The glimmer of starlight seemed to curtain the milky sheen of night that hung heavy over the vibrant atmosphere. The sweet smell of roses whiffed from the golden glow of chandelier light thrown by opulent crystals out into the darkness where the rushing noise of ocean surf breaking against rock could be heard at a thunder. The jagged cliff face obscured all sight of the meeting of the two elements in an inky black shade. Below the stone railing one only heard the vacuous chorus of the infinite nothing that lay at the edges of the circles of the world. Here, on this night, the rose vine wrapped marble balcony seemed to be the edge of the world itself, the edge of all understanding of wisdom and folly. To look out at the vast darkness which bore no light, there was but a torrent of rage and elemental power of the open ocean that makes one feel so small.
And tonight, there was not a man in the world who felt smaller than the figure that kept watch over the nothing. If he tried hard enough, really put forth all his power, he might even see himself looking back through that abyss. He relished the chill in the air, the overwhelming salt of the cold sea that ran far to a distant home where it seemed nothing waited for him. He was not upon its all-encompassing grandeur, yet, the man in red army uniform felt as if he was lost on it. He was set adrift without a paddle, without a prayer, floating off to God knows where. The young man felt that he had the drive, the wherewithal, to paddle, but to where? Surely there was an actual house, a large estate, out there. But it seemed so empty, half buried in its grave already.
Most people didn't believe in nor saw the point in Downton Abbey. But its heir disagreed, in fact he couldn't struggle harder against these notions. What was Downton Abbey but a crumbling heirloom? He could say that it was history, a living, breathing, reminder of everything in which their Kingdom, their Empire was built from. It was in these grand country houses which determination, courage, and blood spilt built such a great people, a great civilization.
Downton Abbey was the home of the founder of the House of Grantham. An illegitimate son of Lady Kate Percy and a Lord of Downton that had fought with Henry V in putting an end to "Hotspur's" failed rebellion against the Progenerate of the Lancastrian House. For years the first Lords of Grantham "The Black Dragons of York" fought for and were loyal to King Edward IV during their many victorious battles against the French Kings and the Lancastrian foes. The House of Grantham remained Loyal to Queen Elizabeth Woodville, refusing to serve the Usurper Richard III nor paying homage to the Tudors.
Though guardians of the land for many centuries, their ownership was gifted by Lady Margaret Pole, their second matriarch. It wasn't till the early 18th Century that they were finally granted the full title and county that was denied by the Tudors for dubious loyalties in the years of Henry VII and later their ancestry from Lady Pole during the reigns of Henry VIII and Queen Elizabeth. The House of Grantham's poverty lasted through their support of the House of Stuart during the Civil War and it became a house divided between Georgian and Jacobite for near a century. Yet, since a Catholic Jacobite Grantham sired an heir upon a Countess who was forced into a marriage to his Georgian brother. It was hurt pride from a barren Protestant Lord that centuries of Earls raised their sons with iron rod to conform them into the most ardent British Patriots, Anglican Protestants, and Georgian Royalists. For centuries the many Earls of Grantham ever tried to hide or rewrite their history in taught shame. They wished to ever remake a House founded by the last Roman Centurion on the British Isle and through the line of the deadliest Knights in England. They were ruined by the paranoia of Margarete Beaufort, returned to prominence by Queen Catherine of Aragon, ruined again through descent of Lady Pole. Then they were garnered as traitors and rebels as supporters of the "The King Across the Water" during every Jacobite Rebellion.
They were all a link in a mighty chain that went back to beyond the War of Roses to Constantine "The Great". But since the days of the latest Heir of the House of Grantham's grandfather, the Crawley chain was considered by most to be a rusted and useless one. It was said that no starving man should ever look too closely at the bones of his soup, fore he might not like what he finds. But when everyone else knows what bones was in his soup, they could all scoff and mock what was in others and not mind what was in theirs. And here there came the great rub of the whole bloody business. Since his grandmother had sold all the family secrets to her lovers, there was not a great family in all the Imperium who hadn't mocked the House of Grantham. The last heirs to Plantagenet traitors, and the bastards of a Jacobite Rebel that died on Culloden Field. The great splendor of the Gothic Castle in the lush forest and moors of Yorkshire was but a cheap house, filled with a cheap family.
For a long time, the young officer didn't see what the problem was. Lady Percy, their Matriarch, was important enough to be included in Shakespeare. Lady Pole was a Martyr of the Catholic Church. And each Crawley Lord had served honorably in His Majesties Army since the Napoleonic Wars. But as the years went by, through Eton, Oxford, and then Brighton, the constant teasing, the curdled shame in his mother's eyes when he tried to defend these supposed stains upon their honor had he conceded the point in public. But most of all, the demeaning scoffs of his father - the Earl - had tampered his passion for the fight. Now, he didn't know quite what to do anymore. He knew in his bones that there should be shame for such a terrible history. Yet, when he looked upon Downton, banners caught in the late afternoon breeze at the top of the spires of the lone tower, he couldn't bring himself to feel shame in that marvelous relic.
He had left it some years ago, determined to save it. He remembered the stinging mockery that had followed his proclamation at dinner the night before his departure. His father had already accepted defeat, his mother thought it unseemly a prospect. Of course, she had her own plans for the worst - never thinking him practical in plotting. His sister thought him so very self-important, her distaste for their own family was not withstanding. But then … he couldn't blame her for that. If he was only a rather large disappointment to their father, than he'd consider that a gold standard compared to what that poor lovely girl had to live with all these years. He tried not to think of it, if he did, he might be dissuaded from his mission. If he thought about what their father had done to his sister, made her do in the night when they were young. And all of it as a form of the young officer's punishment, making him watch what the Earl did to his own daughter to punish a son …
He might also agree that it was time for the House of Grantham to end.
But now entering his fifth year of his crusade, he had found himself at the breaking point. It wasn't that he could not find a solution, as it was that he questioned his methods. Was it all worth it? Were the fluttering flags at the top of the spire, the first strands of sunrise that touches the tops of the wooded Yorkshire hills, the way the shadows stretched languidly in the spring sunsets. Was all that worth the sacrificing of his honor? It seemed to contradict everything he believed. How would dishonor save honor? Surely a thief could steal to feed his family, but surely a filled belly would not help a burdened consciousness sleep at night. Thus, he found himself in the great trap. He would forever swear that there was something more, greater, about that old house that was spat upon. Yet, would he be just one more miserable bastard who would do anything to keep his family's reputation on the top?
