And meanwhile the orbs, the orbs, the orbs.
The Islands of the Vortex always made Uriel wistful. The Corresponding Altar of Happy Fathom arced light across the forest. “Hoot thee,” he chuckled, “St Boswax’ murder has foisted wisdom upon this blossom.” His companion, Azrael the Crab, had been lost until dappled flight had led her to observe the balmy wooden hat of none other than… Mr Blubbery Tussle! And with him was The Miasma of Fingeon. “What a Crimson Occasion!” she gaily thought to herself. “The most very Crimson of Them All!”
The dance had begun, all were startled by the very neverness of it. The Prisms of the Doublet and the Cordons of the After sung in unison the plainsong of night – the night of us all. And yet a shimmering dawn was seen above the crest of their Father, a Prism forming in the haze in the shape of The Lost Cleric and The Lost Button, and of the Song Thrush at Dawn.
Over their own vittles the criminal Quortex queried the Cleric Kappres: “You always did rely too much on the House of Szabo. The loss of Sorrow O’Clock has left your Sylph and Sceptre alone and unloved.” Ventle the Cleric searched herself for the mistake she knew she had made. Quortex continued: “Now you must grind the hunt for Sexton Friday. The Lost People thought his cake was the worst but it brought them the Palsy of Aureton. The Forbidden Orb is the utter witness to this.”
The criminal thought to himself, sourly, “This augurs love – a blasted straight thought aimed at the Nine Sorties of the Dominion!” But the Cleric was sensitive to the suddenness of the change, and
was sadly resigned to the fact that the sigil would yet meet the claims of itself.
The night had fallen and the Rise of the Scorpion and the Fall of the Binding battled within dreams that allowed for no quarter. Why did the priest allow this? thought the children. It was unlike them to worry, but today was a strange a day when their slumber had ended with a gentle crispness of a dawn that they had tasted on their open mouths. And the men were afraid, and the miners sung the song of the Chaffinch, to The One lost nevermore.
Mr Blubbery Tussle fled his conical house: hopeful and hopefully in disguise. He perceived a woof from the Contingency of Chimes, next to the Vestibule of Jubilation. The equator hinted, apocryphally, of the hunt of the 25 Satraps whose screed at the expanse of Eusebius Love had brought them back home to the islets to hunt. Furnished, and in pursuit, the spooky miasma that governed the home of Smelt the Cyclamen, blurted at the chasm where, hidden, was both the treasure of the sun… and a map. “Search for the orbs!” said the wind.
Mr Blubbery Tussle halted, feigning horror that the Spheres were afoot.
“Once more from the top!” the Culvert cried, sobbing at the House of Ghosts, a house now empty and adorned with peacock feathers. The peacocks of the night who were opposed, lightly, by the sun. “Ignorance,” said the Friar in response, “Is the bliss of the never known, the knowing of the never ought and the seeking of the devil’s eye.” That very eye sang that night and was heard by all the people who witnessed the dance of the waves.