GarGar closed his eyes against the glare of the afternoon sun. It was a hot summer’s day. He mopped his face with a lace handkerchief and then tossed it unceremoniously at his stone-faced valet. This was probably one of the least obnoxious indignities that he’d received from the hands of his master. “Thank you, m’lord,” he said without a hint of sarcasm. Something in the servant’s words brought a memory to GarGar of his father, a charming scoundrel who’d left a string of illegitimate children across the kingdom before being struck down by an irate husband. Then he thought of his mother, a delicate beauty who with steely determination had remarried swiftly in order to provide her only child some kind of a legacy.
“Fetch me some quills and paper,” he said to the valet. “I need to write to Princess Pirouette.” It was understood that the valet would have to bring a pot of ink as well.