…
A/N: The fairy tale "Master of all masters" is recounted here as told by Joseph Jacobs.
Nutrisco et extinguo: "I feed upon it and extinguish it"
Utrinque paratus: "Ready for anything" ; motto of... :)
Warnings: Rating for this chapter is T.
You can read this story on my LJ with its illustrations, and the songs by Ingrid Michaelson - FFnet unfortunately doesn't allow me to insert those on this page. Please check my profile for the links.
.
Chapter XXVI: Utrinque paratus
song: Parachute, by Ingrid Michaelson
oOo
I don't tell anyone about the way you hold my hand.
I don't tell anyone about the things that we have planned.
I won't tell anybody
Won't tell anybody
They wanna push me down they wanna see you fall down.
Maria had been working in the Hôtel Saint Gervais in Geneva for twenty years, and never had she seen such suspicious customers. She could not determine whether they were a couple or not – they did share a room, but looked more like a pair of business men trying to cut on expenses than like lovers. Still, the rooms weren't that expensive in this little one star hotel, and she could not fathom why such wealthy-looking strangers would bother sharing a room if not for the obvious... Well.
She blushed and resumed her work. She'd been a cleaning lady since she was a very young woman, having no talent whatsoever for studies – but she'd been happy to be hired in this calm and proper little hotel in the center of the city, not so far from Lake Léman, and close to the station too, which allowed her to visit her brother every once in a while on weekends. She enjoyed going to the country, and she always loved the beautiful landscapes of Switzerland.
Presently though, she was more absorbed in the two peculiar visitors who'd been staying for two nights already, and who acted so strangely. One of them was taciturn and barely left the room – except when it rained, and he found it somehow suitable to go strolling by the Lake. He was a bit scary. The other one gave her a warmer impression and seemed more cheerful, chatting with the staff and making funny jokes. He did appear to be a bit of a womanizer, but Maria didn't mind: he didn't seem like the type who'd sexually harass anyone. Moreover, his companion was here to keep an eye on him, like a big brother used to dealing with younger siblings.
That's what she thought on the face of it anyway. But two days after their arrival, she was beginning to wonder who the curious pair was – the tall, quiet and intimidating man, and the handsome, joyous one. Maria was about to enter their room when she caught scraps of a conversation behind the door, and was surprised that they were still there, instead of having gone to lunch. Since the taller customer spent a great part of the day in the room, the good cleaning lady hadn't wanted to disturb him, and so had tried to clean their room lastly, so it was unlikely that they'd be there. But this time, it was obvious that they hadn't gone to the hotel restaurant – yet, in any case.
She could not make out their words, but they seemed to be arguing – or rather, the one with a deeper voice appeared to be chiding the other. Elder brother indeed, she thought. She was about to leave when the lower of the two voices suddenly called out loudly.
"Yes? Please do come in."
Maria froze on the spot, wondering if she had heard correctly. She thought she heard a sound of annoyance, then steps made their way to the door and the younger of the two men opened it, a friendly smile gracing his lips.
"Hello, there. May I help you?" he asked, with a strong British accent.
Maria turned crimson and stammered:
"No... no I.. I'm sorry, I thought there would be no one in the room and I finished the whole floor so..."
"Please do come back later," cut in the voice of the other man, who was presently sitting in the armchair turned towards the windows. "It will surely rain this afternoon, and I shall go out."
Befuddled, Maria blinked, then apologized profusely again and took her leave, hurrying down the corridor, leaving the eccentric pair behind.
Won't tell anybody that you turn the world around.
I won't tell anyone that your voice is my favourite sound.
I won't tell anybody
Won't tell anybody
They wanna see us fall they wanna see us fall down.
The younger man who had opened the door on the poor cleaning lady closed it with a chuckle and turned to his companion, who was still gazing pensively out of the window, lost in the greyness of the darkening clouds.
"You've scared her away, methinks," he remarked amusedly. The other shrugged.
"That is just part of the role."
