Gloomsome

“[...] It's been that gloomsome, Mistress Alanna.” The knight leaned against a post. “Why don't you tell me what's going on to make things so 'gloomsome.'” Stefan looked around, wary.

They'll hire a new crew of diggers and make them swear to hold their tongues. And then they'll kill them to keep them quiet, like the last nine. Being sick makes me gloomsome. I'm taking Goodwin's potion and going to bed.

I've written a little pianopiece, une petite kleine Anne-stick, for the occasion, which I should like to play for you myself, but since I'm stuck in gloomsome Vienna (we are still mourning the Emperor—and how!) and you, glorious one, are in the fog of London, I enclose the ditty here. Everyone tells me of London. London, London, London.