Free Tea with Jam and Dread by Tamar Myers

simple: don’t confuse me with facts. Enough said.
    I was beginning to think that Sebastian might have inherited a God-fearing gene or two as well, because he returned to the inn rather rankled. First he stomped on the outside steps like a wine-making peasant, next he slammed the kitchen door, and when no one ran to greet him he slammed it again.
    ‘Where is everyone?’ he shouted. Woe was me; I could feel it in the marrow of my bones. That gaggle of gabbling, grave-galumphing geese had finally come home to roost in the mixed metaphor of my overactive imagination.
    I took a deep breath and prayed for a calm spirit so that I might carry on properly and not shame my fellow countrymen. Instead, my pulse pounded even faster and my thoughts chased each other so fast that they blurred into butter. At that point I could choose to lie down and accept defeat, or, like a tigress, go down fighting all the way. I decided on the latter.
    ‘Coming, dear,’ I trilled and sallied forth into the adjoining kitchen through the swinging saloon-style doors. Between forefinger and thumb I held aloft a saucer-sized chocolate chip biscuit, of the American variety: soft, chewy, full of shortening and a hundred million calories, and of course a gazillion chocolate chips. It is the kind of snack that you can feed to an enemy and then watch his, or her, hips literally swell in front of your eyes with each bite that is swallowed. In fact, I once wrote to President Obama that there was no need for drone strikes. All he needed to do was drop large bags of cookies down to each ISIL operative and watch them explode from within. My hopes of being appointed Ambassador to the Court of St James, on account of my service to my country, were dashed when I received a brief note telling me that I was not only naïve, but that the cookies had been confiscated by the Secret Service and demolished by explosives for his protection.
    Thank heavens that Sebastian wasn’t as cautious as all that. ‘Give me one of those,’ he said, ‘
after
you explain to me why it is that you played such a nasty trick on us.’
    I waved the fragrant biscuit under his nose and led him through the swinging doors and into my spacious, formal dining room where everyone else sat waiting. That is to say, everyone was there except for Peregrine, who had yet to return from the fields. The remainder of us were drinking tea or cocoa and were eating a variety of homemade treats. One could say that we were having a ‘jolly good time.’
    ‘Oh, Sebastian, do give it a rest,’ his mother said and took a sip of her chamomile tea. ‘Celia and I had a lovely time.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Didn’t we, dear?’
    Celia sprung from her chair as if she’d been fired from a gun. ‘Yeah, Sebastian. And you’re not going to believe this, but after Mother and I walked down from where you and Papa were standing, we each caught three of them.
Three
, Sebastian!’
    ‘Aren’t you special,’ Sebastian said, contorting his mouth with every syllable.
    ‘Sebastian,’ said Aubrey, ‘please cut back on your sarcasm. Whatever will the Americans think?’
    ‘That I intend to immigrate?’ he said.
    ‘That’s rude,’ Celia said, thereby forever putting herself in my good graces, which for a teenager is a pretty ding-dong hard thing to do.
    ‘You go, girl,’ I mouthed.
    Poor Aubrey looked desperate. ‘Please, darlings, mightn’t we all just get along? For the sake of England?’ She began softly humming ‘The White Cliffs of Dover,’ which never fails to bring tears to my eyes.
    Celia gave her poor mother half a nod, which, I suppose, is better than no nod at all. I have been a teenage girl, but never one with a brother to best. However, I am quite sure that, had I been in Celia’s expensive English shoes, I would have done exactly the same thing.
    ‘Nice plump ones they were too,’ she said. ‘Mother said that they looked to be every bit as succulent as those French capons that cook