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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had looked up and stared, as the tall, thin man removed part of the pelmet and something behind there it as well, as he said to her, ‘please, don’t say anything at all… just wait… and look, it will take only a little while.’

La Raconteuse just managed to not talk for a bit, while some dust floated down as a small part of the strange Room 215 revealed something more than weird, she blinked several times, and then she asked, but very quietly, ‘what on earth is this?’

She had anticipated many things she thought, but not this; ‘my goodness,’ she muttered to herself, ‘I didn’t expect this.’

She had so many emotions, and most odd it seemed for her, she felt she was on a rollercoaster for a while – it was not anger… no that was wrong, but there was an element of fight or flight, but why… this very short man surely shouldn’t worry her, but clearly it did.

La Raconteuse glanced from the small mechanical machine to the tall, thin man; she moved from the table by the fireplace as she walked rather quickly to stand very close to him, while looking up, she said: ‘what are we going to do with this, this… this… person.’

However, something else caught her attention, and it seemed that someone was almost to the door outside, she started to smile since it would surely be another Proprietor or, at least, a good friend.

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) had heard the noise outside the room, and a moment later the tall, thin man had opened the door, she grinned happily – such a good friend, although he seemed rather keen to make the move to another part of that room.

The tall, thin man suggested that she should sit down near that rather splendid yet small black marble fireplace, she concurred since she felt no qualms, in fact she was rather glad to sit there and start an interesting conversation.

La Raconteuse related so many wonderful things in those shelves as she wittered and wittered on, she took a breath, and then she said: ‘we do like to talk don’t we… we’re both able to make many quick quips and clever remarks, and even witticisms and retorts, yes?’

But the tall, thin man had been thinking other things by now, as he thought about options, and particularly on those excellent shelves – all those clockwork machines and stuff… more than useful, he thought.

Now, the red-headed writer suddenly stopped talking… at least for a moment: ‘oh gosh, sorry, I’ve been rabbiting on, as usual, you said something about options, you mean we would put some of those things down by the bar and the walls, would that be fine?’

The two of them glanced around the room, ‘sounds like a plan,’ she said, ‘I bet loads of people would want to see them, in fact, they might even be a queue around the block!’

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The red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse) continued to peer down at the street, she was ninety per cent sure that it was the Gatekeeper who had just walked from the taxi; she grinned since she was pretty certain that he would be more than interested about all these tiny steampunk treasures in this room.

Meanwhile, la Raconteuse moved to the next group of objects by the window, as she got closer to this extraordinary tableau, it was amazing – such detail, as she stared around all the little people; but these were not people, no, these were animals and birds.

It was a delightful scene: there was a square in the middle with some shops, a town hall and a church, and just on the edge of the table there was a small button to press, and so she did.

Everything them began to move – as she smiled with glee; she could see a little group of mice who were by the church, the bride was there, but where was the groom… but then that naughty mouse dropped his top hat, and legged it; jilted she was, that tiny mouse, as she flung the bouquet away, then a little bird, a jenny wren, began to sing.

This was more than wonderful, as she pressed the clockwork machine again – such a lovely thing, as she thought to herself.

But she suddenly jerked her head as she could hear a noise beyond the room; she quickly stood up and moved to the door.

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‘Well, it’s certainly a door, and it seems to be real, but I don’t remember seeing it before, it could be perplexing, but it’s bound to have some interest,’ as the red-headed writer (aka la Raconteuse), continue to talk to herself, as she muttered to say, ‘only one way to find out,’ as she grabbed the doorhandle.

The door opened rather easily, which was a blessing, and at least there was some light outside, since there was a window, in fact several windows; she’d pressed her finger on the light switch, but nothing, oh well, still down.

She was about to walked to one of the windows, but then she noticed a handy shelf, it had several candles and even better, a gorgeous candelabra – it was very posh – so she lightered all of those candles with a couple of matchers, ‘now this is looking interesting.’

She could use her affectation of candour, and often she would, but this was definitely not needed in this case, because there were so many wonderful objects in all those shelves around the room; all these things were amazing, and all of them were steampunk related: mostly it was art and sculpture, but all in miniature, or at least, small.

So, la Raconteuse began to look at each object, she was particularly drawn to a clockwork clock sculpture, more than beautiful.

She happened to look outside and down; she could see a taxi and a cabbie was waving to her, and rather urgently it seemed.

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