Dame of Neath

Pretty much everything's the property of Failbetter Games!

[dame-of-neath]

A maelstrom of scandal!

The stories told of your exploits have become too shocking, even for the nocturnal tastes of Fallen London. Your lodgings are daily besieged by journalists, Constables, and clergymen. Young ladies and gentlemen are lining up to claim that you have depraved and despoiled them. Certain other ladies and gentlemen are complaining bitterly because you haven't depraved and despoiled them. Your only recourse is to flee to a place where these things are considered unimportant, and wait for the scandal to subside. There's only one place down here like that.

A friend of sorts

'and I hasten to add, no rival or challenge for you, my dear, even if I had a taste for bandages. Nevertheless, human warmth of any kind is welcome here. Ha, human warmth! A term for the living. There is no warmth here. Arguably nothing human either.'

A contest of wits

'Still, the occasional game of chess passes the time...'

'Some of these dead have decades of experience. I have new tricks they haven't seen, but they rarely make mistakes.'

A contest of skill

'Still, the occasional boxing-bout passes the time...'

They are not strong - their flaking flesh does not permit it - but they have more experience than anyone living. I rarely win, but the experience is bracing.'

A moment of joy

'It took me several moments to realise why the effect upon my palate was so startling. The label might have been Greyfields, but this was real wine! I mean to say Surface wine, from grapes ripened in honest Surface sunlight! My dear, I am not ashamed to say I wept a little. I asked my host how he came by it, and he laid his finger alongside his nose (at least, the former site of his nose...)'

I took full advantage of the situation

'He had been foolish enough to expose his cellar to me...'

'I picked the choicest treasures from his cellar, like a bee visiting only the daintiest flowers. Not to excess! Oh no, not to excess. But he wept openly when I requested a second glass of the '47 Chateau d'Yquem.'

'...I have attended a ball...'

'Or what passes for a ball in this appalling crypt. They can dance after a fashion: a pitiable shuffling, punctuated now and then by the partial disintegration of a dancer. The first time this happened it gave me quite a start. I shall not be wearing those shoes again. But one grows used to anything...'

'I demonstrated all the latest dances...'

'The dead joined me in a frenzy of withered limbs!'

We made an evening of it. There were casualties, but there are always casualties in love, war and the mazurka.'

A letter from an old acquaintance

'She sends me fond wishes, and hints that I may be home sooner than I had expected. She boasts - I hesitate to use the word, it is unkind, but she does boast - about her own prospects for advancement. She is much admired, it seems...'

'I replied fondly.'

'Perhaps I allowed myself to become carried away...'

'...my endearments were rather heated. But I know of old that she will be entertained, or more.'

The construction of the 'Grand Sanatoria'

'It is strange to see dead men labour so. It will be a splendid building once completed: more like a palace of marble than any sanatorium I have seen... My understanding is that the colonists whose decay is too advanced to permit speech or movement - but who still 'live' - are to be relocated within (I had almost written 'interred'). Some mysteries remain, however... '

'...mysteries I have chosen not to pursue'

'I shall not risk my contacts here to satisfy my idle curiosity. 'Instead, I attended a piano recital. Some alarm when an audience member caught fire...'

'How are they constructed?'

'I wonder who provides these quantities of marble, which is not quarried here...'

The marble-quarries of Italy

'...down the Cumaean Canal, of course. But this only raises the further question: who is paying for these materials? There is another power at work here in the tomb-colonies...'

Causing a scene

'A ghastly plop, and a spray of wine... I looked down and there was an eyeball floating in my wineglass. Just when one thinks one has suffered all the indignities Providence has to offer, she finds some new and monstrous device in her bag of wicked traps. I screamed, much to the amusement of the eye's owner...'

'...I returned it to him, politely.'

'We maintained the fiction that it had been an accident.'

'I was, it pains me to say it, the wretched butt of a successful prank. Nevertheless, if my confidence has suffered, my reputation for decorum has not.'

Lamentable tastes

'Some of the citizens here are in the most extraordinary state of decay... Today I found myself bullied into reading Tennyson to a bandaged, bedridden harridan. Do you have any idea how boring Tennyson is to read at length? It's like being trapped in a train on a bumpy track. The lady in question has lost the use of her arms and legs - though not, alas, the use of her voice...'

'I persevered for hours. Hours!'

'I have endured all kinds of vituperation, but at least it has done my reputation a little good..

'I confess that eventually the effect of Tennyson becomes soothing rather than aggravating. And she does have a fund of dreadful secrets, which proved entertaining, though they may haunt my dreams long after I have returned to London. The Red Bird. The cave where starved flesh dreams. The uses of scorpions...'

'I abandoned the endeavour'

'Well; I will not be bullied so. I went to drink by the harbour instead. Zailors may be coarse and stinking, but at least they are not dull.'

Unexpected advances

'She placed her hand on my knee. I can say with utter conviction that I had not expected this.'

'Naturally I seized the opportunity to extend my experience

'Her experience in these matters was manifest and memorable, although my resolve was tested and it may be days before I am sure the taste is entirely gone from my mouth...'

