THE QUANTUM INTELLIGENCER

Society was much diverted last evening when Lady Wexley threw open her new phosphorescent conservatory in Upper Albany, where the glass itself is said to glow with imprisoned moonlight. Guests arrived confident their invitations—sealed in violet wax—were for their eyes alone, yet Mr D—dem startled the company by announcing that every impression now reposes in a public ledger “ripe for plucking like hothouse grapes.” Miss R—raq swooned onto a hydrangea stool, declaring the situation “worse than the old HNDL rumours,” while Lord F—qum murmured that the gravity of such exposure remains criminally underrated. One hears certain ministries already retain every seal in climate-controlled vaults, awaiting the day their chemists perfect a solvent capable of melting discretion itself. The orchestra struck up a polka, but whispers persisted that no house in Mayfair shall sleep soundly until the ledger is reclaimed—or until some enterprising heir invents a wax that forgets its own shape. We are given to understand a second, more exclusive salon has been summoned for Tuesday, provided the footmen can first sweep the conservatory for anarchists disguised as orchids. —Inspector Grey Dispatch from The Scramble E2