Rooms' Dreams (roomsdreams) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-05-26 20:03:00 |
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Entry tags: | *journal, clementine murphy, irene adler, plot: dreams |
Reveal + Public
The diamond stick-pin glinted from the bedside cabinet, a pretty trifle on so much polished walnut. On waking, there was no dull ache of temples to indicate a fever dream, and the only trace of the sleepy-sweet smoke from downstairs clung to the silk worn the previous night. Men who were seduced by poppy did not require seduction of another kind, and no man could administer to others and make good money if he indulged in the same vice.
On waking, there was only cold-water clarity. The theaters were long past, the act continued without pageantry for a ticket-price (she charged far, far more now than she had when she had walked the boards). It was a contrivance that had no footing in this world, where London woke itself beyond the windowsill and the velvet curtains were drawn at daybreak and closed at night.
To be bared so was dangerous, but there was no reward without risk. And Galatea was memory in mimicry. The gaming hell was but another stage, but there was coin enough to purchase another's freedom if they were lashed down, bound by one ankle to the bars of the cage.
Irene dressed, took tea. Set aside the half-written letter to the gentleman seeking employ, and wrote.
[Public]
Galatea.