Differel and the Prince WIP

Copyright (C) 2011 by Kevin L. O'Brien

Sir Differel Van Helsing sat with her fork poised over the plate.

"Is there a problem, Your Ladyship?" the elegant, oily voice to her right asked.

As a matter of fact, there wasn't. Everything was impeccable: crystal glassware, chandeliers, lamps, and sconces; sterling silver flatware; fine china plates and bowls decorated with intricate designs; gossamer linen napkins, placemats, and tablecloth; teak table and chairs inlaid with ivory; cedar paneling, pillars, and beams inlaid with malachite, carnelian, and lapis lazuli; mahogany floor planks buffed to a high sheen; and everywhere trimmings of gold leaf. The wine was the best she had ever tasted. The soup, salad, fruit, cheese, antipasto, and fish courses would have put the finest Cordon Bleu chefs in the Waking World to shame. Her formal evening gown and those of her three companions were made from the finest silk.

Only two things marred the perfection.

The first was that the room's architecture and decorations, and the fashions everyone wore, looked like they came straight out of a Roger Corman Edgar Allan Poe movie. Which might have made sense, since her host, the Prince of Dylath-Leen, looked like Vincent Price.

The other was that the main course looked like nothing so much as worm-ridden entrails and offal in a bile and blood sauce.

She looked up at the Prince, who studied her in an intent fashion. She knew he was testing her; all of them, really, but her most of all. He was trying to see how far he could push her, before she would lose her aristocratic aplomb and react in a negative, even hostile fashion. She would admit, he had come close a few times, such as when the cover was lifted off her plate a few moments ago, but so far it had all been psychological, and subtle rather than gross. This had been the most visceral attempt so far, no pun intended, but in fundamental ways it was no different from the mind games the members of the British Peerage played with each other. She glanced across the table at the other guests: Marseilles Sheraton sat directly opposite her, and Eile and Sunny one and two chairs further down, respectively. So far, each in her own way had been able to deal with the provocations, if not always in the calmest fashion, but she believed she was the best equipped to endure the tests. By necessity, she had learned to play games with her Peers very well.

She looked back at the Prince and smiled in a sweet manner. "Not at all, Your Highness." She jabbed her fork into the nauseating mess in front of her and shoveled a goodly amount into her mouth, as Eile and Sunny made yuck faces and Sheraton looked like she would vomit at any moment. Despite appearances, it was delicious, and seemed to be made of vegetables, not meat at all.

"Then, you do not find the food unappetizing?" he inquired with greasy charm.

She chewed and swallowed, and flashed him a smirking grin. "I'm British, Your Highness; you should see our breakfasts."

"She's right about that!" Sunny squeaked.

"Sunny! Shaddup!" Eile scolded, as Sheraton shot her a withering gaze.

"I also have a fondness for haggis," Differel added, before she took another mouthful.

"Really?"

She swallowed. "Certainly. As well as devilled kidneys, faggots, black pudding, laverbread, white pudding, haslet, jellied eels, liver and onions, lobby, steak and kidney pie, brawn, red pudding, and welsh rarebit."

"Oh, please," Sheraton objected in a strangled voice, as she turned green and turn her head away from the table. Differel smiled at her discomfort. Though their names and her association of those dishes with the food in front of them implied they were made from unappetizing ingredients, in reality they were no more unhealthy than the Prince's meal itself.

"I am familiar with most of those dishes, but what is 'brawn'?"

"Head cheese," Eile replied, a disgusted look on her face.

"Blech!" Sunny added, shaking her head.

"And, 'welsh rarebit'?"

"No one knows for sure," Eile said.

"But whatever it is, it gives you nightmares!" Sunny attested.

"I see. It all sounds most intriguing. However, were you not concerned I might try to poison you?"

Differel swallowed the last bite off her plate. "It had crossed my mind, Your Highness, but if you wanted us dead, you would have killed us long before now. Besides, we can be a source of amusement only for as long as we are alive. Granted, it may be quite amusing to watch us die a lingering, painful death, but eventually we would die, and then we could no longer amuse you. Even making us sick would only be amusing for a short while, and there is the danger it could make us weak enough to die of something else. No, I have no worries about that, at least for the time being."

"Indeed," he said, giving her a crafty look. He then scanned the table. "My, not hungry anymore? Such a pity. I asked my chef to outdo himself on the dessert, but if you are finished, well, . . ."

"Go ahead, it's safe," Differel encouraged them, "and quite good."

She realized she could be wrong. Her dish may not have been poisoned, but theirs could be. Still, she doubted it. If the Prince killed them, even Sheraton, it would remove her only incentive for cooperating, and knew that. As long as she was his target, it was in his self-interest to keep them all alive as long as possible.

She watched as they each took very reluctant bites, and nodded when their expressions showed their surprise at how tasty it really was. She knew they would eat it; they trusted her, even Sheraton, and they knew his hospitality could end at any moment. Still, she hoped their faith would not get them killed.