This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2019 by Beth Brower

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Dedication

Emma M. Lion

would like to dedicate her journals to all those

 who have the presumption to read them.

She understands the temptation to do so.

These particular pages are dedicated to

The Ashcraft Sisters.

Previously Mentioned Persons of Interest

Emma M. Lion – Myself, obviously. Reclaiming Lapis Lazuli House.

Archibald Flat –  Cheat, thief, villain. General plague on mankind.

Cousin Matilde – Archibald’s older sister. Dragon of a woman.

Lady Eugenia Spencer – Formidable Aunt. Loyal if not Affectionate.

Damian Spencer  – Older cousin. Currently hiding on the Continent.

Arabella Spencer  – Goddess Divine. Golden Beauty. Fellow Conspirator.

Parian – Valet, Butler. Rather intolerable man. Lazy to boot.

Agnes – Maid, Cook. Underpaid. Odd opinions. Scottish. Wonderful.

Niall Pierce – The Tenant. Proven Pyramus. Mystery still abounds.

Young Hawkes – ‘Mighty Nigel Hawkes’. St. Crispian’s unlikely vicar.

Duke of Islington – Disapproving. Well educated, I believe.

The Roman – St. Crispian’s resident ghost, whom I’ve yet to see in person.

Mary Bairrage – Fellow survivor of Fortitude, A Preparatory School for Girls.

Jack Hollingstell – Mary’s pretend cousin. Scoundrel. Owed two favours.

Roland Sutherland – Childhood nemesis turned gorgeous Sun God.

Saffronia March – Old Friend. Artist. Painting in Italy.

Miss Hunt – Unlikable. Husband hunting. Her sights set on Roland.

Charles Goddard – Tall, skinny, flagpole. My unintended intended.

Mr. Penury – Very serious banker.

Evelyn Stuart – Maxwell’s older brother.

Maxwell  Stuart –  January 31st 1861 – July 27th 1880

September 1st

Dr. Fairchild has just left.

Goodness me!

It was a solid hour of spectacle. Parian spent a majority of the time sorting out Cousin Archibald’s morning robe of choice (for his return to the World of the Living). I, meanwhile, was relegated to his sock drawer (wherein dwelt a mythical pair he declared would be gentle on his feet). All the while, Fairchild was consumed with the attempt to assure my eccentric cousin that the cane he was to use had not been tampered with by one Emma M. Lion.

Tempting in hindsight.

Tempting still.

Cousin Archibald is now back on his feet and can even unfortunately manage the stairs.

“Twice each day for the first week,” Fairchild prescribed. “Next week I will suggest you taking your meals downstairs, and a short walk, only to the end of the street. You will be back to near normal in no time. Perhaps you should take your tea in the drawing room today. A sweet incentive to begin. I will help you stand. Here we go.”

(Let it be noted that Parian, Agnes, and I flinched when he uttered those words.)

Glumly, we followed the doctor and Cousin Archibald down the stairs and into the drawing room. Once he was settled, we all retreated.

Agnes put on a brave face, but her wistful smile as she walked back to the kitchen to prepare Archibald’s tea was reminiscent of a bygone era.

Fairchild was eager to be gone. “I’m pleased to have it sorted,” he told me as I saw him to the door. “I’ll check back in a month’s time, but your cousin’s leg should mend well enough.”

He smiled at me and then left the house quickly—before a wail of complaint could call him back.

A wonderful doctor, Fairchild. But I do feel that he’s released something horrible into the world.

September 2nd

I BELIEVE I SHOULD WARN YOU.

Heavens! Of what?

NOW THAT I’VE AN ESTABLISHED STUDIO, I PLAN TO GIVE MY FRIENDS, ACQUAINTANCES, AND CLIENTS THE ADDRESS.

Does such a normal act require a warning, Pierce?

I FEEL IT DOES. I WONDER, HOWEVER, WHAT I SHOULD GIVE AS THE DIRECTION? IS ‘LAPIS LAZULI MINOR’ KNOWN BY HER MAJESTY’S POSTAL SERVICE?

Oh dear. I’d not thought of that. I’m not certain it is. Why not give the address as Lapis Lazuli House and Agnes can slip your correspondence below the studio door? I can’t imagine it to be a hassle.

YOU IMAGINE WRONG. IT MAY PROVE TO BE A GREAT HASSLE.

Nonsense. The letters sent to this house are easily sorted on the side table. Yours will fit into the scheme until I can arrange a separate address.

IF YOU INSIST. HOWEVER, I WILL SUPPLY A BASKET.

A basket?

TO COLLECT MY CORRESPONDENCE IF THERE PROVES TO BE NO ROOM ON THE SIDE TABLE.

I can’t imagine it being needed. However, supply said basket if it helps you to sleep at all better than you do now.

September 3rd

Mary, who has been shockingly absent the last few weeks due to being overworked by both the telephone company and her professor, met me at Regent’s Park this afternoon. Her stride was long—a sign she’s pleased with the play of things in her life, despite the rigorous pace.

I asked her if she was managing anything but work.

“Oh yes,” she answered. “Jack has taken me to a play, two museums, and a revue. Miss Lamb has a strict rule that her boarders are not to attend revues. However, he—Jack that is—was so charming she acquiesced. As soon as we were in the street, I slapped him on the back of his head and told him that next time he was to claim he was taking me to church.”

“She might quiz you on the sermon if he does,” I warned.

“I’ll just fall on my old standby.”

“Which is?”

“Loaves and fishes, Emma, loaves and fishes. One can appear as sanctimonious as required if one can speak with authority regarding the loaves and the fishes. It is ironclad.”

(I’m not certain this will answer for all occasions. I did, however, review the applicable chapter when I arrived home. Ironclad is ironclad.)

“And you, Emma?” Mary quizzed. “Have you managed anything of note?”

So I narrated the more significant happenings: the Bedford ball, Lady Trewartha’s dinner, Cousin Archibald’s unfortunate return to the land of the living, et cetera, et cetera.

Mary gave applause when appropriate. “I’m still amazed your tenant and Islington got on so famously. Is that normal for two such subspecies of men?”

Reaching for the standard of glib comedy, I said, “The wealthy and titled often form friendships with artists. It makes them feel exciting.” And then, as honesty is not such a terrible idea half the time, I added, “In truth, they got on rather well for their own sakes, and it turned into something of a memorable evening. That last hour by the fountain felt as if the three of us had been friends for ages. Even if they are both privy to what happened in Paris and I am not.”

The last sentence carried a hint of pepper.

Mary grinned.

She said with a devilish glint in her eye, “You’ve been gadding about, Emma, having all sorts of games and riddles and fun. But if I recall nearly every letter since leaving school three years ago, you consistently moaned about not having enough time to study. Now you are finally in London, and I don’t hear a single word of what you’re reading. For an aspiring bluestocking, you’re shockingly social.”

It was true.

I stood rebuked.

“I’ve a book of essays by an American called Emerson,” I defended. “Also, I’m studying up on Latin phrases.”

“Such as?”

“Credo quia absurdum.”

“What does that mean?”

“I believe because it is absurd.”

Mary considered the phrase a long moment, then said, “Yes, I’d say that just about describes your life.”

To which I answered, “Veritas.”

The walk continued in like manner—although I was banned from using any Latin phrases—and we were happily laughing when we came round a corner to meet a familiar mustache, which happened to be attached to the face of my banker, Mr. Penury. And with him, a woman.

I almost didn’t recognise the man, he looked so…free of care.

Very unlike a banker.

(Ought one to feel embarrassed seeing one’s banker in such a state of financial undress?)

Before I could fully snuff out my laughter, I was recognised.

“Ah! Hello there, Miss Lion. You seem to be having a fine day.”

 “Greetings, Mr. Penury.” Then, proving my excellent manners, I swept my hand to the side and said, “My esteemed colleague in all things, Mary Bairrage.”

Mary grinned. “Hello.”

“Pleasure,” Mr. Penury answered. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Mrs. Rebecca Penury.”

Mrs. Rebecca Penury was a simple woman at first glance—brown hair, brown eyes, forgettable nose. But a second glance proved her handsome in her own way.

“Pleasure,” Mary answered, just as I said, “How do you do, Mrs. Penury?”

I, however, did not receive a response. Mrs. Penury simply stood there, a quiet smile on her face, her eyes sharp. As if it were the most normal thing in the world.

“My wife doesn’t speak, Miss Lion. Not anymore,” Mr. Penury supplied.

Not anymore?

I was clearly curious.

Before I could ask if it was due to an accident—such as nuns cutting out her tongue—she squeezed his arm, and so he said, “One evening, after a trying social event, Mrs. Penury informed me she had spoken for over forty-five years of her life and, having said all she wanted to say, was done with the institution altogether. She’s been silent almost a decade now, and it’s gone famously for her.”

“Brilliant!” Mary and I both cried at the same time, which caused a round of laughter between the three of us. (Mrs. Penury merely smiled.)

While I’m not certain I would ever choose to do the same—imagine, a woman deciding she had nothing else she wished to say?—brava! for being so decisive. I told Mrs. Penury this, and her smile widened. Then she pressed her gloved fingers against Mr. Penury’s arm and nodded. To which Mr. Penury replied, “Time to move on, I see. Now we’re set to meet in a fortnight, Miss Lion. You’ve not forgotten?”

“Pardon?”

“I sent round a note.”

“I am afraid it never made it to my hands.”

“Then this encounter was provident indeed. I have you down for the seventeenth of this month at three o’clock,” Penury said. “We shall look at the particulars of your accounts.”

“Yes, Captain.” And I saluted.

Needless to say, Mrs. Penury’s unorthodox state caused a great deal of conversation between Mary and myself.

“You could never do such a thing, Emma,” proclaimed Mary. “And neither could I. We’re both far too committed to hearing our own opinions.”

I snorted.

September 4th

Agnes came to the garret quite early this morning.

“Miss Lion?” she said hesitantly.

“Yes?” I managed through a yawn.

“Someone left something for you, I think.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you should come look.”

“Now?”

“Now, Miss.”

Putting on an old robe, I followed Agnes down the stairs and to the front door.

I opened it expecting…well, I don’t know. Agnes’s face was pale as a sheet, and she was so very perplexed I expected something Shakespearean, like a man with the head of an ass.

While no such fey thing was to be found, what I saw could have been the result of any midsummer night’s dream.

Littering the stairs were several bottles, each one drained of its spirits and holding a single flower. Blush pink roses, opening to the morning.

Two of the bottles had tipped over. One had rolled into the street.

“Is it a curse, Miss?” Agnes asked with trepidation.

My laugh was tripped up by a frown as I counted the bottles.

There were nine.

Nine bottles. Recalling the Lady Trewartha’s dinner, it seemed very clear to me.

“Agnes, I believe we have been blessed, as it were, by The Reprobates Ten.”

“The Reprobates Ten?” she said with wide eyes. “What are they?”

“Presumably they are the sort to leave empty bottles with flowers on a doorstep. As there are nine bottles, I wager it was The Reprobates Ten.”

“Why not ten bottles, then?”

“For the simple reason that I cannot imagine a vicar—even our vicar, lovely as he is—leaving an empty spirits bottle on the doorstep of a congregant.”

It made no sense to Agnes, whose brow puckered as we gathered the bottles up and retreated to the kitchen, putting all the flowers into a vase retrieved from the breakfast room.

While sorting and clipping the roses, I mentioned that I might visit my poor, invalid friend. (Meaning Roland Sutherland of the Broken Arm.) At the word invalid, Agnes took on a grave expression and stated, “I shall make a cake for the poor dear.”

I fear she is picturing a desperate situation, a Little Dorrit, where I am visiting a degraded family in great distress. When the truth is her humble—but what will certainly be wonderful—cake is going to one of the richest and handsomest men in all of London.

I think I will let Agnes keep her illusions. If she writes her mother that Emma M. Lion is visiting the indigent, it might balance some of the absurd realities of my life.

Ah, how lovely. A rose petal just fell onto the page. I’ll stack my journal beneath my books to press it while I’m out.

Later

Just returned from Sutherland House to see how Roland was getting on with his broken arm.

His butler—after taking my card and disappearing—returned and led me to a study where Roland sat behind a formidable desk, looking too serious for his own good.

That changed when he glanced up and saw me standing there.

Said he: “Emma Lion! I see you’ve not forgotten me altogether.”

Said I: “Hello, Roland. You look like a man of significant business. One might think you not all frivolous beauty. Be warned.”

“My affairs do require some managing,” he answered as he stood. Roland’s arm was still in the sling, but he displayed no sign of pain.

Three cheers for that.

I said, “You look much better than last time I saw you.”

He said, “I’ve been avoiding all parks and children. And my housekeeper has fed me an astonishing amount of chicken soup. She claims the broth is good for mending bones, but I’m growing rather tired of it.”

“Besieged soul. Lucky for you, my cook was so good as to prepare a lemon cake with elderberry syrup, also good for mending bones, according to all inaccurate reports. I’ve sent it back to the kitchen.”

It was truly thoughtful of Agnes to have done so.

“Emma Lion, you spoil your childhood nemesis.”

I do.

Despite Roland’s beauty having come from the Golden Age, his complexion this afternoon was leaning towards the pale.

I found it my business to remark.

“You’re looking a trifle peaked.”

“I’ve never looked peaked a day in my life.”

“Yes, you have. When we were fifteen and you nearly sliced your finger clean off.”

He looked almost indignant.

Possibly owing to the creative twist I took with our joint history.

“I nearly sliced it clean off?” he retorted. “If I remember, you were the one who had gotten hold of your uncle’s sword—”

“That small fact is not overly relevant to how you looked, Roland,” I insisted, taking off my gloves. “Did it scar?”

“It did. A thorough job.”

“I seem to have a talent for it. Wounding to point of scar. Now, you really should get a touch of sun. Do you have a garden?”

“The Season is over, Emma,” Roland answered. “I’ve no one to impress.”

“Not even Miss Hunt?”

I couldn’t help myself.

Not strictly true.

I suppose I could have.

But why?

Roland gave half a smile. “Miss Hunt, so I hear, charmed Alphonso Dorring, Earl of Something or Other, at Lady Spencer’s dinner. She and her brother have since decamped to their uncle’s house, ten miles away from the earl’s country seat. For now, I am spared her attentions.”

Blessed relief!

“Lovely!” I replied. “Shall we take cake in the garden with a cup of tea?”

And so we did.

Roland and I recounted our summer misadventures, and I informed him that I would be obligated to strike him from my Enemies List as soon as I returned home.

“It’s a pity—however, having shared cake in your garden, it must be done.”

“You keep an Enemies List?” he asked with a dimpled smile.

“Oughtn’t everybody? With you on the list, it was an even four.Now it’s a bit wobbly. Inelegant. I shall have to replace you before long.”

“Well, don’t rush to find another if you can help it.” Roland leaned back in his chair, smiling as he said, “I don’t have enemies.”

“Resulting in your heavenly glow, Roland. Bravo. What a good nature you’ve developed after being such a horrid child.”

“It’s not good nature, Emma. It’s good blood.”

I gave him a rather exaggerated look.

September 5th

Aunt Eugenia was occupied all afternoon with a meeting for her charitable society: Fashionable Ladies for the Obliteration of the Poor. Or rather FLOP, which is the preferred nomenclature of Arabella and myself. I asked Aunt once if that meant they were trying to eliminate poverty or the poor themselves. Her answer was swift.

“I’m not certain a distinction is needed, Emma. They both achieve the same end. If I had my way, there would be no very poor, only a clean, well-dressed lower class that lives to serve. Now stop asking impertinent questions.”

And so, having several hours of freedom, Arabella visited me at Lapis Lazuli for an afternoon of double tea and conversation. The double tea meaning we bookended the visit.

Tea to commence. Tea to conclude.

It does not strike me as particularly excessive.

The afternoon played itself out in five acts.

Act I

Arabella and I Discuss The Season

“And has dear Aunt deemed your Season a success?” I enquired.

“She has,” Arabella replied from the pink chair. “I thought she would have debriefed you by now.”

I crossed my fingers and grimaced.

Arabella smiled smoothly in return and looked perfect. “My mother has assembled a list of seven very eligible and nine somewhat eligible men. She expects to work the back channels during the winter, in hopes of having a hybrid race next year; whereupon, I will become engaged in the middle of August—the wedding to be set either in May or Christmas of the year following, depending on several variables, as you can imagine.”

“Ominous,” I shuddered.   

“Expected,” Arabella dismissed. “And as every candidate is very well situated, I surmise it will be nothing but comfort and entertainment.”

She looked unruffled at the prospect of sixteen possible husbands in the wing. It’s unnatural. Even I don’t believe Arabella cares so little for her fate. I did not say this aloud, however.

Act II

Cousin Archibald Imposes

Having grown accustomed to his physical absence about the house, it was a regrettable shock to see him open the door. “I see you’re infesting this room,” sniffed he.

“Quite happily,” rebuffed I.

It was then his gaze drifted to Arabella.

It must be said that Cousin Archibald has not seen Arabella since we were children, and I doubt he took any note. But this afternoon, in her blue dress, sitting in the pink chair, with her golden curls done just so… Well, he opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“I did not realise I had a visitor,” he jabbered as he hobbled into the room with his cane.

“You don’t, Cousin Archibald!” I smiled forcefully. “Arabella and I are taking a moment to ourselves.”

Arabella draped her voice in silk and said, “Cousin Archibald. It really has been too long.”

“It has!” he exclaimed, running his hand flat over his head, deflating the less than enthusiastic hairs attempting survival.

“How well you look,” she crooned.

“I do!” he answered with a hypnotic enthusiasm.

“What a distinguished cane.”

He put a finger between his neck and his collar, pulling for a little more room.

Arabella leaned towards him conspiratorially. “I am here to spend some sisterly time with my dear Emma. We can both agree she is in need of moral guidance, but perhaps you might join us next time?”

“Of course.” He squished his face together in what I believe was supposed to be a smile of some sort. The man is wholly out of practice in the art. “My drawing room is graced by your presence. Do not let Emma put you out. Hers can be an effect of the severest nature.”

“I won’t, Cousin Archibald. Will you please close the door as you go?”

He nodded and bowed his head, which began to bob beneath the weight of a grotesque smile, as he backed out the doorway—cane and all—and closed the door.

I turned my wide-eyed expression to Arabella.

