Write about the sky you were born under.
Connor Graves was holding court in the grand salon. Courtesans, princes and captains of industry grouped at his feet as he exuberantly expounded upon the virtues of his native city from his position on the credenza.
“Edinburgh sits high on a crag, her face immobile, unaffected by the ravages of time. Her volcanic bone structure supports a patrician brow crowned with the tiara of castle walls. Royalty twirls in the hem of her skirt, a glittering trim at her dancing feet. Her gown, strictly corseted, laced along the stays of close and wynd, is severe and somber in cut, but decorated with tucked away extravagances and coy flourishes.”
He took a breath and a healthy drink of whiskey before adopting a tone of voice halfway between the naughty indulgences of a small boy, and the whispered coercions of an ardent lover.
“This is a lady who reveals herself slowly, batting her eyes not as the coquette, but as the dangerous and intoxicating vixen. The city dances the Dance of Seven Veils perpetually stopping at the sixth; never revealing her final secret. She teases, tantalizes, strokes and embraces you, all the time knowing that you love her more than she will ever love you.”
“Come now Connor,” cried Prince Georg, “surely you are inflating her charms for our benefit?”
“Not at all!” cried Connor, “Edinburgh is a place of mystery and romance. Ghosts live cheek-by-jowl with bankers, students walk in the shadows of the resurrectionists, ancient cemeteries serve as convenient spots for lover's trysts. Past and present mingle with the future in Edinburgh.”
“I know that for a fact,” teased Morag as she twirled her bright red curls with slender fingers. “If I step foot in Edinburgh, my past will overcome my present and cancel out my future in an instant!”
This was greeted with appreciative laughter, but Connor was not ready to cede the floor to frivolity. “It is the light of a late summer afternoon that will be your undoing in Edinburgh,” he said. The reverence in his voice, and the far-away look in his eyes pulled the group’s focus back to his imposing frame.
“Summers in Edinburgh hold a particular fragility, and as the sun travels the long pathway to its night-time resting place in the Firth, the air fills with gossamer threads of gold. It as if the sheerest of veils drapes the bowl of the great blue, burnishing every reflective surface with riches beyond price.
“At moments like that, the air is so pure it hurts to breathe. The light is so fine it slips through your fingers and you know that if you could only capture it you would hold the keys to the secrets of the ancients.”
There was a reverent hush as Connor stopped speaking. His audience, held spellbound at his description of the ancient seat and capital of the empire, parted silently as he climbed off the credenza, slipped back into his loafers.
“Now if you will forgive me,” he said while making a slight bow to the Prince, “I really must see to my other guests.”
“Is Edinburgh truly as Herr Graves says?” The Prince asked Morag as the group broke apart.
“To Connor it is,” she replied, “and because it is so to him, it has become so to me as well.”