costume, Olympe?” Snihuron’ka asked. “Why is white?

“Firstly, it's highly appropriate because next year is the Year of the Cat in the Imperial Zodiac. Secondly, catgirls are inherently sexy, and that’s the point, isn’t it? To catch Orion’s eye and entrance him. Thirdly, because white is a great colour for you, believe me” -- the personal shopper nodded enthusiastically in agreement -- “Teamed with your pale skin, platinum hair, blue eyes and these accessories.”

Olympe had specified a vibrant sapphire blue for the tips of the ears and tail, the flowing ribbons which tied around Shihuron’ka’s neck and waist, and the gloves.

“I try it.” the pale girl allowed.

Snihuron’ka looked great as a catgirl. She preened in the floor to ceiling mirrors. Then she wanted the skirt shorter. “No, your legs look spectacular already!” Then she wanted crinolines. “No, you’ll look like a dandelion seed.” The assistant suggested different underwear and a pair of short, white, heel boots. Snihuron’ka approved them. Finally she consented to have the outfit altered to fit her perfectly. The assistant took detailed measurements. Olympe arranged for delivery to Cowley Court on the 30th.

Now Olympe had become inspired with the spirit of shopping. She made Snihuron’ka follow her to the jewellery department, where Olympe bought a pair of clip-on earrings of sterling silver mounted with large sapphires, to match the girl’s eyes.

She presented the box to Snihuron’ka. “My belated Christmas gift to you.”

The girl accepted the jewellery with a surprised smile.

“Why?”

“Because you’re lovely, and the right jewellery will make you even more lovely. Don’t wear them now. Put them on when you have your White Cat costume.”

Snihuron’ka’s eyes glowed like the gems. “Thank you, Olympe. You are so kind.”

“It’s my pleasure. Now, I’m afraid we have to make a short detour before lunch.”


< < < < < > > > > >

The detour was to Olympe’s 1LDK apartment in Blue Home, a bijou dwelling she used part-time, since she also had a room in the luxurious Frog Palace, and sometimes spent nights with different frens, or occasionally on a stakeout. The 1LDK was the hub of her extensive wardrobe. In truth it was a 2LDK and one of the bedrooms had been taken over for a huge walk-in closet.

Olympe used to have to apologise to her visitors for the insipid, badly-thought out scheme of interior decoration, which was all her own fault because she had no talent for it and therefore always chose ill-suited pieces. Once she got rich, however, she was able to hire a good designer, who fixed the place up properly. There was no time to give Snihuron’ka a tour, though. Olympe merely plonked her in the living room with the radio for company as she spent a whirlwind five minutes packing her kit for the Astrobale mission into a Muji carry-on spinner with a bronze-gold shell of advanced composites. She locked the suitcase and wheeled it to the genkan.

“I’m sorry about that dull wait, Snihuron’ka. I’m packed. I expect you’re hungry. What would you like for lunch?”

“Hot cabbage, please.”

“Oh… Kay… Anything else?”

“Mushroom fried stew and blin.”

“What’s blin?”

“Is pancake, small ones like this,” the girl made a circle the size of a drinks coaster with her index fingers and thumbs, “Or large ones are also. Can eat folded with stuffing inside. Good taste and very healthy.”

“Oh, I see.” Olympe wracked her brain for a restaurant which might be able to provide something approximating the desired cuisine. “Let me think… I’m not sure I know the right place… Perhaps, er… Got it!” she exclaimed. “Back to Isetan we go.”

The pair went to the restaurant floor and got a table in an okonomiyaki joint. Olympe ordered ham and cheese set lunches with extra mushrooms. Snihuron’ka had no idea about okonomiyaki. Olympe showed her young friend how to mix the ingredients -- finely shredded cabbage, wheat flour, grated sticky potato, egg, and water -- and cook them together with the optional toppings on the hotplate set into the tabletop. Then the anointing of the steaming, fried, quasi-pizza pies with mayonnaise, tonkatsu sauce, shavings of dry bonito tuna, and powdered seaweed.

“It is fun, Olympe! Like giant special blin!”

“Yeah, I always like okonomiyaki cause of cooking them at the table like this.”

They nommed their tasty meal with gusto, washing it down with hot barley tea. Snihuron’ka had vanilla ice cream for her pudding; Olympe watched indulgently.

“Now we have our most important errand, Snihuron’ka. Remember I said we need a bigger pie.”

“We go to pie shop now?”