With friends like these...

'My dear, I wish you would be a little more circumspect. You might have consulted me before publishing the sorry facts in the matter of Mme L. and myself. Yes, it will repair my reputation a little. Yes, I suppose it is better that innocents do not suffer. But the truth is damnably embarrassing! I will be a laughing-stock in the Singing Mandrake...'

Unorthodox technologies

'Forgive me for committing this to paper, my dear, but I feel compelled to unburden myself. For special occasions, certain of these bandaged lunatics render their own body-fat into candles! "It's not as if we're giving up our bones," one of them pointed out. "We scent them with lilac," another explained. Scent them with lilac! Now perhaps you understand why I am so eager to return to London...'

'That said, lilac is a pleasant scent'

'I accepted the gift of one of these candles, and I have suggested to my other friends in London that they might shed a diverting light...'

A letter to an old flame

'I have been writing to everyone I even half-know. Be sure that this letter, dearest, is motivated entirely by affection. Although if you were to mention my sorry state and earnest contrition to your father, I shouldn't object...'

'...I flatter myself the Duchess was fond of me...'

'...her memory is long, although she is not always kind. I have written her a frankly pleading letter. I hope it amuses her.'

A package arrives from the Duchess

It contains the bottled skull of a mouse. Is that good? It must be good. Postage to the tomb-colonies is expensive. She can't be that annoyed with you.

'...I have, with some trepidation, contacted a hooded acquaintance...'

'...the Masters of the Bazaar, they say, do not have friends among the citizenry, but they do have favourites. If they remember me - and I like to consider myself memorable...'

You receive no reply

Nevertheless, your name appears, in passing, in a handful of remarkably flattering articles from the London newspapers that they ship out here. Coincidence? Perhaps. But it does you a great deal of good.

'...I have written to the Bishop of St Fiacre's...'

'...he seems a more pragmatic soul than some of these gabbling pulpit-skulkers. Although those eyes of his unnerve me...'

Perhaps the Bishop will be moved by your letter

Perhaps he'll read it out over tea and crumpets, to a sniggering gang of self-righteous...no. No, don't think about that.

Home: at last

'Perhaps the scandal has subsided enough for me to return. A steamer waits to take me across the Unterzee tonight. I can hardly wait. I never want to see another bandage for as long as I live. Should I lose a duel, I implore you to find something other than bandages to staunch my wounds...'

Unrepentant!

'I am who I am. The tomb-colonies have not changed me. Have they forgotten me already? Let us correct that...'

'I have kept to my cabin for most of the voyage. The zee-zights may be charming, but the second officer is more so. I look forward to a warm welcome...' 

[dame-of-neath]

A word with the Counsellor

The Veteran Privy Counsellor rushes down the hall, a rolled document in his hand...

What does he want?

Has he heard of an indiscretion of yours? Your dress isn't off; is it? Or could he be interested in a commission?

Untapped potential

The Veteran Privy Counsellor frowns. "You've potential, Madam. And one day I will call on your talents. But you're not quite ready.

[dame-of-neath]

An assignment from the Cheesemonger

"A dealer in horses may be in the pay of one of the European powers. He is tight-lipped and careful, but we may be able to make use of his devout nature. He regularly attends confession..."

Eavesdrop at the church

In the Great Game, little is sacred.

A new gargoyle

Footsteps and mumbled prayers echo around the old church. Floorboards creak: you shift your weight carefully. The pews near the booth have been moved. This will require another approach. Getting to the church roof isn't difficult, and as you suspect, enough lead has been stolen to allow you to observe the confessional from above.

The horse dealer is definitely involved, and being paid by the French from the sound of it. He's been helping revolutionaries escape to the surface. You smile from your perch. You have well earned your pay. Weeks later, you hear he was flung into a pit of sorrow-spiders.

[dame-of-neath]

Evening

"Fancy an evening of indulgence, Darling? Delights beyond the measure of language! Such debauched poetry, wine and roses, all for us. T."

[dame-of-neath]

memories: Unjustly imprisoned!

The view from your cell is magnificent: Fallen London, far below. You've come so far, and you're so close! No prison can hold you now.

Concentrate on escaping!

Get out of here first. Worry about the view later.

A plan forms

It's a half-mile fall from the barred cell window to the dark waters below. But a supply dirigible brings food to the prison every day. It passes directly below your window. And the mortar that holds the window bars in place is old and rotting. If you can work them free...

How will you get through these bars?

You'll need some sort of tool to loosen them. How will you acquire it?

You're a Persuasive lady

You don't really know whether the gaoler is male or female under its thick hood. You're not even sure it's human. But you're very charming. Perhaps you can persuade it to give you a little gift.

Got it!

Eventually you provoke an affectionate snuffling noise from beneath the gaoler's hood; and it slips you a fork. You work away for a couple of hours until the fork snaps. The bars are loose!

Escape from New Newgate Prison!

