Jenny: Time Is Put On A Honeycombed Shelf

He might not have caught Ambrosius before the Hawk slipped off, but he was looking expressly for the opening now, and at a little indescribable gesture from his hand, Ambrosius turned to Master Lucius, eyebrows quizzical.

"Would it be a good thing, sir," Master Lucius asked, "if I took down a record tonight?"

Ambrosius nodded at once. "Yes, that would be a good thing. Thank you, Lucius."

The man slipped away, leaving Master Lucius to position himself by the warmth of the firmly-entrenched fire, a low table pulled close on which to set his papers and writing implements. The lid of his little ink-pot clinked softly as he cast it back, baring the fathomless black liquid within: a potent image, he thought, looking into its depths. It was fitting that such a medium should capture for ever the impression of time. With all the mystical elegance of the swan the pen dipped itself in and withdrew, black as jet, and in perfect lines inscribed the day, the place, and the person upon the virgin expanse of vellum.

Master Lucius let out a faintly shaky breath. "Here we go."