The first man snorted and slumped back into a chair next to his partner, whose darker hair and whiter skin contrasted sharply, his eerie blue eyes filling with the charcoal shade of the changing sky.
"You're just lazy and preferred to take the aloof persona, so I would be left to do all the talking," he whined dramatically. The quieter man ignored his remark and resumed their discussion.
"I need you back in New-York before the day after tomorrow," he declared, flat-footed.
The other arched an eyebrow and the chestnut brown lock of hair above his eyes rose comically as his face broke into a mocking grin.
"You need me?"
The imposing man sent him a cold, indifferent look. "Don't be daft."
"Do you need me to bleach my hair again?" the younger man insisted playfully.
"Certainly not, you look horrendous like this – even worse than usual. You may die it back if you'd like."
His companion pouted and stood to watch himself in the mirror.
"And to think I bleached it for you..." he mumbled, possibly trying to sound cute. The cold man continued, paying no mind whatsoever to the other's theatrics.
"I expect that you do not fail me this time. Our Evil Queen has got bored of apples and is now playing directly with fire... Let us remind them that flames may burn," he concluded icily, adding with a very persuasive stare to the mirror reflection of his partner:
"And you might want to remember it as well."
Outside it thundered, and the clouds spewed their pouring rain over the grizzled city.
I don't need a parachute, baby if I've got you
Baby if I've got you, i don't need a parachute.
You're gonna catch me, you're gonna catch if I fall
Down, down, down...
Jérémie was flegmatically ignoring the dark glances of the man sitting next to him, and who was obviously disturbed by the loudness of the music playing on his iPhone. But Jérémie was used to it, and merely adjusted his earphones, almost enjoying the venomous glare it earned him. Old people were so funny nowadays, so easily upset. He allowed himself a peek towards his fuming neighbour. The guy wasn't so old, after all. Well, to Jérémie, who'd just turned 15, he was still an old man. His clothes were unrefined and nondescript, but his uncannily blue eyes gave the teenage boy the chills. Freak, he thought, before turning to the window again. The flight wasn't too long anyway, he wouldn't have to bear the creepy guy's presence for more than an hour.
It wasn't the first time he took the plane alone – his parents got divorced when he was seven, and his dad was from Monaco, so he'd moved back there after they got separated. Jérémie lived with his mom in Switzerland, but went to his father's place – which he personally found much cooler – every holiday. He never suffered from the separation, as he got a double amount of everything: attention, Christmas and birthday presents, New Year money... He was pretty much used to getting everything he wanted.
Suddenly standing up, he signified to the weird guy that he wanted to pass to go to the toilets, thrusting his chin forward contemptuously. The man blinked, looked up at him, and smiled. Then he closed his eyes and leant back in his seat as if he were in the deepest slumber.
Jérémie stared, dumbfounded, as the bloody freak faked sleeping just to annoy the hell out of him. Which he succeeded in doing brilliantly. Frowning, Jérémie tried to step over him, but at this precise moment the infuriating stranger squirmed and rolled onto his side, effectively tripping the poor boy who fell flat on his face, cursing loudly. The man jolted, faking outrage and crying out, alerting the hostesses who rushed to their side. Rubbing his head, Jérémie tried to get up but found that he was stuck and had to be picked up by two crew members like a little child. Humiliated, he turned a death glare to the devious stranger, only to find him looking all lost and confused, as if he had indeed just been disturbed in his sleep by a clumsy teenager.
"You...!"
"Are you all right, my boy?" he asked in a worried tone, and Jérémie couldn't help but be impressed by his acting skills. He gaped, staring dumbly at the hateful comedian, and only then did he noticed that his earphones' wire had been irremediably damaged in his fall, as if the mock sleeper had actually grabbed it as Jérémie tumbled. This was the last straw.
"You broke my earphones!" he whined, utterly inconsiderate towards the other passengers.
The man tilted his head to the side and his clear gaze was blurred in puzzlement.
