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Lord Brandon Mews shot his cuffs and dropped a disarming wink to his pristine mental reflection. He took a final look at the wall of monitors, saw another straight-backed porter flick the latch across a potential exit from the ballroom, turn directly to the camera and slice off a half-salute: a slow, natural gesture - the gentlest of touches, fingers to temple - and then away.
No-one would be leaving this particular party unless personally excused by Lord Brandon Mews himself. Which, he conceded, would mean that individual had either served their use or was discovered to be wholly useless - both of which would result in a significant lack of further invitations.
He stretched his neck from the crispest of collars, letting wisps of cologne mingle in the fresh, clear-cut air. He closed his eyes for a moment - lost deep inside his own personal fragrance and the endless, beautiful hallways of his mind - then turned to the straight-backed, tight-trimmed man sitting in the corner of the small room.
‘You’ll get it all?’
The man managed to convey a submissive level of sarcasm, well-nurtured pride, the briefest, restrained hint at humour and an overriding sense of duty-bound yet expertly-crafted accomplishment in a single, slightly elongated, blink.
‘Of course, of course.’
The man tilted his head a fraction of a degree to the left, then turned slowly back to his desk and the reels upon neatly stacked reels of seemingly harmless conversation. At the particular, square-locked silence of his shoulders, Lord Brandon Mews checked the wire in his jacket, finding it to be just out of place. He gave a curt nod to the stoic muscle-set and strode from the room.
The man - in neat, efficient movements - set a new reel to the recorder and placed the heavy earphones over his head. The sounds of the hectic world outside blossomed, crystal-clear, in his ears. He set the wheels into well-oiled motion - every footstep, every whispered secret, every veiled threat, tongue-slip, stifled shout.
Everything: marked solidly on the brown-smoked tape streaming out silently before him.
*
Lord Brandon Mews was a man who walked to the beat of his own footsteps.
He moved through the hallways of the upper floors - a gliding, gilded figure of excellence - giving nods to the servants who stopped their duties, standing straight and correct to meet him as he passed.
The walls, floor and ceiling fell away, replaced by light and air and the gentle thrum of bureaucratic conversation. He paused at the top of the stairway, examining the crowd he had assembled in the ballroom below, and took a deep breath of the utter, perfect silence that accompanied his arrival.
The Mansion was a timeless place, in the literal sense of the phrase. Not a single clock graced a single wall, the wrists and pockets of servants and master alike were bare and empty: free of the chains of seconds and minutes.
Which one man decided the length of a second? Whoever, he was not to be trusted.
Time was a foul, mocking creature forcing hurry to things that need not be, and illness to people who should not be. Life was not divided neatly into hours, into degrees in a circle, into the spinning of wheels and the twitching of hands.
And so, Lord Brandon Mews lived to the pace he set. He - and he alone - set the length of a second. Time was kept by the beat of his heart, the switch of his mind and the drift of his soul - not a movement forced by the ticks and chimes of so many lifeless tools.
Eyes rose and strained to meet him; he ignored most of them - first meeting the stare of a waitress who raised her tray of glasses ever so slightly above the heads in the crowd. Amongst the tight, taunting bubbles of the champagne, a round white something fizzed and danced, shrinking quickly down to an insignificant pinprick against the glass.
The silence tore in two, and the lilting calls of a thousand, power-hungry guests pushed the ballroom walls out further. He smiled, feeling deeply assured that tonight would, indeed, be a very profitable night. The waitress handed him a glass of champagne, slightly warm at the base, and he stepped out into the throng, a target already selected.
Mrs. Periot Darling had come quickly into money - an unexpected death, as usual - yet still did not really know what to do with it. Always the gentleman, Lord Brandon Mews would, of course, kindly venture a few appropriate suggestions. But that was for another time - although, after tonight, she may find him the only friendly face to be found in higher company.
‘Mrs. Darling!’ He started. She spun, a look of shock on her thin, nervous face. ‘What a pleasure to see you again!’
‘Oh, ah, Lord Mews, thankyou. I ... er ... love your house. Very, well ... uh ... very big.’
‘Oh my, please. You flatter me.” She was going to hyperventilate if he kept her talking much longer. “Now, please do have a drink - get to know some people.’
