Wonder Made

Fifteen, Part One

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Bureaucracy has a lot more in common with a garden snail than first impressions might lend one to believe - for all intents and purposes, they both are slow, their brief existence is abhorred by gardeners the world over, while in parts of said world,  some consider them delicacies.

The magical world is plagued by bureaucracy, much like my garden is infested by snails and Peneloper Auttsley is about to witness it all, firsthand. I trust she will have no idea what's in store as the rules and regulations and NDAs come piled as high as Everest. But she must ascend this mountain of paperwork if she is to engage with the Council of Four.

I imagine she will be filled with awe, amazement, delight, wonder, and quite possibly shed tears at the sheer magnificence of their perfected leadership. Though this is not a Crispen chapter, I sense him scoffing, as he lounges in one of the waiting chairs in the lobby. Phil Collins' shuffles out of the headphones slung around his neck and he shakes his head disdainfully and thinks at me a reminder, You are to be an unbiased narrator. 

'Unbiased ' is unnecessarily emphasized. 

Crispen rolls his eyes. Peneloper, unaware of the conversation Crispen is thinking to me then, which is being broadcast to me now, eyes the plethora of magazines scattered on the coffee table. The selection, or lack thereof, appalls her: Golf magazines from the late eighties, Cosmo's with all the quizzes taken, Green Pages unironically colored red, crumpled up Sunday funnies of only Family Circus.

Chant thumbs through a Cosmo, pausing briefly on a page said to reveal the secrets of the female orgasm. He turns fire-engine red at the word. Orgasm, heretofore referred to as 'The Word,' proves to be a fearsome opponent to his fragile virginal disposition.

Crispen tries his hardest to ignore me, though my description of the Luric boy tugs at the corners of his mouth. Reluctantly, he smiles. His fat, feathered companion roosts on his shoulder, head tucked under its wing, drool cascading from a parted beak as it dreams whatever it is birds' dream. Anderson stands sentinel at the Proprietor's door, fingers scratching away at a silver cross earring he'd procured sometime between Chant's house and now, a journey that had taken precisely seventy-seven blinks.

A bespectacled lizard woman clacks long, red nails against her keyboard without looking at what she's typing. In her position, it does not matter what she types. After a few sentences of "difebej djdsjsbg grkeosa," Latin for "This is definitely not Latin," she looks at the normally empty visitors lounge and realizes, to her horror, the status quo has been broken. An arrival of people has occurred under her snout and it becomes glaringly obvious, she does not know for how long they'd been there - hours, days, or years. Shifting gears from a snail's pace to that of diuretic molasses, she stabs the air with one of her nails, beckoning the new arrivals over.

Peneloper and company meander through a collection of gold chains tethering everything to everything else, as though the crumpled papers in the bins, and discarded chewing gum stuck to the bottom sides of the seats were of equal value to the silver sconces, digital wall clocks and gold plated espresso machine, a gift - as evidence by the bright red bow still stuck on top of it, from Boyle, Bane and Derndach Ad Agency, for, if you believed the accompanying card, 'A job well done, Lucinda.'

A clipboard and pen are slid toward Peneloper. There is nothing of interest to note about this sign-in sheet; it is run-of-the-mill, standard paper with spaces to accommodate the first, middle, and last names of those wishing to enter. Peneloper breathes out, takes the pen in shaking fingertips. She frowns, gaze lingering on the phrase, 'middle name.'