Desmonde has a minion!

Muse the Archive

His Royal Highness Prince Alexei Desmonde Jaime Fitzroy, Duke of Whitecliff and Lord of Rosemont

Average height, around 5'9". Chocolate brown hair worn in long-ish waves. Says his eys are hazel but they definitely look golden in any kind of light. On the thin side. Likes to wear green and a lot of layers. Doesn't like hoods. Usually carries a satchel and uses it instead of pockets to stay organized - always carries writing materials and at least one book he's written and one he's reading, though usually many many more.

“Good morning, Desmonde.”

“And to you, Mr. Carmichael.”

The neighboring shopkeeper, Mr. E. Andrew Carmichael, was a clockmaker and minor machinist. Desmonde - who had many names and titles, but preferred none of them - knew nothing more of the wares he kept than that which was on the sign outside. He preferred to keep to his own shop.

And a marvelous shop it was to keep to oneself in. Shelves upon shelves of books lined the walls, and more of the same were stacked haphazardly upon every raised surface, from the recommended reading tables to the checkout counter. Some works had even made their way into the floor, where, though stacked neatly enough, they threatened to trip the wayward customer.

Luckily there were rarely customers at all. This fact would bother most shopkeepers, and, indeed, was a common talking point among the others that Iined the street. However, Desmonde himself seemed not at all perturbed. His rent was paid a day before it was due every time without fail. His clothes were impeccably kept. When he remembered to eat between penning novels and reading them, he ate well. No one could understand where he was making his living. Desmonde had his fair share of secrets and planned to keep them that way.

His neighbor was not so secretive. The whole town knew he was as talkative as they come. Despite all his bookish nature, as most tinkerers are wont to have, E. Andrew Carmichael would chatter away as he built his devices. He had spoken at length to Desmonde one morning as they caught each other turning their respective shop signs from “closed” to “open”. Desmonde was good enough at speaking, and had followed along as best he could, but what his neighbor lacked in stature he made up for in talk, and had left Desmonde quite in the dust.

Now he found himself pausing each morning before reaching the shop door (he, like most denizens of his street, lived in rooms above his shop), waiting to hear the shuffled footsteps of Mr. Carmichael. His pulse would quicken on the occasions he heard the distinctive sound of footsteps, one limb mechanical in its boot, as he timed his movements just right to catch his neighbor without appearing to have done so deliberately. This practice had went on for some weeks before today.

Something about today’s late spring morning and its already-humid air made Desmonde sloppy in his composure. Mr. Carmichael glanced at him inquisitively as they both attempted to straighten their signs as routinely as possible.

“Something on your mind, Desmonde?”

Desmonde took in a sharp breath. This was decidedly not how he had envisioned this moment happening. He was always the picture of a proper businessman. What had him blushing like a schoolboy? Of course he knew.

“Actually... There is. We haven’t had the chance to talk much and I've kept shop next door for years. How about dinner tonight? On me?”

E. Andrew Carmichael tried and failed to hide his grin, so he settled for shoving his glasses further up his face.

“I think that would be lovely.”

- fix overlay
- more story??
- figure out what to do with this section once that's done lol