They were questions that loomed and disappeared like smoke rings in the dark that floated out to the thunderous crash of the midnight foam.
From behind the red uniformed youth there came a growing visibility that was cast upon his brooding silhouette. The concentration of a strobing golden and crystalline light was enhanced by the slow opening of a glass door by a stalwart footman in white powder wig, Rococo uniform, and lacey ascot. He stood at attention like a soldier sentry, his gloved hand effortlessly holding the door open for a young woman who exited the gigantic marble, gilded, crystal glass dome ballroom. Behind her the sound of a hundred-piece orchestra playing "The Blue Danube" echoed with a bravos power as the swelling music escaped the ballroom onto the marble balcony and then out into the salty night.
Behind the girl there was commotion and noise that flittered about. Young women in silk and lace evening gowns of the most exquisite cuts moved with a precision and elegance. One gloved hand lifted the hems of the dress, the other holding onto their partner's shoulders as they all moved across the polished and glistering floor in an ordered chaos. The multi-colored material of the large skirts of their ball gowns, and the crystal, gold, and gems in their hair made hundreds of dancers, moving in perfect unison to the orchestra, seem like dancing flowers. Their glimmering buds sparkled with every twirl in golden light. While in the wings of the choregraphed spectacle, other girls waited or rested, watching, clutching their dance cards. Otherwise their managing mothers looked over it while their girl, 'discretely', munched on a midnight snack while being criticized for who, amongst the male guests, they allowed to scratch their name on the card. Or otherwise plot who they should try and convince to write their name upon it.
Yet, sidelining herself from the obvious and blood thirsty game that was a summer ball, was the prize gem of the entire contest. She was supposed to be the first mate of the ship, the Queen of Love and Beauty of this rancorous and lively tourney. The entire grandeur and spectacle of this once of a lifetime event had all been thrown for her benefit. She was the reason that so many men in tails, bowties, and waxed mustaches had come four to five a cart, all just to catch a glimpse of not just this breathtaking new palatial manor house, but to catch a glimpse of the princess who it was all built for.
And tonight, of all nights, she did not disappoint.
The girl was like the North Star found in the veiled obscurity of the night sky. There was a certain gravity to her appearance that pulled everyone into her orbit. And where she stood there was a raucous amount of laughter. The magnetism of this one figure pulled even the most ardent of Knickerbocker skeptic toward her. No one could take their eyes off her. She was beautiful beyond words. Her gown was the purest of blue that was made of the finest silk that Mr. Worth had ever sown into the many collections he designed personally. She wore half gloves made of a very fine see through lace which had vine and rose work intermingled into the design. Her extra-long raven curls were up in intricate designs that was elegant and smooth. The silver of her ornate netted hairpiece held in place a great sapphire that she wore upon her brow. The color of the silk and ribbon dress along with the gem resting on her forehead had matched her cerulean eyes, making them seem aglow in the gilded and crystal light that reflected into the dark night.
There was a soft smirk on her ruby lips to see the lone figure standing on the empty balcony staring out at the dark. For being a such a bright and inescapable star in the social eye of two countries, she found in contrast that there was something indescribably unique about the ceaseless, ingrained, melancholy of the figure that stood apart from the devil-may-care attitude of every one of their contemporaries. Yet, though he did put on a good show, and his motivations were much like every other eligible Peer in the British Empire, there was something different about this one.
He didn't wear his heart upon his sleeve, but his mind was rarely guarded. While other young men around her - both American and British - talked of sports and extravagance, thinly veiling the brags in their self-indulgent conversation. When she was near this, particular, young man, he only spoke of a sort of philosophy, of moral quandary that he himself was never quite sure of. While most of her days were spent talking of racing horses, investment, polo matches - and God forbid more gossip than she could shake a stick at. When she was around the broad shouldered and tall young army officer, she found herself talking of the platitude of honor, the morality of the whole exercise of courting for the cause in which he was.
One might have thought him a poor hunter if he lowers his weapons to ask his prey how they felt about being prey, and if they grudged him for taking aim, or if even he should take grudge upon himself for it. At the first, the glimmering princess found herself flabbergasted at such an approach. Never once, not even by mother, had anyone asked her how she felt about the whole thing. Yet, he pressed her for an answer, a real answer, fore - in chuckled admittance - he had none for himself. In all of her sixteen years she had never met a man that had ever questioned so much, questioned even himself. Yet, he was no less confident than any other, but still self-aware to a sensitivity that she had never seen in another man. And the truth was that she found herself thinking of him all the time now, pondering the questions he posed to her in honest comradery of two pawns playing a game of money and power. He was the most honest fortune hunter she ever met, not swaggering, only conflicted of if the ungallant necessity, that most of her suitors do not even blink at, makes him a villain in the larger picture of their intertwining chapters in life.
Yet, while he knew her to be beautiful and magnetic to a fault. He was always outwardly confessing, convinced, that he was at the bottom rung of this American Princess's choices. But after London, New York, and now here, she was not wholly surprised to contradict him in her heart. Like he saw in her, the girl would admit to his external and glossy features of handsomeness, sophisticated dash, and soldier's dare. But perhaps what she loved the most of him was his devotion to his cause. When he spoke of Down … Dow … Downtown Abbey? When he spoke of his home, he seemed to lose himself in a dream.
He'd seat them on a log during an allotted country stroll, take her hand, and argue his case to her of why it shouldn't be abandoned, why there was still good in his name. But what she loved about those moments, was that he was not pitching himself to her for daddy's money. He just wanted to be heard and seen, to say aloud what was in his heart that had been bitterly denied by everyone else in his life. And soon enough she found herself included, felt herself dreaming his dream. Without warning, without hesitation, the girl felt that she was all a part of it now. That this restoration, this vision of what could be, was put into her heart, living and breathing within her. She found herself reading books about agriculture, business, and architecture. She began keeping track of market values, picking the brain of Daddy and Harold about what best to invest in for Transatlantic commerce. While her poor Viscount of Downton Abbey tormented himself over his loss of honor and the moral questions of should he even pursue her. The girl was already rebuilding this crumbling and notorious English Country Estate in her head and her heart.
