Wednesday, November 12, 2008
There’s a good solid hook in one of the cellars of Laverstone Manor. I know it all too well, having become rather more closely acquainted with it than I might orherwise have like back in the eighteenth century.
I was still practicing the art of smithing in those days, since the role of a gentleman’s gentleman was still reserved for those of paler skin, though I would graduate to that role in the next century. However multicultural Britain is, the English gentry have never trusted a black man. They would have trusted me even less if they knew I was a demon.
When a pig went missing I, as a black man, was the main suspect. They hung me on the hook until I confess.
It was lucky for me that the pig turned up two days later.