With a final struggle, you wrench the bars free, squeezing hastily through the window as the supply dirigible approaches. You pause briefly on the narrow ledge outside, then leap on to the upper surface of the dirigible, sliding several alarming feet before you get a grip. You are free!

Escape to Veilgarden

Work? You? Wine and song and all the pleasures of the underworld now. Work later. It'll be easy for someone as Persuasive as you.

Veilgarden!

The dirigible spirals slowly down over the smouldering lights of Fallen London. The cavern breezes of the Neath pluck at your clothing. You're over Veilgarden: laughter and drunken song drift up through the chill cavern air. As the dirigible passes the spire of St Aegidius, you leap to safety. You clamber down into Veilgarden, avoiding the nests of bats and ravens as you go.

A stone in your shoe

You'd stored a little something to buy supplies down here - and the gaolers never found it. Sell your Magnificent Diamond at the Bazaar to raise funds! You should sell your manacles and whatnot, too.

Find somewhere to live!

You need an address - or the Constables might scoop you off the streets for vagrancy. Besides, it's cold out here. And where would you invite your friends to?

Charm your way into someone's home

You find yourself chatting to a widow who distributes food to the poor. "Strange to find you on the streets," she says. "You're obviously a gentleman of quality."

"It was not always so! Let me tell you my story - "

Are you a replacement for a child she lost? Or is her interest in you a little more carnal? Either way, you become the Soft-Hearted Widow's guest. You deserve somewhere better, of course. But this will keep you out of the cold. It's a big improvement on the prison cell you were in such a short time ago.

[dame-of-neath]

An Acclaimed Beauty

Peerless of feature, distant of manner.

Pursue the Acclaimed Beauty

The Acclaimed Beauty is an extraordinarily handsome fellow. He is reserved and often alone; he can appear pensive or almost disdainful. And he has, apparently, a turbulent past. Rumours whisper of a dalliance with the Barbed Wit. All this makes for much imaginative speculation at court.

The course of love

The Acclaimed Beauty has many admirers, of course, most of whom find his air of insouciance only adds to his attractions. You will face vehement competition from the ladies and gentleman of the court. But who are they, when compared to you? The affections of this fine gentleman shall be yours!

[dame-of-neath]

The Neath's Mysteries

They say the Neath's destiny is bound with these deeper secrets. Are your eyes on these futures?

Going to the theatre

The show is cancelled, the poster claims. Mahogany Hall - London's most notorious Music Hall and Theatre - is closed tonight. You know better. You have two tickets to a secret performance of the forbidden Seventh Letter. Find a friend - you don't want to see that alone.

[dame-of-neath]

A job from the Cheesemonger

"A Worn-out Diplomat is considering retirement from the Game to the tomb-colonies. Certain parties prefer another outcome. You are to prevent this by any means short of permanent murder."

Betrayal and bandages

The tomb-colonists are not well-liked. Even a Worn-out Diplomat among their number would benefit them. You could tip them off about likely trouble for their new recruit. Of course, your employer will not be pleased.

The night boat

Your tradecraft is good enough that the Cheesemonger does not connect you with the sudden disappearance of the Worn Diplomat. You hear later that the Diplomat was smuggled across the Unterzee in a steamer carrying pig-iron. He is making a new 'life' in the colonies. The bandaged men are grateful for your intervention, and share some secrets the Diplomat brought with him.

[dame-of-neath]

Devices and Desires

Mechanical toys, timepieces, little wheels and cogs; gears within gears. The craftspeople - and craftsrats - of London are capable of wondrous and intricate artistry. But is that all that they produce?

Bits and pieces

The nooks and crannies of London's playrooms and storerooms are scattered with brass detritus. It gets everywhere. Here, look; a little pile of wheels and cogs.

Useful things?

You pick up an assorted handful of miniature gears, cogs and ratchets. The craft is exquisite; they're minuscule but perfect. But under a magnifying-glass, there's a quality to the toolmarks that doesn't look like any ratwork you've seen before.

[dame-of-neath]

The sign of the looped wire

Cheese is quite the luxury these days. Especially surface cheese, but even the horse-cheese and slug-curds of the deep earth. And here - the sign of the looped cheese wire. The Cheesemonger!

A well-known piece in the Game

Might she recognise you? Does your reputation in the Game leave no need for a show of skill?

An arrangement with the Cheesemonger

"I know who you are. I thought you might turn up here sooner or later. My guess is that you're looking for work. Perhaps we can be of use to each other.

"Yes, I think you will do nicely. I offer spy work. All sorts of jobs. Surveillance, codebreaking, seduction, murder. If that's too much for you, leave now. I work for the highest bidder, and I don't ask questions. And neither do you. If you don't like that, leave now. Still here? Good. I see a fine future for both of us. Here's your signing bonus."

[dame-of-neath]

Agent of the Cheesemonger

A quick chat before leaving

"They're coming for me tonight. The jade gives me a fighting chance, at least. I won't forget this. If you're looking for work in the Game, you should speak to the Cheesemonger. If you're skilled, she'll have use for you. The pay is good, but... well, you know this is a risky business. She moves her shop about, but look for the sign of the looped cheese wire."