"What–"
"Stop pretending!" Then to one of the hostesses: "That freak was just faking his sleep to trick me, I saw him! He kept sending me dark glances and when I stood up he faked sleeping, he faked it all and fucking broke my earphones!"
"Please sir, I must ask you to calm down this instant and to stop disturbing other passengers."
"But–"
"Be quiet, young man!" an older male passenger suddenly protested, and many others joined in. As he became aware that everyone was against him, Jérémie felt his hatred for the stranger increase tenfold. He turned to glare impetuously at the stranger one last time, and froze on the spot, feeling very much like a bucket of cold water had just hit him. All the eyes were fixed on him, and so all missed the feral, icy stare the teenage boy was greeted with. Jérémie's blood ran cold in his veins, and he stood transfixed by the ardour of a smouldering violence, suddenly sharp and clear in the deep, engorging pupils. Terrified, reduced to a trembling prey before its predator, the boy obediently let himself be led to the back of the plane – away from the paralysing gaze of the psychopath. Jérémie suddenly felt sick. He'd seen it – and he alone had seen it. The eyes of a killer.
Don't believe the things you tell yourself so late at night.
You are your own worst enemy, you'll never win the fight.
Just hold on to me, I'll hold on to you.
It's you and me up against the world it's you and me.
Someone was talking to him. He couldn't decipher the words, but someone... The voice was familiar – or should have been. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. The darkness surrounding him was opaque, and he wasn't sure whether his eyes were closed and he couldn't open them, or if there truly was no light to be seen anywhere around him. It was cold and forlorn, dreary in its emptiness - vacant, irrevocably.
And still, emerging from the deepest shadows, the voice was speaking – not calling, but just talking to him. It should have alarmed him – or annoyed him at least. But for some unfathomable reason, the voice had a placating effect. Its timbre spread a sense of intimacy within the darkness itself, making it almost comfortable, almost cosy; making it feel like home.
He caught himself allowing to be lulled by the familiarity of the tone, and unable to put a face on it, unable to put anything at all on it – or on the blackness surrounding him – he imagined he was resting alongside a lover. Or rather, sprawled on a couch, his head on his knees, listening to his voice. It was a lullaby and it was a hymn, yet without melody and deprived of a name. A song without words, a piece for which no score could ever be written, for they did not exist, the notes capable of shedding light on its mysterious composition. It mollified and invigorated him all at once. Because to be heard the voice needed a breath, and a pulse, and a life - and it was the breath, pulse, and life. And so he found he could do nothing but drown into it and drink it to the drop - the presence it betrayed overwhelming. Indulging in the touch of a hand stroking his hair, indulging in the enveloping sense of unassailable safety, indulging...
He fell in the dream and woke up. His eyes opened to a silent darkness.
I don't believe anything, don't trust anyone anymore.
But I believe you when you say we're never gonna fall.
Hand behind my neck, arm around my waist,
Never let me hit the ground, you'll never let me crash down...
Little Concetta was sitting on the low white chalk wall in front of her house, licking a large lollipop. Her grandma was the owner of the Candy shop at the corner, and she got to taste one big piece of candy a week, whichever she liked the most on the display.
Every Sunday she enjoyed eating it, making it last all afternoon. She always sat on the little wall just before her door, watching the passer-bys. She laughed at the plump, fidgety men hurrying up and down the street like the rabbit from Alice in Wonderland, smiled at the older women scurrying along with their shopping bag, trying to catch up with their grand children hopping around. She marvelled at the beautiful ladies in colourful, dazzling dresses, who twirled around airily, flying to some secret rendez-vous or fleeing unwanted compliments and glances. But most of all, she liked considering passing men from head to toe, and giving them a grade on a 0 to 10 scale – looking for a future husband. She'd decided long ago that the one who'd get a ten out of ten would be the one she would marry. In her seven years of existence, she hadn't met any who was worthy of the rank.
"It isn't good to wait for Prince Charming," always chided her mother. "He'll never come, and then you will become an old spinster like Aunt Francesca."