"You seem very downcast …"
The beauty made a pouty, playful, face as she paced to the British Officer's side. When he turned to look at her, he couldn't help but smirk at her talent for silly and humorous faces. But, none the less, he returned to his brooding. She couldn't help but notice how excellent he was at that. No one she knew ever cut such a dashingly serious figure as this man she had grown to love so absolutely. When he didn't say anything, the girl looked around in momentary playfulness, before studying him with a jovial squint of suspicion. Then, with a sigh, she nuzzled her chin atop his shoulder epilate, sharing his view.
The beauty knew that, at this point, the man could not bring himself to love her, fore he might not have trusted the instinct, seeing any such strong emotional complexion as justifying a dishonorable ambition. Yet, he would settle for a deeper friendship, a closer friendship than he had with some of the men in his own Regiment or even of the chaps he grew up with - like Shrimpie Flintshire. And as such he did not flinch from her familiarity.
"You brought a sword to a ball?" The girl asked teasingly.
The man looked down hearing the rattle of his officer's saber as the teenage girl wiggled it with a hand. He looked over his shoulder at her smiling face. Even at his darkest hour, he couldn't hide the joy that such a simple look from her exquisite countenance could bring out of him. He scoffed a chuckle and looked back out at the night.
"I don't quite have the customs of your country down. I thought that there would be a formal dinner, not a ball." He defended himself to the best of his abilities.
"Yes, well, mother likes both. The ball starts at eight, dinner is at midnight, and the whole thing ends at six - if you can believe that." She informed him, rocking her head back and forth, going over the schedule that had been beaten into her head.
"Seems a bit much …" The Englishman said quietly.
The girl frowned in amusement. "You've met my mother … does it, though?" She asked.
"I see your point." He smiled with concession.
"And then she expects everyone to be up and ready for a morning bicycle ride to a luncheon picnic on the other side of the property." Her eyes glinted in a smile plastered on her face as she looked over his features so closely, her nose near his ear.
"Balls … I mean Crickey …" He caught himself in a swear that the American Heiress hadn't ever heard of before. "My training instructors when I was at Brighton didn't demand so much from their cadets." He admitted with just a bit of intimidation. "Does she take us for Zulu, able to run through the night and still be able to fight?" the man questioned good naturally.
The girl giggled into his shoulder. "Well, if it'll be a fight, you will have the advantage." She bit her lip, moving the saber up and down playfully in its scabbard. "You could be my personal bodyguard …" She offered with flirty jovialness.
"Well, there's no shortage of people out to get you …" Suddenly the repartee took a darker tone, as his off handed observation brought a crushing reality back to his world. In just a turn of playful phrase he realized that he was one such of these people after her for no better reasons.
There was a look of sympathy, of disappointment, on the shimmering beauty to hear him grow distant again. She had borne witness from afar of the exchange of what sent him outside. Of all the horrible Knickerbocker wenches in all of New York, Why had mother invited Maryse Van Houten? Yet, she knew that Mother had done it so that Mrs. Van Houten would accompany her nasty daughter in order to rub in their noses what a difference two years make. Where once the Dutch Queen of the hundred founding families of New Amsterdam had control of New York society. Now, it was her family, a Southern Belle with a large Cotton Concern in New Orleans and a husband with a tin fortune in Cincinnati. Now they, along with Ava Vanderbilt, and many other matriarchs of the "nouveau riche" were calling the shots in New York. Their two daughters, Consuelo Vanderbilt and herself, were the toast of two cities, two countries, and two empires.
Yet, somehow, some way, Maryse knew just where to hit her poor, gallant, officer. She must have thought him a small fish in the concern of the pursuit of her hand. There were Marquises and Dukes competing with Oil and Cattle Baron millionaires. What would a lowly Viscount, heir to a notorious Earldom, have against such captains of industry that were so diversified the world over? Yet, no one could blame Maryse Van Houten for thinking him small potatoes, fore not even her own mother knew yet of the girl's affinity, friendship, and even love for such a localized figure of some obscure Yorkshire Estate. Yet, if that vile Dutch cow had only known him to be the only one in the race, then she might have done so much worse damage to her warrior poet.
"You shouldn't take anything that Maryse Van Houten says seriously, we don't. That Knickerbocker sow is only mad, because, Consuelo told me, that Billy Roosevelt said that her father can't get the better Opera Companies to play at their concert halls like Daddy can for ours. So now she's got a bee in her bonnet and is looking for any sort of way to spoil my ball."
There was a girlish entitled and spoiled immaturity that showed her age as she took to a gossipy tone. Popping a grape in her mouth, she talked as she chewed with a finishing chortle that spoke to someone who, despite her regal elegance, thrived off interpersonal drama. But when she looked to the man with a petulant commiseration, she received no reply, only a soft sigh and a shift of posture. Swallowing her grape, the girl tightened her cheek, looking back to the gilded ballroom, before wiping her nose on her crafted lace thumb gauntlet distractedly in one more show of a true age well covered by regal dress and beauty.
She sensed that there was something wrong, something she said that bothered him. The realization hit the teenage beauty in the confidence, knowing her mother's favorite phrase to snap at her was 'alright, shut up' for this exact reason … sometimes she was 'one of them stray chattering monkeys, full of'em shines' as her mammy maid Annie would say throughout her childhood in New Orleans.
Sensing her distress, the officer turned back with a forgiving sigh. "It's not you …" He frowned.
"Only that it is …" She said petulantly under her breath with baiting guilt.
He breathed unsteadily. "Well, it's not you, I …" he seemed a loss of what to say, or perhaps how to say what it was. "It's just this place, I believe." He shook his head. "In my country we don't openly speak of money, nor hold it over one's head when you don't have it." He paused. Then, after a moment he looked humble. "Well, at least not in public or social settings." He shrugged.
Suddenly an avalanche of guilt fell over the princess. Weeks, months, of conversations about a failing estate, a faltering noble name, had gone out the window in a moment of cat like nature. For the girl, she could not think of once in which she did not have everything, in which her family was not at the top of every list in New York, Newport, New Orleans, and Cincinnati. But as of this moment she realized that she had miscalculated gravely. Though, in her world, the gossipy nature of what one has and what one does not was how girls her age fought with one another. She did not think how she must have sounded to someone who really didn't have anything anymore. How horrid she must have sounded, how terribly uncouth and cruel.
"I'm sorry …" She clutched his arm. "I'm so sorry." She began.
"It's alright, my darling." He said easily.
"No, no, I'm such a terrible fool. I'm a damned fool chattering monkey full of shines." She admitted in a torrented rush of mortification.