[dame-of-neath]

A game of croquet

The Quiet Deviless sends you a note. Would you make up a four for a croquet game she is hosting? And could you bring a guest?

Invite a Society acquaintance

The upper classes know how to play, and many of them seem rather fascinated by devils.

A genteel afternoon

The game is held in a remote part of Tyrant's Gardens. Play proceeds at a glacial pace, so you can observe the Society friend you invited hovering around the Deviless. In fact, all the people here seem to be trying to ingratiate themselves with devils. "Take me," you hear one murmur. "Me."

[dame-of-neath]

The Art of Beauty

The Quiet Deviless is at home this afternoon, and has suggested that you pay her a call. You arrive a little early, and a timid maidservant asks you to follow her to the lady's dressing-room. "At madame's request," she whispers.

Follow the maid

There is no reason to fear impropriety. Is there? Surely, when a lady herself invites you to her private chambers, it would be impolite not to acquiesce.

Mercury, lead, belladonna

You join the Quiet Deviless at her vanity table. The surface is scattered with pots, vials, tiny brushes, miniature ratwork filigree cases, elegant crystal bottles. There is rouge, lip-stain, eye-brighteners, exotic fragrances. The air is heavy with powder and perfume. Her pet bat hangs from the top bars of a gilded cage. She squeaks affectionately at the little creature, and reaches through the bars to stroke his head and offer him little scraps of spider.

London used to frown upon cosmetics. They were, almost literally, the face of questionable morality. Since the Fall, things are a little different. It is harder to worry about metaphorical devilry when the real thing lives among you, after all. But rouge is still roguish, powder is still provocative. The Quiet Deviless is trusting you with some of her secrets, here, and trusting you not to think less of her. She brings her pet bat from his cage and holds him gently in her lap. She raises her eyes to yours and smiles.

[dame-of-neath]

Carving out a Reputation at Court

What's your next work?

The Veteran Privy Counsellor looks expectantly at you. His glass of port quivers dangerously in his hand. What's your next project?

Write poetry

Poetry is a mirror which makes the distorted beautiful. The Neath could benefit from your reflections.

Religion and Art

Perhaps your work requires a spiritual dimension.

Call on the help of the Church

There's more to religion than stained glass and hymns. You know a Cultured Vicar who can introduce you to a rarefied sort of artist.

Creation at the vicarage

The artists that you meet through the Cultured Vicar are solid sorts, once you get past the peculiar theology. Not exactly weighted with a genius like your own, but they do have the occasional good idea. You scribble away in the cosy vicarage, even after the Vicar has left for evensong.

An organ recital at All Christs

It might not be your first choice, but perhaps it's time you tried something different.

A dreary evening

The organ parps on and on, self-satisfied as an elderly cat in a rectory. The audience is afflicted by weird tics and fits of coughing. Pale moonish light slants through the stained-glass, dappling their faces like corpse-rot. And the church is so bl___y cold. Don't they heat churches? You leave at the interval, ignoring the muttering.

Mortification of the flesh!

Lock yourself away and fast. Optionally, pray. Consider shaving your head.

A week of living narrowly

When you emerge from your isolation, your acquaintances are agog. Did you see angels? Scarify your flesh? Do your own laundry? You gloss over the details. Both distractions and inspiration have been scarce.

Devils and art

Can devils create art? Can the soulless? It's a fascinating metaphysical question. If art does not come from the soul, whence does it arise?

The art of the Brass Embassy

The Embassy sometimes hosts exclusive soirées, at which guests can enter some of the more private rooms. You can procure an invitation to the next one; certain devils hold you in high enough esteem. It should be a perfect chance to glimpse some of the art that devils truly appreciate.

Beautiful and terrifying

Judging by the paintings on show in the more public areas of the Embassy, devils' tastes run to the baroque, the overblown, the grandiose. Equestrian portraits, dramatic against roiling skies. Storm-tossed seas. Mythical men and beasts in combat. Ladies with elaborate coiffures and glittering teeth. In short, exactly as one would expect from devils.

But that's not the whole story. In some of the more private areas, exquisitely detailed embroideries decorate the walls. The subjects are often pastoral, the colours muted but rich, and there are also many wonderfully complex abstract patterns. "Ah yes," says a devil who's been watching you with interest. "Needlework is a particular skill of ours. We use only the finest gossamer from specially-bred sorrow-spiders, and stitch with needles so fine and so sharp that you would not be able to see them without a magnifying-glass."

As you look more closely at some of the abstract patterns, they start to swim before your eyes. Threads coil and merge in upsetting ways. There are terrible secrets encoded in these gorgeous textiles. Has your question been answered, after its fashion?

The Bohemians

Many are poseurs or fools: but there are a few real, wild, tigerish talents down in Veilgarden. They might help a genius like you.

Call in some favours

If you know the right people, you could benefit from a close collaboration with bohemian artists.

