Sesquillion Storytellers Victorious!
The writing dawbed on the wall resonates with colour in four foot high letters in the glittering sunlight, dazzling the cats that hide behind the broken window panes of the attic workshops of the building opposite. The poor old china dolls lying in boxes in the private mausoleum of the building’s cellar are not so lucky. Covered in dust and cobwebs they have to content themselves with the tatty tales from second hand nursery rhymes trailing from mother’s apron strings, the book grubbied with jam from teatime crumpets and toast.
It is a seldom seen sorority that gathers under the flicker of lamplight in the shadow of the oval archway. From all walks of life they come: Sisters, Governesses, Servents and Heiresses, but all wear the signature pin of the Sesquillion Sisterhood, with not a smudge on their name. They stand in silent appreciation of what the movement has achieved, their cheeks a-glow with pride, for once at a loss for words.
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