Let me set the scene and tell you how it happened. A blunderbuss above an unlit hearth; a stack of pterosaur bones within it. And I, glass of sherry in hand, ragged slippers on a low stool, reclining at my unease in starched shirt and ruff.The turrets were crumbling. A slate slid into the gulf below.“Alack,” mused I, shifting my weight on the antique cushions, each stuffed with a thousand rare moths. “Heavy is my lymph, for I am alone. There is nobody to share my gloomy abode, or help me repair the leaking roof. Solitude and hollowness are my lot.”A rattling at the window; a feeble pressure on the pane which had naught to do with wind or rain. I adjusted my green cap, set down my drink and stood with a nervous jerk. The bare boards supported me from chair to latch, though they had been carved by my traditional enemy.“What is this? A visitor? Enter, I beg you! There are soft furnishings inside, an iron chandelier and the memory of warmth.”Throwing open the casement to admit my guest, I was astonished by his melancholy expression.
