"Please, don't stop on my account, I'm in no rush."
Rapidly, the dual existence of the feline and the evident sailor shimmied further and further from the pirouetting duo. Parlé hurriedly transformed their jitter into a maddening triple time, not like the sluggish second act of the 1786 opera,
Una Cosa Rara, by
Martini the Spaniard, but more flattering of a Viennese exasperating pace. This was again a test, a physical exercise to unearth the familiar one. He needed to know whether the woman across from him, attended such frequented frivolities, indulging in the rambles and raves which haunted the Neath’s upper class. Would she know not to obviously mention the leprous fashion of the Pharaonic, in contempt of the Second City? Especially in the company of Mr. Wines, or for that matter, any another Master? Or was her knowledge, on the polar spectrum, ever and far reaching into even that of the elusive royal family and beyond the speculations of the Traitor Empress’ covenant?
All these thoughts spun in the circus of the accountant’s mind, as the pair swayed and swung in similitude of an anachronistic merry-go-round.
Yet, no one conversed publicly about the fallen capitals that preceded London, except when rummaging as rumors in foisted casinos. The gabby gambler had fastidiously kept tabs on the Bazaar’s historicity, within the tendrils of his labyrinthine connections, through the ensuing decades, ever since the disappearance of his reckless uncle. His mother’s brother had carelessly become obsessed with the legendary bounty of the Vake, after ingesting countless hours of gossip at the Medusa’s Head, savoring and relishing the bagged tales of beasts from drunken, self-purported monster-hunters. The
why remained forever, dog-eared as a statistical anomaly in the bettor’s brain as he completed a fourth
fleckerl, prompting his female follower to then assert a closed
telemark, by adjusting his body ever so slightly to the left of Renée to accommodate a hesitated backing.
He chortled, as she flawlessly kept the rhythm with a reverse heel turn, marginally over 3/8ths, but, all the while, remaining magnificently meticulous. The jiving footsteps of the embraced couplet were poetry, a scrupulous yin to the cryptographer’s extroverted yang. His lips began a separate rhumba, but now in English slant rhyme, as the music garnered another booming encore.
“Death doesn’t differentiate, between the sinners.” Tick. “And the saints.”Tock. “It rakes. And it quakes. And it takes…” Lub.“While we laugh.” Dub. “And we roar.” He could easily heed the unheard chime, feeling the throbbing melody within the gripped pulse of his partner.
“But we keep dancing in this war.” The blemished sound of a professor’s throat, awkwardly being cleared, irked into the knitted mob. Alf swiftly squared the Mademoiselle, transitioning suddenly to a chassé, borrowing a ballet maneuver from his French ancestry. The bold move was ostentatiously progressive, beginning with a right step but spinning the woman in a left-turning hook.
“As we all break.” She matched him perfectly, like clock-work, dodging another twosome almost colliding into their rented
Gancho. “For another’s mistakes.”As the orchestra’s composition began to hollow into a thinning staccato, Freddy whisked the watchmaker into an ornate dip, hovering her from fully betrothing the married floor below, by merely a few inches, with his mildly tremulous arm.
“If there’s a reason I’m still alive, when everyone who’s loved moi has died.” His hands spun his twirling cohort into an impetus before finally stopping.
“Then I’m willing to play and raise the stakes.” With the accompanying silence, he bowed, at the belt, before the delightful woman, slowly ascending first with a set of sparkling blue eyes, piercing through a porcelain ruse.
“Merci! Miss, we make a wonderful team.” Ignoring his own puzzling poem, the chancer switched back to the lingua franca.
“Je m’appelle Zorko. Et vous?”@Lady Selune@Hekazu
icmasticc
