Palace by the Sea

I read Eva Ibbotson's The Secret of Platform 13 last week, and thoroughly enjoyed it. How have I never read anything of hers before? And why do I keep saying that about all these fantastic writers? I suppose it might be considered a good thing, though - if I had found all of them when I was a kid, I wouldn't be getting these fantastic discoveries now.

At one point in the story, she mentions that the king and queen of the Island don't live in a fancy palace with uncomfortable thrones, but in a "low white house on a curving beach on golden sand studded with cowrie shells". I loved that idea. I loved it so much that it sparked a little snippet of a story on its own. This snippet will probably never grow to be a full-grown story, but that's okay. I had fun writing it, and who knows? Maybe someday it will find its way into a bigger tale.

The queen waited expectantly. 

It was a lovely scene, to be sure. The deep azure sea rippling in the playful wind, the pale golden sands turning gradually to grey and white pebbles and finally to long grasses, the long, low, sprawling house nestled back amongst the willow trees as the land slowly turned to field and then forest. Beautiful, but something wasn’t right. 

Colin turned slowly in place, eyes wide as he searched for the missing piece.
“Something troubles you, friend?” the queen asked. The sea breeze tossed her long brown hair over her shoulders and across her face. She brushed it aside with a smile. 

“Where’s the palace?” Colin blurted. She looked blank. “The castle? Where you live?” 

The queen’s laugh rippled through the air. “Why, here!” She motioned at the rambling white house. “What are these other buildings of which you speak?” 

“Well, um,” Colin stumbled. “I, uh … oh, wait! Is this your retreat? Where you come to escape the affairs of state? Your true home is in the city?” 

Her smile turned puzzled, though she was as polite as ever. “City? I do not know these words, friend. Here is where I live, I and all others who need a home. Some stay on permanently, some move on to create their own homes after a time, but all are welcome. Our ‘affairs of state,’ as you call them, do not happen in only one place. How could they, when the kingdom spreads so wide? I and my helpers travel where we are needed, tending what needs to be tended, and when the time comes to rest, we return here until we are called forth again. Is this not how it works in your world?” 

Colin snorted. “Not exactly.” It seemed an awfully naive way to conduct a kingdom—but he had to admit that all of Queen Molly’s subjects, and the queen herself, seemed perfectly happy. 

Maybe there was something in it after all. 

“Most sensible,” Aunt Agatha said. Colin jumped. He hadn’t noticed his aunt and the rest of the entourage joining them. 

Aunt Agatha set her basket down in the sand with a thump. “Who wants a palace anyway? Just more rooms to clean. And thrones? Horrid, lumpy, unapproachable things. No, your way is much better, my dear.” She bestowed a rare smile on Queen Molly, who bowed graciously in return. 

Colin felt his ears turning red. Trust Aunt Agatha to patronize a queen! Granted, Molly was very young to be a queen (and very plain, his inner voice whispered), but still. Aunt Agatha, he suspected, would patronize the Emperor in Rome were that gentlemen ever unlucky enough to have her travel back through time and meet him. It was How She Was.