“He didn’t deserve such a benevolent dismissal. However,” I owned, “as far as the art of the dispatch, that was very well done.”

“Emma, I’ve found the world only wants me for my looks. If I can’t use them to my advantage, more fool me.” Then she added, “He really is a horrid man, isn’t he?”

Act III

We Discuss My Nonexistent Chaperone

Arabella: “Mother has caught the scent, Emma. She’s mentioned your fictional chaperone three times in the last fortnight alone. I believe she wishes to meet her.”

Emma: “Tell your mother my chaperone has warts. Perhaps that will keep her away.”

Arabella: “As much as the thought of a chaperone having warts would make Mama happy, it would make casting rather difficult were you to need someone to play the part.”

Emma: “Oh heavens, you don’t think it will come to that?”

Arabella: “Worse things have happened.”

Emma: “Have they? Truly?”

Act IV

We Discuss Bustles

Arabella: “Your afternoon dresses don’t have very much of a bustle, Emma. You look nice, but certainly not the height of fashion. Or even some of the lows of fashion, for that matter.”

Emma: “My request that Madame Tasset make my dresses more classic was deliberate. I have to be able to wear these clothes beyond any fad of this Season or the next. Thus, my almost nonexistent bustles. Yours are rather extraordinary. You look well in them, however.”

Arabella: “I make it a point to look good in whatever I wear.”

Act V

Arabella Glimpses the Enigmatic Pierce

After a few hours of lounging in our respective places, we removed ourselves to the round table near the window for the second portion of our tea. While there, we heard the sound of male voices outside the window. As one is wont to do, we glanced down at the street. There was Pierce, looking as if he’d just come out of his studio to meet—unfortunate for him—The Pirate, Mr. Ben Chambers, extraordinaire. They were speaking of something, taking a few absent steps, landing not too far from our window.

“There now, Arabella. A glimpse of the Avenging Angel. He’s the one who doesn’t look like a buccaneer. Well,” I corrected myself, “at least not the one-legged, eye-patched variety.”

Arabella pushed the lace curtain aside with the back of her gloved hand, her deceptively easy gaze settling on the figure of Pierce. Pierce made a good show for himself. Arms crossed, but a half smile on his face. The side of Arabella’s lips turned up. “Well, well, Emma.”

“Is he as you imagined?”

“A good deal more.” She smiled, then let the curtain drop and looked at me. “I approve. I could be happy staring at such a husband. You should marry him. We can spend our shooting weekends staring at your husband while mine pays the bill.”

“That is a terrible thing to say, Arabella.”

“Terrible? Here I was thinking it was rather practical.”

September 6th

Agnes has seemed preoccupied for the last week. She keeps making jam. Which, Parian informs me, is a sign there is something pressing on her mind.

“How thoughtful of you to notice, Parian,” I said, rather surprised.

His quick sneer set me aright. “I only know because the rest of her food suffers.”

My side-eyed expression gave Parian reason to be silent.

Later

Lucky for Agnes, there has been a break in the clouds!

For as she was returning from the market, who was about to knock on the door of Lapis Lazuli Minor? None other than St. Crispian’s own personification of grace, The Duke of Islington.

“He looked at me, Miss. Then he tipped his hat and said, ‘Good afternoon.’”

“Did he?” I replied. “What did you do?”

“I stopped right there, as if my feet were grown from the street, and after the appropriate amount of silence, to be respectful like, I replied, ‘Good afternoon, Your Grace.’ And then Mr. Pierce opened the door and the duke went inside.”

She reported the incident with such earnest solemnity, I bit the inside of my cheek so as to not smile. “Well done, Agnes. Very well done.”

Not long after, I was passing through the hall when I heard some rather male laughter coming from the studio. It presents a question. At what point is one allowed to feel left out?

September 7th

I’ve been expecting it, the order to attend Aunt Eugenia, where we would discuss both the ghosts of Season Past and Season Future.

My imaginings have painted it an inevitable and serious affair.

Sometimes I’m wearing black.

This morning, I received a peach envelope with the command I come to Spencer House before eleven o’clock.

I went.

I did not wear black.

Instead of being led into the drawing room for a thorough going-over, I found Aunt Eugenia in the hall, surrounded by servants and trunks, giving orders.

“Hello, Aunt,” I said. “Are you off on an expedition to the Yukon?”

(For the sheer amount of baggage, it felt a fair question.)

(Also, gold!)

Aunt Eugenia did not respond immediately. No, she gave half a dozen more orders to her small, terrified army before turning her generalissimo energies on me.

“We are leaving town now that The Season is out.”

“So I see.”

“Don’t be pert.”

“It comes naturally, Aunt.”

She gave me a glance up and down and said, “Humph.” Then, “We are off to the country. Between a number of shooting weekends and house parties, I intend to have the men on my list primed and ready for The Season.”

“The Season where Arabella will become engaged.”

“Precisely. I’ve planned for six proposals. Possibly seven. Eight seemed excessive and crass. While we are away, I expect you to keep your eyes and ears open, sending me any pertinent news. I have friends—important society friends—serving as reliable informants; however, I expect you to pull your weight.”

And so Lady Napoleon sets her spies.

Or rather her draft horse, one Emma M. Lion.

“If you have friends—important society friends—already in place,” I challenged, “what can I possibly add?”

She looked at me with Disappointment. “I expect you to Rise to the Occasion, Emma, and do something for once on behalf of your cousin.”

Do something for once? I ask you!

Let the record show that I support the untoward endeavour of marrying Arabella to a man she cares nothing for more than I ought. What else does the woman wish me to do?

And so I said, “I’ve been Valiant in support of your cause, Aunt. That’s Valiant with a capital V.”

“From what I recall, you were adequate. Don’t look at me like that. One must always remember that gratitude fades. It is up to you to remind me why I thought you valuable in the first place.”

“In that case, let me remind you that I was a marvel. You couldn’t have done it without my grand contributions. I recall one evening where the sweet pea was discussed at length.”

She grunted, gave a few instructions to her housekeeper, then said, “I expect you to be on the ready.”

“On the ready for what?”

“For if I need to call you into the country! How daft are you? After I paid for that expensive school!”

I lie not.

My response came swiftly. “I paid for it, Aunt. It took all my parents’ money and great sacrifice to do so.”

At the back of my Latin Phrases for the Unrepentant are lists of helpful words, such as the cides. Meaning, all the words to describe exactly how one has or wishes to kill another; i.e., regicide, the killing of a king. When I arrived home just now, I dipped into my book and searched the list.

What, I wondered, was the word for the eliminating of one’s aunt? I could not find it. Apparently, avunculicide—the killing of one’s uncle—is as close as one gets. Why? Are aunts not worth the bother? Are they immortal due to some bargain which should not be mentioned in polite society? Parricide is the killing of a close relative. Would that do? My question is left unanswered. One rather charming interesting word was vaticide, which is either the killing of a prophet or a poet. Violent, yes, but what a pairing! (Latin Phrases for the Unrepentant sources Dr. Johnson’s 1755 dictionary, and warns to take it with some tongue and cheek. Well!)

I digress.

Returning to the hall of Spencer House:

“Where is Arabella?” I asked my formidable and possibly immortal-for-all-the-wrong-reasons relation.

It was then said cousin descended the stairs. “Good morning, Emma. I see Mother is still pulling you about.”

“She is.”

Aunt Eugenia, who had moved to the mirror so she might set her hat in place, said with a sharp tone, “Emma!”

“Yes?”

“I hope you have not spoiled your figure. I’m ordering you back to Madame Tasset. If you are to be in London all winter, I cannot afford to have you be seen by any important person in less than suitable clothing. Once Arabella is married, you are free to look as frayed and tattered as you like. But we will not be tainted by association just yet. Order anything that is necessary—and I mean necessary for a person of wealth and standing, not a person like yourself. You have an appointment on the morning of the twenty-second. Write that down. Do not forget.”

Music to my ears. Perhaps parricide is too unjust a fate for dear Aunt.

Imprisonment, instead?

“I will obey.”

“Of course you will. Now, what do you plan to do with yourself while I’m away?”

Nothing shatters the illusion that one is free of a relation so much as the enquiry as to what one intends to do with one’s own time.

“I plan to study, Aunt. And foster a light heart.”

A faultless answer, I thought. Innocuous.

I was wrong.

“Study?” Aunt Eugenia said the word as if it were a cockroach. “Of all the— Study what, pray tell?”

“A good deal of something.”

“Or someone,” Arabella murmured.

I glared at her. She smiled in return.

“That won’t do,” my aunt insisted. “What does your Agnes say?”

My real Agnes says many a silly thing.

My fake Agnes—the nonexistent chaperone—says very little.

“She thinks it wise I do not neglect my Bible, particularly the saga of the Israelites in bondage to the Egyptians, as I’ve a good deal to learn regarding humility.”

Aunt Eugenia sniffed. “Yes, well, if you read only Exodus, I approve. But if I hear tell you’ve been spending time in the New Testament, I shall have to remove your Bible entirely.”

“Why is that, Aunt?”

“Paul.”

“Paul?”

“Paul. Paul, with his charity above all. Paul, who feels free to chastise us all like schoolchildren. Paul, always harping on long-suffering. I’ve no patience for it.”

“Understood. I’ll read Exodus to the dust and avoid the Apostle Paul in both his pre- and post-conversion state,” I replied. “It is settled.”

“Settled? Nothing of the sort. We’ve merely established you will read repeatedly from the book of Exodus, but I’ve not approved of any other study.”

“Aunt, I am twenty years old and cannot tell you more than half a dozen Latin roots. I should know Latin and a thousand other things.”

“The word roots is decidedly Lower Class, Emma. Even for the likes of you. I never want to hear you speak it again. And as for your misled determination at being lighthearted, I forbid it. A person of middling status cannot afford to feel happy about everything all of the time. That is an expensive state of mind.”

“What shall I be instead?”

“Light-minded would suffice. An appearance of pleasing stupidity prepares a woman for marriage. You might study that instead of Latin, Greek, or otherwise. When languages are dead, it is because they deserve to be so. Have I made myself clear?”

I did not take the opportunity to tell her that they still spoke Greek in Greece.

Once everything was in hand, I followed Aunt Eugenia and Arabella outside and waited as they entered their carriage.

“I may send for you, Emma. It is vital that Arabella have your full support, however impecunious a person you may be. Blood will out. Even if yours has been spoilt.”

To which I replied, “Which lineage spoilt it? The Irish or the Portuguese?”

“Don’t be a fool. If you think that both did not cause great damage, then I cannot imagine you understand much of this world. Study that while I’m away. And try to do whatever in your power to strengthen your English blood.”

Arabella closed her eyes and smiled in the other direction. “Write me, Emma,” she said.

And they were off.

I cannot say I will miss Aunt Eugenia, whatever the entertainment she provides. She does rather make me feel like a racehorse. A racehorse that has been put through her paces again and again, finally having been let out to pasture.

The relief.

The blessed distance.

Berkshire, lovely county that it is, does not deserve Aunt Eugenia’s winter machinations.

However, as she is determined to clothe me, I must acknowledge that an extension to my wardrobe—whatever the insulting motivations—will not go amiss.

An Addendum

The Personal Journal of Emma M. Lion, July the sixth, states that Lady Eugenia Spencer used the word root. Ha!

September 8th

It is early yet.

I’m cosied in bed with my journal and my Shakespeare, taking care my pen isn’t dripping ink on my nightgown. It’s quiet, save for the sound of the milk delivery along the lane. I’ve been reading the lines spoken by Octavius Caesar in Antony and Cleopatra,

The time of universal peace is near.

Prove this a prosperous day, the three-nooked world

Shall bear the olive freely.

I do adore that line: “the three-nooked world.”

And with Aunt Eugenia and Arabella having left London, I declare this the time of my universal peace.

Excepting Cousin Archibald.

(Always excepting Cousin Archibald.)

As for company when I’ve had my fill of bliss and solitude?

There’s Mary, of course. When not too pressed with her work.

Saffronia March returns any day now from Italy.

And Pierce is at hand.

The last several days—when Cousin Archibald is resting in his rooms—Pierce has left his studio door ajar. We’ve lived by no more formality than, “Shall we have a cup?”

And so tea is had. Nearly every day.

A loose pattern is forming in the evenings as well. Perhaps pattern is too generous a word, but he’s joined me for dinner thrice since the month began.

What a wonderful word.

Thrice.

Most evenings Pierce goes out. A thing I cannot understand, as his injured leg often seems worn by teatime. I asked him last evening if he had a great many friends in London, or if he belonged to a club. Pierce, leaning back in his chair, gave a noncommittal shrug and answered, “Sometimes friends. Sometimes clients. Sometimes potential clients.” His sharp smile was like the edge of a broken bottle. “Sometimes Emma Lion, strange one that she is.”

“Strange!”

“It’s a compliment.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” he insisted evenly.

“How?” I challenged.

“Strange is nice.”

“Is it?” I repeated.

Pierce gave his head a single shake. “Strange is that unexpected moment that stays with you, that makes you think about it again. Strange is memorable, and compelling.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Strange means odd, or bizarre.”

“Perhaps we have different internal dictionaries.”

“Most certainly.”

He laughed. And then so did I.

Yes.

September will do nicely.

September 9th

This morning I went to Sunday services (See, Hawkes; Sermons for a September Day) and was so inspired that I decided to spend half an hour examining my character with the aim of improving what I found there.

I persisted twenty minutes.

The rest of the afternoon I spent lying on my bed reading Much Ado About Nothing.

Hawkes; Sermons for a September Day

Young Hawkes gave a reading of 2 Timothy, chapter 2,

Study to shew thyself approved unto God, a workman

That needeth not be ashamed, rightly dividing

The word of truth.

And a Wordsworth sonnet,

The world is too much with us; late and soon,

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers…

I heard a woman mutter a prayer afterward that asked heaven to cause whatever calamity necessary to keep Young Hawkes at our parish, to which I bowed my head and whispered, “Amen.”

September 10th

There were two pieces of mail for Pierce today.

His earlier warnings, and the basket that has since appeared beside the table in the hall, seem both overcautious and too large.

Granted, it is a handsome basket.

After watching this afternoon’s clients exiting Lapis Lazuli Minor—this is the first week he’s had clientele in his studio—I knocked on the door, letting myself in at his invitation.

“Hello,” I said brightly.

“Emma,” he answered, occupied with his camera.

He was dressed in his dark brown suit, looking very nice for it. Today’s clients, I couldn’t help but notice, had been a woman and her beautiful daughter.

I suppose one was bound to look happy in a photograph if you were gazing at Niall Pierce.

“Would you like some tea today?” I asked.

“I would love a cup, but I’m too busy. I’ve got to process these plates and be ready for another session later this afternoon before I lose the light.”

“Where do you do your processing?”

“My darkroom is on the second floor.”

“I would love to watch. The process of developing your plates, I mean.”

“I’ll have you up one of these next days. Was there anything else?”

I answered by holding up his two letters. “The basket could scarcely contain them. Your warning was warranted.”

It was then I captured his full attention. He stopped what he was doing, smiled with menace (menace, I say!), his eyes challenging. “Just you wait, Emma. You will rue the day.”

September 11th

Cousin Archibald’s leg is bothering him. He sits on the stairs in the hall and rails against humanity.

It makes me like humanity all the more.

And Cousin Archibald less.

September 12th

COULDN’T HELP BUT NOTICE YOUR LAMPLIGHT. IT’S LATE.

It is, and I blame you entirely.

WHY?

Emerson

GLAD TO HEAR IT.

Fair warning. I’ve just read his essay on Friendship. Which means I will be holding you to high and holy ideals.

“LET HIM BE TO THEE FOR EVER A SORT OF BEAUTIFUL ENEMY, UNTAMABLE, DEVOUTLY REVERED, AND NOT A TRIVIAL CONVENIENCY TO BE SOON OUTGROWN AND CAST ASIDE.”

“Better be a nettle in the side of your friend than his echo.”

JUST SO.

September 13th

Not-So-Sweetheart,

I’m claiming the first of the two favours you owe me. I need you the evening of the fifteenth, but expect me tomorrow to give instruction—and costume.

Jack

Oh dear.

Jack come to call.

I suppose it was inevitable. I must pay the piper for my sins. It does rather feel as if Charon (Jack) has, with a deathly smile, informed a mere mortal (myself) she is to cross over the river Styx.

And what does he mean by costume?

What, pray tell, could I possibly be doing that would require such a thing?

I have not as yet felt the need to write a last will and testament.

Perhaps I should consider.

September 14th

It was a perfectly lovely day in every respect.

Archibald sleeping for most of it and keeping to his rooms for the rest.

Parian mending morning robes, buffing shoes, and helping Agnes sort the pantry.

Agnes celebrating her rearranged pantry by baking a vanilla sponge cake.

As for myself? It was weather ordained for a walk.

I went first to the Reed and Rite.

The Keep revealed that one of Parian’s shoes had gone astray (he’s fastidious about his labels).

A perusal of The Dalliance confirmed that there are still books being printed in this world, despite the limited buying power of our heroine.

A visit to Saffronia March’s home attested to the fact that she’s not yet back from Italy.

And then I had a long conversation with Primrose Hill.

We are clever, we two, and usually discuss all the important things of my life.

Such was the day.

So refreshing I’d nearly forgotten Jack’s note, that he had threatened to burden me with his presence. I was in the kitchen with Agnes before dinner when a knock came to the door.

It sounded like it was up to no good whatsoever.

Agnes frowned. “Are you expecting someone, Miss?”

“No,” I replied. “Oh. Drat. Yes, I am. Though he’s less of a someone and more of a something: a threat with a lovely smile.”

Perplexed, Agnes said, “Should I answer? I think Parian is gone out.”

The image of innocent Agnes coming face-to-face with Jack—well, I am not without a heart. My noblesse oblige rose to the occasion.

“No,” I said. “I will do the deed. Please don’t bring tea.”

I opened the front door to see a figure on the porch, something draped over his arm, face shadowed from the lamplight.

“Emma Lion.”

“Jack.”

“Are you going to let me in?”

“Against my will.”

Jack—wolf of the first order—stepped into the hall and strolled directly to the drawing room.

I followed, closing the door behind me to prying eyes, and watched as Jack lay something resembling a dress across the sofa. There were more ruffles than I could shake a stick at, white lace around the bodice, and a suspicious amount of red velvet.

