Being in England is kind of weird. But good weird. Mira's never actually been out of the country before, but when Dad had an alumnus thing at Oxford he offered to bring her with him, and she said yes.
It's both more and less different from the States than she was imagining.
"How bizarre," is her only comment for a moment or two.
"And - what is a 'pathogen'?" She mimics Mira's pronunciation, dropping out of her British accent for a moment to do so.
"Curious. But let us not become mired in detail," the Queen says.
"Tell me, if you would, about...transportation. What distances must one cross, on the surface, and how is it done?"
"Must? It depends on one's lifestyle. Most people need travel only a few dozen miles or less, most days, and for that you use a car or a bicycle or a bus or a subway; sometimes you have to cross hundreds of miles and use a train or an airplane, and sometimes you have to cross an ocean and then you need an airplane or a boat."
"Fascinating. An 'airplane' is some kind of flying thing, I suppose, but I fear you will need to explain most of the others."
She adds a slight self-deprecating twist, as if ashamed of her ignorance.
"But of course. In fact, we should retire to my study, where I keep such things," she decides.
She starts to rise from her seat...
...and the doors swing open, hitting the walls with a bang.
The music falters and dies; the dancers sweep hastily out of the way, clearing a path between the doors and the throne.
A black-cloaked figure strides into the room, glancing neither left nor right as he makes his way directly to the foot of the dais and kneels.
She is sufficiently out of the way that neither the Queen nor the newcomer is paying her any attention.
"Well?" is all the Queen asks.
Apparently this is enough of a prompt. The kneeling man pushes back his hood, revealing a face not much older than Mira's own, and begins to speak.The room is silent, every ear straining to catch his words.
"My Queen, I have failed you." His voice is utterly emotionless, his face similarly blank.
"I lost the trail in the Hall Woods, three hours ago, and could not regain it. The renegades escaped."
He bows his head, and waits for the Queen's response.
"Oh, my dear." Her voice practically drips with sympathy.
"How unfortunate. But I am entertaining a guest just now," she continues, "so you shall have to give a full report later."
She makes a show of taking out her pocket-watch and checking the time.
"I shall expect you in the green room in three hours' time."
"Yes, my Queen."
He bows his head in acknowledgement, but makes no other motion.
"You are dismissed."
He leaves.
"Now," says the Queen, turning back to Mira. "Where were we?"
"Ah, yes. You wanted paper with which to draw your world's strange transportation devices."
She rises, flicking her train into place with a careless wave of her hand.
"Follow me."
The Queen's study goes lighter on the black-and-white theme than the rest of the palace. Instead of marble, what can be seen of the walls between the bookshelves is panelled in dark wood. The floor, although it has the same chequered pattern as elsewhere, is mostly concealed beneath dark, luxurious rugs.
In the centre, dominating the room, is a large desk covered in paperwork, with a high-backed chair behind it. Other than a wooden stool in the corner, there are no other chairs in evidence.
Looking around from her desk, where she has been trying to find a pencil and some blank paper, the Queen reaches out a hand and mimes in midair the motion of pulling a book off the shelf and placing it on the floor. Several large, solid-looking books float off the shelves as if there were a giant hand mirroring her motions.
They settle on the floor near the desk, and shortly have another stack placed on top, bringing the whole to the height of a chair.
"I apologise for the improvised furniture, dear," she says to Mira, "but I do not often have visitors to this room."
"Ah, here we are."
Sweeping a pile of letters out of the way, Marcella places a few sheets of blank paper in front of Mira and offers her a pencil. It looks hand-carved.
She gives the pencil a slightly curious look but takes it without asking and starts drawing a diagram of a bicycle.
The Queen watches curiously, and does not interrupt.
After a minute, she paces around to the far side of the desk, and sits behind it in what must be her customary place. Somehow, probably through a lot of practice, she avoids knocking anything over with her train.
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