She started at the glass, wide-eyed, as though an angel had appeared to hand her a gift from heaven. He pushed it into her hand. ‘Oh, well, maybe just the one. Thankyou. Er ... I ... do you-’
‘-Have a good evening, Periot.’ Lord Brandon Mews interjected, and was away, leaving her small and alone in an overpriced, poorly fitted dress. She turned to find herself surrounded by impassive, shoulder-locked rings of her supposed equals, talking animatedly among themselves. She sighed deeply, stared long and hard into the champagne glass, and took a slow, heavy gulp of the drink. Another endless, lonely evening stretched out ahead of her.
*
He moved through the bustling crowd with ethereal ease, flicking greetings to those who deserved them, ignored those who didn’t and let them assure themselves they simply had not been heard. People jumped out of his way, spilling drinks on themselves and others, too proud or scared to speak out, leaving the ruined silk to drip alcohol onto the marble floor ready for another to slip on, and draw the attention away from their own misfortunes.
He found his first charge with expected ease - following the lazy trails of electric-blue smoke, curling high into the tight-drawn air, back to their owner. Her laugh danced tantalisingly in his ear, a master class in the secretive workings of high-society - an icy, twisted blade of rejection swathed under a smooth velvet cloak. The endless layers of switch-back pragmatics were enough to give a linguist several large heart attacks.
‘Brandon, darling, how nice to see you here.’
‘It is, after all, my own home, My Lady.’
‘Ah, of course it is, Brandon. Excellent. I am not a great fan of coincidence.’
Lord Brandon Mews held his tongue while simultaneously sending his proposed comment slicing, silently, into the smoke-laden air with a grand montage of unnoticeable gestures. Another trick of his class.
Her Ladyship, one Fanyata Oilenhousen, smiled her slow-blink smile and twisted her cigarette-holder in tiny circles between her thumb and forefinger. She reached over and pulled the burning paper from the holder with yellowed fingers. At once, she was a scrubby, uneducated girl again, now swathed in furs. She pulled the cigarette to her lips and sucked as though she needed to make up the rent - glowing light casting shifted shadows like five-finger bruises across her face - and sent another cloud of foreign blue smoke into the air.
The cigarette back in its holder, she snapped back to the present, thrust into high power by the very same coincidence she has since dispised.
Her Ladyship was in favour of the Duchess, sitting high and paranoid in her endless manor - a faceless leader to the faceless classes. And now this once-sorry-wretch of a female had been elevated, and had immediately attuned to, the benefits of a comforting shoulder and - or so some said - an unusually flexible tongue.
The Duchess had been - in her words - betrayed once by the death of her father, twice by the adultery of her husband, and thrice by the arsenic in her afternoon tea. But she had survived all three attacks on her heart, with riches and power still in tact, if not all her sanity, trust, or want for male company.
But a recluse needed eyes and ears beyond their sanctuary. Luckily, Lord Brandon Mews, fitted the part, apparently the only decent man left on the planet. Hired by way of promises, a simple, forgettable wire did all the work, while he threw his elegant parties, and shuffled the ranks of the idiot rich around like so many lifeless chess pieces.
Of course, one thing the Duchess did not realise is that within a Mansion sitting outside the constraints of time, conversations have a rather useful habit of spanning - unknown by all involved - several days, weeks, months or possibly even years. Each seemingly distant utterance was stitched to another, and suddenly, those who had unhelpfully expended six of the Duchess’ food tasters, were close to hand with damning evidence.
Lord Brandon Mews counted the beats of his heart, and turned towards the centre of the ballroom, taking Her Ladyship’s arm ever so gently, and brining her around the same way. On cue, the shouting began.
Mrs. Periot Darling stood in the direct centre of the ballroom - marked by the central, delicate spiral of the two-tone circular marble floor underfoot and the magnificent crystal twelve-tiered chandelier overhead.
‘I’ve had enough!’ She screamed, flinging her arms outwards and bringing them back in to find both seemingly devoid of champagne glasses. She blinked away the sounds of breaking glass with heavy, angry eyes.
‘More drinks! Nono, what, eh ... I’ve had enough! Enough of all ... this!’
The waitress gave a small, accomplished nod to her master as she passed, ignored by all others.
Mrs. Periot Darling wrenched those with less money but more sense around to face her, forming a high-class circle around herself. She paused for a moment, seemingly confused not that she had received the attention hoped for, something besides alcohol racing through her blood stream.
‘Right! Let’s sort this aaaall out! Now, right now!’
Lord Brandon Mews leaned in closer to Her new-found Ladyship, the wire in his jacket inching towards her red-lined lips.
‘She’s making a spectacle of herself.’
Perfect.
‘Someone should do something.’
