and the crushed roses at her belt melt, petal by petal, into the
pink water.
IV
A vile day, Porter. But keep your wits
about you. The Empress
will soon be here. Queer, without the Emperor! It
is indeed,
but best not consider that. Scratch your head and prick
up your ears.
Divorce is not for you to debate about. She is late? Ah,
well,
the roads are muddy. The rain spears are as sharp as
whetted knives.
They dart down and down, edged and shining. Clop-trop! Clop-trop!
A carriage grows out of the mist. Hist, Porter. You
can keep on your hat.
It is only Her Majestys dogs and her parrot. Clop-trop!
The Ladies in Waiting, Porter. Clop-trop! It
is Her Majesty. At least,
I suppose it is, but the blinds are drawn.
In all the years I have served Her Majesty she
never before passed the gate
without giving me a smile!
Youre a droll fellow, to expect the Empress to
put out her head
in the pouring rain and salute you. She has affairs of
her own
to think about.
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