Also, heeled boots.

It did not bode well.

It did not even really bode.

It smirked.

When Jack turned towards me, hands in his pockets, his enjoyment was evident. “I need you to deliver something to a man I know,” he stated. “Tomorrow night.”

“A man you know needs a red velvet frock?”

Jack’s smile was insolent as he moved to the hearth, leaning against the mantel.

I thought to respond with subtlety. And failed.

“Oh no, Jack. Not in one thousand years. I’ll look ridiculous.”

“It’s what all the girls will be wearing.”

“Excuse me?”

His eyes gleamed. “My friend will be at The Duck tomorrow night.”

“The Duck?” I replied.

“The Drunken Duck.”

“Oh, Jack! Are you asking me to—?”

“Calm yourself, almond pudding. It’s only a dance hall. One of the more reputable establishments, at that. Common enough among the elites of London. And I’m not asking, I’m telling. You owe me two favours. This answers for the first.”

I dropped into the pink chair and glared at my fate.

A hem that would come six scandalous inches above my ankle.

“Boots are there,” Jack added, pointing to the heeled monstrosities. “They should be your size. And stockings, of course. Silk.”

Silk. My, my.

The ensemble wasn’t too shocking.

It felt shocking.

It was and is shocking.

I believe it is slightly shocking. In a joie de vivre sort of manner.

I told Jack it looked like it belonged in Paris.

“Good eye. The design is Parisian. Now—” He withdrew something from his pocket and threw it at me. In the lamplight it shimmered.

What I caught was a ruby and diamond bracelet.

The genuine article.

Having spent enough time among my aunt’s acquaintances, I know fact from fiction when it comes to jewellery. Mostly due to her pernicious side comments when she’s identified a fake.

“Heavens, look at the size of this ruby.” The temperature of my suspicions raised. “Is this stolen? Jack, is this illegal?”

“Would I ask you to do anything illegal?” he enquired with feigned innocence.

Yes. Yes, he would.

But just as I opened my mouth, he continued, “All you need to do is wear this on your right wrist tomorrow night. You’ll simply wander through the audience at the appropriate time. And my friend will relieve you of it. Job done. Easy.”

Easy? I think not.

“I’m not doing it, Jack. You must have some other woman who can do this sort of thing for you.”

“You’ve banned me from involving Mary.”

“Other women.”

“I don’t trust them,” he said with a dismissive shrug.

I was not flattered.

Only just.

“Do it yourself,” I sniffed.

“I can’t be seen in the same room with this man. Territorial considerations, reputations, and all that. We’re supposed to be feuding.”

Whatever that means, I thought.

“Terribly sorry, but it won’t do,” I said.

It sounded very noble, this virtuous putting down of my foot.

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You have a friend returning home, do you not? Miss Saffronia March? And then there’s dear, dissolute Damian Spencer, Arabella’s older brother. He’s in a few pickles that could be made much worse if the wrong kind of pressure were applied by the right people.”

It was ridiculous, he was very nearly blackmailing me. If only I hadn’t agreed to it. I could easily see how discovering Damian’s exploits could be done, but how on earth does Jack know I’m friends with Saffronia March? I wanted to ask him. However, to quote Aunt Eugenia, “When one knows their ignorance is less than flattering, better not to put it on altogether.”

I settled for standing my ground. “My people, Jack.”

“Yes, your people. Off limits,” he conceded. “All you have to do is go to The Duck, smile your way across the floor, and give a man his ruby bracelet. Debt half paid.”

It was then there came a knock at the door.

I expected it to be Agnes, but the voice that followed belonged to Pierce.

“Emma?”

“Yes?”

He opened the door, then halted. “Excuse me. I wasn’t aware you had company.”

Jack eyed him like a hungry snake. “We haven’t met.”

“And you’re not going to!” I stated as I jumped up and crossed the room. “I’m sorry, Niall, but for your own good—”

“Fine,” Pierce said lightly enough, his eyes trained on Jack. “Agnes—believe it or not—fetched me and asked if I would tell you that your dinner is ready.”

I pushed him into the hall and half closed the door behind me.

“Did she? How odd! Well done, Agnes. Sorry you were sent as messenger.”

Pierce looked towards the drawing room. “Perhaps she knew you had company and wasn’t certain what she was to do?”

“Nothing.” I grinned desperately. “Nothing needs to be done. Have you eaten?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Which means no. Join me? Agnes has made cottage pie. I’ll fetch you shortly.”

After a single nod, his eyes flickering across my face, Pierce returned to his studio.

Returning, I found Jack had lit a cigarette and was standing by the window, a drape pulled back.

“Jack! Someone will see you.”

“Is that a problem?” he asked, as if it were a perfectly reasonable thing for a young woman to be alone in a room with a confidence man and a lit cigarette.

And so I said, “When this is over, well rid of you I will be.”

“You would miss me, Miss Lion.”

“Doubtful.”

“Probable.”

“Is there anything else you need to tell me?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Only be dressed tomorrow evening by nine o’clock. A cab will pick you up. Mind that the horse has one white ankle.”

“How cryptic.”

“And do something fussy with your hair. You know how the girls are wearing it these days.” With that he walked past me, winked, and was out the front door before I could wave away the smoke.

Needless to say, I removed my costume to the recesses of the garret before calling Pierce in for dinner.

He had the good grace to not ask after my strange appointment.

I had the bad grace to not explain myself.

September 15th

I am beginning to believe heaven and hell are conspiring. Most likely against me.

As a general rule my stomach does not twist and turn in knots. Oh no, my guilt manifests itself in other ways. This evening was an exception. I was ill throughout the entire escapade.

Though it might be less guilt and more stage fright. It is difficult to know.

If only he hadn’t…

Well, he needn’t have interfered at all. I was expecting complete anonymity at the dance hall. Just who does he think he is?

The dress, and the accompanying corset, left me with no other choice but to bring Agnes into the shenanigan.

“Pull as hard as you dare, Agnes,” I breathed. “The waist looks dangerously tight.”

“You wish to wear that silly frock, Miss?”

“Yes, Agnes.”

“But…you’ll look like a girl in a dancing hall.”

I will be a girl in a dancing hall, Agnes, I thought.

“It is an evening of costumes with friends, Agnes,” I said.

“Ah! My mother says the Queen does such things.”

My smile was as false as jade when I answered, “Yes, I’ll look just like the Queen.”

This satisfied the dear girl, and she laced with all her might.

Agnes may be small, but she can cinch a corset with the best of them.

Needless to say, when I covered myself in my worn long coat, I buttoned up to the chin.

When the hansom cab arrived—with one white stripe on the horse’s leg—I ran out the door in my silly boots as Agnes wished me a good evening at the party. The driver did not turn to look at me as I entered—a gangly man with a hat pulled down over his eyes.

I settled into the corner and took a fortifying breath.

“Your hair will need some fixing, and Marge will need to do your face.”

I started.

The voice was accompanied by the glow of a cigarette. It was half a moment before the dark outline of Jack took shape in the corner opposite me as my eyes adjusted.

“This really is the most ridiculous episode,” I stated. And it was. “It should be the scene of some desperate novel.”

He smiled, the white of his teeth caught in a streetlamp we passed, and asked, “Am I the hero or the villain?”

I bit my lip and looked archly out the window.

Jack gave a low laugh in the dark. Which decided the question, in my humblest of opinions.

“Villain,” I stated.

He flicked his cigarette out his open window. As it looked like a falling star, I made a wish to return to Lapis Lazuli in one piece.

“Do you have it?”

The It presumably being the bracelet, I held my hand so he could see the gleam around my wrist. “Are we engaged in some sort of espionage, Jack?”

“Espionage is for the patriots, dear. My concerns are not so pro patria mori.”

I could have told him that. I could have told him a great many things. With the double-edged sword of retrospect, I wonder if I ought to have. In the moment I simply gave him an expression I’d practiced in Bournemouth (and am quite proud of).

To which he answered, “Unexpectedly fierce, Miss Lion.”

The instructions Jack gave were simple.

“After the main dance number, the girls will go down into the audience—smiles, laughter, harmless flirtations. You are to look for a man, forty-five years of age, with a long scar on his left cheek, a dark green ascot, and a white rose in his lapel. Emeralds on his cigarette case. Go to his side, smile, play nice. He will slip the bracelet from your wrist. You are then free to go. This hansom will be waiting in the back alley. Tidy. Simple. Oh, when you first arrive, ask for Marge.” And Jack removed himself from the cab. He opened the door while we were still in motion and disappeared.

I’ve acknowledged his predatory nature; however, I must concede he’s also a bit of a magician.

It was not long before I was deposited at The Drunken Duck.

(Now there is a sentence I never thought I would write.)

The cab pulled into the alley, and I went to the back door.

I lifted my hand, hesitated, then deciding I would be far more comfortable once the bracelet was far from my person, I knocked. Sternly. With an air of disapprobation.

I must have looked as stubbornly lost as I felt, because the woman who answered the door—a woman in a yellow and pink creation—said, “What ya want, duck?”

“I’m looking for Marge?”

She gave me the up and down. “Fine then.”

It was a maze of bad lighting and cheap costumes, and from down the hall I could hear music and cheering and the sort of catcalls that would send Aunt Eugenia to an early grave.

No, I must amend that.

The sort of catcalls that would cause Aunt Eugenia to send me to an early grave.

Marge was in a room filled with costumes and girls, and when she saw me, her lips curled. “You Jack’s occasional wife?”

“I beg your pardon!” was the only answer I could think of to give. “Jack has been my husband once and only once. I hardly think it merits the word Occasional.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sit down, dearie. We’ve gotta make you look like one of the girls.”

Oh heavens. Did she ever.

After removing my coat—“Much better,” Marge murmured—my hair was pulled and curled and brushed and combed every which way, then piled atop my head to a tremendous extreme. When I began to hope the torture was at an end, Marge said, “Tonight the girls are wearing the birds. Here we go.”

And she produced a nest and two fake birds. To be set in my hair.

I closed my eyes and tried to recite a psalm.

None came to mind.

It was then that she addressed the problem of my face.

Rouge, something around my eyes, lips painted past the point of any virtuous thought.

“You’re not half so bad once you get dolled up a bit, love.”

Clearly the epitaph on my future gravestone.

Emma M. Lion

RIP

Not Half So Bad Once Dolled Up

“I don’t have to dance, do I?”

“That depends on what you’re here to do.”

“I’m supposed to mingle with the crowd after the performance, and, er, take care of some business for Jack.”

“Don’t dance then, dearie. Wait in the wings till the girls finish their act. You can join in then. Just smile. That’s all you gotta do.

A sound scheme.

Little to go wrong.

Or so I believed.

After Marge declared me “A Real Duck Girl,” I was led into the wings where all around me ducklings (and a few old enough to be called hens) were gathered, whispering of this and that, suitors who were waiting for them, what they planned to do with their day off, et cetera. Then the music began, the curtain came up, and there they went, out dancing like, well—it was certainly no waltz—and I, left hand gripping the ruby bracelet on my right wrist, settled against a post to watch.

“Not shy, are you, ducky?” came the voice of an old stagehand at my back.

“No, I—”

But before I could explain that I would not be kicking my feet for anyone, he pushed me onto the floor.

Front and centre.

It was a moment of grand petrification.

There I was, trying not to topple, blinking at the lights.

Let it be recorded and known that footlights are blinding foes.

When I had the good sense to turn and run, it was straight into one of the dancers, and I nearly knocked both of us over.

There was laughter, more than I would have liked.

And so, I did the only thing I could fathom.

I turned, smiled, and bowed.

Only to be bumped by a dancer trying to follow the routine.

It sent me tumbling.

The saving grace stark reality that made it endurable was that the crowd believed me to be the comic relief.

Comic for them. Not much of a relief for myself.

Reclaiming my footing, I tried to waltz-trot behind the crowd of girls. But as I was hopping along, they—giving me dirty looks all—formed a line, and I saw what was coming.

The dreaded cancan of days gone by.

No. Absolutely not! I blindly ran, stumbling to the edge of the stage as I flailed my arms in an attempt to delay what seemed inevitable, and nearly flopped forward into the arms of a man sitting at the table before me.

The audience gave a sharp intake of collective breath, and I, refusing such a fate, gave all effort and energy to righting myself. Which I managed to do. A great relief.

Smiling a dazzle down upon my audience, I meant to take a dignified curtsy, only to have the heel of one boot catch on the other, sending me in a backward stumble. And here is where the tale grows confused, for all I recall is a sequence of shoves followed by a fantastic tumble into the wings.

From the red velvet heap I found myself in, I thought I heard applause.

Righting myself, I stood and limped to the darkest shadow I could find.

It wasn’t long before the music went into a ghastly crescendo, the girls finished with a “whoo, whoo!” and the performance was at an end. After taking their bows, my fellow ducks poured down into the crowd. Grimacing, and making certain my nest was still in place, I followed out a side door that led to the gallery.

While a comedy act began on stage, silly music and all, I tried to smile as I passed a number of tables with men looking to claim any dancer’s attention. I was having none of it and twisted away when their hands reached out to pull me in for conversation. I had a job to do. My attitude was that of Macbeth: “It would be best to get it over with quickly.”

Yet no matter how determined, I saw no man with green ascot and white rose. To say nothing of a scar.

I moved through the front tables to phrases like, “Good show, good show!” As I was winding towards the back, I came upon a group of young men who had already claimed three dancers for their amusement.

“There’s another!”

“Call her over!”

“She ain’t half bad.”

(The second time this evening someone said I wasn’t half bad! Hardly complimentary.)

One laughing lout from another table stepped back so quickly he almost bowled me right over.

“Steady on!” I cried as I only just escaped getting pummelled.

The young man turned. Grinned. And I found myself face-to-face with, of all people, my cousin, Lord Damian Spencer.

Damian!

Who is supposed to be chasing after some Italian beauty!

“Forgive me,” he slurred. “Are you occupied? We’re looking for one more—”

I squeaked, “I’m meeting someone.”

Then his eyes sharpened beneath the haze of his revelry. “It can’t be— Emma? No. Wait. What’s your name?”

“Jane.” And I ducked and slipped past him.

It was then I caught the glimpse of an emerald-covered cigarette case, and I followed the gloved fingers of the man lighting a cigarette to his face.

White rose. Green ascot. Scar on his left cheek.

He looked like a terrible person.

His companions less threatening, but only just.

There were no women at their table.

My palms were sweaty, and I swallowed down a nervous lump in my throat, trying to think of the best approach. I pushed past a few other dancing girls and approached from the back. Leaning down, I whispered in his ear what I thought a dancing girl might say, “Excuse me, governor?”

It was, without a doubt, the most humiliating moment of my life. The words, meant to intimate a rough life in backward streets, sounded tremendously posh, as if I were about to enquire if the garden show would continue next summer. It could not have been plainer I was out of my depths.

He must have thought so too, for the man jerked his head and looked at me as if I’d grown wings. “Is there something I can do for you?” His voice roughed up with suspicion.

I set my hand on his shoulder. “Just some conversation, I should think.”

His companions smirked. And he—face worn, hair oiled—lifted his hand to my wrist and pushed it away. “Go away, love. Sorry to disappoint.”

It was a few moments before I realised he’d taken the bracelet in that single movement.

“Don’t worry on my account,” I said. “Honestly, I wish I were home with a nice cup of tea, studying the theories of Euclid.”

Now the entire table did stare, and I flashed them a polite smile before sauntering away, right into the back of a man who had just stood up.

Speaking of Euclid, it was rather ill-timed geometry.

“My apologies,” he said.

“The fault is mine,” I replied.

And then he turned around.

Our eyes met.

His widened. “What in the name of—”

I had run directly into the Duke of Islington.

Disaster looming, I tried to bolt, but iron fingers wrapped around my arm and pulled me close until we were facing one another.

“What are you doing here? Answer me.”

“It’s none of your business!”

“It damned well is now.”

“Islington—”

But he wouldn’t let me string any more words together.

“What are you wearing! How—? Come along. We’re leaving.”

“Islington, I don’t need—”

But he gripped my arm tighter, as if I were a child, and began to march me towards the edge of the crowded room.

“Don’t make a scene,” I hissed.

“If you keep smiling like the fool that you are, no one will think anything of it.”

“Think nothing of the Duke of Islington manhandling a dancing girl? You honestly believe that won’t be talked about?”

He scowled—a mighty thing to behold—and instead of making for the usual exit, turned us towards the door leading backstage.

“I know where the stage is,” I snipped.

“I’m more concerned whether you know where your good sense is.”

“I left it at that last table, with Euclid.”

“What?” he said sharply.

We were through the stage door, and—without addressing any of the curious glances or giggles from my fellow ducks—a very determined Islington refused to stop until he had found the exit and led us both out into the dank air of the back alley.

“My carriage is waiting just around the corner,” he declared as he pulled me along—I, half hopping, half falling.

“Islington, I have a cab—”

“Not a word, Miss Lion. Not a single word. Not yet.”

Then, realising his carriage waited on a very public street, he paused, frowned, released my arm, took off his own dinner jacket, and slung it over my shoulders. “You look like —”

“Real duck material?”

It did not ease Islington’s fury.

“Do you think that’s funny?” he demanded.

It wasn’t a question. It was a condemnation.

Honestly, I did think it a little funny.

We came out onto the street, and there was Islington’s carriage. His coachman saw us, looked more than a little surprised to see Islington with a dancing girl, and moved to step down. But Islington waved him off.

“Lapis Lazuli House in St. Crispian’s,” he ordered. Then, opening the carriage door himself, he helped half tossed me inside.

I was more than indignant, and pulled myself up straight, resettling the jacket over my shoulders. Islington let himself in beside me, and the carriage began to move.

“You needn’t have done that, Islington. I had my own cab waiting. In very fact, I was about to leave when you saw me.”

“It was no trouble,” he answered coldly, looking straight ahead. The man was fury personified. “I cannot begin to imagine—”

“Then don’t,” I snapped. “You had no right to interfere!”

“Is that so?”

“It is!”

Then he deigned to look at me. “Do you have any idea what your father would have done to me if I had left you in that place?”

I snorted. “What right do you have calling on the ghost of my father? I hadn’t realised he’d left you in charge of my moral welfare!”

“I could not have slept in good conscience.”

“Well, now I’ll not be able to sleep as I left my long coat in the back room. And have stolen Marge’s birds!”