Wonderful.
Her Ladyship flicked ash to the floor, her target of Brandon’s shoes suddenly absent.
He was away again, off through the crowd, all the words he needed being written neatly onto the spooling line of smoked brown tape with every leap of his soul.
*
He stopped further around the audience now watching with a little less interest Mrs. Periot Darling’s various rants on the uncharitable attitudes of certain attendees.
Said adulterer, Baron Salient Scapethorne, stood at ease, glass in one hand, chicken-leg (not provided) in the other, and a half-bottle of tequila in his jacket pocket. He had, by his own admission, used the Duchess for his personal gain - setting up countless business ventures in her money, but in his name, while in her company. Most of them failed, but by the time the line of whøres and servant-girls could be seen trailing from his bedroom, through the house, out the front door and halfway to the gates, he had substantial success to continue of his own accord without the finance the Duchess had so kindly offered up.
And so he stayed, and was accepted again by all (bar one, notable, exception) - managing to secure himself the near-obsolete title of Baron and somehow bring it back to popularity. Admired as much for his obnoxious, barefaced cheek than anything else, he remained his own man in a class ruled by flattery and imitation.
Which was never a good thing.
Lord Brandon Mews leaned in close - greetings were, with the Baron, usually more trouble than they were worth - and waited. The bottle was passed twice between them as they watched the ever-increasing spectacle of Mrs Periot Darling’s performance. He waited, and he counted fifty-two perfectly smooth and slow heartbeats.
‘If you ask me, someone need to sort the old girl out. Put her in her place, make sure she knows the proper way to behave.’
A chuckle rose in his throat.
Oh, far, far too perfect.
The Duchess would be most interested in the conversation Her Ladyship and the Baron had struck up between each other. Most, most unsportsmanlike.
He slapped the Baron on the back and made his way to the stairs, leaving the shouts, the spilt drinks, petty grumbles, and the gentle click of the unlocking of doors behind him.
Patting the wire inside his jacket, he rose up into silent, timeless air and thought of neatly cut-and-struck ribbons of conversation spooling out into greater land, greater wealth, and greater power.
No-one would be leaving this particular party unless personally excused by Lord Brandon Mews himself. Which, he conceded, would mean that individual had either served their use or was discovered to be wholly useless - both of which would result in a significant lack of further invitations.
He stretched his neck from the crispest of collars, letting wisps of cologne mingle in the fresh, clear-cut air. He closed his eyes for a moment - lost deep inside his own personal fragrance and the endless, beautiful hallways of his mind - then turned to the straight-backed, tight-trimmed man sitting in the corner of the small room.
‘You’ll get it all?’
The man managed to convey a submissive level of sarcasm, well-nurtured pride, the briefest, restrained hint at humour and an overriding sense of duty-bound yet expertly-crafted accomplishment in a single, slightly elongated, blink.
‘Of course, of course.’
The man tilted his head a fraction of a degree to the left, then turned slowly back to his desk and the reels upon neatly stacked reels of seemingly harmless conversation. At the particular, square-locked silence of his shoulders, Lord Brandon Mews checked the wire in his jacket, finding it to be just out of place. He gave a curt nod to the stoic muscle-set and strode from the room.
The man - in neat, efficient movements - set a new reel to the recorder and placed the heavy earphones over his head. The sounds of the hectic world outside blossomed, crystal-clear, in his ears. He set the wheels into well-oiled motion - every footstep, every whispered secret, every veiled threat, tongue-slip, stifled shout.
Everything: marked solidly on the brown-smoked tape streaming out silently before him.
*
Lord Brandon Mews was a man who walked to the beat of his own footsteps.
He moved through the hallways of the upper floors - a gliding, gilded figure of excellence - giving nods to the servants who stopped their duties, standing straight and correct to meet him as he passed.
The walls, floor and ceiling fell away, replaced by light and air and the gentle thrum of bureaucratic conversation. He paused at the top of the stairway, examining the crowd he had assembled in the ballroom below, and took a deep breath of the utter, perfect silence that accompanied his arrival.
The Mansion was a timeless place, in the literal sense of the phrase. Not a single clock graced a single wall, the wrists and pockets of servants and master alike were bare and empty: free of the chains of seconds and minutes.
Which one man decided the length of a second? Whoever, he was not to be trusted.
Time was a foul, mocking creature forcing hurry to things that need not be, and illness to people who should not be. Life was not divided neatly into hours, into degrees in a circle, into the spinning of wheels and the twitching of hands.
