Frankie sat the erstwhile lovers in front of a feast, which Cook, a newly written-up manservant placed on the table.
"Drinks later?" she asked Cook brightly.
"I'm not a 'mum', Cookie. But I'll see you then."
"It does not do well to be friends with the help," said Pratty-Pants.
Frankie quietly stole a fat strawberry out of a small dish and popped it in her mouth before replying, in a slightly muffled way, "You, 'Roy', have someone you need to be paying attention to. I'm not involved, I'm just writing this tripe."
"Like, why are you writing this?" Lady Slutskaya asked.
"The entertainment value," replied Frankie. "You see, I'm in no way fond of the romance novel, cheap tripe for those who might perhaps need some lovin'. So I'm writing this up as a parody, absolutely awful, and on purpose. It's my..." she smirked as a little ditty appeared in her head complete with goose-stepping- "Spring Time For Hitler."
"So that's why I'm here," Brunhilda said, sneaking up in a surprisingly quiet way for her girth- "I'm the answer to the Swedish secretary, ja?"
"In a way. You're also here to be a sane person when I cannot."
"What the devil are you talking about?" spluttered a bemused Pratty-Pants.
"Musical theater, Monster of Mine. Now eat."
"Pitiful rubbish, that." he said, beginning to dig into his hearty meal of- oh, let's say, pheasant.
"I'll keep the tickets for that Hair revival then," Frankie said smirking.
Frankie couldn't help herself and began singing, in a sweet little voice, "Oh, give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair..."
"A musical about hair?"
"Not quite." said Brunhilda, who'd seen an original performance with a badly cast young Meat Loaf. (When she'd told Frankie the story, Frankie had stared at her in pure horror.)
"Shining, streaming, flaxen, waxen..." Frankie was entertaining herself now.
Brunhilda took a seat beside her and began the next verse, in a strong voice from years as a bar-maid. (She had originally been written to take a part in a show back in 1934, Frankie had rescued her from obscurity and adopted her as secretary, friend and confidant.)
"gimmee down to there hair, shoulder-length and longer hair, here baby, there, mama, everywhere, daddy, daddy," -the accent and the strong, lustily loud high tenor had Frankie giggling. She joined her in the next, while Pratty-Pants and Slutskaya looked on as if someone had poured live wasps into their ears.
"Dear God, that's..."
"A darn fun song," finished Frankie. She removed Slutskaya's restraining, "please no more!" hand from her forearm.
"You should be gripping the pratty one that way, my lady," Frankie told her.
When they continued to stare, she sang out, like a little angel, the unattached, out of place, "And spaghetti!" while they wondered if their creator had gone insane.
"I know your thoughts, you do know that, right?" Frankie became serious.
"Brunhilda here is thinking that I should be a little more tough on you. That perhaps a cattle prod would make you behave. That Slutskaya learned nothing from her evening of- well, we'll say she got a bit tied-up- and that you, Sir Pratty-Pants, might need to be struck off and made a mere junk character, an ink blot, and that I am- oh, Brunhilda, stop! I'm just too modest... you make me blush!"
Brunhilda grinned widely and nodded approvingly.
"Pratty-Pants, you sir, are thinking 'how dare you'. You, Slutskaya, my dear lady," Frankie nodded once in her direction, "Are wondering just why Pratty-Pants isn't 10 feet tall and hulking like the Fabio types. My dear, you just don't pay attention, do you?"
"Look, you are meant to be- oh dear, lovers. You experience tension, you hate each other, you can't keep your hands off each other... and your love becomes a wild, raging storm..."
She snapped her fingers. As she'd scribbled before, the sky turned black, the lightning lit the darkness, and the winds howled menacingly. She snapped her fingers again and it was daylight. "You see, I control the weather with a stroke of the pen. But... I sadly wrote you as being self aware and capable of influencing actions, too. Do not make me regret that, totally."
With that, she left, Brunhilda at her heels.