But today, Prince Charming came. He wasn't riding a white horse, nor was he wearing a large red cape blowing in the wind. Wrapped in a dark grey coat, his black curls fell in waves on either side of his porcelain face illuminated by the most radiant blue eyes Concetta had ever seen. Her mouth fell open and when he passed right by her, her eyes widened and she dropped her lollipop. But like in a fairy tale, the stranger swiftly caught it before it touched the ground, and handed it to her with a smile.
"Careful. You don't want it to go to waste."
Mesmerized, Concetta extended her trembling little hand to take the lollipop, and when her fingers brushed the back of her prince's hand, she was amazed by the smoothness of his skin. By its coldness, too. Startled, she jolted a little, and blinked. How could his hands be so cold when he had such a warm, vibrant smile? As he stepped away she felt the urge to do something for him, and forgetting all her manners, jumped off her wall and caught his sleeve in her small fist. Surprised, he stopped in his tracks and turned his luminous face towards her. Suddenly realizing what she'd done, Concetta blushed. Fascinated by the prince and his oneiric charm, she reached towards him like in a dream, handing him her rescued lollipop. The god-like stranger blinked, baffled, but soon his face broke into a boyish grin, his expression so genuine the little girl could only gawk in adoration.
"Thank you," he said, his voice a deep baritone little Concetta would always remember in her dreams. Then he was gone, and she never saw him again.
I don't need a parachute, baby if I've got you
Baby if I've got you, i don't need a parachute
You're gonna catch me, you're gonna catch if I fall
Down, down, down.
They were stuck in a traffic jam. People coming back from their week-end spent in the countryside, surely. Pietro Lombardi frowned and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. True, most cab drivers were fond of traffic jams, as it certainly didn't make them lose any money – quite the contrary. But Pietro found it unnerving, especially when the client was a quiet one, like this one. The tall, dark-haired man hadn't said a word after he'd indicated his destination in a neutral voice: "Hotel Danieli." No please, Pietro noted grimly. Not that he wasn't used to it. Most clients were rather well-off – a synonym for scornful, according to him. This one seemed especially rich, with his Versace suit and his golden Gucci watch – he probably wouldn't bother talking to a mere cabbie. Pietro didn't care. He'd get his money in the end, and that was all that mattered.
But to be stuck with such a client was a bit of a bore. When Pietro was about to turn the radio on, an icy glare spurred him to forget the thought at once, and his hand fell back by his side right away. Not that the man was scary, but he surely was powerful and he had this aristocratic air surrounding him that just compelled the old cabbie to keep a low profile. His pursed lip and proud, angular chin commanded respect, and the solemnity of his traits only added to the overall impression of superiority he exhaled. Dignified, indeed. Haughty, Pietro thought.
Finally the traffic improved and soon they were driving smoothly towards the grand hotel the elegant stranger had named. Still somewhat young, the cabbie mused, glancing at the man in his rear-view mirror, probably some bloody heir who'll never know what it is to earn a living. He felt his blood boil at the thought. Pietro was used to taking very wealthy customers, but for some reason this one was getting on his nerves, even though he remained silent. In fact, his silence itself was a source of annoyance for the driver, who was very glad when the palace came into view. He didn't like the look of the man, and did not have to force his smile when he opened the door for him to get out of his car. Pietro handed the luggage to the porters, and watched the back of the quiet man as he left without a word of thanks, but with an aura of undefinable nobility and assurance – the confidence of a man who knows he will get what he wants, always.
I won't fall out of love, I won't fall out of, I won't fall out of love, I won't fall out of...
I won't fall out of love, I won't fall out of, I won't fall out of love, I fall into you.
