The astute, clear-sighted housekeeper had not yet eaten breakfast when the guest posited that she took her around the five storeys of the Yorthend tower; although there was one particular floor of the house that must remain out of bounds to every guest that wasn't blood-related to the landlord of the property.
Already, both women had been clambering and descending the mundane, rectangular, faded fleet of stairs; up-and-down, and down-and-up. So far, they'd explored the ground floor where sat the beautiful, square, leather pairs of settee and all the other attributes one could find in a rich merchant's sitting room.
They had branched off into the recreation centre; a hall for perfect relaxing where artists were made to stay and draw refined portraits of the house owner if he was in the mood.
