Suede Self-Latching Drone Door

A faint gush of wind billows the curtains, and we huddle closer beside the fire, listening to the pop of chestnuts and crackle of first snow melting from the roof. We haven’t left the house in days, our damp skin thirsting for something more than the outside world. “Let’s pretend,” I say. He chuckles. The blossoming gray like a New England morning in his beard catches my eye. “Pretend what?” he whispers, leaning closer. Just then, I hear a mechanical murmur from the back door downstairs. I take his hand in mine, perspiration pooling in the cup of my palm, as the sound grows closer. “Oh my god, oh my fucking god, he’s back, we’re going to die.”

Comfortable poly-cotton blend. Available in Coffee, Mahogany, or Human Skin. Optional tassel alarm braids. Imported.

Norwegian Man and the Sea Prismatic
Navigational Drone Compass

A pregnant hush descends over the fire, just our two beating hearts matching the rhythm of that classic Platters song—"Only you can make the world seem right, only you can make the darkness bright"—spinning on a solid-wood vintage turntable inlaid with rose gold accents and the distant memory of pipe tobacco. He says, “TURN OFF THE FUCKING MUSIC! He’ll hear us, oh god he’ll hear us.” My toile poncho twirls a rotund azure-and-cream as I rush to the turntable. “Ow! Goddamnit, Jesus Christ, I tripped on that goddamn Edwardian brass fire screen with the romantic lattice ironwork grate!” His rugged face glows in a sliver of moonlight sneaking through the window. “Goddamnit, Eilene, he already knows where we are…” His eyes go glassy like a diamond-shaped provincial French mirror. He continues, “He will always know where we are.”

Solid brass compass comes in wooden bow with indestructible, laser-sharp brass fittings. Made in India.

Pair of Hanging Bracket Cottage Drone Lamps

The antique spiral radiator purrs a melodic electric surge, warming the room, and I smooth my hands over my Deja Vu Military Capris. “Oooh, brrrrr,” I purr back, the last embers from our fire twinkling in the ash. “Are you fucking serious, Eilene? Brrrrr? We’re going to die, and you’re sitting over here saying, brrrrr?” I put a finger to my plump Mochaccino lips and say, “At least I’m saying fucking something, Frank!” He peers out the window like Galileo on a starry night, a stray smudge of soot casually adorning his 1930s Nantucket Advanced Shawl Pullover. “At least he can’t see us in the dark,” he utters with an elusive grin. A glint of wild light sneaks up from the Southern Plantation Staircase, two sensuous orbs on the prowl. He turns to me, his face pale like a resilient Connemara pony overstuffed with Irish soda bread. “You fucking got him lights, didn’t you.” My eyes wander casually around the room. “That’s just fine,” he says. “That is just one fine way to die.” I fall to my knees, which are cushioned by the Indigenous Five-loom Kokopeli Area Rug. “Why the hell did we get our own personal drone in the first place!” I shriek to the blackened, tone-deaf heavens.

Authentic British look. Rewired, refurbished with new magnetic imaging lenses, secured with original brass chassis and aluminum castings. You may also like Ana’s “Cellar Ferret” Steel Ice Hook or Gypsy Smoke Porcelain Fireplace Poker.