Raising Beast Cubs to Find a Husband-Chapter 87: The Fan is a Weapon
Half an hour later, I was regretting my life choices.
"No, no, NO!" Giselle shouted, pacing the room with bird-like strides. "Open, snap, flutter! Not ’open, wave, drop’! You look like a pigeon trying to take off! Grace, child! Grace!"
Ellia was holding a lace fan. She looked miserable.
"This is stupid," Ellia groaned. "Why can’t I just say ’I am annoyed’? Why do I have to snap the fan shut?"
"Because," Giselle lectured, expanding her arm-feathers for emphasis, "in Court, words are dangerous. A snap of a fan can declare war. A flutter can start a romance. A tap on the cheek means ’follow me’."
Ellia threw the fan on the table. "It’s just a floppy stick! It’s useless!"
I stepped in. I saw Ellia’s frustration. She was a physical kid. She needed a physical metaphor.
"Ellia," I said, picking up the fan. "Think of it like this."
I snapped the fan open with a loud THWACK.
"This isn’t a fan," I said. "It’s a shield."
Ellia blinked. "A shield?"
"Yes," I nodded. "When you hold it up to your face, you are raising your defenses. No one can see your expression. You are protected."
I snapped it shut.
"And this? This is drawing your sword. It’s a threat. A sharp sound to warn enemies to back off."
I tapped it against my palm.
"And this? This is Morse Code. You are sending secret signals to your allies."
Ellia’s eyes lit up. "Secret signals? Like spy craft?"
"Exactly," I grinned. "The ballroom is a battlefield, Ellia. And this fan is your weapon. Do you want to go into battle unarmed?"
Ellia snatched the fan back. She looked at it with new respect.
"No," she said fiercely. "I want to be armed."
She looked at Giselle. "Show me the ’War Snap’ again."
Giselle looked at me. A tiny, almost imperceptible smile cracked her porcelain face. She gave a small chirp of approval.
"Very well," Giselle said. "The ’War Snap’. Wrist loose. Elbow in. Strike."
---
By the afternoon, we had moved on to dancing.
This was harder.
"One, two, three. One, two, three. OUCH!"
Bastion winced as Ellia stomped on his foot for the tenth time.
"Sorry, Papa!" Ellia cried. "My feet are too big! They don’t want to turn!"
They were practicing the Waltz. Bastion was the partner. I was the DJ (humming the tune because the orchestra was scared to come in). Giselle was the critic, watching with unblinking avian eyes.
"Terrible," Giselle sighed, clicking her tongue. "She moves like a brick falling from a nest."
"She is trying," Bastion defended, limping slightly. "It is a difficult rhythm."
"It’s boring!" Ellia complained. "Circle, circle, dip. Why do we just spin? It makes me dizzy."
I watched them. The problem wasn’t the rhythm. The problem was that Ellia felt restricted. She felt trapped in the rigid box of the dance.
I needed another metaphor.
"Ellia," I called out. "Stop thinking about the steps."
"Then what do I think about?" she asked, frustrated.
"Think about... Caspian fighting the Kraken," I said.
Bastion froze. "Excuse me?"
"Remember the story?" I asked Ellia. "How the water flows? It doesn’t move in straight lines. It spins. It pushes and pulls."
I walked over to them.
"The Waltz isn’t a march," I explained. "It’s a current. Bastion is the anchor. You are the wave. You have to flow around him."
I looked at Bastion. "May I?"
Bastion nodded, stepping back.
I took Ellia’s hands.
"Don’t count," I told her. "Just feel the momentum. When I pull, you push. When I push, you yield. Like sparring. But soft."
I hummed a faster tune. I stepped in. Ellia instinctively stepped back to maintain distance. I spun. She spun to keep her eyes on me.
"See?" I smiled, twirling her. "You’re doing it. You’re reacting."
"It’s like dodging," Ellia realized, her feet moving lighter now. "But... pretty dodging."
"Exactly," I laughed. "Pretty dodging."
Bastion watched us, his eyes wide. He looked at Giselle.
"Is that... unorthodox?" Bastion asked.
Giselle tapped her chin with her cane, her head tilting almost 90 degrees to the side in a bird-like gesture of contemplation.
"It is entirely improper," Giselle said, fluffing her arm feathers. "However..."
Ellia spun out, giggling, and landed in a perfect curtsy.
"...it appears to be working," Giselle finished. "The Tutor has a unique pedagogical method."
"She compares everything to violence," Bastion noted.
"And in this Empire," Giselle smirked, baring slightly pointed teeth, "that is the most practical education a lady can have."
The End of the Day
When the sun set, Ellia was exhausted, her feet were sore, but she knew how to insult someone with a fan and how to ’dodge’ through a waltz.
Giselle packed her things.
"I will return tomorrow," the Iron Swan announced, smoothing down a stray feather on her sleeve. "We will cover ’Table Manners’ and ’How to Eat Soup Without Slurping’."
"I look forward to it," Ellia said, actually meaning it. She offered a perfect, sharp curtsy.
Giselle nodded approval and clicked her way out of the room, her movements swift and silent like a bird taking flight.
Bastion collapsed onto the sofa, rubbing his bruised foot.
"You are a miracle worker, Primrose," he sighed. "I thought the Swan would peck her eyes out."
"Ellia is a Lion," I said, sitting next to him. "She respects apex predators. Giselle is definitely an apex predator."
Ellia ran over and flopped onto her father’s lap. 𝓯𝙧𝙚𝒆𝙬𝙚𝒃𝙣𝙤𝒗𝓮𝓵.𝙘𝙤𝙢
"Papa, did you see? I did the War Snap!"
"I saw," Bastion smiled, kissing her forehead. "You were terrifying. The boys at the ball will run in fear."
"Good," Ellia grinned. "I don’t want to dance with boys anyway. I want to dance with you."
Bastion’s expression softened into pure, melted butter.
"And I," he whispered, "would be honored to dance with you."
I watched them, feeling a warm glow in my chest. The West Wing was no longer a prison. It was a home.
But as I looked out the window at the rising moon, my mind drifted to the Warlords. They were out there, in the dark, hunting for the grave of a legend.
I hope they find something, I prayed silently. Because this happiness... it’s fragile. And I need to make it permanent.
