Gars to receive a promotion.”
Gustav burst into laughter. “Scheming woman!” For a moment, he stared at her admiringly. His eyes drifted down to her swollen midsection. “If the child is a girl,” he chuckled, “I assume you plan to name her Circe.”
Rebecca laughed. After a moment, so did Michael.
The king began stroking his big nose. “Hm. Hm.” The stroking stopped. The glare returned.
“But what about this other nonsense!” he snapped. “This preposterous idea that only the lower house—the estate of the commons, if you will!—has exclusive control over taxation and the state treasury?” His voice rose to a bellow: “Absurd! Utterly unreasonable!”
Michael snapped back: “Bad enough I’m willing to give you a stinking House of Lords, just to keep your lousy noble allies! You want the worthless parasites to decide how much they get taxed, too?” His own bellow was as impressive as the king’s: “Not a chance! Power must remain in the lower House! Let the damned nobility be satisfied with their frills!”
Bellow.
Bellow.
The king of Sweden roared like a lion, defending the divine right of kings and the principle of aristocratic precedence. The president of the United States snarled like a tiger, insisting on the primacy of the popular will. Royalty must rule, not simply reign! was matched with Millions for defense, not one cent for tribute!
It went on for quite some time. On and on. Several hours, in fact.
Now and again, Rebecca’s voice slid through the verbal maelstrom, like a blade between ribs. The roars and bellows would fade, replaced by hms and wellIgottathinkaboutthats, until they resumed their former fury. But, always, the ground would shift a bit.
Outside the library, the vestibule quickly became packed with the other members of the U.S. government. Within an hour, every elected official living in Grantville
Gustav burst into laughter. “Scheming woman!” For a moment, he stared at her admiringly. His eyes drifted down to her swollen midsection. “If the child is a girl,” he chuckled, “I assume you plan to name her Circe.”
Rebecca laughed. After a moment, so did Michael.
The king began stroking his big nose. “Hm. Hm.” The stroking stopped. The glare returned.
“But what about this other nonsense!” he snapped. “This preposterous idea that only the lower house—the estate of the commons, if you will!—has exclusive control over taxation and the state treasury?” His voice rose to a bellow: “Absurd! Utterly unreasonable!”
Michael snapped back: “Bad enough I’m willing to give you a stinking House of Lords, just to keep your lousy noble allies! You want the worthless parasites to decide how much they get taxed, too?” His own bellow was as impressive as the king’s: “Not a chance! Power must remain in the lower House! Let the damned nobility be satisfied with their frills!”
Bellow.
Bellow.
The king of Sweden roared like a lion, defending the divine right of kings and the principle of aristocratic precedence. The president of the United States snarled like a tiger, insisting on the primacy of the popular will. Royalty must rule, not simply reign! was matched with Millions for defense, not one cent for tribute!
It went on for quite some time. On and on. Several hours, in fact.
Now and again, Rebecca’s voice slid through the verbal maelstrom, like a blade between ribs. The roars and bellows would fade, replaced by hms and wellIgottathinkaboutthats, until they resumed their former fury. But, always, the ground would shift a bit.
Outside the library, the vestibule quickly became packed with the other members of the U.S. government. Within an hour, every elected official living in Grantville