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Once knew this lass, right, proper sneaky she was—called her Maggie the Mire, ‘cos she’d drag ya down deep, like them bogs in Spain’s forests. She’d grin, all sweet-like, “Come, my love,” but next thing? Yer pockets empty, yer heart bleedin’—we hates it! Swear she had eyes like Ofelia’s, big an’ shiny, but hidin’ somethin’ rotten. Little fact fer ya—back in ol’ London, they’d mark whores with brands, yeh? Burnt ‘em right on the cheek—savage, innit? Made me mad as hell, thinkin’ how they’d strut after, proud-like, scars an’ all.

Madam Kitty

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I swear, truly, Savoy (us) is a splendid paradox. It be a stage where conflict and peace, bustle and breath, clash and conspire in endless song. Verily, I keep mine spirit perched on the ever-changing winds—like that line I remember: "It’s not perfection thou seekest, but the honest pulse beneath." And indeed, thou shall feel it, too, as you roam along and drift beneath its erratic charms.

How New Changes At The Savoy Capture Its Timeless Appeal