To the admittance, there was a heavily amused and confused look on the British Officer's face at the strange dialect of southern American tongue the girl suddenly slipped into, breaking her aristocratic conditioning. But seeing her genuine distress at offending him, he only settled her with a hand to her back to make sure that she knew that it was alright. However, in that moment, without a thought, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, the American Socialite stepped into him, folding herself into his arms as she lain her head against his chest with apology in the warm affection.
Suddenly the man found himself holding the most beautiful prize on two continents looking over the vast expanse of darkness.
For just a moment, a blink, he allowed himself to feel what any man would feel holding such an angelic creature. But he quickly put it from his mind, refusing to justify his low cunning to high ambitions. He would not dishonor himself or this beauty by pretending that there was anything more to this than a business arrangement. Yet, he could not put such strong emotions from his heart as the abyss dissipated before his very eyes.
And when Robert Crawley held Ms. Cora Levinson for the first time, he saw only the beauty of starlight upon the midnight waters …
These wall-stones are wondrous —
calamities crumpled them, these city-sites crashed, the work of giants
corrupted. The roofs have rushed to earth, towers in ruins.
Ice at the joints has unroofed the barred-gates, sheared
the scarred storm-walls have disappeared—
the years have gnawed them from beneath. A grave-grip holds
the master-crafters, decrepit and departed, in the ground's harsh
grasp, until one hundred generations of human-nations have
trod past. Subsequently this wall, lichen-grey and rust-stained,
often experiencing one kingdom after another,
standing still under storms, high and wide—
it failed—
The strong-purposed mind was urged to a keen-minded desire
in concentric circles; the stout-hearted bound
wall-roots wondrously together with wire. The halls of the city
once were bright: there were many bath-houses,
a lofty treasury of peaked roofs, many troop-roads, many mead-halls
filled with human-joys until that terrible chance changed all that.
"The Ruin" - (9th Century Anglo-Saxon Riddle)
Newport, Rhode Island
1935
BANG!
"Ah, Goddamnit!"
BANG!
"It's pretty big, I don't think I've ever been in a room this big before …"
BANG!
"It's like Grand Central Station …"
BANG!
"Or like …"
"I'm sorry, Sid, am I cut'in into your tour of the sites? Do ya need a minute or some'in?"
"Nah, I'm just sayin …"
"I don't give a shit! Dada dedada da du, shut the fuck up! Now get ova'here and help, damn it!"
"Sorry …"
"Now on three … one, two, three …"
DUNG!
BANG!
"I said three, shithead!"
"I did it on three!"
"No, no, not on three, it goes one, two, three … then you do it!"
"Then, on four?"
"No, on three!"
"But if there's a pause after three, then it would be four!"
THUNGK!
"Ah-ow!"
"Does that clear it up, fuckhead?!"
"It clears my head …"
"Well, there you go … now on three."
"You mean four …"
"Do you want me to shove your fuckin head into it again?"
"No …"
"Then, on three, asshole!"
"One, Two, THREE …"
BANG!
Rusted and corroded metal frames of a salt calcified double door made of towering glass panes broke open with a loud swinging fury. There was a rustle of sea birds that squawked lustily in fear as a rain of white feathers floated in a cloud to accompany the flutter of a dozen wings. A squadron of gulls cried into the distance as they fled their perches. From the shadows two figures walked out into the noon tide sun that hung high above a cloudless blue sky.
Both men wore tailored zoot suits with wide brim fedoras. They were a duo of contrasts, one a taller and square shouldered Sicilian with olive complexion and big double-breasted buttons on his white and grey pinstriped suit. His partner was a shorter man with glasses and a large Roman nose. He wore a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and had tiny squint eyes. His brown jacket fit him, but his matching trousers seemed to be baggier than usual. His mustard yellow shirt also spoke to a questionable taste that rivaled his out of place association with the larger of the two. He looked more like a bank teller, a newspaper man, than a hardened criminal. Yet, here he was - as usual - tailing a cousin that ever felt put upon looking after a shrimp that couldn't seem to do anything right.
The two men, billy clubs in hand, walked out onto a filthy, neglected, marble balcony that jutted out over an open ocean. Below the cliff face to which the tall manor stood upon, they could see the rush of greenish blue water crash with violent white foam against jagged rocks. In front of them there sat a broken and weathered railing that was wrapped with rose vines that had gone wild, stretching, coiling, and hanging over everything. Old peddles littered the floor, their brown and dead husks rustling under pointed black and white shoes. The roses that still remained in bloom were guarded by large and thick green and yellow thorns that covered everything around the neglected overlook. The taller of the two cousins let out an impressed whistle as he put his hands on his hips, his club dangling around his wrist from a leather strap. "
You's sure can see a way from here, eh?" They both stepped onto the cracked patio, rose peddles and bird feathers shuffling under trod.
Half a century ago, Levinson Manor had been the jewel of Newport Rhode Island. Legend said that Mr. Levinson had gotten the idea while touring the 1883 World's Fair in Chicago with his family. They said that their daughter Cora had seen a mockup model at a pavilion and became transfixed till she drew everyone to her. The young tweeny had turned and told her family that was where she wanted to live. Her mother scoffed, telling her that she couldn't live there, that the whole concept of this 'mansion of the future' was hogwash impossible. But then, suddenly, her husband asked his wife why it was impossible. The red-haired southern belle only pointed to the model and blueprints with mouth agape as if the concept art and diorama was proof enough. Yet, the man only took his little girl's hand and placed an arm about his son's shoulder, gathering both of them around him. With serious look, the man told his children that 'nothing' was impossible, giving his exasperated red head a wink of positivity.
There was something prophetic about the house that the girl couldn't put her finger on, yet the images of it haunted her. It was something that both father and daughter believed in - a shared dream, vision, that if they built this impossible house that something would come of it, some destiny undreamt but as certain as the Evening Star. Through the years of its construction, the trial and error of making a concept, a pipe dream at the World's Fair, a reality, there came a great growth. When Mr. Levinson was bogged down by business, and Martha unwilling to help, the financing and wherewithal went over to Harold Levinson, who by father's test and sister's desire for this fairy palace, threw him into the fire of the business world. Soon enough, the passion, the love of the craft of father and son's trade brought the dream of Levinson Manor ever closer under the captaining of Harold and determination of Cora. Yet, Martha resisted still, thinking the whole exercise a flight of fancy of a girl that was ruled and disciplined as one of the royalties of Europe, and, as such, was treated by everyone as if she truly was. But when the combined efforts of Harold and Cora willed the great manor house to take shape, and much attention and publicity began coming their family's way for it. That was when the Southern Belle, the class of New Orleans, took a sudden and major interest in the project - finishing it all herself.
