Read Online Out Through the Attic by Quincy J. Allen - Free Book Online
Authors: Quincy J. Allen
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gaunt elf with pallid skin and sunken eyes stepped off the back of the carriage and around to its side. With a flourish and a bow he opened a pair of wide double doors.
The Queen stepped out slowly and rose to her full height with a majesty that I’d never seen in all the years I’d known Stella. In fact, there was very little of Stella Davincourt left in the woman who so easily stared down at me. The smiling, buxom brunette I remembered, the one with a flair for filling out red dresses and dancing, was gone. What was left made me think of dirges and the taut skin of the dead.
The Queen’s face was pale, rigid, and her makeup stark in contrast. There wasn’t even a glimmer of a smile, and the light that used to dance in her eyes at parties had faded completely into depths I didn’t care to explore. Her hair had been pulled back tightly against her skull, making it shine like metal, and a golden diadem set with rubies anchored it in place. Her gown was black lace, with traces of purple and white at collar, waist and hem.
She glided towards me, purposefully, and as she did two young elves dashed from inside the carriage and ran by me.
“Walk with me,” she commanded in a low voice.
The elves got my front doors open just in time, and she seemed to float up the steps and into my house as if she owned the place. I stepped into her wake, careful not to tread on her dress, and heard the soft footfalls of several others move in behind me.
Glancing over my shoulder, I realized two grim-looking trolls had appeared out of nowhere. They both wore matching daggers and paced behind like tigers, graceful, their eyes never leaving me. The gaunt elf from the back of the carriage followed them, and his eyes never seemed to drift far from the queen.
The Queen wove her way through my house, the elves opening doors before her, finally making her way to the swimming pool. She glided across the patio and made her way to a lounge chair. The lounge chair, where I’d woken up in red panties all those years ago. Where I’d awakened to Wendy’s newspaper messages.
The Queen slowly ran a finger over the frame and down the armrest, as if she were picking out memories like threads from an old quilt.
Turning slowly, she cast her gaze upon me, and for just a moment I thought I saw a fraction of a smile, a glint in her eye. What was left of Stella Davincourt, tucked away someplace deep inside the Queen, remembered my performance with the blonde all those years ago. And it amused her.
Another layer of the fuzz peeled away from my mind, and I think it was in that moment I understood how my life traced back to that night, that party.
The Queen realized it too.
The glint in her eye disappeared as quickly as it had manifested, like a mirror glinting in darkness. She motioned to the chair.
“Come. Sit,” she said.
Without a word I did as commanded … and it was a command.
“So,” she began, clasping her hands before her in a most Queenly fashion, “We understand you want to make a movie.”
“Yes, Stell—” I began, but her eyebrow shot up, halting her name in my throat. “Yes, Your Majesty ,” I corrected.
“We understand that you would like to borrow a sum of money to make this movie.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“We also understand that you want to make this movie about Our deceased husband, the good King.” For the first time, the Queen smiled. It was a rictus, devoid of happiness and even life. There was emotion, to be sure, but I could only liken it to hatred or disgust.
The last layer of fuzz peeled back from my mind, the last remnants of PD-induced stupidity burned away. Clarity hit me like a diamond sledgehammer striking an anvil. I’d never heard such weight and meaning so deliberately applied to a single word. When she said ‘good’ there was so much she wasn’t saying … about the difference between good and evil … between the King and herself .
For the first time in my life I was terrified.
I
The Queen stepped out slowly and rose to her full height with a majesty that I’d never seen in all the years I’d known Stella. In fact, there was very little of Stella Davincourt left in the woman who so easily stared down at me. The smiling, buxom brunette I remembered, the one with a flair for filling out red dresses and dancing, was gone. What was left made me think of dirges and the taut skin of the dead.
The Queen’s face was pale, rigid, and her makeup stark in contrast. There wasn’t even a glimmer of a smile, and the light that used to dance in her eyes at parties had faded completely into depths I didn’t care to explore. Her hair had been pulled back tightly against her skull, making it shine like metal, and a golden diadem set with rubies anchored it in place. Her gown was black lace, with traces of purple and white at collar, waist and hem.
She glided towards me, purposefully, and as she did two young elves dashed from inside the carriage and ran by me.
“Walk with me,” she commanded in a low voice.
The elves got my front doors open just in time, and she seemed to float up the steps and into my house as if she owned the place. I stepped into her wake, careful not to tread on her dress, and heard the soft footfalls of several others move in behind me.
Glancing over my shoulder, I realized two grim-looking trolls had appeared out of nowhere. They both wore matching daggers and paced behind like tigers, graceful, their eyes never leaving me. The gaunt elf from the back of the carriage followed them, and his eyes never seemed to drift far from the queen.
The Queen wove her way through my house, the elves opening doors before her, finally making her way to the swimming pool. She glided across the patio and made her way to a lounge chair. The lounge chair, where I’d woken up in red panties all those years ago. Where I’d awakened to Wendy’s newspaper messages.
The Queen slowly ran a finger over the frame and down the armrest, as if she were picking out memories like threads from an old quilt.
Turning slowly, she cast her gaze upon me, and for just a moment I thought I saw a fraction of a smile, a glint in her eye. What was left of Stella Davincourt, tucked away someplace deep inside the Queen, remembered my performance with the blonde all those years ago. And it amused her.
Another layer of the fuzz peeled away from my mind, and I think it was in that moment I understood how my life traced back to that night, that party.
The Queen realized it too.
The glint in her eye disappeared as quickly as it had manifested, like a mirror glinting in darkness. She motioned to the chair.
“Come. Sit,” she said.
Without a word I did as commanded … and it was a command.
“So,” she began, clasping her hands before her in a most Queenly fashion, “We understand you want to make a movie.”
“Yes, Stell—” I began, but her eyebrow shot up, halting her name in my throat. “Yes, Your Majesty ,” I corrected.
“We understand that you would like to borrow a sum of money to make this movie.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“We also understand that you want to make this movie about Our deceased husband, the good King.” For the first time, the Queen smiled. It was a rictus, devoid of happiness and even life. There was emotion, to be sure, but I could only liken it to hatred or disgust.
The last layer of fuzz peeled back from my mind, the last remnants of PD-induced stupidity burned away. Clarity hit me like a diamond sledgehammer striking an anvil. I’d never heard such weight and meaning so deliberately applied to a single word. When she said ‘good’ there was so much she wasn’t saying … about the difference between good and evil … between the King and herself .
For the first time in my life I was terrified.
I
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