The Cursed Blood, стр. 59
The next morning, we arrived at Camelot’s Grand Hall via an official carriage escorted by a troop of what for all the world looked like mounted knights complete with pole arms and shields all decked out in steel caps, breastplates, surcoats, and chainmail.
It had been a long night. A rather stuffy, emotionless Darkling investigator had grilled us for hours while a troop of his black leather trench coated peers with silver skull lapel pins stared at us accusingly. It had only ended when Aunt Milly had finally lost her temper, proclaiming her head hurt and that she was unspeakably famished.
She hurried them on their way by threatening to turn the lot into snails and portal in a fine French chef to whip up some buttery escargot. Afterwards, they quickly pocketed their ringed notebooks and backed out the room apologetically, though they continued to give Gramps dirty, dark looks until the door was slammed in their faces.
So, seeing the long, pennant hung, single story historic stone building (I know, in the States a building tips the scale at a meager hundred, and we mark it a National landmark, but this is a whole different thing) was more than a bit of a relief.
I likely would have had far more interest visiting the hall where the Round Table once sat, but I had a headache, it was raining and dreary, and I felt absolutely miserable. I’d had nightmares when I’d finally drifted off the night before and I still couldn’t shake them.
The demon spiders had eaten Manx and turned into silver masked fiends that chittered and screeched as they chased me through an endless forest of moaning trees with skeletons hanging from them and for some reason the girl I’d met kept crying inconsolably and pointing at something I couldn’t see no matter how or where I turned to look for it.
I had only picked at breakfast, barely spoken a word, and Aunt Milly kept complaining that I looked peaky (whatever in Satan’s saggy boxers that means). Gramps kept telling her to hush and leave me be, and Fazool seemed to sympathize but kept offering me sweets, insisting that a good dark chocolate cream was just the tonic for a case of bed head. No one understood that even the thought of food made me want to hug a toilet and yack my guts out.
So, I sat there in the carriage, insisting to only minimum resistance that Manx this time came with us, an idea the Witchound took to quite happily. He sat between Fazool and I—something Fazool wasn’t quite fond of but didn’t have the heart to complain about—and we had an uncomfortable ride with Gramps and Aunt Milly staring out opposite carriage windows watching the scenery whip by and not talking or looking at one another for some odd reason.
Fazool tried a few times to get everyone talking but failed miserably, finally resigning himself to twiddling his thumbs awkwardly and peering uneasily at Manx who kept staring down at him and pant, heavily drooling on the carriage cushions. I’m not sure what he feared more, the idea the huge dog would start licking him and slobbering on his coat tails or that it might eat him. Honestly, I just think Manx smelled the copious amounts of bacon the Halfling had packed in at breakfast and was looking for a treat.
A pair of tall, beefy, neatly bearded guards that could have been twins with steel helmets and massive swords saluted with gauntleted fists to their chests. As they wordlessly opened the building’s massive double doors with a creak by pulling the huge iron rungs and we walked passed, I noticed they seemed to be wearing, what looked to me, to be absolutely ridiculous looking livery and hosiery and had very ruffled collars.
The room was amazing. The marble floor was polished to a mirrored sheen and there wasn’t a spot of dust to be seen. Tapestries, taxidermy, shields, muskets, old framed photos, and paintings hung from the walls. Everywhere the eyes roamed old armor on stands and racks of ancient swords were set amid expensive Tiffany stained-glass lamps, furs, and even a massive bear skin rug before a fireplace that could fit a small cottage in that hosted a roaring fire.
At the hall’s center, overhung by a spectacular dragon skull chandelier that was dangling from a spiked iron chain was a long oval squeaky-clean oak table. The table was surrounded by matching high backed chairs and set with a very Wall Street business meeting-like array of water glasses, pitchers, what looked like a solid gold spreading knife, named place settings and a tray of assorted bagels and cream cheese.
“Welcome.” A wheezy low voice with steel in it started us all, and we each gawked about a bit dumbly until a slender, slicked back blond haired, hawk faced man smiled back at us from beside the fireplace where we were all quite sure no one had been a moment before.
He glared, swirling what I think to have a brandy in a crystal sniffer as he stared at us with the sneering nose raised in disdain of a man well in gold but short on humility (and many other deeply vital “H” words one might expect to find in a decent human being).
“Well, do come in. And shut the damn door,” he growled irritably “You’re letting in a bloody draft.”
He made a scoffing noise, eyed his fine drink as if it had lost its sweetness and with a disgusted sigh tossed the drink into the fire, glass and all. He tugged at the hem of his expensive gold buttoned tweed suit jacket, adjusted his matching bowtie, and then very exaggeratedly clasped his behind his back. It was all very theatrical, and he seemed to be enjoying himself if