Boom!
The percussive impact of a mortar shell rattled the teacups.
Marta paused, then continued pouring. She bent her lithe body at the waist and was careful to keep a respectful distance from her mistress.
“Is that a fresh pot?”
Debra Wind's eyebrows arched as she asked the question.
“Of course, Madam.”
Marta raised the pot expertly so that the stream of tea entered the porcelain cups with flourish. Four cups. Three guests and Debra, all coiffed, perfumed and resplendent in floral-patterned dresses.
A puff of black smoke wafted over the defensive sea wall. Ever since the wall went up, they could hear the pounding surf, but could not see the beach. Stone barricades, with armed patrols, had become routine as conflict with the rebels escalated.
“And the croissants,” Debra continued.“ They're not those stale pastries we had at breakfast, are they?”
“Madam, I spoke to Cook about that. She made a fresh batch when she learned of your displeasure.”
Another percussive boom. The tsunami in one of the cups pushed tea onto its saucer. Marta immediately removed the soiled dish and replaced it with a clean one. She directed her gaze at no one as she performed her service. Her impassive expression assured Debra and guests that her ears were closed to their conversation.
Marta was the perfect servant.
Smoke blanketed the veranda. One of the guests coughed. Debra turned sharply toward her with a scowl that transmitted the unmistakable command, “Don't you dare!”
Another mortar blast. Closer this time. A tea cup cracked. Black smoke billowed over the wall and ballooned across the lawn.
One guest whispered, “Perhaps we should leave?”
Debra pulled her narrow shoulders high and pressed her manicured hands against the immaculate glass table top.
“Quisling,” she snarled, her lacquered lips creating a crooked gash in her powdered face. “Run from these upstarts? You're safer here than you would be anywhere else. We have trained staff, and armed security. Do you imagine those weaklings out there are a match for our defenses?”
A guest jumped from her seat, terror plain on her face.
“Look. Behind you, Debra! They're over the wall!”
Debra turned and saw dark forms rushing toward the veranda.
“Marta, quickly,” she called, as she pushed her classic Bonaldo chair from the table. She looked over her shoulder.
Marta. Tall, dark, solid. No apron! Swathed entirely in black. Except for the snake. That detested emerald green snake emblazoned on her chest. Symbol of The Resistance.
“Surprise, Debbie,” Marta murmured softly. Instead of a teapot, she held a pistol. “You should have let them leave, Debbie. Your guests. They might have had a chance to live.“
Debra searched the faces behind Marta. So many of them familiar. Cook. The laundress. Gatekeeper. Her security detail. Each one bore the Resistance symbol: a coiled snake.
“You...” Debra spit the word out contemptuously.
“Yes, Debbie, me. And the other invisibles. Here, in your household. You’ve been feeding us, nourishing the movement. While we watched, listened and planned.
Marta placed her hand on the shoulder of her enraged but speechless mistress.
“You come with me now, Debbie.”
Debra grabbed the edge of the glass table. Marta signaled to her cohorts.
“Get her.”
Cook and the laundress pulled at Debra's arms, but she held fast. She gripped with such force that, as they pulled her away, the table came tumbling to the ground. With it came the tea service, which, with a loud crash, shattered into a thousand pieces.
The story was written as a response to Ink Well prompt #19: Tea Time or Tee Time.
Elements used in pictures (which I modified to suit the story):
profile woman Pixabay clip art
coiled snake Pixabay Click free vector image
stone wall Pixabay geralt266
balcony Pixabay lauda2455
teacup Pixabay ds_30
Hive on!