We, your Curators, hope this note finds you well -- and hopefully not too confused about why we did not post a new story today. Rest assured, we have not been eaten alive by the brood of monsters kept at the bottom of the third floor closet, nor have we been transfixed by the whispering jewels in the kitchen cupboard. (And we would remind you, if you ever happen to visit our kitchen, do remember to plug your ears before opening the fifth cupboard on the right, and whatever you do, don't eat anything you might see lying out on the countertops, for we are surprisingly fastidious, and it probably got there on its own.)
In fact, we are simply a bit delayed in returning home from an expedition celebrating the launch of Curator Trevayne's first book, Coda. Said expedition took us down rivers and into caves, across precariously constructed bridges and through vast cities where the primary form of communication is music (as you can imagine, Curator Trevayne felt right at home here). There we lingered, shooting off fireworks that would put Gandalf's to shame and trying on outrageously colored hair extensions while being fed cake by the natives.
But then, dear Curators. Oh, then . . .
What began as a celebration of Curator Trevayne's success became something much more dangerous, an expedition of the direst magnitude, in fact. After much peril and evading of booby traps that would put a certain hatted archaeology professor to shame, we returned home to the Cabinet -- safely, yes, just barely, but certainly not in time to prepare a story for you today.
For now, we are content to dust ourselves off and recover by the hearth, our pockets full of relics we can't name for fear of activating them, and our minds bursting with darkly fantastical new stories. And we hope you'll join us soon for a new story -- a few days late but just as dark and delightful as you've come to expect.
Until then, readers,