I lifted my hand to my hair, finding everything in place despite my theatrics.

“I’ll retrieve your coat tomorrow,” he seethed. Then, after several minutes of what can only be described as glowering silence, he renewed his attack. “What were you doing in such a place? Are you—have you taken a job as a dancer?”

“No! Certainly not. I was there for one very specific purpose, and that is now answered for.”

“That purpose being—?”

“None of your concern!”

“Infuriating minx! Have you no propriety? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

How absurd.

I guffawed. “You do remember a fortnight ago when you and I and Pierce talked by the fountain until the earliest morning hours? There was no speaking of propriety then!”

“You were safe. And seeing we had just left Lady Trewartha’s, so was your reputation. Dancing at The Drunken Duck is a different matter entirely.”

“I repeat, Islington, I had it in hand.” And then the injustice of his one-sided accusations came into my mind full force. “What were you doing there!” He didn’t answer, only worked his jaw and looked tremendously put out. So I added, “A touch hypocritical this evening, are we not?”

“I was there because my cousin and heir—the stupidest young man in the empire—has been getting himself into trouble. I, knowing it likely he would be dropping a large amount of his allowance on gambling tables he has no aptitude for, was trying to give him a discreet and stern warning before another ruinous night at the club.”

A solid reason, I admit. However, mine was just as noble.

“What a guardian angel you are, Islington. You ought to give me the same credit.”

Then the redundant “Why were you there?” was sternly flung back at me.

“I don’t have to tell you!”

And thus it went.

When the carriage was nearing Whereabouts Lane, I hit the roof and the driver pulled the horses to a stop.

“Thank you for your unnecessary chivalry, Islington. I will see myself home. Your jacket.” And I took it off and tossed it at him before letting myself out. I almost turned my ankle when my silly boot caught on a cobblestone.

“Let me take you the rest of the way home,” he insisted.

“I can manage.” And I began to march up the road in all my glory.

But Islingtons, it seems, are not easily deterred.

At least the one I’ve managed to acquire isn’t.

He was out of the carriage and following me up Whereabouts.

“You can’t participate in spectacles like this, Emma.”

“Yes, I can.”

“I don’t think—”

“You don’t even know what I was doing!”

“Am I correct in guessing you were the woman who nearly fell off the stage?”

“It was deliberate!”

(It wasn’t.)

(He never need know.)

“What in the blazes could have been going through your head! Have you been drinking?”

“Most certainly not!”

It was not quite a battle of the Titans, but I imagine Zeus and his lot would have fled.

We argued back and forth all the way to Lapis Lazuli House where, unexpectedly, we saw none other than Young Hawkes walking down the other side of Whereabouts, book tucked under his arm, hands in his pockets.

It was cosmic humour at its near best.

I could feel my face flush, and, seeing as how I was without Islington’s jacket, I felt somewhat uncomfortable more embarrassed than I believe I have in all my life. Hawkes looked up, saw Islington and me standing there, quirked his mouth to the side, then slowly walked over, his expression unreadable.

“Hello,” he said as he looked from Islington to me.

“Hawkes,” Islington snapped.

“Good evening,” I answered with equal verve.

Hawkes said nothing of my appearance, nor Islington’s obvious frustration.

I am not privy to the level of acquaintance between the two men, but they seem to know each other well enough.

Islington said: “You’ve caught us at the end of an ordeal.”

In the exact same moment, I said: “This is not what it appears to be.”

We sounded like school children caught out.

Hawkes switched his book from beneath one arm to the other. Then, with his hands restored to his pockets, he leaned his shoulders forward against some invisible wind.

“It appears Miss Lion has been participating in some dancing performance of one sort or another and that Islington is not pleased with the idea.” He then considered both of us with a solemn expression. “Have I read the situation correctly?”

I snorted, and Islington glared at me.

Young Hawkes was unfazed. “We all find ourselves in unusual circumstances from time to time.”

“Yes, well, Miss Lion has outdone herself tonight, as you can see.”

“I am not a child under your censure, Islington.”

“Your behaviour might suggest otherwise.”

“Manhandling me right out of The Drunken Duck doesn’t bode well for your own maturity.”

Hawkes blinked.

“Islington has appointed himself my guardian angel,” I told Young Hawkes. “Which certainly means misery for us all.”

“Someone has to curtail the ridiculous scrapes you seem to call forth. What if something had happened to you!”

“Something worse than you?”

He raised an eyebrow.

I wanted to hit the man. Truly I wanted to.

Hawkes looked at me directly, then said with no discoverable humour, “I like the birds.”

I took a deep breath. “Thank you!”

And then Islington threw me beneath the carriage. Figuratively.

However tempting he might have found the literal action to be.

“Have you written your sermon for tomorrow, Hawkes? Perhaps you could preach something pertinent to Emma here. Who, this evening, as you said, frequented a dance hall. No, let me correct myself. She did not frequent a dance hall. She danced! Or attempted, as the case may be. Her performance being of the comic variety, I assure you.”

My glare would have petrified the dead.

Islingtons, however, appear immune.

“I had my reasons,” I said through gritted teeth.

Then Hawkes said—without irony, I note— “We often do.”

“Astound us both,” Islington challenged me.

I did not, despite the pins holding the nest in place starting to slide in an unfortunate manner.

We were at an impasse.

And a nest was falling off my head.

At which point, I decided that Islington and I were to serve as one another’s proverbial thorn in the side.

I held my ground.

Hawkes, it seems, was finished with the scene before him.

“Goodnight, Islington. Miss Lion.”

And he stepped between us and walked down Whereabouts Lane into the dark.

Done feeling foolish enough for one evening, I lifted my chin, pushed the bird’s nest back on top of my wild hair, and said loftily, “Following Young Hawkes’s suit, I bid you a goodnight, Islington.”

“Goodnight,” he flung back. “I’m glad you’re alive to see the rest of it.”

And we parted.

Agnes, bless her, was sitting asleep on the stairs outside my garret door with a half-burnt candle.

“Agnes dear,” I said softly. “What are you doing?”

She rubbed her eyes and yawned, “Oh Miss Lion, I knew you would need help out of your dress. Did you have a nice costume party?”

So sweet after Islington’s vinegar, I kissed her on the cheek.

Agnes took such a fancy to the birds we extricated from my hair that I told her she could keep them for an arrangement.

 It would serve Islington right if she displayed them right below his portrait in the kitchen.

September 16th

I have just returned from church. It was very possibly the most satisfying sermon of my life.

Upon waking this morning and seeing the faint trace of rouge on my cheeks, I thought that perhaps I would worship in the anonymity of my garret. However, I did not wish Islington to think I stayed away for shame.

I dressed primly, my hair twisted in a tasteful, positively righteous bun, and strode up the Diagonal to the church with the confidence of a Puritan.

The chapel was filling with the usual crowd.

(Although I did notice the back bench was decidedly empty of Reprobates of any number.)

After piously greeting a few of my neighbours, I sat in my usual row. Not too near the front, not too far back. The sign of a balanced soul. No more than three or four minutes passed when someone sat very decidedly beside me.

Islington. Sharply dressed, staring fixedly ahead.

“I don’t recall having seen you here before,” I asked accused in greeting. “Are you a church-going man?”

“I am as it suits,” he answered. “Usually I listen from Hawkes’s study. Are you a church-going woman?”

“Nearly every Sunday.” I spoke in the most holy tone I could manage.

“Still waiting for it to take effect, I see.”

I very nearly pinched him.

When Young Hawkes stood, Islington and I crossed our arms, preparing ourselves.

Hawkes cleared his throat.

According to my recollection, this is the truest account of what was said:

“Biblical records oft feel distant in our modern times, taking the sting and chase of personal connection and replacing it with the wise comfort of mere observer. There are times when such easy perspective sets us at a disadvantage. It is then helpful, from time to time, to arrange our context under the light of contemporary comparison. Let us draw example from the woman taken in adultery. What if she were not long dead but, rather, alive, living in London. What if she were a dancer at The Drunken Duck”—there was a ripple of confused murmurs—“and instead of a Pharisee seeking to catch the Christ in an indefensible situation, we pictured a modern man of influence, whose position affords his opinions weight, an earl or…a duke. Let us now consider the situation. The, er, duke has condemned this woman and brought her to an accounting before God and community for her sins.

“And what do we find? The Christ draws his finger through the dust of the street and then invites any who has no sin to cast the first stone. There is silence, uncomfortable and unexpected. One by one, those standing in accusation leave the woman to address her Lord in private. He will settle accounts with her. He will speak on matters referring to The Drunken Duck.

“But for our purposes today, we will not stay with Lord Jesus and the dancer. I trust he will sort her out and offer the needed counsel, as recorded in John chapter eight. Let us instead look at the man of influence. He who was given leave to stone our dancer—be that literally or symbolically—only if he himself carried no sin. Let us follow this man away from the dusty Jerusalem square, down the side streets leading to his comfortable home, his privileged situation. The Christ did not appoint this man to be our dancer’s judge. No, he asked the man to look inward at his own heart. This duke who wished to cry foul at the mote in the eye of another has failed to see the beam in his own. This man is all of us.

“In an effort to aid our own spiritual progression, I have selected fifty-three verses of scripture we, the proverbial duke, might take to heart; a way of looking inward instead of pointing out. Shall we begin?”

And begin he did.

Young Hawkes marched through fifty-three verses on everything from the hypocrisy of the whited tomb to the Old Testament assurance that the Lord looketh on the heart, and he did not stop until he had discussed each and every one in between. I sat agog, my smile widening with each remark. Islington was silent as the mute statues on Mars Hill.

And when it was all over, the hymn sung, the meeting dismissed, I looked over at Islington—sitting stiffly, arms crossed, eyes straight ahead. At length he took a long, slow breath, closed his eyes, and then—just as I’d prepared myself for a second verbal assault—began to laugh so loudly everyone remaining in the chapel turned to stare.

Islington did not resume his prosecution, biblical or otherwise.

After we left the chapel, he offered apology.

A full one. No half job of it.

He said the actual words.

“I apologise, Miss Lion.”

“Well done, you,” I replied.

“I overstepped my bounds.”

“You did. With more leaps than steps, I’m afraid.”

He then—this duke of the straight shoulders and distant humour—looked away from me and said, “I feared for your safety. And I couldn’t— That is to say, I could have expressed my concern in a more diplomatic manner.” His hazel eyes still showed residual feelings from last night. But when his gaze returned to my face, another memory was there. A thought separate from me, I could swear it.

As if it was not only Emma M. Lion he was telling to be more careful, but someone else.

It was too long a moment to be comfortable, with me seeing beyond the veneer of his ducal presentation. But I had caught the scent of some past memory. And this man, so accustomed to being sole arbiter of the hound and rabbit game, saw that I had.

His expression changed. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what you were doing there?”

“Not likely, no.”

“Shall we make a bargain then?” he asked.

“What is that?”

“I’ll reread the entirety of those fifty-three verses, if you read John chapter eight.”

“Oh, Islington,” I sighed. “I already intend to sin no more. Although, if you knew what I was doing, you would understand I was justified.”

“What were you doing?”

I smiled. “Tea, Islington?”

“I am afraid my godmother has asked me for the same. Might I join you another day?”

“Bring this contrite self and you are welcome whenever you wish.”

He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and put on his hat. “Until our next, ah, unexpected meeting.”

Well!

Later

I’ve been thinking about Islington all evening.

And what I may have seen beneath his controlled emotions.

It leaves me with a mystery.

Of which I do have a few.

Dear me.

This calls for a tally.

Mysteries in the year of 1883

 EMMA M. LION DEMANDS ANSWERS!

Islington, Duke of

Why did he break his admirable control over my silly escapade?

Whom was he thinking of when he did?

Niall Pierce

Where is he from, and who are his people?

Why did he go to America?

How was he injured?

Why does he have so many ghosts?

(Aside from the obvious consequences of his profession.)

Young Hawkes

Why does he never seem to sleep?

Later

A footman has just delivered my worn, tattered long coat.

I accepted it with all the respectability I could muster.

September 17th

All Things Essential for Meeting at the Bank

1. The Envelope, filled with Pierce’s payments until the end of the year, having been moved from beneath my mattress to a concealed corner in the west garret. (It will be a relief to have that sum soundly in the bank.)

2. The small jar of whatever I’ve managed to save from household accounts. Very little. I’ve not said much to Agnes regarding a more puritan diet. That might change after today.

3. My most humbled expression.

4. A degree of courage.

Later

I expected upon arriving at the bank to meet the very bank-like Mr. Penury of months past, trusting the Mr. Penury of Regent’s Park to be a rare and singular occurrence. A reasonable expectation. The secretary ushered me into Mr. Penury’s office and closed the door behind me.

Penury was not at his desk.

No.

He was fussing over a table in the corner near a window.

On said table was afternoon tea. And a beautiful arrangement of flowers in a vase.

It was to be Mr. Penury from the park.

I was pleased, curious, and more than a little worried that Mr. Penury of the Park would not be as knowledgeable concerning finance as Mr. Penury of the Bank.

“What’s this?” I beamed. (Beaming seems the appropriate response to one’s banker providing flowers in a vase.)

“This is Mrs. Penury.”

“How lovely.”

“She is,” he answered with sincerity. “Please sit. I have your figures prepared. We will take a look in a moment.”

He helped me into my chair and then sat himself down.

“Shall I pour?” I asked.

“Please. No sugar for me.”

Once we were settled at our repast (What exactly are the parameters of a repast? Is tea in repast territory?), Mr. Penury cleared his throat.

“For a woman who no longer talks, she silently expresses a great deal when, shall we say, displeased—especially with me.”

I pinched my lips shut, unable to help the lopsided smile on my face. I am delighted with odd turns of events, and marital confessions of one’s banker are categorized as such. “My wife was amused with you and your friend, Miss Bairrage, when we met at the park. I could tell she thought of you both all afternoon, so when she indicated she would like to hear more, I gave her the barest bones of your story.”

He took an uncomfortable sip of tea.

“Here I must disclose that I have broken your confidence, but not your trust, Miss Lion. My wife pressed to know the details, and as she is not only silent but discreet, I shared with her the infamous way you found yourself in such financial distress.”

The revelation was uncomfortable, yet I could hardly fault the man.

That’s not true and I strike it from the record.

I could fault the man.

And I do.

I fault the man for his part in the whole affair.

However nice the tea.

As for his having told Mrs. Penury, I believe her silence to be trustworthy. My embarrassment likely being the only consequence of his indiscretion.

I live with that often enough.

And then began an awkward attempt to make amends according to his wife’s standards.

“She was very upset with my, eh… What I mean to say is… You see, my wife believes I should have done… She’s a very… All things considered, she thinks I could and should have done more to locate you and ensure you understood what Mr. Flat was doing with the living of the house. That I should have been more aware of the depletion of the funds. That I should have known if you had any other moneys available to you. She wrote me a very long letter to that point. Only my third in all the years since she stopped speaking. Miss Lion”—he looked at me— “when my wife writes, I take heed.”

“Therein lies wisdom,” I said. More acerbically than I intended.

“Yes, well. She provided this tea in a show of sisterly solidarity—these flowers are for you—and insists your financial stability should be the most pressing concern of this bank. Clearly, the woman doesn’t understand how institutions—” He then stopped himself, pressed his napkin to the sides of his mouth, and resumed, “My wife is correct in that my negligence, while not illegal, was unthinking and irresponsible. I am committed to helping you gain solvency. Now, shall we begin?”

The stilted smile having long faded from my face, I simply nodded.

It was when he opened my file that Mr. Penury from the bank appeared. His brow creased. His mouth turned into a stately frown. He took his spectacles from his pocket, put them on, and cleared his throat as he reviewed the numbers in a stern voice.

“Now, Miss Lion. Last time you were here, I mentioned two things. One, that you ought to take any advantage, including the wealth of your relatives, to save whatever you could. Two, you were to consider what work you might take. Before you added your salary from having worked as a companion to Mr. Flat’s sister, you had one year of expenses in your accounts. Having added that salary, you now have two years. Is your tenant still in residence? He’s not left, I presume?”

 “I, uh—no, Mr. Bank. I mean Penury. Mr. Penury. My tenant has remained, and I’ve more news on that score.” I withdrew the fat envelope from my reticule. “I have let my salon to him as a portrait studio. In this envelope you will find his rent for both the apartment and the studio until the end of the year.”

Mr. Penury took the envelope and counted out the pound notes, moving his tongue from the left cheek to the right as he considered. “Well done, Miss Lion. Well done! You’ve charged a good rate. I’m glad you stuck to your price and didn’t back down. I’d even say this is to your advantage.”

“Really? Well, Pierce—that is to say, Mr. Pierce suggested the rate himself. He said it was fair.”

“It is, leaning in your direction. Good, good.”

And he wrote down some figures on a blank piece of paper.

I swayed between wanting to throttle Pierce and bless him.

“Now, have you managed to save anything since I last saw you?” Mr. Penury quizzed.

I handed him my small jar.

He counted out the coins and set most of them beside the envelope, returning a small handful to me.

“Not a great difference here, but every little bit helps. Are you still following the budget I gave you?”

“I, well, yes. Meaning, I’ve been settling the monthly accounts from the funds left at Lapis Lazuli House,” I explained. “I don’t think we’ve gone over too badly. However, there was an incident with a cat, and now Mr. Flat is recovering from a broken leg. I had to pay the doctor. As for the only other expense of note, I should probably speak to my cook. We may have gone over, a thing I will correct. Dukes do not need three desserts, no matter how graced they are.”

Mr. Penury drew his eyebrows together. “Are you being courted by a duke?”

I laughed. “Oh no, Mr. Penury! No, not courted. Hounded? Quite. Harangued? Yes. Hassled? Most certainly.”

Penury made a regretful sound. “Pity. An advantageous marriage would answer for everything and more. Are you looking for marriage? It is your most sound plan.”

Now it was my turn to make a sound. Made of something a little sharper than regret.

“Mr. Penury, I think it best to assume I need find a way to keep Lapis Lazuli House as a femme sole. While the Married Woman’s Property Act was passed last year, sending waves of shock through male hearts across the land, and I would retain my ownership of Lapis Lazuli House in marriage, I think it wise I not marry for the sake of a man’s money, lest need blind my judgement and I find myself tethered to a fool. I believe your wife, were she sitting here, would agree.”

