Violet Crepuscular, The Queen of Suspense, is angry with her readers (No, I will not add, snidely, “What, all four of them?”). Having invited them to name the Royal Millipede Inspector, who incidentally is Lady Margo Cargo’s long-lost love, Ms. Crepuscular was offended by the tepid response among her readers.
“I have a good mind to delete him from Oy, Rodney,” she says, introducing Chapter DCLXXXXV of her epic romance. “By gum, the millipede inspector who comes to my house doesn’t belong in any romance! But this tragic figure, this man who has forgotten his own name, whose only interest in life is millipedes, this poor jidrool who once vowed undying love to Margo Cargo when he saw her, as a little girl, catching and eating tadpoles, this pure tottering wreck of a man–oh, the music he and Margo could have made together!” He plays the spoons. Lady Margo plays the comb and paper.
(Nothing has happened in this novel for three weeks.)
But what’s this we hear? Can it be true? Oh, forsooth, we heard it clearly this time.
The Picts are coming! The Picts are coming!
It’s been 1,700 years since this last happened, give or take a few.
Looks like Scurveyshire is in for a blow!