A Hint of Utopia
an excerpt

Xandrite woke Llin with a gentle shake, and the angel rolled over, blinking.

“Feeling better?” asked Xandrite. “We brought you a chicken.”

“Do what now?” Llin mumbled, sitting up. A chicken in a cage was sitting on the bed. Llin rubbed its eyes, but the wicker cage with the serene, black-and-white chicken was still sitting there.

“See, we heard about this great restaurant where, if you bring in live food or something, they’ll cook it for you right there,” said Xandrite happily.

“Why on earth would you want to do a thing like that?” said Llin, slightly aghast.

“So we went down to a street market and bought a chicken,” grinned Xandrite, ignoring the question.

“Does it cost more, with butchering fees and all?” Llin asked.

“No, surprisingly, it’s the same cost as the meal would be regularly,” said Calechel, sitting on the bed next to Llin. Taruff and Professor Zanior filed into the room, looking harried.

“Taruff, aren’t you even the least bit disgusted?” asked Llin, a little pleadingly.

“Nope, I think it’s a great idea,” he smirked. “Exotic.”

“Well, if you want exotic, why stop there?” snorted Llin. “Is there a zoo in Paris?”

“What? Yes, but no!” Xandrite felt she knew where this was going.

“And that’s an even better idea,” beamed Taruff. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

“Come on, who doesn’t want to know what an elephant or a Bengal tiger tastes like?” laughed Llin, leering at Xandrite.

“I wonder if Giant Panda tastes endangered…” Taruff mused.

“No! What? No! We already bought the chicken, we are not going to steal an animal from the zoo!” Xandrite huffed.

“Well, then, it’s settled. Where’s the zoo again?” asked Llin, standing up and straightening its clothes.

“No! Professor, Cal, help!” Xandrite said pleadingly.

“It sounds highly illegal, but not altogether unrewarding,” mused Calechel, who looked very intrigued.

“Do what you want, as long as you stay away from the ungulates,” Zanior waved, with an expression that about hit the capacity of moose boredom, which is very bored indeed.

“What’s an ungulate?” asked Xandrite, blinking, her train of thought and irritation derailed.

“A hoofed mammal,” said the Professor, strained. “You know, like a moose? It’s not very witty if I have to explain it. Really, Xandrite, for being nine thousand years old, you know astonishingly little.”

“Well!” exclaimed Xandrite. “I think I know rather a lot, considering it was a vocabulary question and English is my thirty-second language!”

Llin, sensing an actual row coming on, opened the chicken’s wicker cage door. The previously placid chicken immediately exploded from the cage, and rocketed about the room in a cascade of disaster and feathers.

It took several minutes of chasing and anger and the superhuman reflexes of Xandrite, Llin, and Calechel all working together to finally recapture the chicken, and stuff her back into the cage.

“Well, we either take the chicken to the restaurant or the zoo for a trade-in,” panted Xandrite at last. “Which one sounds like less work?”

Everyone agreed to go to the restaurant, a little glumly, but with no fuss.

On the Metro on the way to the restaurant, they attracted little attention for the chicken, but a bit for the apparently old argument Professor Zanior and Taruff resumed.

“Really, your ignorance borders upon appalling. ‘Who’s Napoleon,’ indeed!” the Professor chuckled.

“Are you serious?” asked Llin, staring at Taruff, a little bug-eyed.

“Oh, lay off,” Taruff grumbled. “The last time I was in Paris it was still called Lutetium!”

“It was?” Calechel asked. “When was that?”

“Roman Empire,” said Llin, and proceeded to give her a very short lesson on the origins and progress of Western History.

“But I thought Xandrite was in Paris in the 19th century,” said Llin, once it had finished enlightening Calechel.

“I was,” sniffed Xandrite. “But I was in Paris to find love, so fat chance I was going to bring my brother along.”

“It’s true,” said Taruff mournfully. “Thankfully, I was of a stature to keep myself amused at the time.”

“He was somewhere in Transylvania, blowing things up,” Xandrite said to Llin dismissively. “They thought Shelley was making it up, but actually, no.”

“So did you ever find it?” asked Calechel.

“Find what?” Xandrite frowned.

“Love!” Calechel said. “You went to Paris to find love. Did you find it?”

“Ah,” sighed Xandrite, a wistful look in her eyes. “Yes. I ended up living for three months with an impoverished English playwright in his flat next to the theater. His name was Evan.”

“Three months?” Llin asked. “What happened after that? Was it true love? Did it work out like in the romance novels?”

“Oh, well, it turned out that he was a Van Helsing. You know, the vampire hunters?” Xandrite sighed, twisting a strand of hair.

“Yes, and? Was it a daring, star-crossed romance?” Calechel asked urgently.

“No, it was a daring, star-crossed, breaking it off,” said Xandrite dryly. “Being staked isn’t quite as romantic as it sounds in stories.”

There was a collective wince, and the chicken made a noise like it was cackling.

“Well, maybe he had a handsome vampire hunter great-umpth-grandson, and you can go find him once you’re not a vampire and live happily after ever?” suggested Llin. Xandrite smiled tiredly, and reached out to gently touch the angel’s cheek.

“That’s the sweetest blessing anybody’s ever given me,” she said.

“Can I be your maid of honor?” asked Calechel eagerly.

“I want to give your wedding toast!” cackled Taruff.

“I am so totally throwing your bachelorette party,” grinned Llin.

“Oh, and Professor Zanior can give her away,” insisted Calechel.

“Don’t volunteer me for anything!” Zanior puffed, flapping a hand at them, although it was clear he was flattered.

“And the chicken can be the ringbearer!” laughed Xandrite, which brought their attention back to the fact that it was, in fact, their stop.

The Maitre’D at the restaurant accepted their caged chicken without even blinking, and showed them to their seats. A few minutes later, however, the chef himself came out to their table, carrying the chicken.

“I am sorry,” he said in a very French accent. “But I cannot cook zis chicken. She is not for ze eating, but is an egg chicken.”

“What?” sputtered Xandrite. “But the salesman—“

“Oui, Mademoiselle, it would appear that you have been, how shall I say, had?” the chef chuckled apologetically.

“Piss!” exclaimed Xandrite.

“But because you have given us such a fine egg-laying hen, I will make for you all my special consolation omelet,” continued the chef.

“So, does this mean we don’t have to eat Mrs. Pepper?” asked Llin, breathlessly.

“Oui,” chuckled the chef. “No eating Mrs. Pepper.”

“You named our dinner?” hissed Xandrite when he had gone.

“She’s not our dinner, didn’t you hear? She’s an egg chicken!” Llin protested.

“But you didn’t know that when you named her!” Xandrite sputtered. “If she’d been cooked, you would have been eating something with a name!”

“Well, it’s an invalid point now, we’re having omelets,” sniffed Llin.

When the omelets came, they were delicious. Xandrite tried to stay disgruntled as she ate, but couldn’t. The omelet was simply too good.