It’s a quiet Monday morning in the Ballroom.  After all the revelations last Thursday, most of the authoresses have been keeping a low profile.  Albert has been skulking in a cage in a way that makes me wonder just what sort of secrets a parrot might have.  Out of control cracker consumption?  Dying his feathers a better, brighter green?  One can only speculate.

I’ve just powered up my iQuill 5 and started scribbling away when the not so dulcet tones of Lady B rend the air.   And, yes, the word she appears to be uttering is “Dude!”

For some reason, she pronounces it with a French accent.

(I’ve long suspected that Lady B conflates all foreign places with France.  She must think that California is a small island off the cost of Normandy.)

Lady B slaps a handful of papers down in front of me, saying sharply, Miss Willig!  What is the meaning of this?  These were just delivered by courier.

There are brightly colored shields and blazons, topped with elaborate crests.

Lady B, suspiciously:  Are you auditioning new heroes?  For I must tell you Miss Willig, I won’t have it!  The Ballroom is overrun with them already, lurking behind potted palms, passing notes, challenging each other to duels.  They’re worse than flies!

I pity the poor heroes with Lady B running around swatting at them with a large hero-swatter, so I hasten to reassure her:  Oh, no!  I’ve just challenged my readers to create a coat of arms for my upcoming heroine, Miss Gwendolyn Meadows.  

I fan out the papers in front of her.

Me:  They’ve done a pretty impressive job, don’t you think?  This one, with the two crossed parasols, was drawn by Lady Shelli.  Sir Jeffrey was kind enough to oblige with this rather cheeky one here….

Lady B drops her lorgnette in horror.  Miss Willig!  Coats of arms aren’t made!  They’re inherited.  One either has one or one doesn’t.  One can’t just commission one as one might a new hat.

Me:  Isn’t that what the College of Heralds is for?  Every coat of arms has to start somewhere.

Given Lady B’s coat of arms, I don’t think she’s in a position to quibble.

Lady B, sputtering:  That, Miss Willig, is entirely different!  Why, if we had everyone running about, choosing their own coats of arms– 

Yes?  I prompt.

Lady B sniffs.  I assume you would make yours PINK.

And with that, she sweeps out, possibly to commission a new coat of arms of her own, featuring a parrot rampant on a field of fallen fops.

If you could design your own coat of arms, what would you put in it?  And what would your motto be?

 

Under lauren