The Homecoming
In which everyone is exactly where they ought to be...
The Bluestocking had never looked more welcoming. Evening sunlight still lingered beyond the windows, turning the harbour gold. The doors stood open to the sea air. Voices drifted in from outside, mingling with laughter from the bar.
The smugglers had been handed over, Customs had acquired enough paperwork to remain happy for several months, and Talmere had begun explaining why none of it was really their fault. For now that would have to do. Everyone was simply home.
Gosie sat comfortably and watched the room. She liked this part. The adventure was over. People became themselves again.
@Swashbuckled and @RandomHypatia were discussing seamanship with @NotAtMyAge nd the serious Scandinavians. @JanesLittleGirl chipped in with her analysis of the correct method to stow cargo. Nobody appeared willing to concede anything. Fortunately, the arrival of @EdithStourton with Brains and Batshit meant none of it mattered.
@AngleofRepose, @Magpiecomplex and @Chickadeeinme were listening to @Boiledbeetle explain something involving a warehouse, a crate of Tunnock’s Teacakes and a route through Portland that became less convincing every time she described it.
@Fuzzypuffling's whereabouts remained unknown. This did not prevent several people from claiming to know exactly where she was.
Around the room stories were beginning to improve. The emergency Scottish resupply had become considerably more dramatic by the time @SDTGisAnEvilWolefGenius finished describing it. @ErroltheDragon's signal fire was steadily increasing in size and @ChristmasStars was being credited with preventing disasters that nobody else remembered occurring.
Distances increased. Obstacles multiplied. Weather conditions deteriorated. The yacht became steadily larger. Gosie suspected this process would continue for several hours.
The banquet was well underway when Octavia Briefcase returned carrying a wooden case. She placed it on the table and resumed her seat without explanation. MyrtleLion lifted the lid.
Inside sat row upon row of dark green packets bearing elegant gold lettering. Vesper Gold Monastery Helianthus.
The effect was immediate. Chairs scraped quietly against floorboards as heads turned toward the table.
Governance closed a notebook. Glockenspiel carefully removed her spectacles and cleaned them. Gardenia stopped eating and stared at the open case. A ribbon of gravy continued its slow descent from her fork entirely unnoticed. Galatia abandoned an argument halfway through a sentence and simply gawped. Gasket set down a teacup and then tried to set it down again.
Octavia anticipated the questions before anyone spoke. “The chain of custody was broken. Nobody can prove it belonged to the seized consignment, nobody can prove it was stolen and nobody is likely to claim ownership. Legally speaking, it is simply a box of sunflower seeds that I happened to have in my briefcase.”
“In that case,” said MyrtleLion, reaching into the case and removing a single packet, “thank you, all.” She looked at the gerbils. “For helping.”
The distribution that followed was remarkably orderly. Gimbal accepted three seeds, stared at them for a moment and then carefully placed one back. Across the table Galliard counted hers twice before handing one to the gerbil beside her. Gasket accepted her share, nodded solemnly and immediately hid two for later. Nobody appeared entirely certain how many seeds constituted the correct amount, but somehow everybody ended up with exactly the right number.
When all the gerbils had had their share, MyrtleLion took out a second packet and opened it. “And this,” she said, “is because we’re glad you all came home safely.”
For a moment nobody moved. Gimbal looked down at the seed in her paw as though it had become unexpectedly heavier.
“Oh,” said Galliard quietly.
Around the table several gerbils found sudden and urgent reasons to inspect their sunflower seeds very closely. MyrtleLion pretended not to notice.
Eventually Griffin looked at the case and noticed it was still almost full. “What about the rest?”
MyrtleLion closed the lid. “For special occasions only.”
Within minutes the gerbils had identified a number of forthcoming events that would clearly qualify as special occasions. At least two anniversaries had been invented and Ganges was attempting to organise a commemorative regatta.
“What about the Summer Festival?” asked Greengage. “What Summer Festival?” asked Gingerbread. “The one we shall now organise.”
“And Founders’ Day,” suggested Geode. “We don’t have a Founders’ Day,” replied Garnet. “We do now.”
MyrtleLion waited patiently until the discussion exhausted itself. Then she simply said, “You’ll know,” and handed the box to Boiledbeetle for safekeeping among her Tunnock’s.
The evening gradually dissolved into stories, laughter and entirely too many sunflower seeds. Somewhere along the way, the gerbils formed what appeared to be a formal Appreciation Society.
Finally, Gingham looked up at Gosie and said, “Tell us again about Octavia Breakfast stopping the smugglers.”
“Briefcase,” said Octavia.
Gingham nodded, “That’s what I said.”
Gosie suspected they were no longer discussing the same voyage she remembered. She didn’t mind.
Gosie settled herself into her armchair. Before she began the story she slipped a hand into her pocket and felt for the torn fragment. For a moment she considered taking it out. Then she left it where it was.
Tomorrow would do.
The End.
https://myrtlelion.substack.com/p/the-homecoming