Marwick's Place

Marwick’s Place stands at the east-side of King’s Corner district, where the steps of the Speaker’s Corner descend toward the plaza. Its pale stone façade curves neatly around the street, its long row of small tables and chairs set beneath a striped awning. At first glance, it appears no different from any other respectable café - until one looks twice. The tables outside are divided by low partitions fixed to the wall. Each partition bears its own character: one carved from oak darkened by age, another of painted tin dulled by rain, a third wrought in ornate iron, and a fourth paneled in brass traced with tiny stars. The furniture and tableware follow suit, though never quite in the same style twice. The table in one section may gleam with fresh varnish, while its neighbour looks worn smooth by generations of elbows. Elegant tableware becomes earthenware, enamel turns to porcelain, and glass shapes change between different café sections. A slow walk along the café front feels like passing through a gallery of times, each table set within its own fleeting century. And during the next walk passing by they may look different once more.
 

"The city will never agree on harbour reform. Too many hands on the ropes, too few on the wheel."

The regulars call it the "Marwick drift." The café seems to slip through nearby centuries like a lazy pendulum, each of its tables anchored to a slightly different moment in time. Once a patron sits down, the illusion, if illusion it is, enfolds them entirely. The buildings of King’s Corner alter their façades, the carriages and passersby belong to a different decade, and the waiter who approaches wears the style of that age. When the customer stands up again, the present reasserts itself.
 

"I dreamt last night the council had doubled the tax on cheese. This morning’s paper proved me right."

Ambience and Staff

The interior of Marwick’s Place is small, with a polished counter, mirrored wall, and a row of lamps whose design changes imperceptibly from morning to evening. Each section of the café has its own waiter, though they all share the same cut of uniform: a crisp white shirt, dark waistcoat, and neat apron; yet the details differ in minor ways. A collar too high, a fabric too coarse, a hairstyle too modern or too old-fashioned. Their speech patterns shift just as quietly, and so does their handwriting on the bills. None of them seem aware of the others.
 

"Funny thing, I swear I met that man here ten years ago. He hasn’t aged, only his waistcoat has."

Menu

The menu remains comfortingly simple but subtly mutable. Prices alter in handwriting and currency symbols, and certain dishes appear or vanish depending on where one sits. The "City Breakfast" may arrive with candied orange peel and coffee in fine porcelain, or with rye bread and cocoa in a pewter mug. Those who try to order from one waiter while sitting in another’s section often find their request met with polite confusion. The house speciality, "Marwick Blend," is a strong, slightly smoky roast that tastes faintly different each visit, though no one can trace the change to the beans themselves.