And it was by no means a fool's dream, or an explosion of insanity, that all of the assured knowledge of fate and doom that came with the construction of the great manor house was realized. Fore it was upon this very spot, on the night of the grandest of grand balls ever thrown in the history of Newport, that Cora Levinson decided that her heart, her soul, which was fought over by Dukes and Millionaires, would be given to a lowly Viscount. The oddest of sophisticated young men whose gallant crusade became their shared dream. And it was here, on this balcony, that fate exacted a great doom over many a soul yet to be born on that hallow eve when an everlasting and true love was found.
("The Castle of Time" - Joe Hisaishi)
It had been many years since that gilded and crystal night. This palace of dream and prophecy, found by chance in an obscure room in a White City stalked by a monster and the very phantom of the future, now lay forgotten in the weeded and lost echoes of time. Vines and ivy wrapped columns, climbed the ruined walls and great gate of what was once a fantasy that united a family with a belief in the impossible. Tall windows lay brittle and broken in places, brown rust lay over chipped whitewashed stone, gilded plating was now green from sea salt calcification and neglect. Dust clouds were caught in the sunlight through the stained windows, choking the air in the rotting halls lined with threadbare carpet and soot covered marble floors. Statues of Grecian and Celtic mythology crumbled in dark cobwebbed corners, stone eyes looking out toward the endless sea without sight of a new tomorrow.
"This place musta been something, huh?" The tall man asked his squint of a cousin.
"Yeah … kinda makes me sad, you know?" Sid replied with a sigh.
"Whadya mean?" he asked with unguarded familial sincerity.
The young pencil pusher pulled off his glasses wiping dust from them on his yellow shirt. "I just mean, you think of all the parties, the dressed-up dolls and dames, right? The stuff both yous and my Ma used to read about, just the sheer beauty that used to be in this place, the art, the girls, the dresses … right? Now, since the "Crash", where are they? Ya'see what I mean? I don't particularly feel bad for all those rich fuckas … but ya'know … it's still sad in a ways, kinda like all those good times are trapped in old newspapers, and they ain't ever come back again … I don't know … just makes me kinda blue." He shrugged, looking around at the ruined balcony.
Suddenly, for just a moment, the salty wind picked up, blowing their hats nearly from their heads. They both took ahold of their headwear as the house began to rattle, giving a sigh that sounded almost mournful. A sentient melancholy expression for all that was and never will be again. But then, after a long beat, the wind died down and there was nothing but silence. The deepness of the catacomb like stillness came on like a hazy miasma that was leaking forth from somewhere deep within the old manor. Both cousins looked at one another with wide eyes as if something larger than themselves had heard their conversation and chimed in. But after a pause of superstitious nerves, the spell was broken by the cry of gulls upon the horizon.
With a shuttered breath the man turned and slapped the smaller across the shoulder with his hat. "Shut'aup …" he sighed, going back to the put-upon guardian with a rough placing on of his fedora. "Let's get back to work, huh …" he motioned Sid back to where they came from, even giving the brown suited gangster a shove in the back to make him go faster. But that didn't mean that he didn't give a flinched look back at a spot on the balcony.
There, he could almost make out two silhouettes, arm and arm, looking out to the horizon - echoes of some great emotional and foretold resonance that seeped into the very foundation of the manor house.
When they walked from the balcony back into the main ballroom their footfalls echoed sharply and loudly, being stretched far, too far, till they grew faint as if disappearing in a great chasm. The loud footsteps dissipating made them feel dwarfed; ant like in their insignificance compared to the sheer titanic scale of the room they walked through.
The towering and high vaulted ceilings of the grand ballroom was a complex dome of plate glass with gilded supports in which sunlight shinned in crafted patterns in certain times of the day. Far below was a hundred yards, a full football's field, of a marble dance floor. During it's prime, at the apex of its extravagance in the days of Queen Victoria and the Gilded Age of American wealth and commerce. The long and opulent floor shimmered and glowed in the army of crystal chandeliers that hung over it, while at its center was a vast and encompassing astrolabe of crystal, silver, and gold. It was a true masterpiece of craftsmanship that absorbed and reflected all the light of the many chandeliers around it, throwing and spinning a show of lights that coincided with many a musical number of classical waltzes. In its time, it might have been an eighth wonder of the world - something that no sudden poverty or unhappy marriage would ever sully in memory of those who had seen it. Even the eldest of Martha and Mr. Levinson's granddaughters still dreamt of the majesty and wondered awe of another marvel from the 1883 World's Fair at work from when she was young.
But now, so many long decades later, there was entire swaths of marble missing from the dance floor. Tiles lay cracked, broken, or smashed from careening chandeliers that had fallen from age and neglect. Panes of broken brittle glass from the ten-story glass dome above lay shattered all around, shoe soles crunching their many shards that lay hidden within dust and grime. While those that remained intact were cracked and stained with salt, the gilded frames now rusted and greened. From high above there came the faint echoing of sea birds that now nested in the vaulted maintenance areas and chandelier hooks, their fluttered wings and song pilfering from the unseen belfries. While unmolested sunlight now shown through onto the decayed ruins like spotlights that shined unceasingly on clouds of dust and soot that lingered over every part of the fallen fairy palace of Cora Levinson's dreams.
But the most awe-inspiring spectacle to this macabre rotted out modern marvel remained at the very dead center of the gigantic ballroom. The two cousins joined a group of five other comrades in similar suit and tie uniform as they gathered around a tremendous black hole of darkness. Within they all looked down to see the great crystal and silver Astrolabe broken and fallen. The sheer weight and height of the massive piece of modern art had been so great that when it fell the marvel had caved in a large part of the marble dance floor. From the edge of the crater, the broken and crippled remains of the World's Fair device lay corpse like in a black void of shadowy darkness in the obliterated basement levels of the manor. The mighty astrolabe had found its final resting place pushed up against the cracking and crumbling foundations within sea caves below.
The collection of gangsters had never seen anything like it before. Not just the exceeding neglect of such a richly decadent manor, but the strange and intense emotions that seemed to surround the house. These were not men that botched at breaking and entering, of taking what they wanted. They had all worked their way up to this point - rent collection, protection racketeering, and extortion was a Tuesday afternoon for these dapper thugs. But, yet, there was an unceasing feeling of unrest, of mental disquiet, within themselves as they walked through the large manor by the sea. There was something about it, a kind of magic that one could not so wholly put a finger on. Yet, for a trespasser, one could simply say that the heavy atmosphere filled with melancholy, ponderous silence, and the deepest shadows made an unwelcome guest feel that they truly did not belong.
