She was dressed in a baggy housecoat which made her seem even more bloated than she really was. The low, stuffed chair she was sitting in was almost obscured from view by her bulk, which seemed to swell over the sides of the chair and flow onto the mottled carpet. There was a tangle of white string on her lap which she jabbed at viciously with a small, barbed stick she was holding. At first, it gave the illusion she was torturing string, but then I noticed there were similar masses draped over nearly every available flat surface in the apartment, and concluded that she was involved in some kind of craft project, the nature of which was beyond my knowledge or appreciation.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. . . .”
“Call me Duchess,” she snapped. “Everyone does. Don’t know why, though . . . haven’t had royalty on this dimension for generations. Beheaded them all and divvied up their property . . . those were the days!” She smacked her lips at the memory, though of royalty or beheadings I wasn’t sure, and pointed vaguely at the far wall. I looked, half expecting to see a head mounted on a plaque, then realized she was pointing at a faded picture hanging there. I also realized I couldn’t make it out through the dust and grime on its surface.
“It’s the maid’s day off,” the Duchess said sharply, noting my expression. “ Can’t get decent work out of domestics since they outlawed flogging!”
I have seldom heard such an obvious lie . . . about the maid, I mean, not the flogging. The cobwebs, dust, and litter which were prevalent everywhere could not have accumulated in a day . . . or in a year for that matter. The shelves and cases throughout the room were jammed with the tackiest collection of bric-a-brac and dustcatchers it had ever been my misfortune to behold, and every dustcatcher had caught its capacity and more. I had no idea why the Duchess felt it necessary to imply she had servants when she obviously had little regard for me, but there was no point in letting her know I didn’t believe her.