Sir Reginald's Grand Plan

Sir Reginald, ever the picture of dignified concern, adjusted his monocle, which had a rather unfortunate habit of slipping down his nose whenever he was particularly flustered. And King Rufus was, to put it mildly, flustered. The entire treasury, every last gleaming doubloon, had vanished overnight. Vanished! Like a puff of smoke from a chimney, only considerably more… golden.

“Your Majesty,” Sir Reginald began, his voice a low rumble of importance, “we must not succumb to despair. This is, of course, a grave matter, but one that requires a clear head and a… a strategically sound approach.” He paused, puffing out his chest, as if the very act of breathing deeply could conjure gold from thin air.

King Rufus, however, was less interested in strategic approaches and more interested in the gaping, empty space where his beloved gold coins used to be. He wrung his hands, his royal robes swishing like a silken waterfall of pure panic. “But Sir Reginald, it’s gone! All of it! My beautiful, shiny, wonderfully heavy gold!” He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sob and a strangled goose.