Lord Peter Llewellyn decapitated a cigar, smelled the black dusty blood, struck a flame, and drew a deep, gaseous breath. He smiled in a silent chuckle. It was his favorite bad habit.
Tapping the entrails from his stick of tobacco, he turned his attention to breakfast. In front of him lay a silver platter full of favorites: eggs, potatoes, bacon, and coffee, accompanied by three little bowls of salt, pepper, and garlic. It was a peculiarity of Lord Llewellyn that he never allowed anyone to season his meals except himself.
A slight pinch of salt, a steady shimmer of pepper, and an avalanche of garlic clothed the steaming meal in a soft aroma, and Llewellyn smiled. Only then did his eye settle on the regal sheaf that awaited him.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
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