Near the bulletin board, a small table has been set up. There's a stack of papers, a plastic cup full of pens, a box with a slot in the top, and an attractively printed sign.

SURVEY

All residents are invited to take part in a short demographic survey. Answers will remain confidential except to typists.

( The survey )

I am afraid. Afraid. Do not believe people who tell you no one is listening. Don't look at me! I see you looking at me. Go away! Look somewhere else! What is there to see here? What is there to look at? Me, what am I? Go away! I am nothing! Go, go ( Read more... )

Any day now the Mansion will be blanketed in snow and festooned with icicles, right on schedule; but for the moment, the lawns are still bare, the wind brisk but not bitter, the air bracing. Conveniently, because something seems to be going on ( Read more... )

Grant is not overly fond of new and strange situations. They’re stressful, and frustratingly difficult to adapt to. He can do it, but not as fast as he’d like ( Read more... )

A tall young man is in the garden, the section of the garden by the kitchen, where there are still some herbs stubbornly refusing to be done in by frost, and a few young weeds, attempting to live fast and die young on the edge of the winter ( Read more... )

Zara said she could, so Cywyllog has spent some time this afternoon looking through the seamstress' garments, selecting a few for herself ( Read more... )

"--Grant ( Read more... )

A tall man, handsome, straight backed, is in one of the hedge gardens, pacing the boxwood and peering intently at the grass, the sky, the trees, the shrubs themselves. When he comes to flowers (fading now) he examines them closely - are they missing petals, he seems to be asking, where are the patterns, are there any ( Read more... )