“This is a very special pie, a one-shot, custom-built unit. You can’t buy something like that off the shelf. Luckily I know just the boi to make it for us. He spends a lot of time in the Nizicraft Grounds. I asked him to meet me there this afternoon.”

“What is Nizicraft Grounds?

“Someone once told me it's an inverted bubble of spacetime filled with immanent nanoids.”

Snihuron'ka looked blank.

“Or something, I don’t understand it myself,” Olympe admitted, “But anyway, it’s supposed to be sort of infinite inside and it never looks the same twice, because the Crafters are always building new things, new worlds, even.”

“OOOH!”

“That’s what Chanmi told me. She’s my fren who goes into the Grounds sometimes to tinker around. I've only ever seen inside it once, and that was enough. Freaked me out majorly, cause of my irrational fear of heights. But you’ll be okay.” *I hope.*

“I face any fear for sake of loff,” Snihuron’ka said, her expression determined.

“Good girl.”

< < < < < > > > > >

A taxicab ride later, the pair of them stood outside the entrance to the Nizicraft Grounds in the Oldschool channel. It was a tall, narrow building which looked about five storeys, though there were no windows to judge by. It had a set of double height glass doors above which a sign read ‘The Nizicraft Grounds’ in English, Japanese, and what looked like Urdu. You might have thought it an office block except for the lack of glazing. The walls were studded with clusters of air conditioning vents, from which odd-coloured vapour puffed occasionally. The doors were tinted, so the space inside could not be made out clearly, but what could be seen looked like the lobby of a particularly dull provincial bank.

Olympe took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and led Snihuron’ka into the Nizicraft Grounds Lobby System. The computer communication procedure to contact her fren took a few minutes, then a tall but slightly slouchy boi with black hair over-flopping his eyes, and pale skin, appeared out of a rather ominous glowing portal on the rear wall. He was followed by a small wheeled cart.

“Pia!” he exclaimed with a broad smile, and straightened up to his full height.

“Dari!” she answered, and they rushed into each other’s arms.

Now ensued kissing and hugging and the kind of catch-up talk lovers are wont to indulge in following even a brief separation. When Olympe calmed down, she unwound herself to make introductions.

“Dari, this is Snihuron’ka, who I want to help in an important project. Snihuron’ka, this is Darios Kazemi, an extraordinary engineer, who is going to make our new pie.”

Snihuron’ka made a graceful curtsey.

“Thank you, Darios Kazemi,” she said.

He bowed in return.

“I got the basics from your message, Pia, so let’s go to my Makerspace and you can explain everything in detail.”

“Who is Pia?” Snihuron’ka asked. “Is Olympe?”

“Yes, Pia is my nickname,” Olympe explained. “Please use it if you like, Snihuron’ka, as we’re comrades in our Pie Girl mission.”

“I use Pia, thank you. My name is long so I have short name too. Please say Lelya.”

“Lelya,” Pia repeated, to get used to it. “What a nice name! Okay, Lelya, I’m afraid you have to walk with Darios while I ride in the cart. I can’t walk because I’ll have my eyes closed.” Darios gave her an eyemask. Pia sat in the automated truck and put it on. Darios tapped at his handheld device. A glowing line appeared on the floor, running into the portal.

“We have to follow that line to get to my Makerspace, Snihuron’ka,” he explained. “I’ll go first, you follow me, and Pia will be third. Try not to get distracted by things you see inside the Grounds, however weird or fascinating they may appear. Don’t step off the line. And don’t eat or drink anything!”

Lelya nodded, her eyes wide. When Darios led off she was careful to look at the floor, his feet and the neon trace of the guide mark. Pia was oblivious. She had gone in and out of the Grounds many times, either riding Darios’s little cart, or carried by him piggy-back. As long as she could not see the infinite vistas they did not frighten her.

The short walk was uneventful. Dari was an old hand in the Grounds. Lelya studiously ignored all distractions. Pia did not have time to get bored.

Darios’s Makerspace comprised of a dull, single storey, apparently red brick building which contained a large workshop with a smaller cubby next door, where he sometimes slept, and a tiny washroom. Pia scanned the workshop with a beady eye. She gave it 11 out of 13 for neatness, a distinct improvement on the old Dari when she had first met him.

“It looks nice, Dari,” she congratulated him. “What have you been working on lately?”

“The automated cargo version of my ornithopter,” he replied. “You remember the contract with Yuzu, of course.”

“Of course, yes. How’re things going? Can you really spare time for my pie build?”

“It’ll be fine,” he claimed, “I can get your pie delivered on the 30th, and I’ll fly the ornithopter to Cowley early in the New Year.”

