… Our Father, Lady, Countess-Grae, ached fretful and pensive in her bilious Ostrich Feather quilt. Her pale face was pale. She was ailing but the money spiders still fell from her breasts in herds, as tiny, multi-limbed Bilberries, they scattered onto the ivory down all speckled and bright and abundant, shining like studded leather. Her lithe body basked in the wetness of her fever, twisted and wound in tangled sheets which bunched and gathered in knots over her shoulder then smoothed into gentle folds, swelling the busy spiders as they ran. A rather sickly looking leg limped from the covers, sickly but attractive. It relaxed and flopped to one side suggestively. The white pigs on the window sill blushed and snorted their disapproval.
“…But darling, how very clever of you…”
Earl Grae dripped petulantly from one of the wrought iron arches of the bed rest.
“Why, what can you mean, my sweet?”
“The person whom Samuel is writing about, it’s you!”
Earl Grae shrugged coyly.
“Does he know?”
“Y-e-s… but, he’s erm, he’s still looking for confirmation.”
“Oh dear, how marvellous.” she laughed…
…” Will you ever stop loving me?”
“No. I will never stop loving you.”
“Whatever I do to you?”
“Whatever you do to me, I will never stop loving you.”
“But what if I no longer loved you?”
“Even if you no longer loved me, I would not stop loving you.”
“And if I were to take away your life?”
“If it were possible, and you were to take away my life, in the very instant that I died, I would love you still.”
The couple fell back onto the sand, laughing.
Above them a passing seagull exploded into a crescendo of light and as the thousandth variably coloured droplet made its way gently to ground, the cliff-face behind them slowly began to melt. In one smouldering, obsidian mass it slithered towards the sea staining everything before it an inky black.
Earl Grae hovered elegantly above the larva flow, its rising heat singeing his delicate wing-tips as he allowed himself to drift, caressed by the sea breeze. Gently he was ushered towards the entrance of the Crystal Palace, newly assembled in place of the cliffs. He turned to his companions still lying on the soon to be devoured sands.
“Shall we go in?”…
… Earl Grae sat in the middle of a spiralling marble stairway and scratched his head. He was difficult to see initially. He kept disappearing when you looked hard, when you stared. The trick was to forget. That way he remained visible, glorious, shining brighter than the sun, shining brighter than a thousand suns and all their infinite possibilities.
His hair was the ornately carved banister rail, which wound down the stairs and which he infused, for his complexion was marble; his voice the tinkling of the crystal chandelier which hung overhead and he shot glistening motes of crystal glass with a glance this way, and that. His laughter was the light inside here, and the light outside there, and the sky all around, and the flowers, and the trees springing from the earth, and he was the earth too, and the night but when he laughed, he was the sun itself and now he laughed, and his presence was the dawning of a new day as he scratched his head. He had always been and always would he be… with fairies, drifting from his hair.
“Follow me,” he smiled, and then he turned, and skipped brightly over the sunset…