in the gloaming

[goddessnanshe.livejournal.com]

The thin hours before dawn, Tuesday 23 March

Excolo has been still these past weeks. Around the feast of Lupercalia there was a small ripple of unsettled dreams, dreams of desire and frustration and longing, but they passed. Some magic there, of a tainted sort, but a small kind, passing out of mind. But for all the quiet I think that something new has come to be. That Wanda has had her child I now know, infant glimpsed in dreams. The child herself has started dreaming. I have gazed into them, but not crossed the threshold. I do not yet know how much of her mind her father watches. Like most infants, her dreams are all noise and colour, no narrative - but there are things I glimpse in the dreams that no infant should know. Things of shadow and of light.

I create another crossroads, but this one is a room with staircases that will serve as paths. A rug lies in the centre of a tea room, and on the rug stands a table crowned with flowers. There are smaller tables nearby laid with napkins and silver, and I seat myself at one of them, pouring tea into a china cup. It is amber and smells of faraway. Perhaps someone will come and drink with me.

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Comments

[mistresswanda.livejournal.com]

It seems darker in the manor today, like the sun will never show it's brilliance again. Tempermental London weather, sunny one moment, dark the next. With a sigh, I smooth out my skirts, and go to find Albert. It must be near tea time, and spending it with him always makes any gloomy day a delight. I wander down the long main hall, thinking that we may have an hour to ourselves before it's time for me to nurse...

It is not the manor. I look around and blink, wondering how it came to be that I am here? I was just... and my gown has been replaced with something much more comfortable (http://www.amazon.com/Green-Designer-Embroidered-Saree-Party/dp/B002YVJWYI/), even if it's rather... exotic.

It is a lovely room though, warm and inviting, and it smells of tea and incense. I wander in slowly, looking about at the people passing by and sitting to take tea. I spy a rather lovely woman sitting on her own, and there's something about her. I approach tentatively and give her a small smile.

[westin-sagert.livejournal.com]

I was simply heading home; I am quite sure of that, although whatever I was heading home from was not particularly important. And I do not recall this place being here. I tuck my package more firmly under my arm--the brown paper rustles a little--and step inside. The walls or the paint or the light itself is somewhat dappled... it is an unusual effect but not an unpleasant one.

I find I am standing by a table. There is a wine glass and a white plate, both empty, and Linnea's jawbone is resting neatly on the folded napkin. But there is no cutlery, and I look around, hoping to see someone. I find myself strangely unwilling to raise my voice, as if there were people on all the stairs that I could not see.

[jack-hollow.livejournal.com]

I was out at the Abbey. Rounds're done, everyone's gone ta bed and no-one's gotten up yet. Sat down fer a minute ta think, an' lookin' up at the altar, and thinking the town sign looks better now. It's bin cleaned up. Better job than I did, too. The blood's gone, and the man Mab'n'I found on it's standing on the ground, lookin' better, lookin' whole.

I'm thinkin' a Derek Granger, again. Enough ta break my goddamn heart.

Get up an' walk up ta the man, and he holds the door open an' smiles. The motto's on the sign, makin' up the lintel of the door. It's a funny sorta name for a tea room, I guess.

Touch my forehead to him and duck my head a bit and go on in, blinkin' a little ta find myself up at the top of the stairs. Stop and take my hat off an' look around, mostly out and down. Plenty used ta crossroads, but ain't used ta findin' ones indoors that reach near so far.