Penury’s frown deepened. He steepled his fingers across his waist. “You are wise in this thing. However, if the right man should come along, and money looks more like love than one would initially suppose, don’t turn your back on a chance for happiness merely because he has the means to save you.”

It was the most fiscally romantic thing I had ever heard.

“Agreed,” I answered.

My mind agreed.

My heart? Well. My heart thinks Saffronia March has made a tremendously successful run at being a spinster (she is, after all, thirty-six years of age) for all her dashing around Europe painting Italian counts.

“Do you have reason to believe your tenant—Mr. Pierce, is it?—intends to stay beyond the end of the year?”

“Of course!” I answered with robust certainty. What an absurd question for him to have asked. Why wouldn’t Niall stay? Why would Niall Pierce even need to go?

What a sad prospect.

I don’t like to think of it.

“Good,” Penury continued. “That leaves us with the question of what work you might do to augment the rent of Mr. Pierce.”

My blank stare was not merely a lack of enthusiasm for the idea, but a keen remembrance of my dismal years in Bournemouth. But Emma M. Lion kept her stiff upper lip appropriately firm and did not resort to a bitter episode before her banker.

No, that I will reserve for a bitter night.

Alone. On a bridge.

Looking desperately into the water below. Wringing my hands and asking how had my life come to this? Or something similarly tragic. Not that I see throwing myself into the Thames as a viable solution to my ills.

We have tea for that.

And so I replied, “A question I’ve been remiss in answering, as I have no idea what kind of work I’m fitted for.”

Penury took a long breath and leaned against the back of his chair. “You were companion to Mr. Flat’s sister. Might you consider such work again?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No, Mr. Penury, I will not consider such work ever again.”

“I see. Why don’t you compile a list of your accomplishments, any particular skills you may possess, and I will make enquiries of my own. You have a little time, with the letting of your salon, but by the beginning of next year, you need to work at something, Miss Lion.”

I nodded with more conviction than I felt.

“See if you can trim your budget. Anything. There is another challenge before you.”

We finished our meeting, and before I left, Mr. Penury of the Bank stood and fussed with the flowers, attempting to wrap the stems in paper. Seeing that Mr. Penury of the Park would not be returning this visit, I gracefully commandeered the task, leaving the bank with flowers in hand and my very few skills on my mind.

Arriving home just now, I found a note inserted into the flowers.

Miss Lion,

Foolish men have been wasting women’s money for years. And our financial system so often gives them the right to do so. I hope you enjoyed the tea, and that Mr. Penury was helpful.

Rebecca Penury

September 18th

Seventeen letters for Pierce today. Shamefully I admit they were placed in the basket.

Later

Cousin Archibald resumed eating in the dining room this evening.

I refused to leave.

The battle was pitched.

Truth be told, now that the heat of the summer is past, I would prefer the tray in my garret.

By a country mile.

On the evenings that Pierce doesn’t join me, that is.

However, that would be to cede ground.

I have already made great strides in my reclaiming of Lapis Lazuli House from its evil overlord. The Drawing Room is now in my Regular Use. The Salon? Obviously Pierce’s Studio. The Breakfast Room is a wonderful place to hide away—Agnes and I having kept my use of it a secret. And I keep my umbrella in the hall. Archibald knows he’s lost the first floor.

If I insisted, I could claim one of the fourth-floor bedrooms. However, I’ve grown accustomed to my garret.

More than that, I’ve grown fond.

I’m fond of the communications Pierce and I continue through the chink in the wall. Tybalt comes in and out often enough for company. And my windows look out above the rooftops of the city. It no longer feels like making do—admission, there were a few blistering weeks in July where it was only making do—and is the only place in the house that feels uncontaminated by Archibald.

Seeing as the last time he visited he fell and broke his leg, I do not think there will be a repeat performance.

All this to say that, yes, I insisted on remaining in the dining room for dinner. As did he.

I prayed most fervently that our meal would be silent.

Aloud.

I prayed aloud.

After I finished saying grace, I could see it was a struggle for Archibald to utter his Amen. He finally did, but quickly, as if the rushing of the word would signal dissent. And within a minute, the man had marched straight into talking.

“I see you take after your father in your manner of dressing for dinner,” stated he with a sniff.

“My father worked hard, while you did nothing. Are you certain this is the course you wish our conversation to take?” answered I.

It bought me three more minutes.

And then, “You’ve curdled my entire meal.”

“What is there to curdle, Cousin?”

“My peas.”

“Can one curdle peas? If there was a cream sauce, certainly, but as they are simply paired with unoffending carrots?”

“To be curdled is a state of the soul,” answered he.

“Do you refer to the permanent state of yours?” quipped I.

He threw his spoon at me.

I ducked below the table.

It was then decided he would take his dinner at half past seven; I would take mine at eight.

September 19th

Emma,

Hello, Dear. How are you? Is your world very improved since Mother and I left London? Yes, that is what I suspected. If you could see the autumn programme Mother has devised, you would pity your cousin. I don’t mind, however. It will keep me amused. Even if it is at the expense of other people. Amusements often are.

I’ve been instructed to write and inform you that Lady Harlow is having us down to Mulberry Hall. This was not in Mother’s plans, but she can hardly say no. You, therefore, are called into action.

Mother insists you take the earliest train down to Hampshire on the twenty-seventh of this month—Do not worry over the ticket, as Rollins will meet you at the station and see you situated. While the old guard bores themselves over cards, you and I will have a frolicking riot by any standards. You will enjoy it, I promise you. Then Monday you’ll be home again to your beloved Lapis Lazuli. Or should I say, your lovely Tenant?

Arabella

Arabella,

I was wondering how long it would take your mother to send a shot over the bow.

If this were a command to Spencer Court in Berkshire, I might try and mutiny. But I like Mulberry Hall. Perhaps a few days in the country will add to my reading and contemplation. Regarding The Tenant, my lips are sealed.

Emma

September 20th

Damian showed his face at Lapis Lazuli House today. I credit myself that he merely longed to visit his dear cousin.

A nice thought.

And wholly untrue.

He was here to investigate.

The aim of said investigation being: Was Emma M. Lion dancing at The Drunken Duck?

Our greeting was warm—he kissed my cheek and we exchanged a few niceties. Watching him attempting good manners was delightful.

Whereas Arabella is the blue-eyed, flaxen-haired English rose, Damian is…not.

Really, he’s nothing of the kind.

His brown eyes are the uninspired colour of boot leather. His hair a darker version of the same, with the propensity to grow in a flop over his left eye. His face is neither displeasing nor handsome. It simply hovers in an unremarkable place in between.

All this until he smiles. Dear me.

When Damian Spencer smiles, something only explicable as sorcery happens. He looks like Puck having a merry dance with us mortals; his eyes catch a spark, his hair rebels in a fetching manner, and two mischievous dimples grace his cheeks.

Which is why Damian decided early in his career as a human being that the life of frivolity and excess was for him.

Aunt Eugenia once said, “I would deny he be my child at all if I hadn’t given birth to the creature. Within an hour, he had winked at me and given me the most unpleasant smile.”

It may be needless to record that any love is wandering lost between them.

So, while Damian’s greeting was bleary—the dear looked like he had a headache—it still came with his untoward smile, calling all potent powers that be.

I could have told him of my escapade without his judgement.

But love and trust are not the same, and I love him a good deal.

Trust is another matter entirely.

“Emma”—he eyed me with the squinty expression of a young man who went to bed at dawn—“did my eyes deceive me, or, er, how does one say it? Were you out on Saturday night?”

“Out?” I feigned.

“Out.”

“With the Season over, I’m more likely to be found in.”

(In a good deal of trouble, that is.)

He smiled lightly, perplexed. “You weren’t— Hmmm, you weren’t…dancing?”

“Dancing?”

“At The Duck.”

“Duck, Damian?”

“The Drunken Duck. Saturday night. Out. Dancing with a”—he moved his hand above his head in a poor imitation of a woman’s coiffure—“a bird’s nest in your hair?”

“Imagine my being at The Drunken Duck with a nest in my hair? What would your mother say?”

“Are you quite sure? She was so like you. So very like you. I’ve never seen anyone else with just your colour of eyes. And your voice.”

“Damian, as complimented as I am that you believe me to be a dancer at The Drunken Duck, I am not,” I answered truthfully. “With your mother gone from London, I am more likely to be home”—I waved my hand in the air—“reading the Bible. Hmm, yes. Paul’s admonition to women. Don’t tell your mother. About Paul, I mean. She doesn’t approve. Now, enough about me. What are you doing in England? I thought you had sworn us off for a life on the Continent.”

His lopsided smile threatened to fall. “Funds, Emma, funds. I may be Lord Spencer, but Mother was a beast, getting Father to sign all sorts of foolish things before he died. Therefore, my fiduciary shackles give me only a comfortable income until I am thirty years of age. But I am finding myself needing a generous increase. I don’t suppose you—”

“No, I do not.”

He sighed. “Just as well. This place isn’t too shabby,” he added, looking about.

“Are you in London for long?” I asked.

“Me? I don’t know. I’ve some friends in Paris. We’ll see. I’m going to avoid Mother if I can help it. How’s Bella?”

“Arabella is the apple of your mother’s eye.”

“Still letting the old woman lead her about, I see.”

“Their goals are aligned.”

“She’s what? Nineteen? Pity she never had it in her to defy Mama.”

“You took all of that.”

Damian smiled. “I think I did.”

He didn’t stay too much longer.

“You’re certain, Emma? About The Duck?”

I laughed.

He laughed too, but his eyes. They didn’t quite believe me.

Only after I saw Damian out did I notice that Agnes had arranged the nest and their respective birds on the sideboard in the hall. Leading to the question of whether Damian also noticed?

I put my hands on my hips, let my head fall in dejection, and whispered several choice things about my luck.

Or the lack thereof.

September 21st

Rain this morning.

It smells of Heaven.

Or how Heaven would smell, were I in charge.

That doesn’t feel blasphemous, but it sounds as if it might be. Reminder to self: Enquire of Hawkes. Come to think of it, I’ve never looked into the theological record of what canonical scripture supposes the scent of Heaven to be.

Wet earth? Fresh grass? Both of which make up the transcendent aroma of rain.

I rest my case.

Later

Saffronia March is home! And she came to call. Agnes, not knowing who she was, fetched me from the west garret where I was ensconced with Emerson’s “Prudence.” Ensconced is an elegant way of saying I was on a pile of cushions beneath a table, Tybalt lying beside me counting time with his tail.

Cat time, that is. Which is a very different thing to our own.

Agnes bent down. “A woman is here to see you, Miss Lion.”

“Do you know her name?”

Agnes proffered a card. It was a playing card sporting an Italian joker. I laughed, crawled out from under the table, and, while beating any dust from my person, went down to the drawing room.

She was exactly as I remembered: just taller than I, olive complexion, dark green eyes, a strong beautiful nose with an angle, red lips, and the smartest, boldest wardrobe known to woman. Today she was in sky blue that was embroidered with burgundy and orange chrysanthemum blossoms.

“Emma Lion, you’re looking more like your mother than ever,” she said in greeting. “Take it as a compliment. She was lovely. But your eyes are your father’s, if I know anything at all.”

“I was expecting you earlier this month!” I answered. “And based said expectations on the Gregorian calendar, which you must no longer abide by. Whatever happened?”

“France.”

We sat.

“France?”

“France, Emma. I have a weakness.” And she burst into a rush of French, the only thing of which I could understand was her love of their madness and their food, more worthy than what London offers. Or so I think. My French is rusty. And rusticated. At Fortitude, A Preparatory School for Girls, we studied French with only a stack of farmer’s reports for aid.

Were I to find myself stranded in agrarian France, I may not be able to ask for help, but I could ask after the health of their aubergines. And recommend several remedies for keeping pests out of the vineyards.

I shall have to bring this talent to the attention of Mr. Penury.

Farmyard French.

Perhaps I could go work on a farm in Normandy. We (the farmer and myself) would not like one another at first, he being silent and gruff and beautiful. I would toil so that my hands would blister until raw. One day a horrible accident would befall the farmer. I would nurse him back to health and protect his courgettes from the early frost. Grudgingly, I would earn his respect, which would lead to love just as I had earned enough money to return to London and save Lapis Lazuli. It would break our hearts. But he would send me vegetables every year. And I would send him very bad poetry.

On second thought, I don’t consider that a sound course of action.

After Miss March finished speaking of her love for Paris, I asked, “Did you bring an Italian count home?”

“Oh, Emma. It would take an impossible man to convince me I should marry. Besides, counts are not to my liking. A viscount? Possibly. The title of viscountess would suit. I’ve the nose for it.”

“You do,” I agreed with solemnity.

She does rather look like a painting.

“Now, what have you been doing with yourself?”

“You truly wish to know? My life sports a good deal of the ridiculous,” I warned.

“Even better.”

And so I told her some of the best happenings since leaving school, both in Bournemouth and here in St. Crispian’s. Generalities for the important things, specifics in the small ironies. Nothing too personal or too impersonal.

After an hour of back and forth, Miss March said, “I’ll be on my way, but come visit. How’s Sunday afternoon? You can stop by on your way home from church. That is, if you still attend?”

“Most every Sunday. You weren’t by chance planning on attending?” I asked, despite knowing she is of a different denomination altogether.

Miss March raised an eyebrow. “Having been in Italy, I’m feeling far too Catholic for an Anglican service. Even from Young Hawkes. How is he, by the way? Still alluring as ever?”

“Alluring?”

“Emma, yes!”

I laughed.

September 22nd

This morning I visited Madame Tasset.

“And how is your wardrobe feeling?” she asked first thing.

I opened my mouth, closed it, and pinched my lips together. “How is my wardrobe feeling?”

“That is what I said, isn’t it?”

And so I answered, “Pleasant enough. Though sad on occasion.”

“You”—she pointed a finger into my chest—“must keep your clothes happy.”

But with her thick accent, happy sounded like “appy.”

“I think they are happy. Downright cheerful some days,” I replied.

She made a dissatisfied noise, then, “We have work to do. Your aunt wants to see you properly clothed, and I have a grand vision. Now—”

And she clapped her hands together.

Twice.

And so began the most extensive conversation I’ve ever had regarding my wardrobe. There were to be dresses. Reception dresses, day dresses, evening dresses.

“Will I need so many?” I asked.

“I have my instructions, Miss Lion. Last Season you served as a humble, forgettable presence. Now you are to command attention. As Miss Spencer’s cousin, your beauty will show depth of breeding, an elegance of association. I am to make a picture. From your petticoats to your gloves. Everything”—she waved her hand—“perfect. All silk will be Lyon silk. There will be velvet, flounces, shirring, frills, taffeta, lace of all sorts, ribbons, tassels, overskirts, silk shoes, embroidery.”

It sounded like a very elegant circus.

“Hmm,” I frowned. “Might I suggest we engage no overly aggressive bustles in our cause?”

“Women wear bustles,” she snipped, as if I were a piece of thread.

“They do. Be as dramatic as you like with your tassels and ribbons, but let us keep the bustle conservative in nature, as we did before. You know how the Aesthetics are going against the rigidity of high fashion just now. A few items more relaxed is all.”

“That is too bohemian for your aunt,” replied Madame Tasset.

“Yes, but not for me. Do give me a little more room in the skirt. One must stride, after all. I am a great walker.”

She frowned. “Only if I can make up for it in ornament. And patterned velvets.”

“As you will. I’m assuming I’ll also have some clothes for the country.”

“You shall have everything. Even clothes for mourning.”

“Mourning?”

“Your aunt said it was in case she decided to send your cousin to an early grave.”

“Arabella!” I cried.

“The other one.”

“Oh, Damian. Yes, well, he might just do that himself.”

Madame Tasset lifted her eyebrows while tilting her head to the side. Her long earrings sparkled. “I am making a winter wardrobe of rich, dark colours. Another will be made come Spring of lighter fabrics and shades.”

“Be as generous as you need to be, and then some.”

“If you promise me you can keep such an amount of clothing ‘appy.”

“I can keep a great deal of clothing happy, Madame.” I crossed my fingers behind my back, because I knew the state of my wardrobe. “And perhaps, if you could throw in some simple skirts and blouses, with buttons and sleeves like a young man’s, for me to wear around the house—only for when I’m cleaning,” I rushed, when I saw her horrified expression. “So I do not stain your other creations.”

She tapped her finger against her chin and said, “Alors commençons.”

To which I replied, “Le maïs est mûr dans le champ.”

She began to nod, then paused and said, “Comment?”

French to English Translation by Emma M. Lion

Madame Tasset: “Let us begin.”

Emma M. Lion: “The corn is ripe in the field.”

Madame Tasset: “What?”

September 23rd  

After church services—where Young Hawkes was absent—I knocked on Miss March’s front door and was welcomed in by the housekeeper, who led me up the stairs to the studio on the fourth floor. Saffronia March has a singular abode. Even by St. Crispian’s standards. Brick, and slightly askew. Meaning, it is of crooked construct. That is to say, it begins in one place and ends in another.

Perhaps I ought explain…

So The Story Goes

There was a property dispute between two neighbours, the known surveys having been destroyed in the Great London Fire of 1666. According to local lore, both men, Clackson and Thrush, stubbornly began construction on their homes, walls snug against each other as they fought for inches on the supposed boundary line. The ground floors were constructed, then the first—Thrush’s house looking like it was falling against Clackson’s. Yet before a second story could be added to either house, it was proved, without a doubt, that old Thrush owned half of Clackson’s land. Clackson, not wishing to begin again, sought clemency. A compromise was struck. And so Thrush completed his house by building his second and third floors on top of Clackson’s ground and first floors, a stairway connecting the two irregular pieces of Thrush’s house. What happened to the empty space above Thrush’s first floor? He turned it into a rooftop garden.

And that is how the house came to be called Thrush’s Victory, or Victory for short.

Miss March’s grandfather purchased Thrush’s Victory from the Thrush family themselves. And the Clackson’s long sold their put-upon house to one Ezra Starr, who is now ninety-three.

I digress.

When I entered the studio on the third floor, I saw Saffronia March sitting at a beleaguered desk in the corner, reviewing piles of sketchbooks.

“Hello, Emma!”

“Is that Italy?”

“Mostly, yes. Care for a stroll?”

“Do I ever.”

