#((the songs; the ballads dedicated to dead men and the sirens who pull under-maybe she thinks they'll take their revenge on her))

[theheadlessgroom]

https://www.tumblr.com/beatingheart-bride/708227896546820096/theheadlessgroom-beatingheart-bride

@beatingheart-bride

Randall too sighed with relief when this welcomed warmth, a little smile crossing his thin lips as he was greeted with the coziness of kitchen, to say nothing of the myriad of scents dancing in his nose, both savory and sweet, those delicious main courses, followed swiftly by those delightful desserts...his stomach growled a little as he observed his choices, wondering what he might have tonight.

He loved the options he had in the kitchen, the wide variety of dishes on display-compared to how he ate as a boy, he ate like a king thanks to the café, enjoying far more foods than he ever had in his youth, dishes beyond his wildest imagination back then. He used to watch the carnies eat in the evenings, smelling the smells and wondering what the foods were like, how they tasted compared to the scraps tossed at him (mostly old fruit and vegetables, maybe a little bread if he was lucky), yearning to know what it was like...and now, he could say he knew.

He remembered the early days of life at the opera, and his realization that all these delectable goods were available to him: Being so starved then, he grabbed the first two or three plates before him and scarfed them down, hardly stopping to savor each bite-but being so rich and flavorful, he hardly needed to stop and think about it, the spices and seasonings embracing his tastebuds like a warm hug, filling his stomach to the point where he felt like he couldn’t move for quite a while afterwards, but it was so, so worth it...he’d heard the phrase “my compliments to the chef!” be spoken by one of the patrons, and he would repeat that phrase in a note to the kitchen; much like the one written to Holloway, scribbled in a shaky, childish scrawl, all misspelled and everything...but with a generous tip; further compliments to the kitchen staff. He never missed the opportunity to tip-it seemed like the nice thing to do.

As he helped himself to a small plate of chicken confit and a slice of hazelnut dacquoise (he was disappointed there were no berry desserts, but just shrugged it off; he still quite liked dacquoise), he looked to Emily curiously, asking, “Wh-What was your favorite state to visit?”