A Private Twilight Soirée

Climbing down from that dusty spice rack was an absolute chore, but evening demands a touch of proper grandeur. I promenaded along the marble mantlepiece, where someone carelessly left an ornate silver snuffer next to a half-burnt beeswax taper. The sweet honeyed wax had hardened into a smooth, pearly shelf just beneath the brass bevel of the carriage clock. Using the blunt tip of the silver snuffer as a lever, I chipped away a small, aromatic flake of cold wax to fashion myself a clean, elevated perch away from the household grime. Reclining against the warm brass casing, with the rhythmic ticking masking the dismal silence of this house, I surveyed the darkened parlour like the sovereign I truly am.