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The house had stood empty for better than a decade. Eventually it had been granted to the Royal Society of Arts and Letters, and all manner of experimenters, artists, poets, philosophers, and other, even more disagreeable folk had taken up residence with the Crown's blessing.
“I’ve got hemorrhoids older than you, Kluge. If you’re trying to be a noticeable pain in my ass, you’ll have to work a lot harder at it.”
“That priestess of Biyu. Chan Ying. She’s pursuing me.” “That seems unlikely. You’re incredibly old, virtually penniless and deeply unpleasant.” “So you can see why it’s suspicious.”
I lay there in the dark and willed sleep to come, but sleep sent its regrets.
