The Glas s Town Game

Young Soult screamed out his lines as though he was afraid they’d tear him apart if he kept them in any longer.

Not three months past in weakened Gondal

Douro’s voice did ring:

ALL THE LANDS MY TROOPS HAVE TOUCHED,

OF THESE I WILL BE KING!

Gladly will I share the secret of

Dear Glass Town’s precious rum

If you’ll divide the world with me

When all is said and done!

Chaos erupted. Adrian went black with rage. The banked embers beneath his skin roared to white-hot life.

“I gave you everything, Soult! Is this how you pay me back for the whole of your detestable life? I found you singing nursery rhymes to the rats in the gutters of Verdopolis and I made you the greatest poet in Glass Town!”

“Second greatest,” Lord Byron said casually. He popped a raspberry into his mouth. “Possibly third.”

Mary Percy grabbed Douro by the shoulders. She was bronze, he was ash. He had never been able to stand against her. It was what he liked best about Mary. Onstage, the young Douro puppet and the young Bonaparte puppet embraced. A wide brass crown lowered on black ribbons. It settled down over both their heads.

Our grandpas did it! Why not us?

There IS no reason why!

What matters acres, counties, fields,

If Gondal need not die?

Mary Percy shook her beloved like a doll. She spoke sweetly. She did her best. “My darling, my darling, it’s only theater! It’s only art! Art is nothing but frippery and lies; everyone knows that!”

“Stand aside or I shall stand aside you,” Douro snarled. His eyes were as full of murder as Mary’s were with tears.

“Don’t

be an imbecile, Adrian!” she hissed. “You’re always like this! Years and years with me and you never learn a thing! Laugh, you giant, stubborn moose of a man! Laugh and it’s a comedy! Just a bit of political satire. You can take it. Anyone can. Kill him and you’ll make it true.”

Young Douro locked eyes with Mary. They stood unmoving for an endless moment. Charlotte and Emily watched them from their separate blankets, not understanding, and then understanding too well, just as the bronze beauty did.

“Oh,” Mary said, and in that little, sad oh, her heart broke. “Oh, Adrian. My love. No.”

The Marquis flung her aside and charged at the stage. Crashey and Gravey leapt to their feet and barreled into him. They wrestled him up between them, scrambling in the mud to hold the last scion of the house of Douro where he stood, his trousers covered in crumbs and crushed wildflowers. Charlotte wanted desperately to help, but she couldn’t see how. All the while, Young Soult hurried to finish, to get it all out before his greatest work ended in a rather abrupt and thorough murder.

Drown Victoria or hang her,

I care nothing for her lot.

Usurpers get what they deserve—

Let the little vixen rot!

The once-tidy lawn fell apart into pandemonium. The Duchess of Can’t’s eyes dried for the first time in years. She threw her head back and screamed like a banshee. The Duke balled his hands into impotent fists—for a ruler can’t strike a subject, no matter how much of a cow he’s been.

Over all creation our immortal