The Anxiety of Kalix the Werewolf. Martin Millar
your shoes and dresses?”
“Exactly. And while I am ruler, it does make life tedious if my government is always angry at me. I have assured them that I will spend less time on fashion and more on government, at least till things settle down.”
The Queen sat on the edge of Moonglow’s bed. She always felt comfortable in Moonglow’s room. It was small and rather dark, with the walls painted black and hung with Gothic posters and some of Moonglow’s favorite dark dresses. It reminded the Fire Queen of the caves she’d hidden in so often in her youth, as a fugitive.
“If I do get a spare moment, there is always some trouble with Agrivex. Really, Moonglow, I sometimes become tired of looking after a whole nation, and Agrivex as well.”
“I know what you mean,” said Moonglow. “Sometimes I feel that way too.”
“How can you feel this?” asked the Queen.
“Well, I don’t have a country to look after, but I have got Daniel, Kalix and Vex. None of them are exactly competent. You know, at paying bills. Or washing up, or buying food, or tidying the house. I have to keep making these schedules for everyone and then they get annoyed with me. But if I don’t do it, everything just gets in a mess. I really get tired of acting like their mother.”
“I know just what you mean!” exclaimed the Fire Queen. “Ministers of state ask me the most ridiculous questions, and I am continually thinking, Can you not work it out for yourself? And as for Agrivex . . .”
Moonglow nodded. Agrivex could be a burden.
“I presume this so-called boyfriend will never call her again?” said the Queen.
“That’s what I’m guessing. She’ll probably be upset.”
“She will get over it.” The Fire Queen fished in her handbag and produced a small, glossy leaflet. “This is what I wished to consult you about. You will be aware that for a very long time I have been dissatisfied with my lip coloring?”
Moonglow nodded, having heard this complaint before.
“Sometimes it seems as if the universe is conspiring to make my lipstick fade,” said the Queen. “No matter what I do, it will neither go on in a satisfactory glossy manner nor retain its luster through the evening. And this is becoming a matter of great importance because, at a fashion show next week, photographers from Vogue will be in attendance. And if I tell you that the evil Kabachetka will also be at this party, you will see how important it is that my makeup is flawless, and remains so all evening.”
Malveria handed the leaflet to Moonglow. It read “Six Steps to Perfect Lips,” and there were six pictures, each with a lengthy caption underneath.
“What do you think?” said the Fire Queen. “Is their six-step procedure worth implementing?”
“It’s quite a long procedure,” said Moonglow. “I don’t know if I’d want to do it every time I went out, but it does look good. Do you want to try it?”
“Yes! Unless you are busy with other important matters . . .”
“My only plans for today were avoiding Daniel,” said Moonglow. She studied the leaflet: Step one—Prepare and prime the lips by applying a lip conditioner.
The Fire Queen had come prepared, and produced her lip conditioner from her bag.
“Let’s get to work,” said Moonglow.
Thrix MacRinnalch was generally regarded as a glamorous young woman. She appeared to be no more than thirty years old. But werewolves lived long and aged slowly. Really, she was much older. She’d first met Minerva MacRinnalch shortly after the end of the Second World War.
A few of the young werewolves at the castle had been planning to attend a dance in the nearest town. They were looking forward to the event. There had not been much in the way of enjoyment to be had during the war. In the two years since, life had been easier, but hardly more enjoyable. Britain was in debt and few people had money. Everything was rationed, including food and clothing. Thrix had become very adept at altering clothes, taking an old dress and making something new for a special occasion. It was satisfying when it worked out well, but she was weary of it. Thrix would have loved to buy a beautiful new dress but she couldn’t. Even if the Mistress of the Werewolves had allowed her daughter to spend so much money, which she probably wouldn’t have, there weren’t any beautiful new dresses to be had in this part of Scotland. As far as Thrix could tell, there was not a fashionable frock to be had anywhere in the north of Scotland.
Thrix was walking down a dark stone corridor, deep in thought, and had almost bumped into her mother.
“My daughter Thrix,” announced Verasa to her companion. “Not looking where she’s going.”
“These corridors are so dark,” said Thrix.
Her mother nodded. “I know. It’s gloomy. But the Thane won’t sanction any more lights. Have you met Minerva MacRinnalch?”
Thrix had been taken aback. Minerva was a famous, or infamous, figure in the clan, and not a werewolf she’d ever expected to meet in the castle. Minerva was a sorcerer, and that was a very odd thing for a werewolf to be. It wasn’t respectable. The MacRinnalchs were suspicious of the art. As far as Thrix knew, Minerva had never visited the castle before, and wouldn’t be welcomed by the Thane. He set great store by respectability. The MacRinnalch werewolves are a civilized clan, he said on many occasions. The clan mostly agreed with him, though some of the younger members were coming to resent the Thane’s rather harsh domestic discipline.
“Are you really Minerva the sorceress?” said Thrix.
“I am.” Minerva looked around fifty, in human terms, though she could have been any age. Verasa herself was several hundred years old. Minerva was a sorceress and might have lived for far longer than that. Thrix had never heard an exact account of her origins.
“You seem preoccupied,” said Minerva.
“Most probably she was wondering about a new dress,” said Verasa.
“Ah,” said Minerva. “The dance?”
Thrix nodded. “I’m so fed up with wearing old clothes.”
Minerva smiled. Thrix felt more uncomfortable. She had the feeling Minerva had quickly summed her up, and wasn’t that impressed.
“Why don’t you come with us?” said Minerva. “We’re off for a small glass of whisky before the Thane returns. Perhaps I can give you some help.”
Even now, many years later, Thrix could still visualize the dress that Minerva had created for the dance. Casting a spell on an old garment, she’d produced the most beautiful dress Thrix had ever seen. She just conjured it out of a ragged old frock. Thrix had been staggered. Her mother had seemed puzzled that Minerva would waste her power on what seemed like a trivial matter. But Minerva had done it, and the dress was beautiful, and fashionable. Thrix wore it to the dance, where it caused a sensation. No one could imagine how Thrix had managed to appear wearing such a fine new garment.
Halfway up the mountainside, Thrix came to a halt. She laid Minerva’s body at her feet. Thrix’s face was anguished as she looked down at her old teacher.
“It was cunning of you to make me that dress. You knew I’d be interested in sorcery after that.”
What Minerva had seen in the Thane’s daughter to make her select her as a pupil, Thrix had never really understood, but soon afterward she became her student. The MacRinnalchs had been shocked. Her father had raged against it. Her mother, while less angry, had not approved. Nor had her brothers. Thrix had been obliged to ignore her family and the clan to become a pupil of Minerva MacRinnalch.
“You really sucked me in with that dress.”