I found myself a chair, freed it of its current inhabitants (glass jars filled with paintbrushes), and set it beside Miss March’s desk. She was wearing a black dress, her dark hair loosely knotted, her mind occupied with the sketches before her, searching for what she would choose to give full form. As she finished with each sketchbook, she would absently hand it in my direction, where I pored over all the intonations for form and colour. She is so very good.

I think it was a relief for Father to take Miss March beneath his wing, seeing as his own daughter—however beloved—did not an artist make.

And while I have no artistic skill whatsoever, I do have a curated eye enough to know that someday Miss Saffronia March will have her sketchbooks in museums, not just her finished works.

One of the sketchbooks contained a letter, which—as Saffronia made no fuss of it being there—I read. It was in a beautiful hand and declared the most passionate, undying love ever known to man. Or Italy.

“Heavens,” I said, blushing.

“Isn’t it something?” she answered. “He was beautiful, reasonably tall, had loads of money, and an appreciation of art.”

Lifting an eyebrow, I gave the letter a questioning shake. “Why didn’t anything come of it?”

Miss March answered  my unspoken question. “He was engaged to another woman. This letter came with an invitation to the wedding.”

“Ah,” I answered in my best ducal disapprobation.

Saffronia nodded absently, then handed me another sketchbook.

We passed a lovely few hours. The housekeeper prepared tea on the rooftop patio above the first floor, and we sat there laughing over Saffronia’s Italian adventures, she sketching absently while I enjoyed the September sun.

“How was Hawkes today?”

“Absent, unfortunately,” I informed her. “A curate spoke and was merely adequate. We left a rather dejected bunch of Christians.”

“That is a pity.”

I did not say that the last time Hawkes had seen me outside of church, I’d had a bird’s nest in my hair. There are some things best left in the annals of one’s own fading memory.

“How many years has it been?” Saffronia asked after a stretch of silence.

There is only one answer to that question between us. “Seven.”

“Seven already?”

“Mmm,” I answered, fixing myself another cup of tea. “I was thirteen.”

“I was twenty-nine,” she stated, looking past where we sat, “in Paris, having just had a successful exhibition at a salon that I was only accepted into due to your father’s influence. When I got that letter from your mother, Emma, I—” She swallowed. “My heart broke. Far worse than when my own father died. Declan first saw my work when I was your age and told me under no uncertain terms was I to do anything but create art. He connected me with his friends, some wealthy patrons—the few that could convince him to spend time on a portrait—and your mother was not a whit behind in encouraging. And then you wrote that she had followed only a few months after, and I— I’m sorry I couldn’t come and take you away with me. Bring you back to St. Crispian’s. I had several commissions to finish. I was living a life not fit for a young girl. And you were in the guardianship of your aunt.”

“The last thing you needed was to take me on, Miss March,” I answered. “It wouldn’t have answered. I was looking to cling to a home, not follow a rising artist about the Continent, feeling a burden, in any case.”

She did not argue. She knew I was right.

We sat quietly for half an hour, with our separate thoughts.

Until, “Did he ever tell you which—?”

“No,” I replied. “He never did. I’ll light a candle tonight.”

“Tonight? Is it the twenty-third already?”

And we sat with our own thoughts a good long while.

Later

I lit a candle for Father.

September 24th

Mrs. Penury, my banker’s wife of the Great Silence, has asked me for tea.

The invitation came in today’s post.

I’m flattered. And have only three questions.

Question One: Why?

Question Two: Am I expected to talk the entire time? Or to sit in splendid, angular silence?

Question Three: How am I to know the correct answer to question two?

There is, I fear, no historical or literary precedent for such a situation (that I am aware of). As far as silent women go, my faulty education has left me only with knowledge of two:

Julian of Norwich, flesh-and-blood historical figure, and Lavinia, not so flesh-and-blood Shakespearean character.

Julian of Norwich – My father had the Cressy edition of her writings, Revelations of Divine Love. He would read it aloud when I was a child. (I wonder what happened to it? I know for a fact it was not among the books that I sold.) From what I recall, Julian’s silence was due to her becoming an anchoress and taking a vow of silence. On further reflection, perhaps she wasn’t silent, merely isolated. I seem to recall some mention of a window where townspeople could come and speak to her…? If it turns out Julian of Norwich did speak, her helpfulness quotient regarding how to prepare for a silent tea decreases significantly.

Lavinia – From Titus Andronicus, my father’s least favourite Shakespeare play. Poor Lavinia. Her silence was neither personal choice nor religious calling. It was forced upon her after a brutal ravishing, where the villains cut her tongue out and hands off to prevent her revealing who had committed the crime. (I see you Chiron and Demetrius!) Seeing as how this forced silence is very different from Mrs. Penury’s, it offers no help whatsoever.

Thus, into silent tea will I go, with no direction as to how it should be handled.

September 25th

Fifteen letters arrived for Pierce today.

And while there was still plenty of room in the basket for more, I begin to worry he’s right.

Later

The Penury Household is in Mayfair. Which, according to the Gospel of Lady Eugenia Spencer, is a worthy address. Of sorts. “If one goes in for more humility than I personally approve, Emma, Mayfair is moderately acceptable.”

Well!

I walked because economy and thrift are my hue and cry, and felt a good deal of virtue for having done so. Sitting on a bench around the corner to bring down the flush in my cheeks from the journey, I took a few moments to compose myself.

To compose oneself—such a strange phrase. As if one were a musical score. If I were, what would I be? Emma M. Lion in D Minor?

Once composed, I presented myself at the front door and gave the brass knocker a solid drop.

The housekeeper invited me in.

Smiling, I gripped my reticule, a recourse against the unexpected.

I was left alone in a rather pleasant room with tall windows. I frowned. Not because I did not like the room. Rather because I did. The finest houses in London are in the throes of grand excess, with death by ostrich feather around every turn. But not in Mrs. Penury’s room. Each piece of furniture was quality, yet not overdone. The paintings were simply framed. The fabrics elegant but understated. And not a single piece of bric-a-brac to be found.

What a marvel.

Just as I was leaning forward to peer at the details of a painting—an amateur effort, but very pleasing—Mrs. Penury came into the room. The light caught on her gold and white stripe dress, and it was a lovely vision.

I straightened. “Hello, Mrs. Penury.”

A tilt of her head returned the acknowledgement. She waved me towards the high-backed, well-cushioned sofa, and then sat in a chair angled across the way.

The sofa was determined to drown me in comfort. For a moment I wondered if I would need to hold onto a cushion as a raft to keep me from disappearing altogether. However, with a few minor adjustments, I had steadied myself.

Tea arrived.

Mrs. Penury silently went about preparing our refreshment. Rather than asking what I would like by way of sugar or honey, bread or jam, she would pause, consider my person, and choose what she thought I would like. It seemed a bit of a game.

It is worth recording that I enjoyed her selections.

As the minutes came and went in silence, I felt it my duty to say, well, anything. And while I had planned and practiced a short biography of my person—three lines at most—what spilled out was more generous.

It began with, “You might be interested to hear something of myself, seeing as how you’ve invited me into your home. Honestly, I’ve been wondering since yesterday what the protocol of this tête-à-tête would be. There are no references for such a thing. Julian of Norwich has failed me by being completely inaccessible; I’ve no copy of Revelations of Divine Love, you see, and cannot confirm she did take a vow of silence. Titus Andronicus, with its silent Lavinia, fails all but the most bloodthirsty butchers among us. So, again, with no direction on how you most prefer your silence to be handled, I’ve devised a plan of two parts. Part One is to say a few things regarding who I am, of which I assume you have mild, but not overly great interest.”

I took a breath and cleared my throat. “My father is a ghost, Irish for his sins, and my mother died soon after. I’m assuming he needed the company. As for myself, there is not a great deal to say. I live in St. Crispian’s and will come into my majority this January. I am too kind to cruel people, and perhaps a little dismissive of silly young women—a thing I might very well be myself. But honestly, if one is to wear orange, wear it with class. No need to be a spectacle. As for what I do well? Nothing. I do not play an instrument. I do not draw—poor Father was disappointed. I do not dance. Well, I can dance. Meaning, I dance at balls to a level of adequate enjoyment, but I have no illusions I would succeed as a professional.

“I do read. There, you see. I’m not a complete heathen. Not as much as I’d like. The reading, I mean. Not the being of a heathen. My vicar might believe me to be one, however. A heathen, not a reader. While I am moving forward in my studies at a snail’s pace, I do remember facts very well. What else occupies my time? Trouble. Getting into it. Trouble, scrapes, circumstances of dubious nature. A duke recently informed me that I seem to bring about dire straits. I disagree. However”—I lifted my hands—“I cannot deny the uncanny occurrences that surround my person, seeing as how I have just been promoted to Eleanor of Aquitaine by The Reprobates Ten. As soon as I know what it means, I will tell you. If it is not wholly disrespectable.”

Mrs. Penury had been ignoring her tea entirely, a startled look frozen onto her face. Somewhat panicked, I added a coda. “That is a great deal more, I’m sure, than you wish to know of me. As for what I know of you, you are kind. You hide notes in flowers. A virtue. Your room here shows you to be free of sweeping fashions as you keep it elegant, yet not overdone. The French may not approve. That is not entirely a bad thing.”

She closed her eyes, lifted a hand to cover her face, shuddered—as if trying not to burst open—and then snorted.

I froze. Wondering if I had broken her irrevocably.

“Mrs. Penury. Are you quite all right?”

Another snort, then a full convulsion of her shoulders as she began to laugh.

The woman had been silent for ten years, but less than three minutes in my presence and she’d crumbled. I was afraid that one more sentence could derail her life of silence altogether.

However, after calming herself and running a finger beneath her eye to catch an errant tear, she executed a satisfied expulsion of breath and looked at me expectantly.

“I suppose you’re wondering after Part Two of my plan. Well, after a brief introduction—brevity clearly having met with failure—I intended to sit here in absolute quiet.” I pulled my Emersons from my reticule, handing “Self-Reliance” to Mrs. Penury and keeping the book of essays to myself. “In case you prefer reading to my poorly wrought self-history.”

Mrs. Penury studied the book, the binding, the gold-stamped title. Then, opening it with an expert motion, she read the title page, the inscription—which caused the lift of an eyebrow—and commenced to read.

“Do you—” I began, but she held up a finger without taking her eyes from the page.

Shrugging, I opened my own book—I’ve just begun “Experience”—and settled in for a cose.

Cose it was.

In each other’s company, we read and read and read.

Sometime later, long after the time for a reasonable tea had passed, Mrs. Penury closed “Self-Reliance” with a snap. She stood, book still in hand, clearing her skirts of the chair and walking to a neatly-kept desk. A furious scribble ensued.

I, not knowing what else to do, tucked my own book back into the reticule and made to leave. Just as I was to let myself out, Mrs. Penury left her desk, crossed the room, and handed me my copy of “Self-Reliance” with unreadable eyes. Then, lifting her hands to my face, she smiled.

And kissed my forehead.

There was no getting around the mothering undercurrent. I had to blink to keep myself firmly in surprised rather than teary territory.

Still smiling, Mrs. Penury patted my cheek, then returned to her desk.

I let myself out.

Later

I saw you step out of a hansom just now. Forgive me for saying, but you looked to be in pain.

I’VE HAD A LONG DAY OF IT.

How about you join me for dinner.

Unless you plan to go out again.

NOT EVEN HELL COULD DRAG ME OUT THIS EVENING.

I’LL HAPPILY ACCEPT YOUR INVITATION.

Later

When I informed Agnes that Pierce was joining me for dinner, she frowned.

“What is wrong, Agnes?”

She shook her head. “Well, Miss, I’ve decided not to write my mother about his joining you for dinner.”

“Would your mother deem it so improper?” I asked, keeping my smile hidden behind an earnest, puritan expression.

“I think she would question several aspects, Miss.”

“Several? Dear me. Which?”

“Well, he being a bachelor, for one.”

“He’s only a few years past thirty, Agnes. That hardly counts as a bachelor.”

“And your being a maid. I mean, a miss. I mean, an unmarried.”

“An unmarried. How frightening that sounds.” She was very correct, of course. It’s more than a little scandalous on appearance. However, one must be protected against the Judgements of Agnes’s mother. “Has it ever occurred to you, Agnes, that it is not uncommon for unmarried women to board and feed individuals? Even bachelors? There are such boarding houses all over London.”

“Yes, but he’s not— And you’re so— Neither of you even dress for dinner.”

“I’m afraid you’ve caught us out on that one.”

This evening, after we finished our meal, sitting about the table in slow conversation, I told Pierce I would be leaving on the twenty-seventh, and he was to keep Agnes alive should Cousin Archibald get out of hand.

“If I don’t frighten the girl to death myself,” he answered. I could tell that he was rubbing his injured leg in an effort to relieve the pain. It did not seem to be working.

“I think she’s decided you’re not a capital-T threat, Mr. Pierce, only a small-case one. That ought to give you some reassurance.”

He said, “Has she?” But it was a flat question, one with the weight of something else behind it.

I reached for anything to lighten the moment. “Do you know, I think Tybalt has quite cleared the garret of mice?”

Pierce nodded, but as I was certain he did not hear what I’d said, I tried again. When one’s company is distracted, the least one can do is entertain one’s self. “In very fact, Tybalt has turned bookmaker, with several pigeons placing bets on everything from Parian to the mice count in the garden. Our cat is assembling a small fortune and expects to retire with a handsome purse and a house in Piccadilly.”

“Mm-hmm,” Pierce answered. Then he stilled, his eyebrows coming together as he lifted his eyes to mine. “Did you just say Tybalt was planning to retire in Piccadilly?”

“Something of the sort.”

He smiled. The free and clear sort of smile; rare, almost boyish. “I’m glad he’s fleecing St. Crispian’s pigeons with such ease.”

“As am I.”

September 26th

Preparations for the country have consisted of looking over accounts with Agnes, ensuring that she understands what to do if Cousin Archibald has some kind of episode of insanity—call Pierce—and assuring her I will come back with all my limbs intact.

“My mother says that there are no greater dens of iniquity than the country houses of wealthy Englishmen.”

“Heavens, Agnes. I’m shocked. I’ve never seen such levels of degeneracy in the country before.”

“Perhaps they are in disguise, Miss.”

“Perhaps, Agnes.”

Later

ANY CHANCE I LEFT MY POCKET WATCH IN THE DINING ROOM LAST NIGHT?

You have a pocket watch!!!

YES…?

Are you now not certain if you have a pocket watch?

I CERTAINLY HAVE ONE. I’M QUESTIONING WHY YOUR ENTHUSIASM COMES IN EXCLAMATION TRIPLICATE.

I’ve ALWAYS wanted one – an antique gold affair—the kind fathers pass on to sons (or daughters!). My father had a beautiful watch that I always dreamed he would give to me.

WHAT HAPPENED TO IT?

It was stepped on. By a horse. A rather large horse at that. It was one month before my father died, and he teased my mother that it was an omen. I suppose it was. His time was ending.

THAT IS TERRIBLY SAD, EMMA.

MAKES ONE NOT WANT TO CARRY A POCKET WATCH.

Don’t let my tale keep you from it. What a shame to never carry one at all! A far less romantic world we would have if no one dared carry a beautiful pocket watch. The click when it opens. The snap when it shuts. The tick tock of the mechanisms in between. I believe I shall write an ode.

ODE TO A POCKET WATCH?

Yes. Now, to answer your question, no. I haven’t seen it. Nor did I notice it after dinner. However, I will ask Parian and Agnes before I leave in the morning. If it is in this house, I shall find it. If it is not found, you might wish to check The Keep.

THE BLOODY KEEP.

YOU ARE OFF TOMORROW THEN?

Yes. Into the country and the fierce beck and call of my Aunt.

I WISH YOU FIERCE LUCK TO MATCH.

Thank you, Niall.

WHEN DO YOU COME HOME?

Monday

UNTIL MONDAY, THEN.

Until then.

September 27th

It is confirmed. Emma M. Lion walked through the front doors of Mulberry Hall and was greeted by Lady Harlow on the same hallowed footing as any other guest. I was even given my own room.

What luxury.

Until, that is, Aunt Eugenia appeared and attempted to set her world aright. “Oh, Lily. There is no need to send Emma to the Bluebell Room; she shall share the Rose Room with Arabella.”

But I had forgotten how little Lady Harlow likes being set aright by Lady Eugenia Spencer.

“Dear Eugenia, Arabella has a maid to attend her. Let us not crowd them out. Emma will find the Bluebell Room charming, and as it is in the same corridor as the Rose, the girls will have plenty of time to share secrets.”

Aunt Eugenia pinched her lips and her eye twitched.

But speak she did not.

Triumph, you have graced me with your golden crown.

“Now, Emma, as you know, my Violet is in her confinement and unable to join us. But you and Arabella needn’t worry. In addition to my boring old friends who make up the party,”—A harrumph came from Aunt Eugenia—“I have included some young men, arriving on the afternoon train in time for dinner. Up to your room now. Rest, and settle in.”

I am “settling in” now, sitting at a writing desk before the window overlooking the park. I wonder if I can drag Arabella out for a walk before it is time to dress for dinner. We would need to be quick about it, as the dinner gong waits for no walker.

Later

Cruel humour, thou art life.

After a solitary, brief walk—Arabella not wanting to go, Arabella also not wanting me to go, and absorbing most of my time—I changed for dinner.

Interesting insert: The Lady Harlow has fitted me with a maid—a wonder—who took my post-walk appearance in stride, said nothing about the mud, and transformed me into a proper young woman in record time. My hair was downright civil, and after a dash of scent, she sent me on my way.

Mulberry Hall is large. Not always easy to navigate with little acquaintance. And, as luck would have it, I wandered more than is proper before arriving at the appropriate drawing room, which was humming with the conversation of the older guests. Arabella was standing amongst them, darling of the world.

I signalled my cousin to join me, just as Lady Harlow caught my elbow.

“Too few young against too many old. Now don’t worry yourself, Emma,” Lady Harlow said. “The young gentlemen arrived not thirty minutes ago and have strict orders to appear in short order.”

At the prospect of two young gentlemen, I thought, Here you are, Emma. Primed to meet someone interesting. Outside the boundaries of St. Crispian’s, I mean.

And then appeared Roland.

Smiling sun god.

I turned to Arabella. “Did you know Roland was coming?”

“Certainly. Are you not pleased?”