There were no words spoken from the group of suited men that all looked around at one another. They could speak if they wanted … but chose not to. It was a conscientious understanding by all that wandered the whitewashed ruin. Whether they'd admit it or not, they felt that there was something here, watching as a guard dog that keeps a warry eye over an intruder that has yet to break the perimeter. The salty winds of the sea echoing with odd wails and sighs through the cracked and broken windows of the crystal domed room was like the silent growling warnings as they approached the guarded line of some unknown and unseen sacred seal.
Other times, somewhere in the religiosity of the sacred silence, they could still hear the sound of glasses clinking, the sea breeze's hum resemble a tremble of stray strings of a Johan Strauss music piece. They found in the tricks of the filtering sunlight nimble and elegantly flowing shadows of a dancing teenage girl in large silk dress which navigated past shattered and cobweb draped reflecting chandeliers. They felt that they weren't alone but were unsure what it was that remained in the bones of this desolate temple to a world of tomorrow. Yet, more unsettling was not what was in the house, but what haunted their own subconscious which manifested in this hollow canvas of dust, grime, and memories of an age undreamed.
("Hyrule Castle" - Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess)
The feelings that seemed intrinsic to the heavy, gasping, atmosphere of the abandoned manor house did not faulter, but only grew stronger when the two cousins left the ballroom. Here, the light that seemed so plentiful in the vast glass dome was cut by the third, remaining a barely tolerable dimness. They found themselves in congested corridors of darkness, the many windows that lined the walls had been shuttered. The air was stale and moldy, the halls narrow and long, seeming meandering at times. The carpets were dusty with filth and neglect, eaten by age. While still not alone - encountering other pairs of querying chums - they all seemed on edge, angry even. Unlike the grand ballroom, those grunts that had been checking the manor proper did not hold the ponderous ruin with any sort of awe. It seemed a tangled labyrinth of long corridors that fed into large open echoing rooms of marble, gilded ceilings, and tile.
There were also ill-feelings starting to form amongst some of the search parties. Fore in these rooms and halls were random, forgotten, sundries. They were statues and paintings, art painstakingly pursued and brought back to America from many European auctions. Ancient, beautifully crafted, they seemed life like in the dimness of the darkened halls of the abandoned manor house. It was a regular occurrence to hear a startle, a catch of breath, or an angry cuss word being lobbed at a statue of Venus that had no arms, but a half-corroded face that looks out from a dark webbed corner of an unlit hallway. Or a portrait of a Spanish painter from the Regency Era that seems to be half lit in a dark lobby, watching every step from the shadows with realistically painted eyes.
Thus, it was, that these terrible feelings of fright, of heavy, dusty, air weighing on their body and mind brought out a mighty rage from the gangsters when one party ran into another. The ability to put all this discomfort and nervous anger into a blowout with someone who could receive all those feelings seemed the only way to keep sanity. They grabbed each other's jackets, shoved one another, cursed and spat in Italian, English, or both. Then, both combatants would move away, blaming one another for these emotions that they didn't want to voice.
Eventually, both cousins stood in the lobby near the front entrance. Both double doors, taken from an Austrian Abbey near Vienna during a European study abroad by Martha and Cora Levinson, were left open. Yet, no sunlight seemed to beam through. The entire manor seemed to be shut away, buttoned up, and empty. It wasn't just physically, there was a hollowness that seemed to go right down to the roots of the spirit of the place. The long hallways, the large open rooms with thunderous echoing footfalls, gilded balconies that looked over empty chambers filled with black and white tile and smashed chandeliers run aground. The silence was pervasive, thunderous, and, at times, a true existential threat to one's own mind. It came to some that perhaps there was something worse than ghosts that infested these winding maze-like halls … and that was nothing. There was nothing here, there was nothing that remained of what it used to be. This place was filled with all sorts of valuables and priceless sundries. Yet, the atmosphere, the paranoia of the home, spoke wordlessly in the half-a-dozen times that they had passed one of the guys picking up some dusty artifact of crystal or silver, look as if they'd pocket it. But, oddly, tellingly, they'd instead put it right back, glaring and shaking their heads.
None of the boys wanted a piece of whatever this place was selling.
They climbed flights of a large three-way grand staircase that split like a trident after the second landing. They once more crossed over a dusty brass and iron railing of the overlook gallery to the main entrance. However, while they were sure that it might be a great view, instead the larger of the two cousins broke out his lighter. A large draping tapestry of a velvet stage curtain tarp seemed to be hung in front of the railing, causing the corridor to be pitch black. In the distance they could hear guys opening, slamming, and kicking open doors down two of the other corridors. As of yet no one seemed to know where their 'Wolf's Head' was, or if they were even here. The thugs resented that they were doing all the heavy lifting around here, when the 'Old Crone' and 'Pretty Boy' had muscle of their own to be doing this. And while they were promised that whatever loot they found would be theirs for the keeping, thirty minutes in this place had changed their minds about that bonus entirely.
HHHHHRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMPPPPPPHHH!
There it was again.
Everything in the manor shook as a violent tremor rattled sundry, table, and man within. It was accompanied by a horrible and primal roaring, like some terrible mythical beast had a lair within the sea cave foundations underneath the house. The narrow halls funneled the roar, and the large marble and hollow rooms magnified it till it became inescapable. It seemed to each man in that time that whatever horrible scaled reptile that was screaming was lying right in front of them. At the apex of the noise and violence there were loud smashing booms of falling chandeliers and rattling crystals of those starting to give way. Everyone grabbed a hold of something for balance or to put their fear in grip. Then, after a long pause, there was nothing again. The silence and emptiness flowed like a river through the carved marble pathways into the gilded reservoirs of large cavernous rooms.
"Alright, ya mooks, get back to lookin, sooner we find this son of a bitch, the sooner we can get the hell outta here, capiche?!"
After a long moment, with a shake of heads, a scratch of the inner ear, the thugs went back to their manhunt. Walking again, Sid wondered why none of them hadn't gone down to the basements to check to see what was making that noise. He figured that if he was hiding somewhere in this unnerving place, he'd get underground as well. But then, wiping sweat from his brow from the fear … maybe they should check the upper rooms first before going down into the deeper darkness. Something told him that would probably be better, maybe not smarter. But, hey, like they were always telling the shrimp …
They ain't paying him to think.
