Celia was the Regnant Queen.
She wasn’t traveling by boat.
She did some faery bullshit and opened a magic window to London.
The magic window opened in Southwark, on the south side of the river, between the bear-baiting ring and St. Saviour’s church.
A bunch of awful London people stood around, gaping at Celia and Rose Byrne.
The awful London people had seen a lot of things in their miserable London lives, but they’d never witnessed the spontaneous materialization of a fairy queen and her disagreeable companion.
One of the awful Londoners was a drunken scoundrel.
He only had one eye.
The scoundrel began dancing like a chicken, in the hopes that Celia or Rose would give him coin for alcohol.
“Let us anon, lady,” said Rose. “Before I rip this one’s arms from his shoulders and beat him about the head with his own appendages.”
“Come on, missus,” said the scoundrel. “Come on, I’m a righteous chicken and I’m a-dancing for you!”
Before Fern left England, she’d put a faery glamor on the location where the play of Celia’s life would be performed, which was the Hall at Gray’s Inn.
Gray’s Inn was one of the four Inns of Court, which were places where upper-class families sent their sons to train as barristers.
A barrister was a fancy lawyer.
The inmates of Gray’s Inn were learning to exploit England’s ad hoc legal system.
This training helped the inmates’ families abuse the poor and retain an iron hold over the country’s unjust social structure.
It was good work if you could get it.
Which you couldn’t.
Because you were poor.
Celia cast a spell.
The spell created a long thin tendril of magical light, like a ropey strand of saliva, that led from the faery glamor on Gray’s Inn to Celia’s location in Southwark. The tendril snaked through the streets of London, creating the most effective route to Gray’s Inn.
It was a little like getting directions from a smartphone, but without supplying every stupid fucking detail of your sad little life to the sociopaths who operate megalithic American corporations.
Celia and Rose left the Londoners and followed the tendril.
“Come on, missus,” cried the one-eyed scoundrel after Celia and Rose. “Come on, don’t you want to pluck me old feathers? Don’t you want to tug on the old beak? I’ve got some nice meat on me old chicken bones!”
The tendril led Celia and Rose over London Bridge.
There were human heads on spikes attached to the bridge’s southern gate.
Celia and Rose passed through the gate, taking no notice of the human heads, which were in various stages of decomposition. It was nighttime, so the heads weren’t very visible, and, anyway, a bunch of men’s heads on spikes was nothing new to the women of Fairy Land.
London Bridge was lined with buildings and shops on either side, and the passage was narrow, and as Celia and Rose followed the tendril, they often found themselves in darkness illuminated only by the tendril’s light.
The tendril brought Celia and Rose into Holborn, which was mostly countryside in the greeny northwest of the city.
The tendril brought Celia and Rose through the Holborn gate of Gray’s Inn.
There was a crowd of people, all headed in the same direction as Celia and Rose.
“What a great number have come to see this play of my life,” said Celia.
“Why would they not?” asked Rose. “What else would the dogs do? Bark at sparrows, chase cats up trees, and, by the smell of them, shit themselves every other Tuesday.”
Just past the gate, there was a little bookshop under the sign of a white bear. It was tended by a man named Henry Thomes.
Henry Thomes stood in front of his shop, crying out at passersby.
“Books, books, books,” he shouted. “Books of the Red-Rose Knight. Parts one and two. Books of the Red-Rose Knight. Read about the Red-Rose Knight in Tom a Lincoln!”
Celia stopped.
“The book has two parts?” she asked.
“The writer published the second but last year.”
“I will have this second part,” said Celia.
“For you, the cost is but four pence.”
“Pence?” asked Celia.
“Pennies,” said Henry Thomes.
“The swine asks for money,” said Rose. “We have spoken of money, lady. Do you remember?”
“Money,” said Celia. “I have no money.”
“No money, no book,” said Thomes.
“Would you take some ham?” asked Celia. “I believe Rose is carrying cured ham on her person. We could share it with you.”
“What am I to do with your old hog?” asked Thomes. “What I need is coin.”
Celia and Rose followed the crowd into the Hall at Gray’s Inn. They entered into a temporary autonomous zone called the Kingdom of Purpoole.
Almost every Christmas season, the young men of bleeding privilege who studied at Gray’s Inn would throw a huge party, creating a pseudo-monarchy of Purpoole, in which one of their number would be made Prince.
The Prince would rule for the season with his own courts, ministers, and government.
He was expected to put on masks, revels, plays, and dances. The current Kingdom had been established on the 12th of December.
A pupil named Thomas Rudde, of Higham Ferrers near Northampton, was made the Kingdom’s prince.
As the two women entered the Hall, the subjects of the Kingdom of Purpoole were escorting guests to their seats.
Prince Thomas was watching over his court.
Prince Thomas was drunk as a skunk. He’d been drunk for sixteen days.
He saw Celia.
Some of the tendril’s magic light had rubbed off on Celia. She glowed with the power of Fairy Land.
“How now,” Prince Thomas cried from his throne. “Who is this that comes amongst us? See how her face and bosom glow with light of the waxing crescent! Why, I shall avail myself of her company.”
The Prince leapt from his throne and took Celia’s arm in his own.
Prince Thomas was too drunk to notice that Rose Byrne had taken out her sword and was about to murder him.
Celia raised her hand, staying Rose’s assault.
“Sweetest creature,” said Prince Thomas. “Who art thou with thy fiery raiment?”
“I am Celia, Regnant Queen of Fairy Land.”
Prince Thomas laughed and laughed and laughed.
“What a jape!” he cried. “Which man of Gray’s Inn has architected such a jest?”
“Why are you laughing at my lady?” asked Rose.
“Many jibes arise throughout a Christmas Revel, but I know not of any previous happenstance when a character from imagination has come to life and presented herself at our court.”
“My lady is no product of imagination,” said Rose. “She is the Regnant Queen of Fairy Land. She has come to see the play.”
“Tell me,” said Celia. “What is your name?”
“I am Prince Thomas of this, the Kingdom of Purpoole.”
“I thought us in the Kingdom of England,” said Celia.
“In these walls, I am the true prince. All that happens within is for my benefit and by my leave.”
“As we are both monarchs,” said Celia, “shall we not watch the play together?”
“Excellent,” said Prince Thomas. “I have no throne for a queen, but my minions will find you some grand chair upon which to rest your bones and flesh.”
“Who whispered to you that my flesh wanted rest?”
Prince Thomas roared with laughter.
The play was presented by the Queen Anne’s Men.