Delorfinde was bored. Not that this was unusual, these stupid evening drinks parties often became rather tedious. Yawning widely, she shifted on the large, bright orange leather sofa of her neighbour's living room and busied herself with chewing on a breadstick.
What is it this time, she wondered, what manner of mediocre stupidity had got her dragged out of her cosy house in the first place? She'd been halfway through editing FLOORED, her latest novel, when she'd recieved a message through the post. It had been written on pale, rose-scented paper and written in such a floral hand, Del knew it could only have come from one person. The nosy, but very rich, widow who lived at the end of the road, cordially inviting her to a "small gathering" at 7pm. Del had looked at her cloak and sighed, she wouldn't be able to come up with an excuse in time. She'd have to go and just put up with it.
Now here she was, sitting on the couch and feeling rather sour. Looking around her, she noticed most of the commotion was coming from a small knot of people in the far corner. Del ignored them and resumed munching her breadstick and plotting the next plot twist for FLOORED. SpookOfNight had sent her many emails with tips on how to wind the readers up and Del was taking full advantage of it.
Suddenly, a small mousy woman walked over to her, one hand extended and a big goofy smile on her face.
"Hi," she said, voice thick with some bizarre accent, "I'mma Marrya. Tis rice tae meet ya."
Rice to meet you? Thought Del as she shook Marrya's hand, what sort of a statement was that? Either the accent made the words too difficult to tell apart, or Marrya's brain was more scrambled than beads in a Spanish maraca.
Del had a strange feeling it was more likely the latter...