It seemed that they weren't the only one's pondering these things as they came across a party of their own guys who had stopped at a forked corridor. They had two places they could go, left or right. And yet, they seemed to be biding their time, checking broom closets … and under tables. To be fair, neither of the cousins could really blame them. They saw that both corridors were equally pitch black. When they came across the other boys, everyone gave a startle, either at the other two thugs sudden arrival, or, in their case, they were startled by the startle.
"Yo, fuck ya Ma, Tony!" a short matchstick of an Italian immigrant shouted, pulling his hat brim down in annoyance.
"Ah, stow it, big shot … yous, uh, ladies done powdering ya noses ova'here?" Tony asked, chuckling with a shit-eating grin, ribbing his cousin Sid with a 'getta look as these guys' satisfaction.
"Hey, asshole, ya wanna pick a hallway, be my guest. If you ain't no chicken." Another thug in a slick and trimmed suit side stepped him. He was a smooth customer, good at talking and making others do the walking. He'd be good management someday, which was why he wasn't going to last long out here.
"Chicken …?" Tony blew a raspberry, tapping Sid on the chest with his knuckles. "Look at this fuckin guy, Sid. I bet he ain't never eatin no chicken an entire day in his life, eh? Am I right …?" He waved him off.
"I ain't eatin no chicken, me, ain't never eatin no chicken? Can you believe this guy, huh?" The smooth talker scoffed in insult at the prospect, turning to his other party members as if for validation of the ridiculous statement.
"It ain't no chicken, I'm sure your ma told you it was chicken … I bet you ain't seen no chicken since yous was on the boat from the old country!"
"Well, I tell you whateva it was, it tasted a lot like your sister's pussy … If you know what I'm sayin?!"
"Yeah, why don't yous come over here and say that to my face!"
"Hey, hey!"
"Fuck you!"
"Disgracia!"
"Fellas, fellas, fellas! Cool out, hold it, hold it, COOL IT!"
They were suddenly broken up, pushed apart by a figure that stepped in from another hallway. Both parties were mumbling insults and threats, shrugging to restraighten sports jackets. The figure in the center had both men by the lapels of their sharp suits, holding them in check.
"What is the problem, Paisanos?" he asked.
"This, Pagliacci lookin mutha'fuka, said that I ain't eatin no chicken!" He shouted, jabbing an accusatory finger like a switchblade across the scuffling factions.
"You never eaten chicken?" the figure asked in confusion.
"That's what he fuckin said!" The Smooth Talker shouted.
The figure turned to Tony.
"No chicken …" the other gangster confirmed with a 'what can ya say about it?' kinda shrug.
"Well, have you eaten chicken?" he asked.
"Of course, I've eatin fuckin chicken, who hasn't, who hasn't?!" He cried out as if defending a family member's honor.
The mediating figure just held his hand up. "Alright, alright, pal …" he nodded in annoyed acknowledgement that he caught his meaning.
"He said that he tongues fucks my kid sister."
"Did you …"
"Yeah."
"No, but did you …"
"Of course not, I've fucking known the guy for like two weeks, I mean he lives in Brooklyn, ya know … I don't get down there that much, and not to eat pussy, you go up to Harlem for that shit, Puerto Rican girls, yous know what I'm saying?!"
"Alright, alright … so you've eaten chicken."
"Fuck, I'll eat all the chickens!"
"And he's never eaten out your kid sister?"
"Nah, I guess not."
"Alright, so what are we doing out here, boys?"
Slowly the figure released the two men with a friendly shove that got some chuckles from the onlookers. There was a release of tempers and after a long beat amenability was found to their presence. Then, with a single jester from their impromptu leader the two thugs even shook hands. Both men even went so far as offering one another a bought chicken dinner when it was all over, then, they'd go out on the town to some dives out in Spanish Harlem to look up some 'Rosa's" - if they all caught the smooth talker's meaning.
"Well, well done, boys … happy hunting." The figure patted both men on the shoulders.
Then, with a nod, the figure walked down one of the hallways, even receiving a few commending pats and drums on the shoulder by a few of the thugs in admiration for his voice of reason. For a long time, they all seemed to clear the awkward air, speaking about how the house was doing strange things to their psyche. They had a chuckle over the idea that they were fighting over if someone had ever eaten a chicken. There was a toast of flasks for the one person that was keeping a level head in this strange expedition through the ruin of this twisted and idealistic Tomorrowland that never came.
"Yeah, someone is stepping up, you know …"
"At least someone is, got us runnin around like we ain't got no damn sense, you know?"
"Yeah, well, I guess someone has some around here, right …?"
"…"
"…"
"Whoah, whoah, wait, wait, wait one damn minute here …"
"…"
"…"
"WHO THE FUCK WAS THAT GUY?!"
A party of four confused and startled thugs swaggered down the same hallway that their mediator had disappeared. For a long stretch of tense stalking the path was pitch dark, traveling by flickered flame of a lighter down the twisting and curving corridors that seemed empty but for a few broom closets and servant access points. Eventually, with a sharp turn, they were blinded by the sudden appearance of the mid-day sun that was shining directly through unshuttered windows that lined both sides of a hallway. Clouds of dust particles lingered thickly, solidifying the light that crisscrossed the tall hallway. The thick beams fell over a threadbare carpet on which there were strange color patters made by sunlit stained-glass designs on the windows.
In a matter of moments, they went from congested and narrow halls in which no light could pierce to a blinding trip down an overly lit wing of the manor. They saw that the corridor emptied into a large spacious room of tile and chandelier, as usual. But this time the design was completely different. The tiling was gold trimmed; the roof was domed with painted mural of clouds on a sky of twilight. All around them were marble columns in Grecian design. While in the center was a round dining table and writing desk pushed up to the windows that looked out over the ocean horizon. The men paused at the grandeur and artisanship of this sitting room that seemed right out of some fairy tale princess's enchanted castle. The light of day through tall windows gave the white tiles and columns an ethereal glow, even in their ruin.
