A typical November morning brightened suddenly when Esme walked in on breakfast. Gary gaped at her, “What the–”
Rick’s orange juice went down the wrong way and set him off coughing. Eyes bulging, he became red in the face.
“I take it you like my costume from your reactions!”
“It’s bloody...I mean are you supposed to be the Queen, or what?”
“Come on Gary, a monarch would have a much richer costume. This is your run-of-the-mill noblewoman.”
“b****y hell, Es, with a damned tiara!”
Rick’s coughing fit was over and he looked thoughtful.
“So that’s what was in the package! But what’s the point?”
“The point is...if I want to be treated with respect in ninth-century Lindsey, I can’t be dressed as a ceorl.”
point“Airs an’ b****y graces if you ask me.”
“Nobody asked you Gareth.”
“Oh, Gare
