And the adventure continues!

Today’s Writing Prompt: Storm in a teacup

"When someone creates a fuss about a trivial or unimportant matter, he or she is said to have created a 'storm in a teacup', or as Shakespeare might have put it 'Much Ado About Nothing'. While seemingly founded in English domestic life, the expression can be traced back to a Latin expression, excitare fluctus in simpulo, which has been translated as 'raise a tempest in a ladle'. The Americans, on the other hand, talk about 'a tempest in a tea-pot'." (Mothballs, 2004)

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A half-hour passed in tranquility. The captive man stirred occasionally, which always caused Erika to tighten her hold on the bat, but he made no further signs of waking up. She had plenty of time to observe him, but that didn't change her initial impression: he was a very ugly man.

Why Frances had seen fit to hit him over the head, Erika did not know. She had heard voices, but she came downstairs too late, only in time to discover the sweet-faced old woman standing over a prone figure, and nothing of what had led to that moment. Together they had hefted his dead-weight into the chair. Frances had produced the rope (Frances always produced the rope, and from who-knows-where, Erika thought dryly) and they had secured him. Then, of course, the clock had chimed and Frances recalled that she was supposed to be at a meeting of the local Ladies' Auxiliary Gardening Club, of which she was vice president.

Erika didn't want to be left behind with the unconscious man, but she wouldn't for the world have braved that den of harridans in Frances's stead. If any of them found out that Frances had a captive trussed up in her front room, there would be hell to pay.

When the clock on the wall chimed a quarter-till, Erika surmised that the club had been loath to let Frances leave. Anxiously she left her chair to peer out the little front window next to the door, hoping to catch some glimpse of the grandmotherly woman walking home. The street beyond their little yard was dark, with no sign of movement.

Erika sighed and turned back to her post. A pair of watery eyes stared at her.

"Oh!" she cried in shock, thankful that she still had hold of the bat. How long had he been awake?

"So you're Fanny's new pet," the man drawled, and his melancholy gaze swept over her from head to toe.

Erika opened her mouth to respond, but she bit back the words. Don't talk to him, she told herself. Just keep quiet and wait for Frances to come home.

Cautiously she moved around him, leaving a wide berth despite the ropes that kept him bound. If he knew Frances (and anyone audacious enough to call her "Fanny" had to know her fairly well) then there was no telling what he was capable of.

"Oh, going back to sit behind me, are you?" he continued. "Think you're safer where I can't properly see you? Or are you going to knock me over the head like she did?"

"I will if you don't keep quiet," Erika said. So much for her resolution not to say anything, she thought.

To her surprise, though, the ugly man snapped his mouth shut and trained his eyes forward again. From her vantage point behind him, she could just make out a mean set to his jaw. He'd taken her threat seriously, at least.

Silence reigned. As the clock on the wall ticked away the minutes, Erika's resolve to remain aloof began to crumble. The man never tried the strength of his bands. He never so much as twitched. He simply stared ahead, with such controlled stillness that she wondered how long he had actually been awake. Had he somehow sensed a presence behind him and pretended to be unconscious until she moved? If he knew Frances...

Erika had never felt such blissful relief to hear footsteps on the front porch. She stood as the doorknob turned and Frances poked her head inside.

Finally.

"Oh," said the white-haired old woman, "so you're awake after all, are you Amos?" She then made a great show of entering the house, shutting the door properly, depositing her handbag on the little table there, peeling the lace gloves from her wrinkled hands, and chattering as she did all of it. "The ladies insisted I stay for the business portion of the meeting, and then proceeded to drag it out as long as they possibly could. Incidentally, Erika dear, I told them you were abed with a cough and that I had to go home early to watch over you. You might want to scream into your pillow tonight to turn your voice hoarse, just in case you meet any of the ladies tomorrow."

Erika frowned but made a mental note to follow the older woman's advice.

The ugly man scoffed quite audibly.

Frances ignored him. "Then, of course, Marjorie waylaid me at the door to talk about her daffodils. The poor creature has had such a terrible season with them, so I felt too bad about brushing her off. And that is why I'm later than I said I would be. Did he give you any trouble, dear?"

"No," said Erika. "Should I go back to my room now?"

"If you'd like to. Hand me the bat, if you please."

Erika gingerly complied with that request, but she hesitated over what to do next. Frances had not explicitly told her to leave, and she would be lying if she said she wasn't curious. She hoped for some sort of cue from the older woman, but once Frances had her weapon of choice again, she seemed not to notice that Erika was even still there.

"What are you doing here, Amos?" Frances asked the man, and since she had started an interrogation in plain sight of Erika, the younger girl surmised that she was welcome to stay and listen.

The ugly man shifted in his chair, uncomfortable. "What, a man can't visit his own sister once in a while?"

"Not when that man is you and the sister is me," said Frances with a pleasant smile, and she bounced the bat against the palm of her free hand.

"You always were one to make a storm in a teacup, Fanny," Amos grumbled. "Just because I'm here doesn't mean anything terrible has happened."

"Oh, I think it probably does," Frances contradicted cheerfully. "Now, are you going to tell me, or do I have to beat it out of you?"

***

And so it continues. Incidentally, the citation at the start is from a British book, which is why it is punctuated incorrectly according to American standards. Those commas and stops would otherwise be inside the end-quotes. I am very particular about those sorts of things, you know.

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Works Cited

Mothballs and Elbow Grease (2nd ed.). (2004) UK: The National Trust