While they basked a moment in the surreal and enchanting room, they began to notice that there was something amiss. The table had been recently used, cans of beans and a mason jars that had been once filled with peaches and strawberries lay empty. Also, and probably more importantly - surrounded by Hamburger wrappers - was the unscrolled original leather-bound blueprints to the entirety of Levinson Manor. They knew them to be real fore they were signed by both Harold and Cora Levinson. In the large and ornate fireplace, they also noticed old cooking pots from the kitchens bellow sitting above a former cook fire that was attended by a drawn chair. It seemed that someone had been squatting in the manor for at least a week, checking off wings of the house, obviously looking for something. It spoke to either a strong man or a mad one to stay in this place for a couple of hours much less a week.
HHHHHRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMPPPPPPHHH!
They all grabbed the rickety old table, or even a column, as the blasting sound of the dragon's roar seemed to be amplified by the spacious chamber and domed marble roof. Covering their ears with one hand, there was a collected flinch at the sharp noises of crystals on the old chandelier above clinking against one another in the violent tremor causing a snow like fall of filth and soot. Being in the room with its romantic design and fairy like adornments made one feel that it was almost possible that some beast of terrifying fantasy was at the roots of this ever twisting, ever changing, house of the future that was long abandoned. When the last aftershocks ceased and the overpowering quiet of the ruin resettled, they heard the sudden drop and clatter of something nearby. Then, with a catch of breath, they heard the tinkling mechanical noise of what sounded like a music box playing a disjointed version of "Greensleeves" in the distance.
Looking around, they finally spotted that there was an actual balcony above the sitting room. Beyond the gilded iron railing was two whitewashed cherry oak and glass French doors that were left wide open. From inside the room they heard feet shuffling, someone picking up the music box and closing with an audible snap. Half the party looked like they were about to spring, when Tony held them off. Instead, the man pointed to a corridor to the right that, by logic, would lead to the room with the balcony. Quietly, trying to muffle their hollow echoing footfalls, they clacked stealthily down the hallway, finding that it led to a winding staircase of a tower. When they reached the ascent of the red carpeted stone stairs with gold trim, they found a landing that led to a large double doorway of heavy oak that were left open. The entire party of thugs walked in together, with room to spare.
The single tower room turned out to be a large and opulent bedchamber fit for a fairy princess. The walls were a pure white with gilded rose vine embroidery in twin stripes two inches from the ceiling and two inches from the floor. The gold and white also matched the drapery made of a heavy and regal velvet. The floors were tiled and trimmed in blacks. The bedroom itself seemed the size of the entirety of the apartments that all the gangsters had grown up in. Of who's room it had belonged too was reflected in the items and décor within.
Pushed up against the wall were dozens, upon dozens, of the finest, most like life, porcelain dollies that anyone had ever seen. They had painted eyes of blue, green, and purple, wearing the finest dresses of every era of historical fashion. And every single one of them was caked in dust and filth, their ringlets snared by cobwebs. Layers of soot covered different doll houses; playsets so finely crafted that they looked like real homes. Some of the men could recognize the Levinson's former Fifth Avenue mansion "San Sochi" from their childhoods. The exact replica was collecting dust while sitting on a rotting play table. There were toy chests that were filled with stuffed animals and other dollies that were of a less prestigious nature and yet more top of the line than most other little girls would see in their lifetime. There was a clock work toy carousel and a wind-up Ferris Wheel that chimed a song when activated.
They began to realize that the entire room was filled with toys and childish amusements. One might have guested that a room such as this would belong to a small or young girl of exceeding wealth. But pushed in corner were six large wardrobes to contradict that impression. Even stronger an inconsistency was a wireframed mannequin that was used to design and display a wedding dress. While on the walls by the window were the 1880s equivalent of the most top of the line collegian level textbooks on many subjects of European History, art, and aristocratic etiquette. It seemed strange and out of place to think that this room filled with expensive toys and dollies long played with belonged to a grown woman with cases, chests, and large wardrobes filled with exquisite clothing of silk, lace, and satin.
It spoke to a Countess far away who might not have been so wholly to the level of maturity that a Viscountess was thought to have been upon her wedding day.
They were broken from their stupor of the exquisite bedchamber to find a tall figure standing by a large king-sized canopy bed of pearl white silk. From his voice they clearly knew him to be their mediator from minutes earlier. But they frowned in confusion at who they were looking at. It was a kid, a teenage kid. He had a sun-tanned complexion a few shades lighter than olive, clearly being someone who had spent a long time in hot and arid regions. He had a grown-out mane of perfectly tussled waving raven curls and cerulean eyes that seemed to stand out in the room of white and gold. They took him to be a threadbare and ragged wayfarer. His cloth was poor, his rugged unkemptness made him seem way worn and world weary. He wore a peacoat of beaten mahogany leather, the collar done up in the back. A long navy-blue scarf was looped and wrapped around his neck. His trousers were made of old denim that tucked into tall fascistic police motorcycle boots of leather that had been made supple by hard use and long travel over many elements and environments . On his forehead there lay a pair of goggles that pushed back his perfect raven locks.
His age was hard to pinpoint beyond some vague range of mid to late teenage years - all of it due to the hardened look in his deeply haunted eyes. He was a striking and incredibly handsome youth - any young girl or woman's dream. But upon such a fair face was marred by a sorrowed grief that was inescapable. Ever more would he be in perpetual mourning of some grave tragedy that happened in his past that had changed him forever. It was clear that this youth, whoever he might have been, had seen many a terrible and impossible thing in his too young life that he would never be able to forget as long as he lived.
One of those things seemed fairly clear as his handsome face was burdened further by a fairly brutal facial wound. They were two thin, talon like, deep gashes that trailed cleanly across his right eye. They were not fresh, yet not old either - still shining glossy in the light. The youth's right eye was bloodshot from what appeared to be some sort of inky liquid that seeped sporadically in foul droplets. The scar looked ugly and painful. And without a doubt, whoever gave it was someone - or something - that no ordinary man should face alone. Yet, this youth - whoever he was - had done so and hadn't just lived to never tell the tale to a soul … but had won. This alone, along with accompanying hard eyes and gruesome scars had made the youth seem intimidating, elemental in his stare that betrayed the nonchalant voice that spoke with no accent to the gangster's hearing. To them he seemed just another All-American kid that had just got here from Texas or Ohio.
They watched him as he was folding a beautiful Worth wedding dress made of white silk and ribbons that had clearly been taken off the wire frame display. After a long moment of watching the young man put the carefully folded regal gown in a duffle quilted sack made of rags that seemed to have been stitched by his own hands while sitting by a cookfire in the fairy princess sitting room.
"Fellas ..."