How did this happen?

There was quite a lot of wine, and you were... confused. Now, you find that you are contributing to the work of another artist. Hang on. That's not the plan! You don't even get a credit!

Wine and vinegar

There are disagreements, of course. Artistic differences. There are screaming rows enlivened with hard words and thrown pets. But there is also beauty and progress and the odd moment of genius. You've gone further together than you could hope for separately. There may be a great future for the two of you, if you can still bear the sight of each other by week's end.

The men from the Ministry

The Ministry of Public Decency requires you to submit a copy of your work before it is exposed to the public.

Bury it deep

If your work has any radical notions to it, you would be wise to be subtle. The Ministry's Evaluators are thorough, but they can be fooled.

Crackle and crisp

Why is it always a public burning? Surely a polite letter requesting a few changes would suffice? But no, not with these people. Still, you were wise enough to hide a copy of the work.

Too deep for them

The Men from the Ministry are disciplined and intellectually competent. However, the finer points of allusion and the latest artistic developments occasionally pass them by. You have judged it perfectly. The objectionable sections of your material exceed their grasp by inches. Your work shall not suffer their rough hands or their consuming flames.

Competition for the post of Imperial Artist-in-Residence

A Lyrical Poetess is planning to upstage your work. A thousand stanzas of patriotic history, or some such nonsense.

Persuade her that her work requires alteration

"Of course, nobody listens to that sort of fervid claptrap any more. Today's poetry must possess a current of radical political thought..."

So much for that idea

The Lyrical Poetess pretends not to hear you. She hisses an insult that borders on the uncivilised. So that's how it is, eh?

A pleasing deception

The Lyrical Poetess affects an air of indifference, but you can see that you've troubled her. It will take her some time to alter her verses, and the resulting scandal should halt her ambitions nicely.

A quiet day at your lodgings

The knocker is silent. There is not a promenading dandy, a larcenous urchin nor an honest tradesman to be seen. Your lodgings are quieter than a politician's conscience.

Cloister yourself and work

Inspiration is all very well, but sooner or later one must see to the actual business of creation.

Argh!

It must be a great convocation of rag-and-bone men out there. They won't shut up! How can you work with such a racket? You've a good mind to go outside and let them know what you think of them!

The artist's life

Today it comes, but it doesn't come easily. You hammer away at your work, when you're not distracted by the newspaper or the scene outside your window. Your head is pounding by the day's end, but you have a creditable stack of material. Surely, you deserve a treat of some sort now?

Business at the Court

The business of the Court carries on with or without you. Hushed conversations and half-forgotten ceremonies mark out the days and weeks.

Gauge the tastes of the Court.

These people are your audience, after all. Their tastes and predilections may deserve some sort of minor recognition in your work.

I don't think so

Next season's fashion will be for arrhythmic ballet in fuchsia pantaloons. Poetry is dead. The Consort wishes to see a production of Coriolanus, staged on burning frigates on the river.

Someone is having you on.

The mode

Symphonies are terribly old fashioned, but there are some in the court who long to hear music played above a plink and a whisper. Poetry is always popular. Melancholic ballads are the current vogue. You have a better idea of the Court's preferences, though no doubt they will change by the time your work is complete.

The pleasures of the Neath

Prisoner's honey, fine mushroom wines, imported spirits from across the Unterzee and exotic tipples from the surface. The Neath is rich with inspirational distractions.

Perhaps you should buy them all notebooks

Although your recollections are foggier than Winewound Heath, last night must have been energetic. You are ... fatigued. You do recall standing on a table and waving your finger in the face of a noted critic.

You meet your companions for a revitalising luncheon. You were on fine form last night. Bless them, some of your friends took notes. This material is astounding! You gather up what you can. You only have a few hours before you begin again.

Nature in the Neath

The ecology of the Neath does not encourage inspiration. Limpid pools are liable to be infested with Flenser Crabs. The greasy smog of Fallen London subsumes all but the loneliest of clouds.

Seek inspiration in nature

Head out into the fog, find some d__ned nature and wring the inspiration from it till it squeaks.

On the Heath

Winewound Heath isn't a bad choice for a stroll. The fog is thicker than honey, but decidedly less pleasant on the tongue. You do stumble across nature of a sort. The sort that button up their trousers and come after you with sticks.

On the dock of the zee

Down by the docks, the oily black waters caress the shore. Stevedores trundle their barrows. Men with axes and hammers attack the black coral. Far out on the Unterzee, steamers strain towards the tomb-colonies, the Elder Country, Polythreme. It's far from natural, but it is not without a melancholy charm.

Yesterday's work

Yesterday's work sits on the escritoire, looking at you. In the cold light of day, you are sure it is nonsense and humbug.

Toss it onto the fire

Start again! But this time, you're certain to get it right!

What were you thinking?

Your work blazes merrily. The paper crisps to ash and... No! Some of it was worthy! You drag the work from the flames before you lose it all. Your arm is burning! You douse the flames with cold coffee.