Of course I was pleased. I said so. And asked, “Who has come with him? Someone new and interesting, I hope.”

In that very moment the ungainly form of a tall, if not disastrously awkward, young man walked into the room. Charles Goddard.

“No, Arabella,” I groaned. “No, no, no. You promised me a frolicking riot in the country. You said nothing about flagpoles, or giraffes, nor unintended intendeds.”

“Calm yourself, Emma. The four of us will have good fun.”

“If he proposes—”

“He can’t,” Arabella assured me. “My mother has told him he can marry you once I’ve settled. That gives you at least a year to do something reckless enough to end any notion of a union between the two of you. As for what that something reckless may be, I suggest eloping with your Tenant. You’re practically in a common law marriage as it is.”

Roland and The Unfortunate One made their way to where Arabella and I stood, and I had the naiveté to believe that as Roland had transformed from horrid child to, well, demigod, so might Charles Goddard prove more interesting and less irritating than I’d previously remembered.

I was wrong even to hope.

Needless to say that although we did not sit beside one another at dinner—Lady Harlow likes to make her young guests a little desperate the first night so they will be happy when she flings them at one another the next day—he did send me several half-moon smiles across the table. It made him look like he was dying of the pox.

Steady yourself, Emma.

This too shall pass.

September 28th

Despite what anyone may say, I did not push Charles Goddard into the lake on purpose. I was trying to regain my own balance, and he was attempting gallantry.

Disaster ensued.

September 29th

Last night after dinner, when the men and women had settled for cards, I was cornered by Charles. That is a literal statement.

He backed me in the corner.

There was no getting away.

How does one explain Charles Goddard from short range? Well, it requires a full craned neck to see his face. He has a middle register voice that tends to get somewhat breathy when he wishes to speak. Especially with me. His teeth are in perfect order, which, unfortunately, becomes a liability instead of an asset because his ears stick out (the man has the most astonishing ears); his eyes are perfectly round, his hair a nondescript muddy brown, and his nose looks like that of a child’s.

Let us say nothing of his lips. However, if one were to see fish on the menu, one might remember said lips with startling acuity.

It was almost indecent, the proximity combined with the bizarre bend of his person so that he might look at my face and whisper towards my ear at the same time.

He is far more committed to the idea of us than even I had previously supposed.

Impossible a task to record the whole, so I thus present the most notable nothings whispered:

“Miss Lion. It is so fortunate to find myself here, at this weekend, with you. The chances feel astronomical. Don’t you agree? Do you feel how lucky we are? I know your aunt has demanded I hold my passions at bay, but I do feel them. My passions. As one would expect. Passion comes from the Latin pati, which means suffering or endurance. I endure suffering for you, Miss Lion. And while we are not to speak of things to come, I will only say that I think about our wedding”—he paused his whispering to claim some air—“breakfast all the time. You sitting beside me, in virginal white—(This was spoken. I lie not. I lie not. I lie not.)—and I will stand and welcome everyone, perhaps delivering a short history of the church where we marry. It’s in my home county, Surrey. Everything nice happens in Surrey. And then I take your hand. I do so love a spice cake at weddings. Mother had our cook bake me one each morning. Tea was always—”

“Mr. Goddard,” I finally managed, feeling a dangerous sense of claustrophobia setting in. “I do not intend to marry you. You understand this, yes?”

“I do. Your aunt has said we must wait. The scene which I have described cannot take place for another year, maybe two. So we must think on the future quietly in our hearts. Thinking of our children requires an entire afternoon. A boy, then a boy, then a girl, then a boy, then a girl, then a boy, then a girl, then a girl, then a boy.”

He took another long breath.

And so did I.

It was an extraordinary amount of child birthing he was wishing upon my person, and the thought of nine tall, gangly, ruddy-cheeked children, with sails for ears and hauntingly perfect teeth, cloying about my person, was such an image of terror that when he had filled his lungs again, closed his eyes, and added, “And then a boy,” I’m afraid I was beyond reasonable action.

I brought my shoe down hard on his.

“Oh!” he cried, bending down and hitting his head against mine as I sought to escape.

Everyone looked in our direction.

It appeared, Arabella reliably told me later, as if we had engaged in a dangerous bout of lovemaking.

“Pardon, Miss Lion,” he said, his eyes closed from pain, his hands searching the space before him where I no longer stood.

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” I answered, tears in my eyes from the assault. “Look there. My aunt is calling me over. Thank you.”

All the while, Roland sat at a card table with four adoring women twice his age and grinned in my direction.

Later

Roland and I spent the better part of an hour besting one another in archery this afternoon.

It was the one thing we would do together as children that did not end in injury.

The same cannot be said for insult.

“Would you care to place a wager on this final round?” he asked as we were nearing an end.

“What?”

“If I win, you have to tell me everything Charles Goddard said to you.”

“Ha!”

“And if you win?”

“I want a book,” I said, shamelessly setting my stake.

Roland toyed with the arrow in his hands. “We’ve been over this Emma. Books carry more value than a simple conversation.”

I narrowed my eyes and set my arrow on the nock. “The details of my future wedding breakfast spoke volumes, Roland. The word virginal was used. Twice.”

Roland agreed.

We shot.

I won.

By a slim margin of five points and the remaining shreds of my dignity.

“You’re really going to deny me the details of your wedding breakfast?” he asked, after we had retrieved the arrows from the target.

“Roland, I am. Do you wish to know why? Because I cannot remember it after having given birth to a boy, then a boy, then a girl, then a boy, then a girl, then a boy, then a girl, then a girl, then a boy. Then another boy!”

“He wants you to have ten children?”

“It’s written in the stars, apparently.”

“You’ll be exhausted.”

“I didn’t say they were my stars, Roland.”

He then thwacked me with an arrow and I gave chase.

September 30th

I was forced to attend church this morning while Arabella rested.

The sermon was…a display.

It was pedantic and overstuffed, with not a whiff of poetry.

If Hawkes ever leaves St. Crispian’s, I may be forced to become a Quaker and stay home. (Do Quakers stay home? Do they meet? Do they frown on anything I may have done in the past year?)

I Take a Moment to Pray

Dear Lord,

Bless Young Hawkes.

And keep him.

In St. Crispian’s.

Forever.

Amen.

Now, where was I? Oh yes. Church.

Charles Goddard sat as close as he could and still respectably be in a church.

As the sermon was reaching its painful conclusion, his hand came for mine with such speed, one would think him half vermin.

It was beyond endurance.

“I think I’m going to vomit,” I muttered, then I stood and ran down the aisle.

Later

I have it on good authority that Charles Goddard searched for three hours to locate his sick beloved. “She fell ill during the sermon, Lady Spencer, but I cannot discover where she has gone. Should we call the constable?” Which, coincidentally, was when the Lady Harlow received a shy, yet sincere missive from Charles Goddard, asking if he might stay on a week after the other guests in her beautiful home.

Written by yours truly.

Meanwhile, I had escaped over a creek, through two miles of woods, and was lying in a field of long grass, reading Emerson.

“What a perpetual disappointment is actual society…”

To which I can only say, Mr. Emerson, I couldn’t agree more.

October 1st

Roland and I had the good fortune of catching the same train back to London.

“I’ll be in London a few days before I go up to Suffolk for most of the autumn.”

“Shooting?”

“Most likely,” he answered. “I’ve a few friends joining me, and they all enjoy the sport. Do you shoot?”

“No.”

Though the image of Emma M. Lion with a gun in her hands does inspire. Which makes me think of what Pierce said about Islington’s sister that night by the fountain, that she could shoot through a playing card while riding a horse or something? Dear me. What a boring soul am I.

I digress.

We fell to our own thoughts, mine with my reading. Then Roland said, “It’s a pity that Charles stayed on, Emma. He could have made up the party home.”

I looked up innocently from my Emerson. “It is. Great pity.”

But Roland was smiling as he looked out the window.

Later

Lapis Lazuli House is right where I left it. Agnes has cleaned the floor of the hall, polished the staircase, and freshened up the garret. When I arrived—somewhat breathless—I noticed there was a small handpicked bouquet of autumn flowers on the desk that look suspiciously like those coming through the garden fences about Primrose Hill.

There were twenty-three letters on the sideboard for Pierce.

I concede. The man is justified in having a basket.

I love coming home.

October 2nd

WELCOME HOME.

Thank you.

HOW WAS THE COUNTRY?

Dangerous. Very, very dangerous.

DANGER FROM MAN, FOWL, OR BEAST?

Man. Although I believe he could be quantified as a fowl. Far too frail for a beast.

CONSIDERING HIS ALTERNATE CLASSIFICATION,

I ASSUME HE WAS EASILY HANDLED?

So I had believed. If one solid stomp on a man’s foot doesn’t dissuade him from trying to clasp a girl’s hand in church, what recourses does she have?

HE TRIED TO CLAIM YOUR HAND DURING A CHURCH SERVICE?

I fled. With Emerson.

We communed in a field of green grass until danger was passed.

WHAT A PROPER TRANSCENDENTALIST YOU’RE PROVING TO BE.

What’s a transcendentalist?

KEEP READING.

October 3rd

Roland visited this morning.

“I’m leaving tomorrow, so I thought I should settle my debt.”

He handed me the owed book wrapped in gold paper.

I ran my fingers along the euphoric texture of the paper and sighed with contentment. Felicity is the gift of a book.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” he pressed.

Unnecessarily.

“It’s reverent ritual, Roland.”

He leaned back and made an impatient gesture.

When I did begin to unwrap the paper—the moment of anticipation having its due—my heart started to beat. Beautiful blue leather was revealed, so soft. Turning it over, I read the title on the cover.

Jane Eyre

With my name, once again, inscribed in the corner.

“Oh, Roland. You are the dearest soul.” I gripped the book and looked up at him. Keeping the truth from my face. But Roland was frowning.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s beautiful.”

“Something is not right. Enemies we may have been, but I know the secret codes behind your expressions. Let me guess. You own it already. I can tell by the way your eyebrows are crushing down over your eyes.”

I was reluctant to be honest. “I— Well, I own it. Of sorts. Meaning, yes. I do have a volume on my shelf. However, it is not blue, and this is lovely.”

“That’s twice I’ve failed you. I thought your library was nonexistent?”

 “Of sorts.”

“What does ‘of sorts’ mean?”

“Meaning it’s very limited. And I seem to have an unspoken penchant for double copies. Or, rather, you have an uncanny ability to divine what I own.”

“Give it here. I’ll get you another.”

“Roland!” I clutched it to my breast. “It has my name engraved in the corner.”

“So?”

“So! If anyone were to see a discarded copy, what would they think of me? ‘There is the girl who sent Jane packing,’—that’s what they would think. Unconscionable!”

Roland’s frown turned into a look of self-disappointment.

Beautiful heartbreak.

“I was hoping to get you something new.” Then an expression of ill wish crept onto his face. “I suppose if you’re going to have all those children, you’ll need something to read on those long nights. Might as well have a spare copy lying around.”

I balled up the golden paper and threw it at him.

Later

Perhaps I should marry Roland.

He would buy me an entire library. It couldn’t be more than a year before he gifted me a book I hadn’t read.

Later

Is it immoral to marry a man solely to gain a library?

And if that man happens to be tremendously good looking, is it more or less of a sin?

Later

Mercenary marriages happen all the time.

In churches, no less.

October 4th

It rained this morning.

Inside and outside.

Apparently, there is a new leak in the roof of the west garret.

After finding an old metal tub to catch the drip, I asked Tybalt if he would repair it while I was at the Reed and Rite. He ignored me and went to take a nap on the old cushion by the window.

Eighteen letters for Pierce.

Who are all these people?

Later

Parian has been tasked to fix the roof.

“But I don’t know how!” he complained.

“You figured out how to build a still in Lapis Lazuli Minor before Mr. Pierce moved in, did you not?”

His cheeks pinked, but he did not verbally admit the crime.

“I expect you to put said ingenuity to work. Just think, Cousin Archibald cannot follow you up to the roof. It will be a well-deserved respite. Or at least a deserved one. Or at least a respite. Deserved or not.”

October 5th

I’ve been attempting to compile a list of occupations I might work at. Seeing as I’ve been very busy with important things…

SUCH AS

* Mr. Pierce

* Emerson

* Country Outings

* Avoiding Unintended Intendeds

…I have not yet taken time to consider my strengths and how to ply them to a noble trade. And so it behooveth me (awful word, truly) to try.

I am not a paragon of productive virtues, but there must be something. I know how to lead an insurrection, having done so at school on multiple occasions. There is that…

Perhaps I ought to make a list.

POSSIBLE AVENUES OF EMPLOYMENT

for one EMMA M. LION

Leading an Insurrection:

 Against whom, for whom?

Kitchen Work:

I would let go of my help before seeking such a thing.

Personal Secretary of Sorts:

Bland, but possible.

What Mary Does:

Typing machines; newfangled, rare, expensive.

Laundress:

 See Kitchen Work.

Standing on Corner Making Clever Comments to Passersby:

My true strength.

Treasurer for a Ladies Aid Society:

Embezzlement being the aim.

Shop Girl:

 Do shop girls make enough to justify two servants?

Dancer at The Drunken Duck:

Real Duck Material. However, dancing...?

Beggar:

 Will take coin or books.

Marry Roland Sutherland:

Looking more acceptable by the day.

We both deserve better than a marriage of inconvenience.

However, books!

Perhaps I should start by interrogating Mary. 

October 6th

I went to Mary’s boarding house this evening to learn something of her typewriter, that rare bird. Knowing next to nothing about them, it was fascinating to see Mary at work. Strange—looks like a miniature stage, and with the letters set in odd little buttons like an orchestra pit. The words Sholes and Glidden declared its origins.

“It’s a very modern machine,” Mary bragged as she petted it like a small dog. “More effective by half than a writing ball, in my humble opinion.”

“You’ve never been humble about anything, Mary,” I answered.

She grinned.

“It must be terribly expensive,” I added warily.

“Oh, they are! But my horrible brother got his hands on this somehow and declared it my inheritance. Lucky, as I’ve been able to supplement my living and boost my desirable skills.”

Ominous. And dreadful.

However, desirable skills are exactly what I need.

Mary showed me how I was to place my fingers and then, as example, set about transcribing one of her professor’s pages. Her fingers flew, pressing down the stiff buttons with a facile speed and strength. Or so it appeared until I tried! I was painfully slow and made a mistake on just about every word.

“It takes some training,” she answered. “Here, I’ve drawn out a map of the keyboard. You practice on this until you understand where all of the letters go.”

“But why so mixed up? Why not simply start with A and work one’s way to Z?”

“It’s easier than you think, having everything scattered about so. Just takes practice.”

“And a small fortune to buy one of the dreadful creatures.”

Mary’s answering smile was painful. “A bit, yes. And I’m not certain you would make enough to keep Agnes or Parian.”

“Parian will be the first to go.”

“Followed by that dreadful Mr. Flat?”

I sighed.

Over stale biscuits, I informed Mary of the sheer volume of mail we’re receiving in the name of Niall Pierce.

“They can’t all be clients,” Mary deduced.

“No, I believe most of them are friends.”

I did not mention I scrutinized the writing. There were a good many from women, as well as men.

“I don’t understand it,” I said. “A man with a troubled past should have friends, but they should be a desperate few, holding on to one another for their shared misery. By principle, Pierce should be a recluse of sorts.”

“We must remember that even Rochester had friends in Paris.”

“True,” I replied, then after a moment of contemplation added, “Although, if one’s friends dropped a spoilt child into one’s care, do they really deserve the name?”

Later

Tonight I opened my window to the most delicious October air. As delicious as London air can be. The warmth hasn’t retreated too quickly, but there is a nip, light and cool.

Change is here.

Father always liked fall best. Mother claimed it was his natural melancholy.

I don’t agree. One doesn’t have to prefer spring to be a contented soul.

October 7th

Islington, the Duke of, was leaving the Reed and Rite as Emma M. Lion was entering.

It went like so:

“Pardon,” I murmured politely.

“Pardon.” And then the moment of joint recognition.

“Hello, Your Grace.”

“Your Grace, Miss Lion? Really?”

“Can you deny that’s the appropriate greeting for the honorific you hold?”

“Have it your way. I expect you to call me Your Grace without exception. It will humble you.”

“Islington, don’t be so formal.”

The slightest quiver of his staid expression. “They desire your custom here, at the Reed and Rite?” he baited.

“My mite is worth that of a duke’s.”

“How biblical, Miss Lion. Are you attending church tomorrow?”

“I am, rather righteously, Islington. And you?”

“Undecided. I am, however, not occupied in the afternoon.”

And so I invited him for tea.

October 8th

Parian and Cousin Archibald are nowhere to be found. Out they must be.

Blessed Sabbath, indeed.

Later

It has only just struck me that I intended to tell Agnes about Islington coming to tea.

I did not.

And she is out for her day off.

I am alone in the house (wonderful) and responsible for preparing a suitable tea for Islington (less than ideal).

I can’t very well send a message he is uninvited.

Can I?

There must be cake in the pantry.

There usually is cake in the pantry.

Is there cake in the pantry?

Later

No, there is not.

I am set to leave for church any moment.

I believe the Lord Jesus once spoke of an ox in the mire.

Perhaps he was really speaking of Islingtons in the drawing room.

Which therefore means there will be no Emma M. Lion in the chapel.

Later

My face is flushed red. My hair an absolute horror. I have burned my hand twice and an attempted cake thrice. Just as I was about to climb the stairs and throw myself from the west garret, Agnes—Angel of Light—swept into the kitchen.

“Are you dying, Miss! Miss?”

“I’m here, Agnes,” I coughed, scattering the smoke about with a tin of some sort. The portrait of Islington just visible.

“Is the house on fire!”

“No. No. I’m only— Islington is coming to tea. Any moment now. I’ve burned three cakes and—”

It was when I said the name Islington that Agnes straightened.

“The duke is coming? Here?”

“Yes.”

“Now? For tea?”

“Yes.”

She took the information in hand, set a determined face, then said, “Out you go, Miss Lion. You make yourself presentable. I will sort your tea.”

“Agnes, I—”

“Miss Lion, out you go!”

And she thrust me up the kitchen stairs.

I am now considering which afternoon dress will make me look presentable. My hair will need a good deal of—

Dear me. Someone has just now knocked on the door.

