❝ brother, what's my name? my name is our lady of the upside down. wanna know my name? i'll tell you my name ... ❞
❝ persephone ❞
━━━━ 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 | the underground world of london's west end is...
our lady of the underground act i , fruit of the vine prologue , a greek tragedy
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THE LAMPS WERE burning low on Monmouth Street, nearly six hours had elapsed since they'd first been lit and whilst at first they burned brightly, now they merely cast a faint glow over the cobbled stone street.
The lamplighters would to return at dawn to extinguish their flames, only to find them already put out by the cold air — it seemed what had faired well in the summer months had not been made to last those dark, dark winter nights.
By the hour of four — the hour that was fast approaching now — the street would soon be bathed in a crisp darkness, as would its neighbours, waiting painstakingly to be lit by the cool winter sun should it dare reveal itself from behind the thick smog that coated the city of London even in the daylight hours.
However, it did have a certain sense of tranquility at this hour — that is, were you familiar with it.
The winding back alleys, uneven pavements and lingering shadows were more than enough to frighten any trespassing newcomers, locking them in a labyrinth of cobbled stoned streets where they were bound to fall into the wrong company — many were lucky to escape with their lives, much less their wallets. But to the creatures of the underworld, at this hour, the world became theirs for the taking.
Amid the silence of the nights, when the sound of distant footsteps and howls of the wind fell on familiar ears, the listeners would feel a strange mixture of calmness and excitement. For the hustle and bustle of promenaders and merchants had long left the streets, and like a breath of fresh air, dusk had fallen.
Aside from the dying lamplight, there was one other small source of light to be found on Monmouth Street at such a late hour.
Halfway down the road, away from the centre of the seven dials, tucked away slightly off the main street, winding into the small avenue of Neal's Yard, a public house stood. Sloping in stature as many of the ageing structures of the old town did, a large iron sign hung over the doorway, two keys crossing over one another, The Cross Keys.
