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rosencrantz had been saving up butcher paper for just such an occasion. mind you, he couldn't have you told at you the time what just such an occasion was, or what it would look like -- but certainly he was saving it up for something, and certainly now that he can use it, there's something he's saved it up for. that's why this afternoon, after

Comments

[not_snake_bite]

"How sweet," comments Steerpike as he passes by - but there's just a bit of disdain in his heart as he says it. He does believe in flattery, though, and quite likes the idea of the plothole's possible return.

And so he leans over to Rosenkrantz's exhibit, and says, "Well." He ponders a little, and says, "Perhaps I might add a little something." He's actually not overall unpleasant - just... Steerpike.

He's still wearing the mask - but he managed to locate, in the attic, some garments that arent as frilly as the shirt he borrowed the night of his arrival. Just a strict black tie suit, as would be his wont, or something close enough.

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it's not as though ros would notice, if he were anything unpleasant -- he's a man altogether oblivious, when it suits him, and a great deal of the time when it doesn't. "oh, you ought, sir -- you ought. it's just one of those nice little things, and it's always nice, to do something that's nice --"

[not_snake_bite]

"One would suppose so," he replies a little haughtily. But he does close the distance. "I assume we are indulging in shameless flattery, are we not?" It's not a question, but he wants details.

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"of course we are. that's the nicest sort."

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"Then might I suggest a poem?" Steerpike offers. He's been feeling inspired lately - it must be the effect of the attic, for he is not known for being that much of a poet.

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brightly, "are you a poet?"

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"If I offer you a poem, then I must be, mustn't I?" He offers a charming smile. With teeth. Figuratively speaking, of course.

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we should hope there's teeth. a smile would be a little less charming without."you must be a poet while you're offering it, i suppose. i don't know what you'd be the rest of the time -- but nobody's anything all the time, are they? and a sometimes-poet is still as much of a poet --"

[not_snake_bite]

Steerpike cuts him off. Still charming. Sort of.

"Yes, a poet. Let's get to it, shall we?"

He's a little bit worried that he'll lose the inspiration if he lets Rosenkrantz ramble on. Because he is getting on his nerves.

Just a little bit.

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rosencrantz does that. ask hamlet. "all right," he chirps, eager to help. "how does one begin?"

[not_snake_bite]

Steerpike reflects a moment, reminding himself of all the sappy poetry he's been pouring over (if Baudelaire qualifies as such, which the typist doesn't thik it does)... then says...

"A sonnet, in Alexandrine style. I shall produce it in the abab cdcd abc abc style, as of old!"

There is a bit of mad excitement in his voice - he has lost his annoyance for a moment, to lost into madness.

"Handy Plot Hole, that's 4 syllables, how forlorn you left the Mansion! First verse," he dictates, clearly enunciating.

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that's familiar. goodness, ros misses hamlet -- ! he takes a blank sheet of butcher paper and copies with purple marker and sprawling letters.

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"The guests are lost, without your guidance, Plot Hole," he continues, apparently inspired.

Steerpike is actually smiling. And very pleased. Admittedly, he likes having a secretary, even if Rosenkrantz's handwriting isn't as elegant as he might wish it would be.

Then again, Master Steerpike, former Secretary and Master of Ritual at Gormenghast, is a perfectionist.

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ros likes being a secretary, truth to be told -- it's nice to have someone to take direction from. perhaps he'll write the next line with a little less of a scrawl.

[not_snake_bite]

"And, so, plothole, we claim again your attention," he pauses.

"That's too many plotholes in a quatrain. I need two syllables." He's apparently waiting for Ros to give him a suggestion.

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he thinks about it some. "quatrain has got two syllables. or -- oh -- 'lady'? the plothole is a lady."