The manuscript is half-gone and the half that remains is covered in coffee. It will take considerable work to save anything. What were you thinking?

Your poem is complete!

The ink of the last line dries. You set down your pen at last. It is done. A poem for the ages. A poem to assure you immortality. But what manner of work is it?

An Epic Cycle

Nobody writes huge, sprawling heroic epics any more. Nobody but you, anyway. Twelve thousand stanzas of heroism, tragedy and myth.

A huge success

Your poem catches the Court's imagination, and soon it is bought, read and recited thoughout the Palace. Which is just as well, for the common folk can't afford the weighty, leather-bound tome upon which you insisted. Fashionable ladies and gentlemen of the court are soon engaging in swordplay in the gardens. There is soon a fad for the more ancient forms of courtly romance. Young blades climb towers and maul innocent beasts. Damsels artfully distress themselves. Swooning is rampant. Every night, the Constables discover unsuccessful lovers raving in the parks.

You inspire imitators, of course, but the sheer size of your work means that you have months before any of the competition will be published. You are the lion of London's poetical circles, at least for now.

A Tragedy of Romance

A timeless love. The cruel blade of fate. Death by water. A great many tears. The height of poetic fashion.

Cruel fates and patronage

Yours is not the first work of this kind to be published this month. It is not even the fifth. The reception is no better than lukewarm. Well, until the Empress requests a copy. Ten pages in and she asks for the work to be read to her in full. That has never happened before.

Of course, the court simply goes berserk for the poem after that. Anyone who is anyone is reading your work. Lovelorn sighs echo around the Palace. Pale young admirers surround you. An alarming fashion develops for leaping into the river when spurned. The ranks of the Drownies swell greatly, and the press denounce your work as a menace to public order.

An Allegorical Satire

If one enjoys breathing, one does not write extended satires concerning the Empress, nor especially her Consort. However, the rest of those windbags in the Court are fair game.

Perfect timing

A satirical work is always going to be scandalous, if it's any good. Fortunately, your work is sufficiently subtle that the victims don't realise that you are mocking them until it's too late. A few weeks after publication, the poem is popular and you haven't been fed to the Cantigaster.

And then the press gets hold of it. They point out how clever you were to compare The Rt. Hon. M____ to a mongoose. And why Lady R_____ deserves the title 'Queen of the Doily'. But it's too late! Your victims would look even more foolish for attacking you now. Questions are asked in parliament, and a bill proposed to censor poets further, but their hearts are not in it. Your name is on lips from the heights of the Flit to the depths of the literary reviews.

Your novel is complete!

Your work is complete! A masterful novel, plucked from the blue skies of inspiration and pinned to your desk with a quill. Surely this manuscript will set the literary world afire. But what exactly have you written?

A Gothic Romance

Desperate lovers. Ruined castles. A noble family's secret shame. All spiced up with a few flashes of nightgown and perhaps a monster.

What passion! What mystery!

The Court adores your tale of mystery and romance. Of course, persons of station do not officially read such inflaming fantasies. They secrete your novel in top hats and hide it behind improving literature. You are reliably informed that the Captivating Princess was moved to tears.

The youth of London love it like nothing else. Pale young things in sombre attire hound you day and night, seeking attention. The markets sell out of black cloaks and white nightgowns. Two notable families commission architects to build ruined castles in the grounds of their estates. You spawn a host of imitators, of course. But what are they to you? They are nothing.

A Tale of the Future!

A bold vision of life in the next century! A world of gleaming brass and sparking globes. A tale of London's triumphant return to the surface!

It's all brass and crystal

The Court doesn't seem persuaded that the heroes of the future will be engineers, technologists and other middle-class types. But the business of raising London back to a glorious future on the surface has more than a few optimists openly weeping. University professors debate the plausibility of your vision.

The youth of the city, many of whom have never seen the surface, are inspired by your conception. There is a rush to apply for places at the university's technical departments. Goggles are worn over top hats. The price of brass doubles overnight. Both the devils and a band of Deans send you presents in deep appreciation.

A Patriotic Adventure!

A rip-roaring tale of Empire, hardship, determination and giving those foreigners a damn sound thrashing! Thrills and danger in the Elder Country! The search for the Mountain of Youth!

A people ready for adventure

Your novel is a huge success at Court. There's very little that they like better than stories about rock-jawed British manhood knocking villainous continentals about in the name of the Empire. Some of the Court's more delicate flowers swoon at the sweatier moments.

The common folk of London like it even more. Sales are astronomical. A swathe of young adventurers signs up at the docks, convinced that your Mountain of Youth is real. Several treasure-hunters knock on your door. They demand directions and promise you a share of their entirely imagined loot.

Write and stage a play

Theatre is the true art.

A play!

"The trouble with plays is that one must work with... actors. Actresses are an altogether superior breed, however." The Privy Counsellor nods, his brow heavy with wisdom.

The lead

The lead performer in your work is passionate, capable, professional. And rather attractive, now that you think about it.