Yi Ling was hurrying down the crowded streets of Venice, hands full with shopping bags from different tailors and shoemakers. Her mistress was at the SPA this morning and so she had been sent to get her orders throughout the city. Yi Ling loved Miss Salome – as she insisted that she called her. It had felt a bit awkward at first – calling her mistess by her first name – but now the young maid was used to it. She had been so happy to be noticed by this beautiful foreign lady while walking down the street in Singapore (where she'd come, hoping to find a job), and then Miss Salome had brought her along in Kuwait where her husband – a billionaire of Greek descent who was born in Singapore - had some business. And now, she was even in Venice... Yi Ling had never dreamt of such a life for herself. But she also knew that whatever happened to her mistress, and wherever she went, even to the darkest corner of the poorest village on the surface of the earth, she would follow, ever adoring and faithful.
She'd been fascinated by Miss Salome's charisma at first sight. She was new in Singapore, but she'd made quite an entry as the new wife of Samuel Hupaetos. Unbowed and hypnotic, she was discreet nonetheless and did not appear much – still, she had rapidly won over the high society. Hupaetos seemed very possessive and jealous of any man setting his eyes on her, and though she was noticed, her name wasn't well-known. Yi Ling had never heard of her when she met her for the first time. She knew that Samuel Hupaetos, the Samuel Hupaetos, had remarried, but that was nothing unusual and it wasn't much noted by the media, as Hupaetos kept both the ceremony and the honeymoon secret. He categorically refused that any picture should be taken of his new wife, and his personal guards chased the few daring journalists or hired photographs who attempted the deed.
And so when Yi Ling had run into the bewitching woman, she had no idea of who she truly was. She was surprised and flattered by her interest, and had been so captivated that she accepted her offer to have dinner together. They met again, and a week later Yi Ling was hired as Mrs. Salome Hupaetos's maid and live-in companion. She was her confident and her unwavering support, regardless of what the lady undertook. She soon found that Miss Salome was not only splendid, alluring and overly kind to her – but also clever, cultured and cunning, her talent for bantering and eloquence quite impressive.
As she turned at a corner, in her hurry Yi Ling did not see the tall man coming her way and ran into him so forcefully she stumbled and thought she'd end up flat on her face, her packages scattered all over the place. She cried out in surprise and her eyes widened in panic at the idea of messing her mistress's belongings, but the stranger caught her in time and everything was saved. Breathless and still in shock, she let herself be brought back on her feet, stuttering apologies in Chinese before she remembered where she was, and resuming in incomprehensible Italian. The man smiled, and she found him so handsome she froze on the spot and blushed furiously. Her confusion turned into bafflement when he replied in fluent mandarin:
"Everything is all right, please don't apologize. I am just as responsible for not looking where I was going."
Yi Ling gaped a few seconds before taking a grip and shaking her head to dispel the sense of wonder. She blinked, but when she opened her eyes the man was still there, radiant and yet darkly refined, a combination that reminded her very much of...
"In fact, I must confess something... I have been following you for quite some time, and this isn't really an accident."
His smile was so lovely Yi Ling fell instantly for it. Her blush deepened.
"I know you arrived two days ago at Hotel Danieli with your mistress Mrs. Hupaetos, whose husband is to come and join her the day after tomorrow, once he is done with an important meeting held in Kuwait."
"How do you–"
"I talked to the porters," he cut in, smirking slightly.
"But, sir... why would you be following me?"
The gentleman arched an eyebrow.
"Didn't Miss Salome find something in you as well?"
"How do you know that I..."
"... call her that way? Well, I know what she likes."
This time, hearing the familiar phrasing, Yi Ling paled.
"Who are you?" she faltered, stepping back unwittingly.
The stranger's smile was dark and knowing. Entrancing.
"An old friend. Will you convey something to her for me?"
Unable to refuse him anything, Yi Ling nodded mechanically.
"These words exactly: "Tonight, in George and Alfred's room. Let's have dinner."
And with those words, he was gone.
I don't need a parachute, baby if I've got you
Baby if I've got you, I don't need a parachute
You're gonna catch me, you're gonna catch if I fall
Down, down, down.
On December 31, 1833, the French romantic poet Alfred de Musset and his lover, the female writer George Sand, shared room number 13 in the Hotel Danieli, Venice. Their stormy affair marked the place forever, even after they left merely three months later. Today the room had changed and was much more luxurious, but retained the melancholy charm of its history.
