The Amazing Adventure of Amanderella Gottsnobbler Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

Escape.

Amanderella’s idea started off modestly. She would teach the village girls one or two of her seventeen ways to disable an attacker with a hat‑pin Just a penny per lesson, she thought—enough to buy a ship’s biscuit or two.

 But word spread quickly. Soon, half the county wanted to learn. The village hall was crammed with girls in bonnets, boys in caps, and even a few grandmothers who insisted they needed “a refresher.”

“Welcome,” Amanderella said, standing tall in her pointed hat, her voice ringing clear. “Today we begin with Technique Number Three: The Elbow‑Pin Twist.”

She demonstrated with a flourish. The crowd gasped, then tried it themselves. Pins flew. Bonnets slipped. One boy accidentally disabled a chair. A grandmother jabbed the air so fiercely that her umbrella collapsed.

By the second lesson, chaos reigned. The butcher’s daughter pinned the baker’s son to the wall. The milkmaid discovered she could balance three pins at once. The vicar’s wife fainted dramatically, though no one was sure why.

Amanderella kept order as best she could. “Calm yourselves! Remember — precision, not poking!” she cried, though her voice was nearly drowned out by the clatter of pins and the squeak of chairs being subdued.

Despite the chaos, the lessons were wildly popular. Coins clinked into her collection tin faster than Peregrinaldo’s buttons. Parents declared their daughters “safer already.” The mayor requested a private tutorial, though he insisted on using a fountain pen instead of a hat‑pin.

By the end of the week, Amanderella had earned enough to fill a small purse. She tucked it beneath her compass and smiled. Each coin was another step toward the Amazon basin, another step toward the Whistling Blue Monkeys.

And though the village hall now looked as if it had survived a minor battle, everyone agreed: the Hat‑Pin Academy was the most exciting thing to happen since the cheese‑rolling contest which had led to mass injuries among the people taking part.

When she counted up her takings, Amanderella quickly realised that she was going to need a lot more than the pennies from her lessons to pay for a boat trip to South America, even if she went on the cheapest boat.

Her next adventure was to climb into the attic of Gottsnobbler Hall. No one had been there for many years The attic was very dusty. Its beams creaked like old bones, and the dust lay thick across the stacked boxes, softening their edges and turning everything into a grey blanket.

Cobwebs hung in curtains, and the air smelled of mothballs and forgotten dinners. In places the slates on the roof had fallen away and rain had poured in.

These holes were perfect for bats to get in and out. In the dim light she could see them hanging upside down from the rafters. She apologised for disturbing their rest.

Amanderella squeezed past the piles of bat droppings, her pointed hat brushing against the rafters. She carried her compass in one hand and a candle in the other. If there was anything valuable left in this house, it would be hiding here.

She opened the first trunk. Inside were dozens of wigs, each labelled with a card: Lord Gottsnobbler’s Hair, 1872, Lord Gottsnobbler’s Hair, 1883, Lord Gottsnobbler’s Hair, 1891. All of them looked suspiciously alike. She shut the trunk quickly.

The second chest contained a collection of cracked chamber pots, each decorated with faded gold paint. “Perhaps once fashionable,” Amanderella muttered, “but not likely to fetch much at market.”

She pressed on. Behind a stack of broken chairs, she found a box of medals—not military ones, but quirky prizes for ‘Best Dressed Footman’ and ‘Most Polite Butler’. She pocketed one, thinking it might shine enough to fool a pawnbroker.

At last, in a dusty corner, she discovered something more promising: a set of old maps, hand‑drawn by her great‑uncle Wilburate. They were wildly inaccurate — one showed the Nile flowing through Shropshire — but they were colourful, and explorers’ memorabilia always had a certain charm.

Amanderella bundled the maps, the medal, and a few wigs (just in case eccentric collectors were about) into a sack. She smiled beneath her pointed hat. These treasures might not restore Gottsnobbler Hall, but they might buy her a ship’s biscuit or two. And every biscuit was another step toward the Amazon basin.

She climbed down from the attic, brushed the cobwebs from her hat and took her finds to the local Market.

The village market was bustling with buyers and sellers of all shapes and sizes. There were stalls piled high with turnips, ribbons, and second‑hand boots. Chickens strutted between baskets, and the air was filled with the smell of onions and a hint of adventure.

Amanderella arrived with her sack of attic treasures. She set up a small table between the fishmonger and the candlestick‑maker, and laid out her wares with great ceremony.

First came the wigs. She arranged them in a neat row, each labelled with its year. “Rare aristocratic relics!” she announced. “Authentic Gottsnobbler hair, preserved for posterity!”

A passing collector peered closely. “They look rather alike,” he said doubtfully.

“Ah,” Amanderella replied smoothly, “that is because the Gottsnobblers were famous for consistency. A family tradition. Very rare. Very valuable.”

The collector nodded, impressed, and bought two wigs for his museum of curiosities.

Next came the medal. “Awarded to the Most Polite Butler in the county,” Amanderella declared. “A shining piece of history!”

The candlestick‑maker bought it at once, claiming it would inspire his apprentices to mind their manners.

Finally, she unfurled the maps. They were colourful, if not accurate. One showed the Nile as it flowed through Shropshire, another placed the Amazon beside the village pond.

“These,” Amanderella whispered, lowering her voice mysteriously, “are secret explorer charts. My great‑uncle Wilburate drew them himself. They reveal places no one else has ever dared to mark.”

The crowd gasped. A schoolmaster eagerly bought one to hang in his classroom, declaring it ‘an excellent teaching aid, even if it's not quite geographically correct!’.

By the end of the day, Amanderella’s purse was heavy with coins. She tucked it beneath her compass and a determined grin crept beneath her pointed hat. Every coin was another step toward the Amazon basin, another step toward the Whistling Blue Monkeys.

And though the market now buzzed with stories of aristocratic wigs and secret maps, Amanderella knew the greatest adventure was still ahead.