And so, Lord Brandon Mews lived to the pace he set. He - and he alone - set the length of a second. Time was kept by the beat of his heart, the switch of his mind and the drift of his soul - not a movement forced by the ticks and chimes of so many lifeless tools.
Eyes rose and strained to meet him; he ignored most of them - first meeting the stare of a waitress who raised her tray of glasses ever so slightly above the heads in the crowd. Amongst the tight, taunting bubbles of the champagne, a round white something fizzed and danced, shrinking quickly down to an insignificant pinprick against the glass.
The silence tore in two, and the lilting calls of a thousand, power-hungry guests pushed the ballroom walls out further. He smiled, feeling deeply assured that tonight would, indeed, be a very profitable night. The waitress handed him a glass of champagne, slightly warm at the base, and he stepped out into the throng, a target already selected.
Mrs. Periot Darling had come quickly into money - an unexpected death, as usual - yet still did not really know what to do with it. Always the gentleman, Lord Brandon Mews would, of course, kindly venture a few appropriate suggestions. But that was for another time - although, after tonight, she may find him the only friendly face to be found in higher company.
‘Mrs. Darling!’ He started. She spun, a look of shock on her thin, nervous face. ‘What a pleasure to see you again!’
‘Oh, ah, Lord Mews, thankyou. I ... er ... love your house. Very, well ... uh ... very big.’
‘Oh my, please. You flatter me.” She was going to hyperventilate if he kept her talking much longer. “Now, please do have a drink - get to know some people.’
She started at the glass, wide-eyed, as though an angel had appeared to hand her a gift from heaven. He pushed it into her hand. ‘Oh, well, maybe just the one. Thankyou. Er ... I ... do you-’
‘-Have a good evening, Periot.’ Lord Brandon Mews interjected, and was away, leaving her small and alone in an overpriced, poorly fitted dress. She turned to find herself surrounded by impassive, shoulder-locked rings of her supposed equals, talking animatedly among themselves. She sighed deeply, stared long and hard into the champagne glass, and took a slow, heavy gulp of the drink. Another endless, lonely evening stretched out ahead of her.
*
He moved through the bustling crowd with ethereal ease, flicking greetings to those who deserved them, ignored those who didn’t and let them assure themselves they simply had not been heard. People jumped out of his way, spilling drinks on themselves and others, too proud or scared to speak out, leaving the ruined silk to drip alcohol onto the marble floor ready for another to slip on, and draw the attention away from their own misfortunes.
He found his first charge with expected ease - following the lazy trails of electric-blue smoke, curling high into the tight-drawn air, back to their owner. Her laugh danced tantalisingly in his ear, a master class in the secretive workings of high-society - an icy, twisted blade of rejection swathed under a smooth velvet cloak. The endless layers of switch-back pragmatics were enough to give a linguist several large heart attacks.
‘Brandon, darling, how nice to see you here.’
‘It is, after all, my own home, My Lady.’
‘Ah, of course it is, Brandon. Excellent. I am not a great fan of coincidence.’
Lord Brandon Mews held his tongue while simultaneously sending his proposed comment slicing, silently, into the smoke-laden air with a grand montage of unnoticeable gestures. Another trick of his class.
Her Ladyship, one Fanyata Oilenhousen, smiled her slow-blink smile and twisted her cigarette-holder in tiny circles between her thumb and forefinger. She reached over and pulled the burning paper from the holder with yellowed fingers. At once, she was a scrubby, uneducated girl again, now swathed in furs. She pulled the cigarette to her lips and sucked as though she needed to make up the rent - glowing light casting shifted shadows like five-finger bruises across her face - and sent another cloud of foreign blue smoke into the air.
The cigarette back in its holder, she snapped back to the present, thrust into high power by the very same coincidence she has since dispised.
Her Ladyship was in favour of the Duchess, sitting high and paranoid in her endless manor - a faceless leader to the faceless classes. And now this once-sorry-wretch of a female had been elevated, and had immediately attuned to, the benefits of a comforting shoulder and - or so some said - an unusually flexible tongue.
The Duchess had been - in her words - betrayed once by the death of her father, twice by the adultery of her husband, and thrice by the arsenic in her afternoon tea. But she had survived all three attacks on her heart, with riches and power still in tact, if not all her sanity, trust, or want for male company.
