From here, he could see the massive turrets of the manor looming over all and framed by twin topiaries. Deep crimson timbers outlined intricate designs on the classically Bavarian chunk of architecture. The windows, with their multiple rectangular lights, looked black and cool and the wooden shake roof was sporting a light glaze of moss. Inside those walls was a place Malory had been invited on only the rarest of occasions. Horseshoes, he recalled, had been firmly bolted above every door and chains of rabbits’ feet were stitched together to decorate plush ottomans and a lectus reclining in the foyer. The agoraphobic mirrored halls scrawled with runes in beeswax he had seen there were still imprinted firmly in his mind, as well as the richly stocked library that swallowed up most of the first floor. In years past, Malory had spent weeks hoofing crates of books to the shelves from a perpetual stream of deliveries - heavy medieval versions of the Compendium Maleficarum and dusty tomes on Chinese numerology that had been inked with style in iron gall a handful of centuries ago. The pages of each volume were heavily yellowed and brittle, more likely to crack rather than bend, he had thought.
Edited by Antilla, 06 February 2010 - 03:16 PM.