Where: Connaught Place / Who: Clod Iremonger and his Family

They are looking for us, I am told over and over, and if they find us they’ll snuff us out and we’ll never be lit again. But the longer they don’t find us, the longer they look in wrong rooms, and innocent houses, the stronger we grow, the more ire in our Iremonger there is. We are not allowed in London, we are forbidden, we Iremonger people. We are illegals. They destroyed our home, so now, with no place, what else are we to do, but hide? We secrete ourselves upon quiet London shelves, so that all around us are only our own flesh and our bloodlikes. And all, though in strange surroundings, are horribly familiar company, my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, servants, no one new but space. No new company. No one that isn’t blood. And there, close breathing in and out our stale air, to prime ourselves and make cruel plans. In London. On London.