the switchboard starlings are made up of the cable girls and operators littered throughout the city of paris. they connect your calls and swivel on spindled chairs between whispers and smirking woes of what was once their menial wage. there wasn’t much work offered a woman beyond that of a secretary or a playbill-pushing chorus-girl, especially now that the men were home from war. an entrepreneur quickly discerned the female voice to be more pleasant over the crackle of static. yet the starlings, such as they’ve become, are not the work of a clever man, but a woman affectionately known as the yank. starlings know how to turn the peg to prevent the tell-tale pop over the line and how to listen in tight lipped silence to every secret you let slip. they gather information like birds and build their nest at the foot of the woman who offers fair reward for every ribbon and tasty morsel. they connect private lines and watch for the baleful lights of particular patrons who wear their hats low and keep their pockets deep. they give warnings to those smart enough to pay them so they may know when to scatter or the whereabouts of their enemies. starlings are babylon bound and love to drink on your dime, but they never sing for free.