The Crown Has Lost Its Head

How it begins

The crown arrived in a sack of onions.

Martha assumed this was an insult.

Then it asked whether she knew of any vacancies.

She put down her knife.

"Not in my profession."

"I was hoping to change professions."

The crown climbed out of the sack using two small golden legs it had apparently developed for the occasion.

Martha looked toward the window.

The royal palace stood on the opposite hill, surrounded by three armies that had been arguing about succession since breakfast.

"Do they know you've left?"

"They're discussing who deserves me."

"And?"

"I deserve a holiday."

Martha had been the king's executioner until she refused a commission. Her dismissal had included loss of pension, housing and the right to sharpen tools commercially.

She was now making soup with a blade she technically did not own.

The crown examined the kitchen.

"Could I be a bowl?"

"You have holes."

"A decorative bowl."

"People would put coins in you."

It shuddered.

"Something without taxation."

Outside, a horn sounded.

Then another.

Martha watched the armies begin turning toward her hill.

The crown stepped beneath the table.

"They've noticed."

"What exactly happens if someone wears you?"

"They become entitled to give orders."

"Do people have to obey?"

The crown hesitated.

Martha set down the onion.

In twenty years, nobody had asked that question before reaching for the gold.

"Do they?"

"Not always."

The horns sounded again.

Closer.

Martha took her old work coat from the door.

She had once worn it to make people afraid.

Today she filled its pockets with bread.

"Where are we going?" the crown asked.

"To find you an honest job."

"What does one look like?"

Martha considered the question.

Behind them, the palace bells began announcing a new emergency.

"At the moment," she said, "I'm hoping it involves fewer hats."

The crown followed her out through the vegetable garden.