Indulge yourself with the lead

Well, why not? It's almost expected of you. A tradition. Yes, that's it.

Art and beauty

An audition of breathless flirtations. Private rehearsals seasoned with passionate glances and indecorous thoughts. And finally, a first night of languorous and inventive pleasures. Ah, the prerogatives of genius!

The next day, your art comes easily. Ideas frisk like colts. Rough edges are smoothed to a shine. Marvellous.

Opening Night!

Everything is prepared. The performers assure you that they have memorised their lines. The curtain goes up in five minutes. But what manner of theatrical delight have you produced?

A Slapstick Farce

A tonic for the Empress' woes. It is long past time that the Court enjoyed the humour of the common man. And surely anyone, no matter how exalted, can enjoy the spectacle of two urchins pelting a Bishop with crumpets?

The rarest of giggles

Opening night. You had to keep the nature of the play a secret, or the court would never have attended. The worthies of the Palace's theatrical set are expecting drama, pathos and social commentary. What they get is custard, and plenty of it.

They are horrified for the first two scenes. A Viscountess storms out barely five minutes in. But then His Amused Lordship roars with delight at the business with the Constable's helmet and the bat. A few others join in with chuckles. By the end of the first act, they're howling with mirth. At the finale, you clamber up to your observation post. It all hinges on this moment. You glance down at the stage. Here it comes. The bishop is filling the Prime Minister's trousers with frogs. And, yes! A giggle. It was a small thing, barely audible. But it was a giggle. From the Imperial box.

A Wry Satirical Comedy

Where the weighty is trivial and the insincere mouth earnest words about the fancies and nonsensitudes of life. A pithy epigram for every occasion.

"The only thing worse than..."

The Court prefers its theatre weighty. There is much grumbling in the lobby that your work is most likely frothy nonsense of no worth at all. And then the curtain rises and the fogs of expectation lift. They are charmed by your quips. They sympathise with the everyday troubles and tiny woes of your characters. They see their own lives in your setting.

The curtain falls to a standing ovation. Your play has delighted the Court, accustomed as it was to stodgy pathos. For weeks afterwards you hear "The only thing worse than being dead in the Neath is dying," wherever you go. 'When rats exhibit sentiments, one should not exhibit the sentiments of a rat' is plastered across the press. They think you are delightful. Better, even: they think you are very clever indeed.

A Heart-Wrenching Tragedy

Passions that destroy all before them. Innocence savaged by uncaring destiny. A story fit for the Neath.

A very good cry indeed

By the end of the first act, there are sniffles from the audience. By the end of the second act, there is wailing. When the final curtain falls, some fourteen acts later, iron-eyed worthies and conscienceless villains are howling into their hats. You can barely hear the applause over the sobs. His Amused Lordship sheds a single tear. The Court loves a good cry: you are lauded as a genius.

Word spreads. The theatre is packed, night after night. Tradesmen of modest means shepherd their pennies to come and see your play. There is a fashion for those who love too much to leap from a high window, just like in act seven. This one will run and run.

Write a song and have it performed

You'll have to be subtle. The Empress hates choral works, but in the far corners of the Palace much of the court appreciate a good song.

A song!

"A hymn or something, eh? You are a bold one. Jolly good, though. We could use more singing around this place."

The music of the tomb

While out on a stroll, you hear a tune drifting from an open window at the Continental Hotel. A slow, mournful air on the violin. Lovely, for all its melancholy.

Study the dour tunes of the tomb-colonies     

The Continental Hotel caters to the tomb-colonists. Their music might be worth looking into.

A lone violin    

You find your way to the violinist's room. The tune is necessarily slow - vigorous bowing would be disastrous - and it speaks wordlessly of death and loss. Is that a hint of a tear in your eye?

The colonist regards you impassively from behind her bandages. When the tune is finished, you get talking. She's here visiting someone. No, music from the tomb-colonies isn't well known in London. You could be the one to bring it to light!

Composition: the low path          

Your music will be simple, honest, memorable. The music of the people. One might even be able to dance to it.

Seek out the music of the people            

The bawdy songs of the costermongers. The dockside shanties. The simple ballads of love and loss. They will be your meat and drink.

Music in all the wrong places    

It may not be the perfect execution of theory, but these people can surely bang out a tune when they put their minds to it. You sing along in the public houses, listen hard at the docks, stroll in the markets at first light. The songs of London come from a score of lands and a dozen centuries. You can make something of all this: something beautiful.

Composition: the high path          

Your music will be cerebral, abstract, perfect. A procession of smooth-browed messengers shining with remorseless light.

Seek out the music of dreams            

The music of your dreams is beautiful beyond description. You must seize it!

Out of reach    

Endless white marble ballrooms. Smiling eyeless dancers. The music is always too quiet, too far away. The dancers can hear it, but you cannot. You walk, then trot, then sprint from room to room. You sense the perfection of the music but it is beyond your reach. You stumble, falling into the deep and silent spaces between stars. You wake, screaming.

