The pronouncement of the queen was death, as it always was, though I had the temerity to ask her why.
She scoffed, she sneered, her face turned red, but this she did express: that my report on broken china caused her deep distress.
“You asked of me to give account!” I said incredulous. “I’m not the one who throws them all about.”
“But still,” she said with deadly cool, “your report is far too much.”
“If you’d preferred a set amount, I’d only make that toll. I’d stop right there for fear my head would roll.”
Retort came on: “What use then! Why count at all?”
“If you don’t want the truth from me, and you don’t want a lie, then what exactly do you want? Please tell me ere I die.”
Since then, a silence she has kept, and the headsman stands waiting. I think I know what answer’s trapped there in her throat, but if she gives it she will lose the game she’s played thus far. The cat will be out of the bag, and all the court will hear; that is, I know, her one and only fear. She would kill them all first, I suspect.
Tale Told 