“Ahh, I found it. The place Roger Pine Ridge was born. Dewey.”
—–
“Tronesisia.”
“In the nuts and bolts!”
“Did I choose well? Did I do right?”
“You are leaning slightly more toward fame than obscurity but (the margin) is acceptable. Your *doppleganger* is balancing you by leaning toward the opposite. You may approach.”
The sweating Man About Time moved forward then bowed.
“I have *so* much to ask (!).”
“Let’s brighten the place up a little bit first…”
—–
“We should have given it back,” Herbert Gold reinforced to his wife. “The object was obviously set on the wrong permissions. I *told* you at the time.”
“I just thought it was… *fate*(!),” April Mae tried to defend about the stolen art.
“Like the rare atlas that you could have stolen from that library because it was already checked out to someone else, hmph.”
“Y-yes.(!)” She couldn’t pass up another opportunity.
But now they were in *trouble*(!!).
—–
“This is like you and Madame Silver, Herbert Gold,” Tronesisia spoke behind him, referring to one of his exes. “But you had the decency to move beyond her. Question, though: is she silver, or actually — perhaps — *tin*?”
Similarly sweating Herbert Gold, who knew he was in hot water, expressed relief that Tronesisia didn’t say platinum.
“Oh yeah,” Tronesisia corrected with a small laugh. “Pla*tin*um. That’s what I meant, ha.”
Oh boy.
Sunklands 