A Third Wish for Miranda
by Phlebas the Phoenician

Chapter One: An Autumn Evening
Wherein an unusual customer is dealt with.

Tiffany waved the last customer out of the door and half-collapsed against the counter in a huff.

“Fairy princess are so bloody popular. I bet they're bitches, all of 'em.”

Muttering to herself about the probable faults of anyone so unwise as to be born into a Position of Power, Tif tried to convince her tired feet to carry her behind the register so she could begin her usual closing up routine. Even less than the rest of her body, they didn't seem to want to respond to her mind's most cogent arguments.

More or less resigned to staying put for a little, Tif permitted herself a moment of, in her view, pardonable pride. When she'd started it initially, Princess Miranda's Music and Instruments had been nothing more than a small booth on market weekends, a way to get rid of some of her less cherished work as well as make ends meet while in between jobs. However, the past four years had seen a remarkable growth ending with the purchase of a shop that, although small, was crammed with sheets of music and unusual instruments.

Of course, these days, she didn't only carry her own work. Her store was the focal point for several local musicians, composers and wood carvers. All she stipulated was that everything she sold be musical in some way or other. So, from the fancifully carved, but dusty, harp standing in one corner, to the clay ocarina that had just made its way out of the door, the store was a mess of uncatalogued items laid down in the most haphazard manner. Used to the more ad hoc running of her previously mobile business, Tif had yet to get used to her new location, despite being stationary for well over six months already. Running a rueful eye over the contents of her shelves, she renewed the promise she made every Friday. “This weekend, I really will clean up!”

The helpful reminder that it really was Friday was enough to get Tif around the counter and into her sneakers. The vertical boost combined with more comfortable shoes was enough to maintain her momentum. “Thank god for Fridays! Just shut the shop and get out of this confounded rig, the accounts can wait till tomorrow...”

Her self-encouraging monologue was rudely interrupted by the loud bang of the door slamming open. Left swinging in its wake, the bell meant to warn of customer arrivals valiantly attempted to fulfil its duty by ringing a discordant accompaniment to the angriest customer Tif had seen all week.

He marched right up to the counter and rapped on it with the silver head of his cane. “I am Chancellor Herwick and I demand to speak to Princess Miranda.” Although delivered in a flat monotone, there was no quibbling with the demand in that voice, thought Tif with a wry twist of her mouth. This, however, was something she was used to. Although the title was a new variation, she was usually forced to deal with something similar at least once every couple of months. Of late, the increasing popularity of her little shop seemed to have led to an increase in such occurrences. Yet again, she cursed herself for the flight of fancy which had led her to name the shop for the whimsical childhood pet name her mother had bestowed on her.

Composing her face into a neutral expression, she launched into the, by now, well-rehearsed speech. “I'm sorry, sir, but Ms. Miranda only makes the instruments. She doesn't actually work in the shop herself. My name is Tiffany and I handle all the day-to-day arrangements. It is past our usual closing time, but for a customer such as yourself, I could certainly delay a little. Is there anything I can help you find, or are you looking to commission something special?” The first time she had to make this explanation, she'd stammered and blushed so much that the man she was talking to had assumed she was minding the store for someone else and promised to come back later. All these years later, she was still somewhat thankful that he never had.

This man looked more than usually offended. Above his high collar, his mouth pursed as if he'd just bit into a more than usually sour lemon. “I am not. I bear a message that has been entrusted to me for the eyes of her highness alone.” His gloved fingers drummed furiously on the edge of the counter as he stared into space and appeared to lose himself temporarily in thought. Finally he appeared to come to some conclusion. “Endless botheration. Where does she live?”

Tiffany was starting to become alarmed. This man was proving to be a little more persistent than most. “I'm afraid that information is confidential, sir. I'm very sorry to be unable to help you, but I'll have to ask you to leave so I can close the shop now.”

Herwick had barely looked at her before, but this unexpected defiance certainly got his attention. He placed his cane one the counter and rested both hands on it, leaning over the table to pin Tiffany with a hard glare. The topaz eyes almost seemed to emit sparks. “Are you denying a simple request for information, girl?” The tone carried a hitherto unvoiced menace.

Bugger. Unwilling to anger a potential customer further, Tiffany fell back on her last line of defence. “Of course not, sir! It's simply that I only communicate with Ms. Miranda through the post. She has a post office box where I forward all her commissions. You could certainly send your letter there.” She reached over the counter to snag one of the pale green cards and present it to him. “That's her address. I don't know if she'll respond or not of course, she's very busy with all the work we've had coming in lately...”

Herwick fairly snatched the card from her hand. 'Princess Miranda's Music and Instruments' spelt the elegant calligraphy, '27 Fothergill Terrace, P.O. Box 182'. He scrutinised it as if looking for things Tif would never have thought to find in a business card. “And this is the only way of contacting her?” Once again the fingers performed their restless dance on the counter. “Very well. When next you speak with her, please inform Princess Miranda of my call and that I hold every expectation of coming into communication with her presently.” He removed his cane and walked to the door, standing before it with an expectant expression.

Almost weak kneed with relief, Tiffany realised that he expected her to open it for him. Whoops. Well, that was a mistake that could easily be remedied. Dodging around the counter, she grasped the door handle, only to find him staring at pointedly at her sneakers with an ironically raised eyebrow. Thankfully, he was content to let his expression speak for him. Tiffany blushed and swung the door open to admit him into the blustery autumn evening. Only it wasn't. Instead of the pile of leaves that inevitably accumulated, scuffing against the door as if pleading for entry, the gust of wind blew a small drift of snow across the door frame as Herwick nodded casually to her and walked out of the shop and into a winter snow storm.

As the door swung shut on her very last customer of the week, Tif thankfully flipped the sign from open to closed and fell into the embrace of the nearest chair, her gaze riveted to the now spreading puddle of rapidly melting snow.

An arpeggio rippled from the strings behind her. 'Well now,' said the harp in the corner, 'you're in a spot of trouble aren't you?'