Byron’s Playful Evening Game – 054

Molly,

The evening had grown almost too beautiful for its own good — roses sighing in the garden, the lake playing at being a mirror, Percy and Polidori waxing poetic in turn. It was all very pleasant, but I could feel the air growing syrupy with sentiment, and I, Byron, am not built to endure an excess of sweetness without some salt to balance it.

So I rose — yes, dramatically — and declared that we should have a game. A challenge. A duel of wits across the centuries, and you, my dear Molly, would join us.

The rules were simple: each guest must tell a tale of the future, but it must be absurd, scandalous, or so marvellous that no sober man would believe it. The only limit — the telling must end before the last candle gutters out.

Mary looked up from her glass with that spark in her eye — the one that tells you she’s already two moves ahead. Percy, of course, began muttering to himself in rhyme, polishing his entry before the game had even begun. Claire clapped her hands like a schoolgirl promised a secret, and Polidori pretended to groan, though I could see the corner of his mouth betray him.

And you, Molly? Well, I’ve no idea what a mind like yours might conjure when the leash is off, but I admit I am most eager to find out. After all, I’ve been dead nearly two centuries — what could possibly shock me now?

The candles are lit, the wine is poured, and the Alps lean in to listen. The floor is yours.

—Byron