There are rooms within Nocturna That even Nocturna Does not admit to having.
Rooms whose doors Have never been recorded In any architect’s plan, Nor mentioned In the club’s oldest ledgers.
One such room may be found In the library.
Or rather, Behind a bookcase In the farthest corner Where dust gathers Upon forgotten volumes, And the gaslight Seems always A little reluctant to reach.
An old wooden dock At the rear of Nocturna Provides access To the narrow city canal.
Used by occasional delivery barges, And small wooden Personal craft.
Often frequented by An ornate wooden Steam Launch Owned by Captain Abercrombie Marlowe.
Stepping from her Polished timber deck today, Is the Captain’s daughter, Selena Marlowe.
As Selena stepped ashore, Her dark hair Still carried the scent Of river water.
Ms Marlowe is a renowned Nautical folklorist, And is visiting with her father This evening to meet with Artemis Fogg, Cartographer, Folklore enthusiast, And, according to the Captain, A scallywag.
On the first floor of Nocturna, Hidden behind a large painting, Is a secret sleeping room.
A quiet place where members come to surrender the waking world, close their eyes, and wander wherever dreams choose to take them.
This evening, Alistair Fisk has gathered a small group to discuss the great mysteries of history, and perhaps encourage a particularly memorable night’s sleep.
In a shadowed corner Of Nocturna’s Reading Room, Beside a dying fire, There sat An empty chair.
Old mahogany, Crimson velvet, Carved with moons And curious little stars.
Yet nobody Ever sat upon it.
This greatly troubled Alistair Fisk.
Occult historian, Curio Club member, And enthusiastic pursuer Of unnecessary mysteries.
Fisk was a short, Skinny little man, Completely bald, With enormous Bushy grey eyebrows That seemed determined To compensate For everything missing Above them.
Beneath a long, Dour face, Sat a thin Pencil moustache, A sour complexion, A long aquiline nose, And surprisingly Large lips Usually pursed In scholarly disapproval.
He dressed With considerably more colour Than his disposition suggested.
A black pinstripe suit, Bright red silk shirt, And immaculate Black bow tie.
Wherever Fisk went, So too went His ebony cane, Its golden head Carved into the grinning face Of Mephistopheles.
He considered it Tasteful.
Others Had their doubts.
And now, Alistair Fisk Had discovered A mystery.
The chair.
He searched The club archives. He consulted Ancient books. He examined Old photographs Through a magnifying glass.
And there, Again, The chair.
Empty
Empty.
Empty
Empty.
Empty
Empty.
Always The same chair. Always Unoccupied.
Fisk discovered Ancient traditions Of chairs left vacant For the dead.
He studied Victorian séances, Funerary customs, Spiritualist societies, Forgotten rituals, And obscure ceremonies In which an empty seat Invited spirits To join the living.
He found accounts Of chairs reserved For departed ancestors.
Seats placed At midnight tables For wandering souls.
And ancient customs Warning that certain chairs Must never, Under any circumstances, Be occupied.
Perhaps,
He wondered,
Nocturna’s chair Awaited someone.
Someone Who had died.
Or worse…
Someone Who had not yet Arrived.
For three nights Fisk barely slept.
Finally, Unable to endure The mystery any longer, He found Gideon Rook Quietly arranging newspapers In the Reading Room.
Fisk approached, Mephistopheles Tapping ominously Across the floor.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Mr Rook.”
“Mr Fisk.”
“I must ask you About the empty chair.”
Mr Rook glanced across the room.
“Ah.”
“Nobody sits upon it.”
“No.”
“It has remained empty For generations.”
“Indeed.”
Fisk leaned heavily Upon Mephistopheles. His enormous eyebrows Lowered. His large lips Pursed.
His voice became Almost a whisper.
“Why?”
Mr Rook considered The question.
Then replied,
“Because it is broken.”
Silence. The fire crackled. Fisk stared At the chair. Then at Mr Rook.
“Broken?”
“Yes, one of the rear legs.” Mr Rook returned To his newspapers.
“We really must Get that fixed.”
Alistair Fisk Closed his notebook. Three nights Of research. Forty-seven books. Two hundred years Of occult history.
And one Broken chair. He turned And walked away, Mephistopheles Tapping behind him. Tap. Tap. Tap.