But a recluse needed eyes and ears beyond their sanctuary. Luckily, Lord Brandon Mews, fitted the part, apparently the only decent man left on the planet. Hired by way of promises, a simple, forgettable wire did all the work, while he threw his elegant parties, and shuffled the ranks of the idiot rich around like so many lifeless chess pieces.
Of course, one thing the Duchess did not realise is that within a Mansion sitting outside the constraints of time, conversations have a rather useful habit of spanning - unknown by all involved - several days, weeks, months or possibly even years. Each seemingly distant utterance was stitched to another, and suddenly, those who had unhelpfully expended six of the Duchess’ food tasters, were close to hand with damning evidence.
Lord Brandon Mews counted the beats of his heart, and turned towards the centre of the ballroom, taking Her Ladyship’s arm ever so gently, and brining her around the same way. On cue, the shouting began.
Mrs. Periot Darling stood in the direct centre of the ballroom - marked by the central, delicate spiral of the two-tone circular marble floor underfoot and the magnificent crystal twelve-tiered chandelier overhead.
‘I’ve had enough!’ She screamed, flinging her arms outwards and bringing them back in to find both seemingly devoid of champagne glasses. She blinked away the sounds of breaking glass with heavy, angry eyes.
‘More drinks! Nono, what, eh ... I’ve had enough! Enough of all ... this!’
The waitress gave a small, accomplished nod to her master as she passed, ignored by all others.
Mrs. Periot Darling wrenched those with less money but more sense around to face her, forming a high-class circle around herself. She paused for a moment, seemingly confused not that she had received the attention hoped for, something besides alcohol racing through her blood stream.
‘Right! Let’s sort this aaaall out! Now, right now!’
Lord Brandon Mews leaned in closer to Her new-found Ladyship, the wire in his jacket inching towards her red-lined lips.
‘She’s making a spectacle of herself.’
Perfect.
‘Someone should do something.’
Wonderful.
Her Ladyship flicked ash to the floor, her target of Brandon’s shoes suddenly absent.
He was away again, off through the crowd, all the words he needed being written neatly onto the spooling line of smoked brown tape with every leap of his soul.
*
He stopped further around the audience now watching with a little less interest Mrs. Periot Darling’s various rants on the uncharitable attitudes of certain attendees.
Said adulterer, Baron Salient Scapethorne, stood at ease, glass in one hand, chicken-leg (not provided) in the other, and a half-bottle of tequila in his jacket pocket. He had, by his own admission, used the Duchess for his personal gain - setting up countless business ventures in her money, but in his name, while in her company. Most of them failed, but by the time the line of whøres and servant-girls could be seen trailing from his bedroom, through the house, out the front door and halfway to the gates, he had substantial success to continue of his own accord without the finance the Duchess had so kindly offered up.
And so he stayed, and was accepted again by all (bar one, notable, exception) - managing to secure himself the near-obsolete title of Baron and somehow bring it back to popularity. Admired as much for his obnoxious, barefaced cheek than anything else, he remained his own man in a class ruled by flattery and imitation.
Which was never a good thing.
Lord Brandon Mews leaned in close - greetings were, with the Baron, usually more trouble than they were worth - and waited. The bottle was passed twice between them as they watched the ever-increasing spectacle of Mrs Periot Darling’s performance. He waited, and he counted fifty-two perfectly smooth and slow heartbeats.
‘If you ask me, someone need to sort the old girl out. Put her in her place, make sure she knows the proper way to behave.’
A chuckle rose in his throat.
Oh, far, far too perfect.
The Duchess would be most interested in the conversation Her Ladyship and the Baron had struck up between each other. Most, most unsportsmanlike.
He slapped the Baron on the back and made his way to the stairs, leaving the shouts, the spilt drinks, petty grumbles, and the gentle click of the unlocking of doors behind him.
Patting the wire inside his jacket, he rose up into silent, timeless air and thought of neatly cut-and-struck ribbons of conversation spooling out into greater land, greater wealth, and greater power.
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Well thanks for remembering, all reads are welcome.
Looking at it again (almost forgot I'd even written this one, strangely enough) there's a few things I think I could have done better, particularly the ending. I'm sure I'll get around to it someday.
Cheers all, again.
Looking at it again (almost forgot I'd even written this one, strangely enough) there's a few things I think I could have done better, particularly the ending. I'm sure I'll get around to it someday.
Cheers all, again.
Didn't love it but did like it. An easy flowing story to read which found a smile on my face by the time I'd finished it.
Fascinating scenario.
Fascinating scenario.
Funnily enough after reading this I felt it had been slightly influenced by Black Glove, but not in the naming of the characters.
