Yesterday, straw was the flavour of happiness. Something golden, gilt-edged, like the first beer on a royal afternoon. The Captain and the Queen had executions to arrange. I know because the sound of the axe falling echoed through the turquoise corridors, and the Mr Whippy flags, rainclotted in the gutters, had the forlorn pale scent of solitude.
Agatha turned a pearl upon her finger and cut the silken cord to bring the bachara chandelier crashing to the ballroom floor. The King, out fishing on the Bosphorous, looked up to the dark clouds. A crescent moon slid out from behind the clouds and briefly illuminated the last monarch jumping into the waves that connected East and West forever.
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