Miranda Squires padded barefoot into her small apartment kitchen, head tilted to one side as she towel-dried her hair from the shower.

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As she flipped the switch on the kettle, a voice behind her crooned, “Thou art lovelier in person than I wouldst ever have imagined.”

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Miranda spun around, eyes wide with alarm. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

 

The bath towel wrapped around her torso did nothing to dilute the bemused interest of the bearded old gentleman sitting cross-legged atop her stove.

 

“What do you want?” she asked quietly, taking in the man’s outlandish appearance—shoulder-length ringlets dangling beneath a weatherbeaten tricorn hat, a wizened frame garbed by an exquisitely embroidered woollen doublet topped by a ruffled white collar—he could have stepped offstage from a summer stock production of Hamlet. The man’s thigh-high leather buccaneer boots were to die for, she thought, but she could have done without the breeches stuffed at the crotch by an oversized codpiece.

 

“Do you mind,” she said, indicating the stove. “I have to cook my food on that.”

 

“Ah! A thousand apologies.” He tossed aside the copy of People magazine he’d been attempting to make sense of, and hopped down. He gave his backside a vigorous rub. “Didst thou ken, as a youth I once—

 

“I hate to interrupt, Beelzebub, but my Elizabethan is a bit rusty and I have to get to work. Who the hell are you, and how did you get into my apartment?” She grabbed a wooden spoon from a canister on the counter and raised it to defend herself. “I know how to use this,” she warned.

 

The man’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Beelze… Mistress Squires, dost thou not recognize me?” He looked as if he might fall over in a swoon.

 

“Whoa, buddy! Take a breath. How do you know my name, and what do you want?” His distress appeared genuine. If this was someone punking her from work, they were making a freaking good job of it.

 

“Fear not, mistress,” the man replied softly. “’Tis only to grant thee a wish that hath brought me to thine abode.”

 

Miranda relaxed. The old guy seemed harmless, but she played along as she gently shepherded him toward the door, spoon at the ready behind her back. She wasn’t taking any chances.

 

“A wish, you say… So, what, you’re some kind of genie?”

 

A puzzled expression crossed the man’s face. “Genie? Ah, thou meanest a djinn? Nay, naught so exotic.” He turned to face her. “But knowest not thine own kinsman?”

 

“Huh?”

 

The old gentleman looked hurt. “I am Godfrey. No? Sir Godfrey Montague…Truly, naught?”

 

“My mother was a Montague.” She eyed his clothing. “I hear they were all pirates.”

 

The man tugged at his neck collar. “Aye, about that…”

​

Miranda chuckled. “Hey, my bad for not recognizing you—Godfrey did you say your name was? Sorry, man, I didn’t see your TARDIS pull up outside.” She reached for the door handle. “Be sure to tell the gang at work, ‘Good one!’”

 

The old gentleman stamped his boot. “I know naught of what thou speaks, mistress! A jester conjuring riddles would not make less sense. And thou wouldst do well to keep a respectful tongue in thy mouth.”

 

“Or what? You’re going to zap me with your magic wand? Hahaha…”

 

“Magick? Thou blasphemes! Speak not of witchcraft!” His face was turning black.

 

“Sorry, bub…er, Godfrey. Don’t get your beard in a twist, but I find you sitting on my stove like Elf on a Shelf, and I’m supposed to believe you’re the ghost of one of my ancestors? Let’s check.”

 

She rapped him sharply on the nose with her wooden spoon.

 

“Ouch!”

 

“Oops! Sorry, I thought…”

 

“I shall endeavour to compose myself,” he said as he massaged his smarting beak.

 

“Prithee, daughter, what is it thou desirest most in thy life?”

 

Miranda looked around the room. “You tell me. Look at this dump... Two cats, crap job, no boyfriend—I’m living the dream.”

​

“Mistress…”

 

“Alright, okay...” There was something oddly reassuring about the old gentleman.

 

She lowered the spoon. “It might sound corny, but if I had a million bucks I’d open up a community kitchen for our less fortunate neighbours. Is that what you mean?”

 

The man’s eyes sparkled. “I knew thou wouldst not disappoint.” He reached inside his doublet and produced a small folded parchment bearing a wax seal. He handed it to her. “Prithee, open it.”

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Miranda paused, then broke the seal and examined the document. “What’s this? Some kind of map?”

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“Not just any map!” He sounded triumphant. “’Tis where lieth buried the Montague fortune!”

 

“It’s a treasure map?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“You’re kidding.”

 

“I, er, kid thee not. Unfathomable riches await thee, Miranda.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

The old gentleman doffed his hat. “Daughter, I beseech thee. Employ my ill-got gains for good so that I might finally rest in peace after these many centuries of regret. Do this, and thou shalt have all thee requires for thy charity work. And perhaps,” he added with a wink, “other pretty things shall come thy way. Fare thee well, mistress.”

​

And with that he vanished like a burst soap bubble.

 

“But…”

 

*****

 

A handsome young man wearing a chef’s apron stepped into the Montague Community Services kitchen office, carrying two steaming mugs.

 

“Quick cuppa before the dinner rush?”

 

“Eh?” Miranda looked up from the food order list she was reviewing. “Oh, Bob, you’re a life-saver.”

 

As she stepped out from behind the desk, the young man admired her striking figure; the tight jeans, topped by a ruffled blouse and lace-up leather vest. The only things missing were a plumed hat and a rapier.

 

He set the mugs down and pulled her in close. “Love those kinky thigh boots,” he breathed into her ear.

 

Miranda giggled, and looked past his shoulder to the framed bit of parchment on her office wall.

 

“Save it, you horny seadog. We have crew to feed.”

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The End