Nestled above
Nocturna‘s grand mahogany staircase,
Beyond an unassuming velvet curtain,
Lay rooms
Known only to a handful
Of trusted members.
A gentleman’s smoking room
With a wrought-iron balcony,
Quiet reading chambers,
Guest apartments,
And, at its heart,
A private dining room,
Reserved each month
For the Curio Club.
Above the great stone fireplace,
Carved into polished black oak,
Their simple motto read:
Wonder is preserved here.
Around the long mahogany table
Gathered an eclectic company.
Collectors.
Archivists.
Naturalists.
Craftsmen.
Historians.
Explorers.
People who devoted their lives
To preserving the extraordinary.
Arthur Coldbottom,
Guardian of forgotten manuscripts.
His younger brother Malcolm,
Master calligrapher
And manuscript restorer.
McKinley Gripe,
Dealer in antiquarian books
And impossible curiosities.
Belladonna Moreau,
The celebrated taxidermist,
Known affectionately as “Ding Dong.”
Occult historian
Alistair Fisk.
Mycologists
Oleg Bloom and Latty Flouse,
Still inseparable
Since discovering
The Dreamfire Lantern.
Madame Akiko Tsukishiro,
Curator of Nocturna’s moonlit garden.
Photographer
Adelaide Thorne.
Sibling entomologists,
Vivienne and Silvania Crumb.
Horace Ashcombe,
Apothecary and collector
Of forgotten remedies.
Finally,
Standing proudly
At the head of the table,
Tonight’s host,
Gordon Chumwit.
Gastronomist.
Epicure.
Collector of impossible recipes.
His eyes sparkled
With irrepressible delight.
“My dear friends…”
He gently tapped
The side of his crystal glass.
“Tonight,
We shall not merely dine.
We shall travel.”
Attendants appeared,
Moving with silent precision.
Silver domes
Were placed before each guest.
With theatrical flourish,
Chumwit smiled.
“Our first destination…”
He paused.
“…the Moonreef Atolls.”
The polished lids
Were lifted simultaneously.
A soft blue glow
Illuminated the room.
Nestled upon black porcelain
Rested,
A single Moonreef Oyster,
Draped with Sapphire Lantern Moss,
Its phosphorescent fronds
Gently shimmering.
Finished
With black citrus nectar,
And scattered
With delicate crystals
Of Star Salt,
Harvested from the cliffs
Of Mount Aster.
Crystal glasses followed.
Silver Tide Elixir.
Sparkling spring water,
Moon blossom,
White juniper,
Frozen pearls
Of glacier citrus.
Each glass shimmered
Like liquid moonlight.
McKinley Gripe
Closed his eyes thoughtfully.
“My word…”
He smiled.
“That may be
The finest oyster
I’ve ever encountered.”
Arthur and Malcolm Coldbottom
Nodded in enthusiastic agreement.
Soon the room
Filled with conversation.
Ancient recipe books.
Curious cutlery.
Impossible cookware.
Obscure expeditions.
Forgotten feasts.
The discovery
Of ingredients
No ordinary kitchen
Would ever possess.
When laughter reached its height,
Gordon rose once more.
“Our second destination…”
The attendants returned.
Ember Drake Medallions.
Tender crimson cuts,
Slow roasted
Over charcoal
Fashioned
From petrified ebony forests.
Their fragrant black crust yielded
To a ruby centre.
They rested
Upon silky Ivory Root purée,
Accompanied by
Golden Night Figs,
Caramelised ash onions,
And Crimson Whisper Mushrooms,
Whose delicate aroma
Carried cedar
And woodsmoke.
The accompanying spirit,
The Captain’s Reserve,
Had matured for a century,
Within iron-bound casks,
Beneath the sea.
Vanilla.
Burnt orange.
Cinnamon.
Ancient oak.
Each sip
Unfolded slowly,
Lingering long after
The glass
Had emptied.
Alistair Fisk
Raised his own.
“A remarkable voyage.”
Oleg Bloom
Smiled warmly,
His fingers entwined
With Latty’s.
“And perfect company
With which to enjoy it.”
More conversation followed.
New discoveries.
Ancient trade routes.
The ethics
Of preserving curiosities.
Whether extinct spices
Could truly disappear,
Or merely wait patiently
To be rediscovered.
At last,
Gordon stood again,
Unable to suppress
His excitement.
“My friends…
Our final destination.”
A perfectly smooth sphere
Of impossibly thin
White chocolate
Rested silently
Upon every plate.
The Celestial Garden.
Attendants approached,
Pouring warm violet syrup
Across each delicate shell.
Slowly,
Like flowers greeting dawn,
The spheres blossomed open.
Dream Orchid Cream.
Candied Starlight Pear.
Midnight berry compote.
Crystal petals
Gathered from the Garden of Eternal Twilight.
Lavender.
Vanilla.
Honey blossom.
A fragrant mist
Drifted lazily
Across the table.
Beside each dessert,
Dreamer’s Nectar.
White tea.
Elderflower.
Honey orchid.
Vanilla bean.
And a single luminous drop
Of nectar,
Harvested from
The elusive Moonfire Bee.
The drink glowed
With quiet blue radiance,
Carrying the scent
Of distant gardens
After rain.
Adelaide Thorne
Smiled, photographing the dessert
Before lifting
Her spoon.
“You’ve surpassed yourself,
Gordon.”
The Crumb sisters
Raised their glowing cups.
“To our host!”
Chumwit laughed warmly.
“You flatter me.
The true applause belongs elsewhere.”
He turned
Towards the velvet curtain
Leading quietly
To the kitchens.
For a brief moment,
Nothing happened.
Then the curtain parted.
A tall gentleman
Stepped quietly into the room.
Cedric Wintervale.
Long chef’s whites.
Houndstooth trousers.
Small round spectacles.
White wooden clogs,
Each bearing a hand-painted silver snowflake.
His hands remained
Clasped neatly
Behind his back.
He bowed once.
“My friends,”
He smiled gently.
“A meal is simply another story.
Tonight,
I am delighted you enjoyed the ending.”
The room erupted
Into heartfelt applause.
Mr Wintervale
Inclined his head once more,
Then quietly disappeared
Behind the velvet curtain,
Returning to his kitchen,
Where tomorrow’s stories
Already waited
To be written.
The Curio Club
Eventually concluded
Its monthly gathering.
Members descended
The grand staircase,
Returning
To the familiar warmth
Of Nocturna below.
Some to trade.
Some to read.
Some to perform.
Some simply to converse.
While above,
The private dining room
Fell silent once more,
Waiting patiently
For another evening
When curiosity,
Friendship,
And wonder
Would again
Take their places
Around the table.