The sound of dark music echoed through narrow corridors, cabinets, shadows in the cold, invigorated in the narrow gaze of panic, lurking behind the casements, craving the elegant taunts of loving deprecations. Glitter was scattered across the floor, another purse had fallen within the gleaming beams of a slowly falling spotlight. Mists of early morning chirped as the tide of excitement waned. Her throat scratchy. Her hair disheveled. Her clothes getting old.
Lord Malinov, Song of Songs