In the dim-lit suite, a man and a woman were standing face to face, her by the door, him by the window – her, illuminated by the crepuscular light, and him, silhouetted against it. Eyes plunging into eyes, brains already deciphering, calculating and speculating, they had been silent for almost a minute already, when the woman finally spoke:
"Have you started a trade?"
He showed her to a seat at a table which offered the most delicious looking cold meal and a bottle of Champagne. She let herself fall gracefully into the chair, and added, a thin smile on her painted red lips:
"In faking death."
The man opened the Champagne bottle and filled her glass, responding to her smile with a grin.
"I do not fake it much these days, unfortunately."
The woman did not shiver and accepted the glass, raising it to make a toast.
"To our deaths, then."
"To our lives," he answered, his gaze intense. They drank.
They looked like a picture, both so handsome and so mysterious, drinking Champagne in a Venetian palace – and they seemed to think so too, as the woman remarked:
"So... Alfred and George?"
"Problem?"
"I would've rather said Valmont and Merteuil," she retorted, her tone amused and playful. [1]
"Obviously."
She put her glass down and observed him closely, her knees on the table, her chin resting on her joined hands.
"So... What should I call you?"
"Some call me Kazimir. Then there's always the obvious, boring name– but I am rather reluctant to you using it."
"Mmh, let me guess... Jim Moriarty? Why?"
He smirked.
"If you're asking, you haven't guessed anything. But then again, that was never really up your street, was it?"
She pinched her lips imperceptibly at the off-handed comment, and her gaze turned slightly colder.
"So what, I was merely a tool between you two big boys and so you decided to stop using intermediaries and commit a touching double-suicide? Please."
"Clearly you haven't been well informed if you believe he is as dead as I am. Or perhaps you truly haven't understood a thing."
"Why do you need me?" she cut in, apparently tired of the bickering and snide remarks.
The man's grin widened.
"What makes you think I do?"
"You're here. You found me."
"I never took my eyes off you."
"I'm flattered."
"Don't be."
They held their gazes, their burning pupils having a brief staring contest, before the tension melted in a reciprocal, knowing smile.
"Why wouldn't you like me to call you Jim, since you've visibly been very keen to take on the name?"
"You said once that he was your kind of man."
She blinked, once, and burst out laughing, her white teeth contrasting vividly with the redness of her lips.
"You owe me," the man continued, his voice calm but firm.
"And so you've come to claim your price?"
"I've come because your services may be useful to me."
An air of triumph traversed her gaze, her eyes sparkling with jest.
"Do you know what Salome asked King Herod as a reward for her dance?" [2]
The man's pupils darkened noticeably, but he did not seem surprised in the least, and his face cracked into a somewhat macabre grin as he replied:
"John the Baptist's head."
They stared at each other, eyes locked for a few excruciating seconds, before the man broke eye contact and simply refilled their glasses.
"But you've misunderstood something."
The woman arched an inquisitive eyebrow, leaning back into her chair more comfortably, crossing her legs.
"I am not the Herod of your story. If you really must assign a role to me, it would rather be Herodias."
"A woman?" she said, her grin now predatory.
He ignored her comment, glanced at his watched, and cut the conversation short.
"You are in no position to refuse me."
"Oh, really?" the woman's lips curved up, showing her teeth wolfishly, and her eyes lit up with something like mischief.
The dark-haired man answered her smile, his tone self-assured and tinged with mockery.
"Really."
He stood up, took his coat and walked to the door, without having touched even one dish from the appetizing buffet.
"Why?" she asked swiftly, not bothering to stand up but turning to him, back straight, posture dignified. Her pupils were trembling, with excitation or burning anger, it was hard to tell. The man stopped in the doorway, and tilted his head back, lips parting in an amused smirk – and the woman saw for a second his own face again, the one he wore under another name, in another time.
"Because of your initials."
The door was closed; the Woman smiled.
