Lita Burke

In her castle in the Northern Realms, Lita climbed the creaky belfry tower stairs to the Clockpunk Wizard workshop. Stacks of tidy manuscripts filled the shelves above the scarred wooden worktable nestled against the far wall. On the otherwise bare tabletop perched a message scroll wrapped with a silver coiled ribbon that looked like a clock’s taut spring. The ribbon’s tails beckoned like curling fingers.

Come closer, they said with mind voice. Come see.

Lita stepped near, planted fists on her hips, and leaned in to inspect the scroll. One inscribed tail said “For Madam Lita.” The other asked “Do You Fancy Some Toasted Bread?”

She pulled the ribbon tail labeled with her name. Best to save the toast issue for later.

The parchment unrolled with the tick-tick-tick of a fine pocket watch. The aroma of sweet elf-kind magic puffed into her face like the softest kiss. The familiar writing inside the scroll spoke this dreadful poetry:

There once was a narfleet named Bright

Who asked Lita to take a flight

On a flying fish

Colored purplish

For a gift made smart by a sprite.

Lita squealed her delight, tucked the parchment into a pocket, and crossed the room to the balcony door. The weather was different up here than it was downstairs. Thunder muttered far away, and raindrops ticked against the belfry windows. So be it about the weather. Lita released the door latch and nudged her hip against the stubborn door to open it.

Chilly wind slapped her cheeks with stinging raindrops. A gleeful gust jerked the door out of her grasp, flung it wide open, and crashed it against the stop. The wind reversed its strategy and now refused to relinquish control of the belfry door so she could close it.

I am the author here, she hissed with mind voice. Stop it. I want to see Sir Bright, and I want my gift.

[Lita’s Note: Yes, you can hiss with mind voice. You can also scream in mind voice, but your recipient will wince, profess they have a headache, and will go take a nap instead of helping you with the screaming matter.]

Pragmatics often work as well as spells. Lita won the struggle against the wind. She pushed the door closed and felt the click of the latch into the door jamb. Lita turned.

A small airship dock stretched from the belfry balcony into the intensifying rainstorm. A bulbous one-person transport squatted at the end of the dock. A hatch opened, and a short gangplank shot out of the transport like a bullfrog’s tongue. Lita peered through the rain. Inside the transport, mellow lights showed a comfy mint-green velvet settee sitting next to a table ladened with a steaming tea service piled high with golden scones. Just inside the transport door was a table stacked with fluffy drying towels.

Her hurried walk to the gangplank took long enough for the storm to soak Lita’s tunic and pants. She drew near the end of the airship dock. The gangplank jumped, then sprouted a handrail. The handrail made a bonging noise, shimmied like a dog shaking water from its back, then mercifully went still.

She all but flew into the dry interior of the transport. The hatch clicked closed behind her.

Lita grabbed a towel, patted dry her face, and leaned over to peer out the closest window. She saw the larger airship now. Hmm. It was not a flying fish, but a whale. Hard to tell with the rain, but it just might be purplish. Lita squinted. The wheelhouse was just visible through the thicket of trees that grew on the purple whale’s back.

Next: Sir Bright’s Startling Clockwork Automata Gift