“Miss (last name)!” Your butler called as he bustled through the estate to your quarters. “You received a letter. I found it on the parlor floor.”
“The parlor floor?” You repeated, coming out in your wool robe, having just woken up. “How improper!”
The butler noticed what you were wearing and looked away, blushing. You looked down at your clothes and blushed as well. “Pardon me!” You exclaimed, covering yourself. “What atrocious attire! Let me change, please.” You grabbed the letter and shut the door.
After dressing in a simple gown and petticoats and fascinating your favorite silver locket around your neck, you sat at your vanity and opened the letter. Written in neat cursive was this:
I want to arrange a meeting.
Meet me in Edwardson Garden on the twenty-first night of August, at seven o’clock p.m., under the white-lit dogwood tree.
Nothing shady, don’t worry.
See you then.
You cocked your head. Flyer? What a curious name. The whole affair seemed curious, in fact. You sighed and decided to go for it. If things got shifty you could use your knife you always hid in your riding boot.
After etiquette lessons you took afternoon tea. “Butler!” You called, biting into a scone. The butler came rushing in.
“What is my schedule for the twenty-first?”
“Clear, ma’am,” said the butler, pouring you a fresh cup of hot tea. You thanked him and sipped. It was warm and tasted like raspberry.
“Then arrange for me a carriage to Edwardson Garden for that day, will you? For seven o’clock p.m.?” You said, admiring the fine details on your porcelain teacup.
The carriage arrived approximately on time. You adorned your favorite evening gown, which was baby blue with white lace accents on the sleeves and neckline. You wore a sapphire necklace and a bonnet on your curled (hair color) hair.
The carriage ride was rather long. You never realized how far away you lived from Edwardson Garden.
You finally arrived. The coachman escorted you to the Garden entrance then departed. You walked alone through the park with a knitted shawl over your shoulders, eyes peeled for this “Flyer” character.
You found the white-lit dogwood tree and stood under it. “Flyer” still hadn’t shown up. After about ten minutes of standing, you decided that this whole trip was a waste of time and began walking back. All of a sudden, there was a rustling in the bushes nearby. You whipped out your knife and held it at the ready.
A man (that looked about your age) stumbled out from the bushes. He was blonde and had beautiful emerald green eyes accompanied with the bushiest eyebrows you had ever seen. He appeared to be lost, for he had twigs amiss in his hair and dirt on his face and dress coat.
He looked up at you and said in an authentic British accent, “Are you ‘M.B.’?”
You blinked. “No, Sir. And are you the man called ‘Flyer’?”
He shook his head. “I suppose we’re not who we’re looking for, then.” You kneeled down and offered a hand to the Brit.
“Need a lift?” You asked. He looked on curiously.
“That’s rather improper,” he said. You blushed and said nothing.
“Ah! I’ve forgotten to introduce myself,” he exclaimed. “My name is Arthur Kirkland. I should bow, but I am sitting down.” He laughed, an easy, carefree laugh that made your heart melt. How odd. Nevertheless, he took your hand and heaved himself up with grace. He bowed like a true gentleman and you caught yourself blushing.
“(First name) (Last name),” you said, giving an almost-perfect curtsey. “So you aren’t ‘Flyer’? The one who gave me instructions on how to get here?”
Mr. Kirkland shook his head. “Afraid not, Miss. And I take it you are not ‘M.B.’? The one who gave me my instructions?”
“No...” you trailed off, leaving the sentence dangling.
“Do you suppose we were set up?” Mr. Kirkland stated.
“That’s a rather wild assumption,” you replied. Although it could very well be true.
“You say your instructions were from a fellow called ‘Flyer’, did you not? And I received my instructions from a character called ‘M.B.’?” He said, laying out the obvious. “Well?”
“Oh! Ah, yes,” you said. “What do you think it means?”
Mr. Kirkland said, “Well, ‘Flyer’ and ‘M.B.’... I believe I may have an idea who did this.” You blinked.
Mr. Kirkland shouted to the sky, “Oi! I know now, ya bloody git!” You gasped at his use of foul language. All of a sudden, a mint-tinted rabbit with wings flew down from the night. Wings! How preposterous.
“Miss (Last name), this is my old pal, Flying Mint Bunny. He is the one who set us up.” You thought about it. Flyer and M.B. Flying Mint Bunny. Of course!
You held out your hand and the bunny nuzzled it with its nose. “P-Pleased to make your acquaintance,” you stuttered.
Mr. Kirkland chuckled. “Apparently the little wanker assumed I was growing lonesome and wanted to ‘set me up on a date’. Little ankle-biter.” He petted the green creature.
You were speechless. Partially for his use of language in the presence of a lady, and second for his term ‘Set me up on a date’. On a date. Date. You blushed furiously and tried pulling your bonnet over your face.
“Well, since we’re here, would you care to dance?” Mr. Kirkland said, holding out his hand. You laughed nervously, still blushing.
“What a mad idea, Mr. Kirkland. We haven’t any music.”
Mr. Kirkland grinned. “Of course we do.” He made a gesture toward Flying Mint Bunny, and the rabbit opened his mouth and started singing a waltz tune. “Oh, and you can call me Arthur.”
You looked on in amazement at the singing bunny. “Remarkable...” You looked to Arthur, flattered by the first-name basis. “Arthur...” You took his hand gingerly. “I accept this dance.”
“Excellent.” He spun you around and planted a surprise kiss on your lips, which tasted similar to that of scones. You blushed like a maniac, unsure of how to take it.
“You must be bonkers,” you said, staring hard into his eyes. He grinned.
“I may be,” he replied, “But fate brought us here. Why not trust it?”
You managed a shaky smile. “A...Agreed.”
He chuckled. “Faltering in speech-” He kissed you again. “-Most improper.”