I don't need a parachute, baby if I've got you,
Baby if I've got you, I don't need a parachute,
You're gonna catch me, you're gonna catch if I fall
A piece of paper had been waiting in a drawer for months. When finally the drawer was opened and the man at the desk handed it to one of the Hotel customers, it was so glad to see the light again that its colours appeared to shine more brightly – the creamy shade of the letter, the redness of the seal and ink. But the stranger pocketed it just as soon, and it was dark again.
Once the tall, dark-haired man arrived in his room and the door was closed behind him, he went to sit at the large, 18th century wooden desk, and broke the seal with an antique paper knife. The letter opened up before his eyes.
Master of All Masters
A GIRL once went to the fair to hire herself for servant. At last a funny-looking old gentleman engaged her, and took her home to his house. When she got there, he told her that he had something to teach her, for that in his house he had his own names for things.
He said to her: 'What will you call me?'
'Master or mister, or whatever you please, sir,' says she.
He said: 'You must call me "master of all masters". And what would you call this?' pointing to his bed.
'Bed or couch, or whatever you please, sir.'
'No, that's my "barnacle". And what do you call these?' said he, pointing to his pantaloons.
'Breeches or trousers, or whatever you please, sir.'
'You must call them "squibs and crackers". And what would you call her?' pointing to the cat.
'Cat or kit, or whatever you please, sir.'
'You must call her "white-faced simminy".
And this now,' showing the fire, 'what would you call this?'
'Fire or flame, or whatever you please, sir.'
'You must call it 'hot cockalorum", and what this?' he went on, pointing to the water.
'Water or wet, or whatever you please, sir.'
'No, "pondalorum" is its name. And what do you call all this?' asked he as he pointed to the house.
'House or cottage, or whatever you please, sir.'
'You must call it "high topper mountain".'
That very night the servant woke her master up in a fright and said: 'Master of all masters, get out of your barnacle and put on your squibs and crackers. For white-faced simminy has got a spark of hot cockalorum on its tail, and unless you get some pondalorum high topper mountain will be all on hot cockalorum' . . . That's all.
N.B: So tell me, my dear... What are your words, and who's your servant? :D
The man did not flinch once, nor did he frown at the last words, added in darker ink. He simply took out a lighter from his inner left pocket, and holding the letter before him, set it alight.
In the quiet darkness of the room, Sherlock watched the fairy tale burn.
Down.
.
.
.
tbc
Notes:
[1] Main characters from Les Liaisons dangereuses (The Dangerous Liaisons), a French epistolary novel by Choderlos de Laclos, first published in 1782. It is the story of the Marquise de Merteuil and the Vicomte de Valmont, two rivals (and ex-lovers) who use sex as a weapon to humiliate and degrade others, all the while enjoying their cruel games. It has been claimed to depict the decadence of the French aristocracy shortly before the French Revolution, thereby exposing the perversions of the so-called Ancien Régime. However, it has also been described as a vague, amoral story. {from Wikipedia}
[2] Salome (Greek: Σαλώμη, Salōmē), the Daughter of Herodias (c AD 14 - between 62 and 71), is known from the New Testament (Mark 6:17-29 and Matthew 14:3-11) and Flavius Josephus's Jewish Antiquities. Her name in Hebrew is שלומית (Shlomiẗ, IPA: [ʃlomiθ]) and is derived from the root word ŠLM (שלם), meaning "peace". Salome danced before Herod and her mother Herodias at the occasion of his birthday, and in doing so gave her mother the opportunity to obtain the head of John the Baptist. According to Mark's gospel Herodias bore a grudge against John for stating that Herod's marriage to her was unlawful; she encouraged Salome to demand that John be executed. Christian traditions depict her as an icon of dangerous female seductiveness, for instance depicting as erotic her dance mentioned in the New Testament (in some later transformations further iconised to the dance of the seven veils), or concentrate on her light-hearted and cold foolishness that, according to the gospels, led to John the Baptist's death. {from Wikipedia}