When we last left our Period Romance, all those months ago, Fermina had mysteriously ended up locked in an undisclosed location, after being overcome and passing out from the excitement of her daunting freedom after a chaotic escape - with the help of swarthy manservant Alejandro - from the clutches of daddy’s life plan. See Symposiasts Period Romance for the lowdown. Now we continue.

...It seemed to Fermina that she had been trapped in this room for an irresponsibly long time. Just sitting and waiting forlornly, experiencing no plot progression whatsoever. She had almost begun to forget who she was. Almost. But she knew she was Fermina de la Saint Amour, emotionally neglected daughter of Count Daza of Madrid, a girl of rare beauty on the sensual cusp of womanhood in the year 1437. She knew this was her identity. But she wondered whether this identity had any place anymore, anywhere. She had fled from her father’s hostile home, she had broken free. But now what? Who was she, who could she be, in this new world? She was alone, but she was used to that. What was galling to her was that she was not independent, as she had expected to be. Rather, she found herself locked in the custody of strangers, whose motives or purpose had not yet been disclosed. All she knew of her captors was that one among them was deliciously adept at making pies and tarts of the highest order and of every conceivable taste. Fermina so looked forward to seeing what each meal would bring, and was so attentive to discovering the complexities of its ingredients, that she had been forgetting to clamour at the bringer and any other strangers she caught surveilling her to “let me out let me out who are you?!” Well, not this time. She was hoping for a lemon tart for dessert today, but irrespective of anything, she would make them talk to her.

Fermina had taken to singing in her cell to pass the time. She was in the throes of a melodramatic rendition of one of her favourite childhood nursery rhymes when she heard an approaching whistle pick up on the tune. Lunch! She stood up and brushed down her skirt, determined to be disarmingly sunny and charming. She was about to unleash a cheery “Good day to you!” when from the corridor the whistler broke off his tune and said, “Mama used to sing me that tune to soothe me in my cradle. She will be pleased that you know it… Though she tended to give it less intensity and abandon.” A spasm of confusion involuntarily afflicted Fermina’s brow. Her cheeks flushed. She had been working through her plan all morning, and this simply did not fit any of the scenarios for which she had rehearsed. She attempted to hastily scroll through the collection of witticisms she had been constructing, but found they had fled her mind, and besides, none of them had taken into account that the lunch bringer might talk first! She was at a loss. She took a breath and exhaled it. Suddenly cognisant of her physical being, she realised that in the world outside her inner scrambling she had been standing dumbly in the middle of her cell, her gaze unfocussed, her mouth indecorously agape, her bare right foot swinging and brushing against the stone floor. Hoping that her captor would see some charm in this gormlessness, she collected herself as imperceptibly as she could and snuck a look at him from under her lashes. She found laughing eyes taking her in from behind the viewing slot in the door of her cell. Clearly, it was her turn to speak. Less confidently than she had first imagined it, she uttered a soft, “Good day to you”. She felt her demeanour growing arch at the imputation of his merry twinkling eyes. When next she said, “I hope you are enjoying yourself”, she found her voice had taken on an offended, defensive tone, which she had not intended at all. Seemingly out of her own control, she was mortified to find herself turning huffily to take a seat on the bench against the wall which also acted as her bed. She sat, and appeared to glare at him from her new position, when in her mind she was imploring herself to “Stop it. Stop it. What are you doing? He’s talking to you. That’s what you wanted isn’t it? That was today’s mission. So why are you behaving like this?” She had no answer. She took a breath and tried again, hoping that there would be no trace of that unwelcome haughtiness in her voice, and asked “What have you brought me today?” Damn! Why didn’t you just say “What is for lunch” or “What have you got there, good sir”? Why include the implication that he is in a position of servitude, when clearly you are the one relying on his mercy and kindness, and salivating at the aroma of what you now assume to be his mother’s excellent cooking? TRY AGAIN! But before Fermina could make another attempt at solicitude, the man laughed and said, in a voice dripping sarcasm, “Well, my darling contessa, today we offer you a hearty luncheon of meat and vegetable pie, followed by a tasty apple and cinnamon dessert. I will leave it with you now and apologise without reservation for having the audacity to…” Fermina interrupted him before he could continue. “What did you call me?” Oh dear, still haughty. He raised his eyebrows. And smirked. “Yes. We know who you are. We have simply been waiting for your father to sound the alarm about your disappearance, to then reveal our possession and negotiate a price for your safe return. Sadly, he seems not to have noticed that anything is amiss. And it has been a week.” Fermina’s eyes began to prickle with anger and humiliation. Now she really intended the glare. She really wanted to scathingly counter this man’s rudeness and the pleasure he took in relaying to Fermina her worthlessness to her father, of which she was already quite powerfully aware. But then another thought struck her. She was in an impossible situation. She did not want to be returned to her father, but her only chance of being freed from this cell lay in her captors’ determination to return her to him. How could she now argue for her release when she had nothing to offer them that would match their expectations of what her father would pay? They might become impatient and inform him of her whereabouts. She had no time. She needed a plan. What could she do?

“I have no idea what you are talking about. My father? I have no father.” Hmmm, how true that was, Fermina thought darkly. I am not a liar yet. “My name is not ‘Contessa’, or whatever it is you have been calling me.” Yep, still not a liar. “My name is Lona Francisca.” Oh well, I’m a liar. Can’t be helped. “And who, may I ask, are you?"........

Oh, what a cliffhanger ending! Tune in for the next instalment which will be brought to you by Guy, in his own sweet time.