It was a beautiful night entrenched in peacefulness, wisps of smoke wondered dreamily in the sky past him. Beautiful warm candles were nestled amongst graves, wax entrenched the grass. He approached the mausoleum, a lofty gazebo of marble that shone with candlelight, its many mantles and ledges stained with candle wax. The glow from the vast plain that was the churchyard illuminated the

solid inky blackness that was the night. Ambience was overwhelming and soothing that night, which intensified the spiritual thoughts of those who visited the churchyard; an aroma tendrilled its way through its arches and stones. A figure was standing at the other side of the pagoda, in a heavy black overcoat, his face was partially obscured by a scarf that he had woven around his neck tightly, his eyes were inky black and at the top of a low forehead was perched similarly inky hair that hung across his furrowed forehead in large, moist strands saturated with sweat. He darted his eyes upwards to gain an insight on the whom he was addressing and then fixated his gaze on the fibres of his scarf and continued not directly addressing his opponent with his eyes. He spoke in a mellow, monotone alto, with academic undertones, his pupils were a sharp blur as they decided to focus on me; “What’s in that morgue?” I looked at him, carefully deciding my answer, “The will to the entire kitchens.” He looked at me, a frown perpetuating throughout his face; a furrowed brow, eyes heavily lidded with speculation, mouth now in a tight line. “The entire kitchens?” I nodded, “Even the cellars.” He looked outraged, “not the restaurant?” I shook my head, bracing myself for a reaction, “that will go to our cousin, Reginald. The one who was the head waiter at the Lions Keep, in Northumberland. “What if he sells his share?” He asked me, outrage in his face. Intercepting him before he could commence an angry rampage of words I said, “It’s not a share either, she put in the will that each will be considered an individual property, lots of complicated planning permission and paperwork was involved in that.” His anger quickly turned to disappointment and the candles illuminated moisture in long lines across his face. “She meant for this to be a collaboration?” He answered himself swiftly. “Of course she did.” I looked at him, he stilled my thinking with his regained composure, shock resounded in my thoughts for a good few seconds. My thinking emerged, though evidently not entirely, “I’m surprised you reacted so calmly.” Anger manifested in his eyes, it was superficial. He often had a habit of letting emotions overwhelm him, “Yes, I’m angry. Because we have to share our kitchens with a cousin, who is currently more than several dozen miles from where we are standing now. And has spent his life nowhere near where we are standing now. And until now hasn’t even heard of where we are standing now.” His look switched to convincing, conviction in his dark eyes, it occurred to me he had maintained eye contact for a prolonged amount of time, he continued his gaze fixed on me, “Could we get him out the business? Make him sell his share?” I shook my head glumly, impatient. “Do you want to inspect the kitchens?” I strode ahead of him, down the gazebo, the hollow sound of marble audible under my shoes. I walked through a path, made of once compressed earth and once kept

neatly at bay. I heard the dull thud of his heavy footsteps behind me until we finally reached a wooden trapdoor hidden in a niche under an immense wall that towered over us, I descended down stone-plaster steps until we reached a cellar. I lit a lamp that rested precariously on a barrel, I noted mentally how startlingly ethereally the pale moonlight shone on the undulating imperfect glass cover of the lamp, a primtive quality and tinged with murky green. I led the way and he followed, impotence visible in his expression half illuminated as I turned to glance at him. I opened another trapdoor, pushing my weight against it, feeling a cramp in my shoulders; I revealed a large kitchen, adorned with cutlery, ovens, porcelain, glass: ladles polished bright metallic with overuse, ovens charred and blackened, possessing a multitude of small, minute tendrils that scarred across its discoloured yellow clay, dust cloaked plates. I concluded the tour, “It needs work.” He looked at me darkly, he then cast his head across the kitchens, he picked up an old ladle, wiping a crust of minuscule, grimly delicate rust of the handle with his thumb. He looked at me, a kind of dull, blurred intensity in his eyes. “We need to get Reginald out of the business.”

I eyed the kitchen, my Venetian cousins had harried me into signing contracts they placed before me in slow succession; the tall, weedy man with blanched skin, the shorter suspecting dark haired man with pale skin. His taller cousin had a thoughtful characteristic that made him excellent at subtle business management, not a natural entrepreneur but a lawyer or accountant, who could be allowed to encroach onto bigger issues when needed: and the one a few inches below him, a dark haired, man with relatively flat features and a tendency to partially lose his composure, suspecting though not devious. “Can I be chief of catering management?” The darker one looked at me, “of course.” He tried to manage genuine tones but even he admitted it carried a slight resonance of management of his tones.

Three months have past since the contracts have been signed, I have been the head waiter of the resteraunt, directing and attending. They of course had complete and utter control of the kitchens and the resteraunts but I have neglected to say to them the French debt collectors that were promised the resteraunt by my aunt and the cost of upkeep was significantly larger than the money it received.