Well, it was probably more about the style than the story.
Glad I nailed it.
Name-wise, I took a little inspiration from you, who always seems to pick the perfect ones.
Go team FFF.
woo!
Glad I nailed it.
Name-wise, I took a little inspiration from you, who always seems to pick the perfect ones.
Go team FFF.
woo!
So stylistically accomplished. Great characters. Every moment finding the right words and description. It flowed with the aplomb of Casanova. I'm just a little envious.
Hurrah!
Curse you for making me read it twice.
But yeah, like.
Curse you for making me read it twice.
But yeah, like.
They get longer and longer. I'll read this tonight. Then tell you how fantastically fantastical it is.
Meka Dragon wrote:
> "and sucked as though she needed to make up the rent" -
> then again, as a throw away remark it probably suits this type of
> character.
Perhaps a little too direct, but it came to mind and I couldn't not put such a wonderful phrase on.
> Wasn't sure if your missing 'ly' was in here with
> "unhelpful" - though shouldn't it also be
> "tasters"?:
>
> Each seemingly distant utterance was stitched to another, and
> suddenly, those who had unhelpful expended six of the Duchess’ food
> taster, were close to hand with damning evidence.
winnar! You get ... er ... ho-hum, yeah, stuff. Enjoy!
Picking out mistakes you know are there but can't find for the life of you at twelve on a Friday night isn't my favourite of activities.
> Anyway, I enjoyed it.
Hurrah.
Glad y'all liked it, rather quickly unfinished as it was.
So much more I would have liked to put in there.
And look, I didn't go over the top and no-one exploded out of their skin, or had their soul stolen away by eye-stealing demons.
A personal triumph.
> "and sucked as though she needed to make up the rent" -
> then again, as a throw away remark it probably suits this type of
> character.
Perhaps a little too direct, but it came to mind and I couldn't not put such a wonderful phrase on.
> Wasn't sure if your missing 'ly' was in here with
> "unhelpful" - though shouldn't it also be
> "tasters"?:
>
> Each seemingly distant utterance was stitched to another, and
> suddenly, those who had unhelpful expended six of the Duchess’ food
> taster, were close to hand with damning evidence.
winnar! You get ... er ... ho-hum, yeah, stuff. Enjoy!
Picking out mistakes you know are there but can't find for the life of you at twelve on a Friday night isn't my favourite of activities.
> Anyway, I enjoyed it.
Hurrah.
Glad y'all liked it, rather quickly unfinished as it was.
So much more I would have liked to put in there.
And look, I didn't go over the top and no-one exploded out of their skin, or had their soul stolen away by eye-stealing demons.
A personal triumph.
Yes, very good. Not your best, but very good.
And my second idea for a SSC topic, which I didn't use, was Time, which is weird.
Like Meka, I thought Lord Brandon Mews was an excellent character, and it can't have been easy to describe him, or anything related to him, because of the lack of a time period. But you did so really well.
And my second idea for a SSC topic, which I didn't use, was Time, which is weird.
Like Meka, I thought Lord Brandon Mews was an excellent character, and it can't have been easy to describe him, or anything related to him, because of the lack of a time period. But you did so really well.
Very good. You've created an interesting character in Lord Brandon Mews. Early on there's a sense of something sinister, the latching of the doors, but it never really spiralled out of control as I expected. Mrs. Periot Darling lost it though, that I liked.
I thought the time aspect of the piece, that many moons could pass in this place, came across well.
This line made me fnar, but I felt it was perhaps a little out of place:
"and sucked as though she needed to make up the rent" - then again, as a throw away remark it probably suits this type of character.
Wasn't sure if your missing 'ly' was in here with "unhelpful" - though shouldn't it also be "tasters"?:
Each seemingly distant utterance was stitched to another, and suddenly, those who had unhelpful expended six of the Duchess’ food taster, were close to hand with damning evidence.
Anyway, I enjoyed it.
I thought the time aspect of the piece, that many moons could pass in this place, came across well.
This line made me fnar, but I felt it was perhaps a little out of place:
"and sucked as though she needed to make up the rent" - then again, as a throw away remark it probably suits this type of character.
Wasn't sure if your missing 'ly' was in here with "unhelpful" - though shouldn't it also be "tasters"?:
Each seemingly distant utterance was stitched to another, and suddenly, those who had unhelpful expended six of the Duchess’ food taster, were close to hand with damning evidence.
Anyway, I enjoyed it.
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