“Oh please, Dari! I’d be so upset if you didn’t manage everything,” she wheedled, “But I know you’ll come through for me. I have faith.” She held out a beautifully wrapped package from Isetan, smiling, “Here, I brought you a little something.”

Dari took the packet and opened it. There were eight skewers of his favourite sweetmeat, the sticky rice balls called O-dango in Japan, four with a sweet sauce and four with a darker, slightly savoury coating made from miso paste.

“Super! Thanks, Pia, let’s share them while we look at your pie plans.”

“Is safe?” Lelya wanted to know. “Darios Kazemi told not to eat anything.”

“It’s fine,” Pia confirmed, “Because we brought this in from outside, so it’s real, not made of nanoids.”

She organised coffee and clean plates while Dari scanned the pie chart Thingy had given her into his computer. He quickly threw up a 3D model in the holotank which dominated the centre of the workshop. The three conspirators ate O-dango and drank black coffee while examining the Orion pie and deciding what to change for their improved version.

“Basically it needs to be large enough to hold me and Lelya, plus a duffel bag of equipment,” Pia told him. “But try to make the outside no larger than the model, or Orion might notice we’ve swapped it. He doesn’t know I’m taking Leyla and I want to keep it that way.”

“Lelya is for big surprise,” the pale girl announced.

“Yes, I understand,” Dari acknowledged. “I can more or less do that. This design uses traditional materials. Mine will be fabbed from high-end feedstock, so even with the same external dimensions there’ll be more space inside. And I can increase the exterior a small amount without anyone noticing unless they measure it carefully. What else should I do?”

“Maybe some lights and a battery to recharge a phone?” Pia requested.

“Lemon squeezy. In fact, how about I motorise it so you can roll around like a Dalek?” the young engineer suggested in his growing enthusiasm for the project.

“That sounds fun but it might be going too far. We won’t have time to practice, so simple is best,” Pia countered. “What would happen if we came to some stairs? Keep the idea in mind, though, Dari. You might have a new line of business, if the Pie Girl concept takes off after this New Year party. Maybe you could patent it.”

“Can have bucket?” Lelya asked. Pia was shocked.

“Definitely not!” she stated firmly. “We’ll bring some of those sachets you can get for children on long car journeys. The ones which turn your wee into a gel. And no number 2s under any circumstances! Make sure you go before we start the mission.”

“I mean to stand and climb out on,” the young blonde said. “Graceful climbing from pie is exit necessary of performance.”

“Oh, sorry,” Pia apologised. “I completely misunderstood. You’re quite right, Lelya, one must always be elegant. Dari, what can you do?”

“I’ll put in folding steps.” He made some passes with his light-pen, and the holotank model remoulded itself organically. The walls thinned and it grew subtly larger. The folding stairs appeared. He placed two marionettes with the dimensions of Pia and Lelya in the tank, began to manipulate them into different poses inside the pie. It was a bit spoopy to watch the translucent dolls move and rearrange themselves to fit.

It took a while for the trio to adjust everything to their mutual satisfaction. When the design was finished, Pia and Dari agreed on delivery for the completed model. She gave him some high value Coins to cover the fabrication and shipping expenses.

“Good, that’s settled. I’m afraid we have to go now,” Pia told him. “I can’t spend the night away from Cowley, it would be rude as I’m an invited guest.” *Which reminds me, I’ll have to find an excuse for missing New Year’s Eve.*

Dari escorted the girls back to the Lobby, where they made farewells. Pia embraced her boifren warmly. “Will I see you at the Court in the New Year?” she asked wistfully.

“Yes, when I deliver the ornithopter. I’ll message you as soon as I know my schedule.”

“Send a telegram. Yuzu likes them. Actually, I’ve got to send one now. Must rush!

< < < < < > > > > >

After the last farewell kiss, Pia took Lelya and the luggage and sallied forth to find a taxicab. The cab took them to the main post office, where she wrote out a telegram to Thingy. Then they rushed back to Central Station and got on the second last express of the day back to Cowley.

Already the dark end of the short, midwinter day limited the scenery to lonely, distant lights and occasional stations the train sped through in a sudden, pale blur. Lelya had dozed off with girlish snores, worn out by the excitement of travel, and the novelties and bustling activity of the city. Pia watched her sweet face and considered the altered parameters of the pie mission profile. Dari’s 3D printed pie would make their double intrusion feasible. Lelya could dance while she remained hidden in the pie. Thingy might be shocked at the girl’s unexpected appearance, but he would have to go along with it.

