Deep. Dark. Marvelous. [She says it almost like a mantra, or a slogan.] The Neath is... well, it's not a lawless place, the laws of man still hold so long as someone cares to uphold them, and London's never quite forgotten how to be the seat of empire. But the Laws of Nature are spottier - death is often reversible, and if you know what you're doing you can easily bodily cross over into the dream-realm of Parabola, or into Hell itself - although coming back from Hell is an entirely different matter - and the rats can speak and create the most fascinatingly intricate mechanical devices. [As she says that last, she absently runs a hand over the tattoo on her right upper arm, which depicts a rat brandishing a tiny pistol.] At 'zee, odder things happen. London's steam ships visit islands where everything has a life and a voice, or where every person there has died so many times that they've had to retire from polite society and tend to the preservation of their damaged bodies, or ports along the shore of the Elder Continent in the south, where there are vast jungles of giant mushrooms and our sapphire mining operations are dependent on the good will of the tigers.

But the city's still... fundamentally, it's a city, for all that it's a mile under the earth. It's lit by gaslight and candles now, rather than the sun, and we eat a dreadful lot of mushrooms. Drink 'em, too. But folk still study, and pray - even with Hell's embassy right there in the city - and do business, and create art, and commit crimes, and love. In all things, they love.