When Lord Tornado Meets Venal Flytrap, Part One

The guests entered the dining room through the main hall and surveyed their opulent surroundings. The celestial ceiling was slathered in gilt with an ethereal chandelier of great magnificence dripping crystal droplets like condensation. The table was laid out with the best china old money could buy, for each plate had been hand carved from the clavicle bone of a tragically extinct beast. Candles were lit and set just below eye level and placed equidistant, exactly 2 feet apart and centered down the 84 foot long mahogany table. Exactly. Everything was draped and awash in silken tones of ochre and teal. Diners were placed appropriately, alternating male and female so that in addition to stimulating conversation and gustatory delights—the eyes would be fed as well. It should be noted that they were all famished—and terribly ravishing.

Demoiselle Sweetbryar, while only the tender age of twelve was already a spectacular hostess and everyone clamored for her attentions and an invitation to her salon. Invitations were delivered by hand in the form of a single pink rose complete with thorns. If there was anyone who experienced a sense of confusion about when and where the event was to be held then they had clearly received the rose in error. The bloodletting upon acceptance of each rose was an honor and no one dared to complain, although many did consult with their physicians about the migraines that resulted from the Rosa Ragusa’s cloying apple-like fragrance.

Tonight’s dinner was to be spectacular, as the guest of honor was to be none other than the scandalous poetess Venal Flytrap. Men and women alike took great care to look their best. Cheeks were powdered, nostril hair trimmed, the décolletage as ripe and perfumed as muskmelons. None of the guests present could quite recall exactly what the Flytrap scandal involved; only that it had been quite salacious in nature, which of course only propelled her to new heights of popularity. Her maudlin poetry was considered intense and was in great demand.

Lord Tornado perused the other guests as he strolled around the room whilst enjoying his requisite plate of Moules Mariniere. He was never without a plate of the delicacies, and could be seen obsessively poking their vulnerable pink insides with his fork and slurping the broth noisily from the shell at every opportunity. People had long ago given up thinking it inappropriate and instead came to embrace it as an idiosyncrasy prone to the noble class. Some women were put ill at ease with the clear pleasure he took in mouthing the succulent little morsels; averting their eyes, they would dab their foreheads with their kerchiefs and invent another place to be. Many more would brazenly blush and approach him with sly smiles, coyly slipping him their calling cards while their husbands were busily engaged in dreadfully mundane discussions.

He was known to be a moody man, one given to extreme fits of ardor or temper; the sequence and appearance of which were always unpredictable. Charming and well educated, he was respected by many but mostly regarded as a bit louche. Although verbose he fell short with the art of conversation, and to his own surprise (and no one else’s) he found himself constantly at the epicenter of a swarm of confusion and drama as a result of miscommunication.

He was known to affect the weather and his prowess with driving a bed was spoken of throughout the region. Many of the women in the room could attest to this and held him in high regard, indeed. This might explain the crimson flush on the cheeks of many of the ladies at table; one observant attendant even took it upon himself to open a few windows to cool off the room. He double checked the thermostat and scratched his head.

While extremely self-centered, Lord Tornado was every bit attentive—and his inability to develop lasting attachments to his women only served to increase his appeal, as most of his conquests were happily unhappily married.

You see, the Lord’s heart was surrounded by an unstable storm system that would never allow him to settle or remain happy with any one thing or person—just as soon as he basked in the sunshine of one woman’s affections the clouds would move in, the wind would kick up and the relationship would be blown into oblivion. He could be half way through a delicious Mille-Feuille for breakfast, only to violently switch directions and insist it be replaced with a Beignet. With jam. NO! Make that butter, salted. From this he adopted the belief that there was always another pretty face to be gazed upon; another woman would be found to divert his attentions. It couldn’t be helped and he felt little about any damages incurred, as he did lamely profess from the outset that he was a bit of an ass and if his warnings were not heeded he could not be troubled.

After having reviewed the place cards he found that he was seated between Lady Champignon and the Poetess herself! Today was his lucky day; he mused, and sipped his champagne. Lady Champignon was charming and a decent conversationalist, although she gave off a strange musty scent that he found off-putting. He was delighted with how the evening was proceeding nonetheless, and worked contentedly on tomorrow’s hangover while planning his conversations with the Poetess.

He found himself suddenly distracted and observed a distinct humming within the room, a buzzing. Have I had that much to drink already? You must pace yourself old boy, he chided. The sound grew louder and he tilted his unpredictably coiffed head, smacking one of his ears with the palm of his hand in an attempt to clear the bath water that had obviously become trapped in his ear canal. Returning his attention to his Moules, he looked up to see Venal Flytrap make her first public appearance in over a year. In she sauntered with the Demoiselle, surrounded by sound, cool and calm in floor length silver, her eyes fixed on some distant point on the horizon. He froze and dropped his fork that was held midway to his mouth—her eyes slowly pivoting to meet his gaze at the soft wet sound of his mussel falling to the floor.