*I hope he’s got the moxie,* she thought. *I think he has. He better have. Maybe I can find a way to test him in advance. But let’s assume that bit goes okay. I need to figure out how to grab the Astrobale -- Thingy’s absolutely going to have to help with that -- and then escape from Barking Towers with Lelya, cause I’m not leaving her there alone.*

Ms Moon Potato had once told Pia that some problems are best solved by starting at the desired end and working back towards the beginning. She took out her smartphone to look up maps of the area.

*It’s no more than 8 kilometres,* (5 miles if you’re American or British) *as the crow flies from Cowley Court to Barking Towers,* she discovered. *Maybe we could just walk home. It would be rather cold but Lelya seems happy in the snow. How straight a path could we take? It might be rather up and down.*

But she had no time to further elaborate her very bare-bones plan. The train began decelerating as it approached Cowley station. Pia gently roused her companion and gathered all the luggage. Decanted from the express, the pair of tired blondes scuttled to find a taxicab to take them to the main gates of Cowley Court. Here Lelya parted company to return to her spartan dwelling hidden in the depths of the parkland. Pia continued to the great house. A footboi carried her baggage to her room, where finally she could relax, decompress herself from the pressured day’s activities, and consider her plan for the evening. Yuzu was hosting another semi-formal dinner, and Olympe was worried she might have nothing to wear.

>>>

+++LORD ORION COWLEY COURT+++
+++FROGA RIUMM OONSR ISETO MORRO W.OVR+++

< < <


Orion read the telegram carefully three times, puzzling over what it could possibly mean. It seemed like spy code. He wondered if the OVR at the end meant “over” like on 2-way radio. Was he supposed to reply, and if so, then who to? He was about to get a notepad and rearrange the groups of letters with the help of a crossword solving app when suddenly he twigged that OVR must stand for Olympe Viola Reese. Everything fell into place.

“Back in the game!” he exulted. He went up to dress for dinner with a light heart.

< < < < < > > > > >

Olympe’s heart was heavy. Her new life principle to be respectful to Lady Sakura meant that a lot of the dresses and gowns she had brought for her stay were out of bounds. There were several perfectly usable items in her closets, such as the green, scoop back gown she had worn to the Christmas Day feast, however it was social anathema to wear the same outfit twice in a week. She riffled anxiously through her options, considering and rejecting a number of combos, until she realised…

I can wear a suit!

She created an ensemble based on her new detective trouser suit, navy blue with a pinstripe, which buttoned boi-style, left over right. She teamed it with a crisp white collar shirt worn open at the neck, and a black lace corset in place of a waistcoat. She filled the gap at her throat with a patterned red and yellow Charvet silk scarf knotted into a snappy cravat, then softened the look with her dangliest earrings, triplet chains of linked gold squares. She eased her feet into a pair of elegant, kick-ass Marion Bottine Femme Souple Noir ankle boots, custom made by La Botte Gardiane, Paris. She slicked her choppy pixie cut into a sleek bob with the aid of a jar of brilliantine. Stark, minimal make-up completed her presentation.

Olympe examined herself in the mirror and sighed with contentment. The perfect picture of a 1930s radical lesbian! I would totally hit on me. I just wish I had a monocle. She spritzed with Creed Silver Mountain Water, a light, wintery, unisex fragrance, and sallied forth in high spirits to enjoy the social challenges of the evening.

Lt. Lauren Clark was cruising down the stairs. The statuesque Coastguard wore a very feminine outfit, a pale pink, taffeta gown with bishop sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, fitted bodice and full, floor length skirt which required her to walk carefully. Lauren had released her medium-length hair from its regulation bun and teased it into as much of a bouffant style as she could manage. It looked straggly in an artful good way around her cheerful face. Her bright green eyes glowed.

“Hey, whaddya think, Pia? I’m proof you can be a pilot and girly too, yeah!”

“You are truly stunning, Lauren. May I offer you my arm?”

“Thanks!” Although Lauren had 3 inches of stature on Olympe, she rested her left hand on Olympe’s right arm and the odd couple stepped off in harmony. “And look at you in your snappy pant suit. We sure have changed places from last time we arrived at the party together.”

“Ha ha! Yes!” Olympe remembered. “I was wearing my green silk gown and you were in full dress uniform. Well. If there is dancing later I hope you will grant me the honour.”

