Author’s Note: Work in progress. Here, we find a description of the Contessa di D’argento. I hope you enjoy it. (PS. still first draft so please forgive any weirdness).
“I hear she is beautiful.”
“She is like a summer storm whose tears fall as mercury rain.”
“I don’t follow?”
“The season is warm rather than hot. One might say understated in an English July sort of way. You stand in the middle of a lush, green meadow somewhat parched, a scirocco blowing up from Africa carrying the dreams of another continent its taste, feel and imagined vistas. These thoughts heat a body that does not wish it. You become stifled, struggling for a breath. Just when the panic begins, when the countenances of those who are with you turn ashen in panic at your creased visage, a rumble of thunder announces her presence. The rain comes fast and soothing, a total saturation of self, not clear, nor blue, but droplets of silver mercury. Every grass, every leaf, every stream and river is permeated with it and your world shines like the moon on a clear, cool evening. It is extraordinary. It is exquisite. Then, she is there.”
Robert Swift’s voice trailed off into another opium dream, but his words had struck home.
Grace tugged at her sleeves, Headlock his collar and every other eye that had turned upon the ravaged inventor’s monologue looked ever further from reality than before. The Bohemia, opium den to the lost and forgotten, wavered on the brink of ecstasy.
“She sounds like a goddess,” Grace offered.
“Not sounds,” replied Swift as his eyes gently closed. “Not sounds.”