The music of dreams    

The music of your dreams is complex, layered, beautiful. Here in your head there are hundreds of dancers. Each one follows its own path across the polished floor, but keeps perfect tempo to your music. Together they form one swarming, interconnected creature, like a clockwork cloud, and it too dances. Whirl and step. You could not forget that music. The world will join you in hearing it.

Publish your song!          

The Shuttered Palace is not a welcoming venue for songs. If you publish your work all across London, you might yet hear it in the far corners of the Court. But what have you written?

A Rousing Hymn            

Something to get the blood of decent folk pumping. A rousing call to action, and some old-fashioned righteousness.

The crescendo of faith    

Your hymn is a hit! They're belting it out all over city. Churches throw open their doors to huge crowds and bring in extra pews. Your work inspires a dozen tiny splinter-sects, some with alarming theological quirks. The newspapers report outbreaks of public decorum and good works. An angry mob sings your composition as they hurl a startled devil into the river.

The Empress, as a rule, does not sing. However, certain trusted courtiers claim she was nodding along to your hymn at last Sunday's private chapel service. The rest of the Court takes this as a seal of Royal approval, and your work rings out from the chapels of the righteous and shakes the very cavern walls!

A Newly Arranged Folk Song

A new version of an old song. A good one. One of those tunes about bedding those you shouldn't, robbing folks and spraying blood up the walls.

"And he set off  a roving..."    

Your song catches on immediately. The tune hangs around like an urchin waiting for a spore-toffee. The story speaks of crime and blood and sex; all those things that the public likes. Many people decide that it's time they too went a-roving. A new fashion starts for tying outlandish things around hats. A number of military officers complain that someone has stolen their money, each claiming the loss was 'a pretty penny'.

The song is a little vulgar to enjoy the full attention of the Court. However, you do hear butlers, grooms and the occasional functionary humming it in the outer parts of the Palace.

A Patriotic Anthem

A flag-waving riot of music, with a chorus everyone can sing. Something to bring tears to the eyes of the most zealous partisans.

Hope and glory

This song isn't the sort one hums while waiting for a hansom. But it is perfect for a promenade concert. The groundlings wave their flags and the patriotic fervour is thick enough to knit with.

Following the publication of your anthem, a great many young men join the navy. There is talk in parliament of 'taking back' the tomb-colonies. News arrives from the far Elder Country: apparently, London's little-publicised colony is expanding its borders.

Compose a symphony and have it performed

The Empress hates noise, but sometimes makes an exception for a good symphony. Apparently the Consort likes them.

A symphony!

"A symphony? Does anyone actually write symphonies any more? This isn't the Regency, you know. Still, good luck to you."

Your symphony is complete!

Music is usually banned from the Shuttered Palace. However, the Consort is old-fashioned and likes the occasional symphony, so the Empress is prepared to make an exception. But what manner of music will there be?

An exuberant cannonade

A full orchestra. No, two full orchestras! A regiment of drummers! A platoon of riflemen! A cannon!

Boom!

There isn't much open space at the Palace. They've had to clear out a conservatory to provide you with a setting. The worthies of the Court are shocked at your symphonic arsenal. Half of them block their ears as they sit down.

And you begin. The windows explode immediately. Dust and glass rain down, shaken from the ceiling by your cannon. The Empress' knuckles are bone white as she clutches her gilded chair. You rattle their bones. You shake their boots. It is glorious. A few of the more frail courtiers will never be the same again. Was that a smile on the pale, lost face of the Consort?

[dame-of-neath]

The Tower of Knives: Difficulties at a Smoky Flophouse

The smoke hides the worst of the flophouse's sins. Which is a mercy. Squalor and crime at bargain prices.

Rough camaraderie

A Coughing Footpad informs you that there is a detective about. The mugger is too unwell to help much, but thinks you should find the detective so they can be dealt with.

Upon boots and scuttles

The detective's boots give her away. They never remember to get new (well, old) boots. She senses something is awry and leaves the flophouse in haste. But what's this she was looking at, poking out from an old scuttle?

[dame-of-neath]

Who knows the Cheesemonger?

Perhaps the intelligence officers, ne'er-do-wells and diplomats who play the Great Game can tell you more.

Ask about the Cheesemonger

A few of these people owe you favours, don't they? You could hang around the Weeping Harold statue at Hastings Place and see who walks past.

Looking for work?

"Why? A person of your... circumstances couldn't possibly afford her services. Oh, are you looking for work? That might happen, I suppose. Although I don't know if she's hiring... Now, if you'll excuse me, I think that's the Ambassador..."

[dame-of-neath]

The Ambassador's ball

The social calendar canters along merrily. Is the Ambassador's ball so soon? 

Making a point of not making a point

You won't go out of your way to get an invitation. You might not even be seen in the latest fashions. The Ambassador is sure to invite you in any case.

Going to the ball

Of course the Ambassador invited you. How could he not? It would hardly be a ball without you. Just think, was it that long ago you scrambled for an invitation like a terrier after rats? Were you ever really that person? Banish such thoughts. You have a ball to attend.