“Not sure I can manage it in this long of skirts, Pia, but I’d trust you over anyone to try with, except maybe that hunk Lord Orion. They look like they would be skilful on the dance floor.” Lauren’s eyebrows wiggled at Pia in some kind of girly signal.

“Hmm,” Olympe sub-vocalised, remembering Thingy’s 1.5 left feet. “He is not the Bugatti of ballroom partners, actually, but I guess he looks the part, at least.”

“Now you’re joshing me, Pia, just trying to put me off of him. Don’t you worry now, I know you two’ve got eyes for each other, an’ I won’t get in the way. ‘Sides, I heard that that Tsuchimursu is gonna be here tonight and I kinda liked the way he held himself the other morning.”

Olympe’s eyebrows twitched as she processed Lauren’s words. But there was no time to go further into matters. They arrived at the withdrawing room before the dining hall, and had to split off to mingle with the other guests.


< < < < < > > > > >

“Why do members want to own beautiful, useless things?” Olympe whispered to herself.

She was examining an elegant, three-legged, bow-fronted glass display cabinet, within which lay a miscellany of Lady’s Sakura’s bibelots and objets-bijoux including tiny green glass hares, pewter or porcelain framed pin cushions, enamel ladybirds, and netsuke bumblebees, among other small fripperies.

*It goes back to Ancient Egyptian times,* she thought,*Only back then it had a religious meaning. But they’re a lot easier on the eye than Yuzu’s Goddessdamn cow creamer, which is something to be grateful for. Whatever. I still haven’t had a clear explanation of the Astrobale.*

At that moment a meaningful cough at her side interrupted her flow of consciousness. She turned and found Thingy standing there. He wore an ornate get-up of a dark jacket over a frill-front shirt, a tartan kilt and sporran, and long socks held up with ribbons. He held a glass of whisky, which he raised in a silent toast of greeting.

*Idontwanttotalktoyougoaway* ran through her mind like an unhelpful railway announcement marquee board. Such an ungracious sentiment could not be voiced aloud, though. Instead she studied the tall boi’s naked knees with interest.

“Why are you wearing a skirt, Thingy?” Olympe. “Not that I disapprove in general terms, only I got the impression that you’re against hairy legs, and yours are like a lumberjack’s. As I predicted.” She smiled smugly.

“It’s a kilt.” He sipped his drink.

“I know. I have a Scottish great-uncle. He looked very distinguished at the weddings of all three of his daughters. But you’re not Scottish. If you want to let it all hang out, you could just wear a nice maxi number. I’d be happy to share my style wisdom with you.”

“Actually I’m practising to be the First Footer at New Year.”

“Oh?”

"And I’m not letting it all hang out."

"Eh?"

“The undercarriage, I mean.”

“Ah?”

“I won’t go into details.”

“Thank you for leaving it to my imagination. But doesn’t First Footing mean you’ll have to exit the house before midnight in order to return afterwards."

"Yes, traditionally and technically."

"So you’ll miss my performance?”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine without me.”

“I absolutely forbid it!” Olympe said sternly. “It’s essential you’re there at the stroke of midnight. Something very special is going to happen, all for your sake. If you slink off and miss it… Well! I won’t be responsible for the results.” She was practically vibrating with energy, eager to ensure Lelya’s performance had the audience the pale girl craved.

“Oh, um, I see," Thingy responded warily. "Perhaps when we speak of the plans in more detail, we can work out something.”

“It had better be what I want or there will be serious consequences. But we can't talk here, tonight. We have to keep everything secret.”

Olympe shut Thingy up with an emphatic zip-swip of her finger over her lips.

The dinner gong rang. She turned away to find her place in the procession to the dining hall. The antique butler-bot Michiko was fussing about the ante-room, ushering bois and girls into couples with the skill of a long suffering, moderately successful herder of cats.

“Ah, sir,” the bot greeted Olympe, “If you would be so good as to escort this young lady…” They took Orion’s hand and placed it on Olympe’s arm, joining them into another unit in the formal parade. Orion opened his mouth to protest but he was too late, Michiko had wafted swiftly away to another victim. Olympe stifled a snort.

“Looks like I’m stuck with you tonight, Thingy. What shall we find to talk about?”

“The game?”

“I don’t really follow cricket all that closely,” Olympe demurred, to indicate she wasn’t the slightest bit interested in the sport, “And the croquet lawn is snowed under. And I'm rubbish at tennis.”

“No, I mean The Game!” he said with an emphasis on the The, making it a Thee.

“Well of course that’s always an option. But anyway it’s almost bound to come up since everyone plays, so let’s pick another topic for now.”

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