Later

Agnes brought about a miracle.

After ten minutes of washing, changing, and pinning my hair into a fetching something or other, I banged on the door of Pierce’s studio—no answer—and then found Islington waiting in the drawing room.

“Hello, Islington,” I rushed in. “Forgive me if I smell of smoke.”

Islington rose from the green sofa. “I beg your pardon, what?”

“Smoke may be hovering about my person.”

“Have you taken up the pipe?”

“No. I attempted to make your tea. There are dead cakes strewn about as proof I am no talented cook. I suppose I shall have to keep baker off the list.”

“List?”

“It’s nothing. Have a seat.”

We sat, and I took a deep breath, placing my hands innocently in my lap.

His eyes appraised my rushed toilette.

His was, as ever, perfect.

“Is the burning of my tea why you weren’t at church?” he asked.

“You went?”

“I did. Mostly because I expected your sanctimonious company.”

It was said without his batting an eye.

It was also said without my batting a duke.

(My restraint is something of a small wonder.)

“I realised this morning it was Agnes’s day off, hence my attempt to make your tea. Which did not go well. Agnes was horrified, I assure you, and is setting the world aright. It may take a few moments, but I expect she will create something other than burnt offerings in short order.”

And so we conversed.

Islington—let it be noted—was pleasant, if not very talkative. He smiled as we exchanged what Aunt Eugenia would call Socially Appropriate Conversation, otherwise known as chitchat. The weather, his prospects for the winter (no, he’s not decided if he will quit town), the merits of keeping one’s horses in London, et cetera, et cetera.

“What did Hawkes speak of today?” I enquired.

“The Aeneid.”

I bit my lip. Feeling for a moment as if I might cry.

Dratted cake.

Islington looked on the verge of laughing. Or at least his eyes did.

“Are you teasing me?” I demanded.

“I am. He spoke of the ten virgins.”

“Ah.” I relaxed back into my chair. “And how did they end?”

“The usual. Half in, half out.”

“They do seem to repeat the pattern.”

“They do.”

“No poetry?”

“Poetry, yes. But all of Hawkes’s doing. The man’s an oratory marvel.”

“He is.”

It was then that Agnes came sweeping in—no tea trolley, thank goodness—with a tray full of beautiful things. Tea, with bread, cheese, fruit, another sauce in a dish, and fresh, steaming, fluffy cake drizzled with caramel.

I don’t know how she did it.

“Agnes, you are a miracle worker!” I cried as she set it on the table beside me.

“It’s nothing, Miss,” she answered, her face as pink as any icing.

“Beautiful presentation,” Islington added. “It’s after the European style, which I’m particularly fond of.”

Agnes, who was fussing with cloth napkins, lifted a hand to her heart as if to catch it. She very nearly swooned.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” she whispered.

After which Agnes turned and ran from the room.

Had it been a race, I would have wagered a victory in her name.

In her wake, the door opened again. Pierce walked in.

“Pierce! I had just knocked on your door. Tea?”

Islington stood as Pierce was crossing the room.

They shook hands.

“Pierce.”

“Islington.”

“Glad to see you’ve recovered from the other night.”

Pierce grinned. “Can’t keep a good man down.”

I sat bug-eyed, I’m sure. What exactly were they speaking of?

They settled on opposite ends of the sofa and then looked towards me with parallel motions.

“I expect you want tea, now that you’ve driven my curiosity a country mile and abandoned it on the side of the road?”

Islington’s trained features did not so much as twitch, while Pierce went from knit eyebrows to half smile in record time. “We both attended the same dinner. There were obstacles to leaving.”

“Pierce is a popular guest, Miss Lion,” Islington said smoothly.

“Heavens,” I remarked. “Were you held captive by a competing pair of attentive debutantes?”

Pierce flushed in a piratical way. (One may question if such a thing is possible. It is.)

“Sisters,” Islington provided.

Pierce glanced Islington’s way. “Were they? Remarkable.”

I laughed.

Serving the miracle Agnes had provided, we settled into a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Excerpts from Conversation Over Tea

Islington: “You don’t smell of smoke at all.”

Pierce: “Smoke?”

Lion: “An accident in the kitchen.”

Islington: “Noble to have tried.”

Lion: “I know how to bake a cake, Islington.”

Islington: “Do you?”

Pierce: “Do you?”

Lion: “Of course! I kept a dragon alive for three years.”

Islington & Pierce: “What?”

Lion: Sips her tea in a superior manner and gazes out the window.

Islington: “Are you religious, Pierce?”

Pierce: “I never touch the stuff.”

Pierce: “I think you do smell of smoke.”

Lion: “Islington! You said you couldn’t smell a thing!”

Islington: “I was being polite.”

Pierce: “It’s hardly noticeable.”

Lion: “Well, I refuse to feel self-conscious. A holy smoke, seeing it is the Sabbath.”

Islington: “I think that only counts in your favour if you were at church.”

Lion: “You were my reason for missing! And you hardly ever attend as it is. I’m there nearly every week.”

Pierce: “Every week?”

Islington: “Don’t worry. It’s done little to improve her character.”

Lion (dryly): “Ha ha ha.”

Pierce: “Sorry, I was nodding off.”

Lion: “You must be tired.”

Pierce: “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Islington: “It’s late. I should be going.”

Lion: “You should eat this last piece of cake. It would send Agnes over the moon.”

Islington: “Death by cake. I’m not certain I trust your motives.”

Lion: “Virtuous, as very nearly always.”

Islington: Opens his mouth, most likely to make some comment regarding The Drunken Duck, looks at Pierce, says nothing.

Pierce: “Oh, Emma, er, Miss Lion—”

Lion: “I don’t think you need to worry about shocking Islington. There is a dangerous first name basis at Lapis Lazuli House. Beware.”

Islington: Lifts an eyebrow.

Pierce: “Yes, well, Emma, I developed those plates I took of you.”

Lion: “What?”

Pierce: “On the front stoop, with Tybalt. From the end of August?”

Lion: “Oh, yes!”

Pierce: “I’ll bring them over. Or slip one through the wall.”

Islington: Flicks his eyes from me to Pierce.

Lion: “Tybalt has been unwell in the garret twice. Did he eat something?”

Islington: Opens his mouth, thinks better of it, says nothing.

Pierce: “Not that I know of.” Turning to Islington, “We share the joint venture of a cat. Temporarily.”

Islington: “Ah. Tybalt, King of Cats?”

Lion: “I’ve long suspected.”

Pierce: “Too much Shakespeare.”

Islington: “Is there such a thing?”

Lion: “Ah, look. St. Crispian’s duke has some good sense.”

Islington: “Do you wish me to finish this cake or not?”

Lion: Presses lips together. “Yes, Your Grace.”

October 9th

While I sat on a bench on Primrose Hill, I saw a man and a woman—married from the looks of things. He was chattering away like a magpie, too many notions crammed into the little enough space between them. She looked wistfully about. For rescue, no doubt.

Half hour later I saw another couple, she prattling away, looking about as she jawed and jawed her way across the park. He seemed irritated, distant, and resigned.

The cosmic possibility occurred to me that they had married the wrong people.

What if the He and She content to talk and talk about all the nothings, were to have been walking through the park, excited by all the same interests, a bane to their neighbours, but ever so contented in their own company? And one day they would pass another couple of similar age; this pair, however, would be walking, gazing out over the city, the occasional and passing remark between them, content in their quiet space.

What if there are thousands walking about London having just missed the one with whom they could chatter away with, or walk with in contented silence?

It’s an unhappy thought, but what if it’s true?

Later

The post was a mound of correspondence for Pierce—I’m beginning to wonder if I should charge the man—and a letter for one Agnes Dowd. My suspicion that this was the full name of my fictional chaperone—Arabella’s doing—was proved correct when I opened the peach envelope.

Miss Agnes Dowd,

I write to you out of concern for your charge and my ward.

Although we have never met, I trust our aims are similar. Mainly, to keep Emma from any trouble that would cause her family pain or embarrassment and preserve her for a respectable marriage. She has mentioned some of your opinions, giving me hope I can trust in your service. Also, Emma said you have warts. I don’t trust warts in general on a face, but when one is a chaperone, I approve wholeheartedly. Please write to confirm.

I think it wise we open up a correspondence, flanking Emma from every side. Any reservations you have regarding such a plan should be dismissed without thought. My opinions outrank yours in every way.

Lady Eugenia Spencer

Curses. What foul deed is this?

This could prove a challenge.

October 10th

When I returned home from a late afternoon walk, the house smelled divine. Upon investigation, I discovered that Agnes (real Agnes, the cook, not false Agnes, the chaperone) was making a chicken broth for Mrs. Spires.

“She’s not been feeling well, Miss, and I thought my mother’s recipe would cheer her.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you. Lucky Mrs. Spires.”

“Yes, Miss.”

I have a fond memory of walking through St. Crispian’s with my father one June when he elbowed me, bent down, and said, “If you ever want a lark, little Emma, watch Mrs. Spires. She takes the Christian virtue of being offended by everyone very seriously.”

When I repeated this to Mother, she sighed, gave Father a long look, and sent me to read the Sermon on the Mount until teatime.

I was thinking fondly of this when I realised Agnes was speaking.

“What was that, Agnes?”

“Only that I’m happy to do this for you, as my mother says a great lady has no time to do her own acts of Christian service, and so her servants must do them for her.”

“Well done. Leaving the heathen debauchery to me?”

Agnes paused, her face crinkling in an effort to recall her mater’s wise words. “I dinnae know if she ever said that, Miss.”

Later

Mary,

Let us make tentative plans for cards at Lapis Lazuli. That is what normal people do, from what I gather. We could at least try. For normalcy, that is. We both know how to play cards.

Tomorrow evening?

Emma

Emma,

Cards, wonderful. I believe I am free. If I cannot leave Miss Lamb’s, you might have to come to my less elegant room.

Mary

October 11th

It all began very innocently.

Truly.

Fate has dealt me a hand, and I don’t know what to make of it.

Of them.

Of anything.

Although whatever it is that just occurred feels as if it will have its way with my life.

Pierce, putting the entire scheme into motion, is a scoundrel.

But let me not get ahead of myself.

This morning I went for a long constitutional with my Latin Phrases for the Unrepentant.

Acta deos numquam mortalia fallunt.

Mortal actions never deceive the gods.

I returned, removing my gloves and glancing at the mail, when there came a quick rapping at the salon door.

I paused.

It came again.

And so I did what any self-respecting young woman would do.

I said, “Hello?”

The door opened. Pierce, newspaper in hand, distracted expression, said without ceremony, “We have dinner tonight at Islington’s. Eight o’clock.”

I believe my graceful answer went something like, “I… But… Do we…? Was an invitation sent? I had something else I was going to.”

He glanced up. “Can you cancel?”

“I—”

I paused to assess.

One does not cancel. (Lecture seventy-nine from Lady Eugenia Spencer.)

But it is only a tentative evening of cards with Mary. Tentative. One may not be able to alter an Evening, but if one cannot change Tentative Plans, then what have we left in our uncivilized world?

And so I answered, “Yes. I can rearrange my schedule.”

“Good,” Pierce said, then, “I will be at your door a quarter to. Shall we walk?”

“Which door?” I asked, and he looked over my shoulder and pointed at the front door.

“That one.”

“Very well.”

He returned to his work.

And I thought, Islington has surprised me. Dinner invitation via war correspondent.

The garret really was in a state, so I spent the afternoon sorting, mending, sending what clothes needed cleaning down to Agnes, dusting my bookshelf and all six books.

I sent a note to Mary that made my excuses and ended with,

Forgive me for cancelling.

I will report. You will be amused.

With dinner at Islington’s in mind, I surveyed my gowns. Who were his kind of people? How many were to be included in the party? How formal was an informal invitation to a duke’s dinner? (That sentence feels contradictory.) Not having anything to go on, I erred on the side of…well, I wore my sea green gown, the one that matches my eyes. Having no jewels, and not wanting to wear the gown Aunt Eugenia had made over for me—certainly my finest, but too fine?—and having no idea what the other women present would be wearing—I thought the sea green would rise to the occasion.

Agnes, bless her, helped me arrange my hair, and it looked opinionated but lovely.

I could almost hear Arabella saying, “There’s my Irishman’s daughter.”

Parian trekked up to what he’s begun to call The Outer Hebrides, to bitterly inform Agnes and myself that Pierce was waiting below.

“Rather dressed up for such a rough-hewn fellow,” he huffed.

“Is he?” I appraised my worried reflection.

“You look lovely, Miss,” Agnes beamed. “The duke will see you across the table, with all the candlelight and sparkling crystal, and fall in love with you.”

I laughed out loud.

“Oh, Agnes, what a horrible prospect.”

She and Parian looked disappointed for different reasons. Agnes, for the loss of her fairy tale. Parian for the loss of working in the household of a duke.

I took a cream shawl, gathered up the silk of my skirts enough for several flights of stairs, and went down to meet Pierce.

He did look nice, much like he had the evening I saw him soon after his moving into Lapis Lazuli Minor, standing so mysteriously in the lamplight of the street. Not stuffy, nor too shined, but sophisticated.

“The intrepid Mr. Pierce,” I said, “at ease dining with the wealthy and titled.”

“Hardly,” Pierce replied. Then a ghost smile. “You’re the resident highflier. I swim deep.”

“Who did you just compliment?”

“Both of us. Shall we?”

The walk was pleasant. Neither of us speaking very much at all.

“Do you enjoy large dinner parties?” I asked as we were crossing Baron’s Square.

“Depends on who is in attendance. If they are friends,” he held out his hands, “I don’t mind. If they are clients, usually the case, I find myself bored eight times out of ten.”

Then, as we walked up the steps towards the front door, he said, “I do not think you will have to worry about the formalities of a dinner party. This will be quite small.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, just as the door opened. The butler swept his eyes from Mr. Pierce to me. “Come in. The duke will—”

“No need, Crosby. I’m here. Let’s not fuss. The man is a war photographer. He has no need for empty formalities. I’ve someone I want you to meet, Pierce.”

In that moment—that horribly insightful moment—the duke saw me.

He stopped in his tracks.

I could have wrung Pierce’s neck and thrown him to the wolves.

Islington did not say Ah, but his hazel eyes weighed and measured my existence.

I could tell I was found wanting, which is Unrepentant Latin for: Islington had not invited me to this dinner.

“I see you’ve brought protection, Pierce. Miss Lion, welcome.”

Pierce and Islington shook hands. “A good man once spoke of the better angels of our nature. Miss Lion is mine.”

“Better angels?” Islington queried as he smiled at me.

I, uncertain how to apologise for my uninvited appearance, answered archly, “For the amount of history we have, Islington, you are shockingly rude.”

“Come now, Miss Lion. What is a little teasing between friends of such long standing?”

“How long have you known each other?” Pierce asked.

“Not very—” said I.

“Years now—” said Islington.

Pierce looked suspicious of our simultaneous contradictions.

“Speaking of ill manners, I will not keep you standing in my hall. Miss Lion, please, follow me. Pierce.”

History will note that no, the duke did not offer me his arm.

Poor Agnes.

“I wasn’t invited!” I hissed to Pierce.

Even in the dim lights—the duke had more candlelight than gaslight; a touch quixotic for 1883—I could see Pierce’s roguish smile. “I was invited, and I invited you because I knew Islington wouldn’t mind.”

My mother would have been appalled.

Aunt Eugenia would be appalled if she ever heard tell.

(Arabella would smile and say it was rather wicked of me.)

And then, because I can’t keep a quiet tongue in my mouth, I added in a whisper, “Betrayer of innocent Thisbes the world over! You rat!”

“Thisbe?” he whispered in return. “As in Pyramus and Thisbe?”

An answer was spared me, for in that moment Islington led us into what I am assuming is one of the family dining rooms. Dimly lit. Comfortable. Masculine. The table set for four—most likely the reason Islington kept us in the hall a moment, so his butler might rectify the situation and add the fourth table setting.

I looked about for the other member of our—their—small dinner party.

Lo and Behold, who was standing on the far side of the room, shoulder leaning against the hearth mantel, his head bent over a book, hair mussed in a refreshingly unclerical way?

Hawkes.

Young Hawkes.

The vicar.

Divine authority of St. Crispian’s.

Islington was all smooth manner despite the informality. “I know by the state of your soul, Miss Lion, that you are personally acquainted with Young Hawkes.”

Oh, Islington. Such a wit.

“I do. Yes, er, I am.” Getting hold of myself, I said, “Hello, Hawkes.”

Hawkes did not look surprised to see me, but he did look curious.

“Good evening, Miss Lion.”

“Good evening.”

“I am pleasantly surprised to see you here.” He then smiled.

“I was shanghaied.”

“Sounds dramatic.”

“It is proving to be so.”

“Shanghaied, Miss Lion?” the duke reproved. “That definition is excessive, is it not?”

“I told her she was invited and forced her to quit her previous engagement.” Pierce announced his sin with a shameless amount of ease.

“We men will make the best of it,” Islington answered, without a smile.

As if I were a leper.

“I— I certainly—” My determination to bolt was increasing by the second. I would acquit myself, with or without grace, and enjoy my mortification in the solitary stronghold of my own garret.

But Young Hawkes said quietly, “I believe they are having fun at your expense, Miss Lion.”

Islington and Pierce glanced at each other. Pierce, the face of Mischief, pure and simple. Islington with such an air of superiority I couldn’t help but say, “You horrible, horrible creatures!”

“Of course I told Pierce to invite you,” Islington said, waving towards the set table. “I was to send an invitation, but he volunteered his services.”

 “Now I know you think me a philistine,” added Pierce, “if you believed I’d invite you to another man’s table.”

“You are a philistine,” I glowered.

“Speaking of philistines”—Islington motioned towards Pierce—“Hawkes, have you met—”

“Niall Pierce,” Young Hawkes said, extending his hand. “A pleasure.”

Pierce stiffened and then, looking suspiciously at Young Hawkes—as if religion were something one could catch—extended his hand. “You with the Church?” he asked without ceremony.

Then the strangest of all. Young Hawkes simply lifted half of his smile.

“Young Hawkes is our vicar,” supplied Islington.

“Not Father?” Pierce questioned with a poorly-contained edge.

“No,” Islington and I both stated.

“Hawkes will do,” Young Hawkes answered.

Introductions having been made, we all sat, Islington and Hawkes opposite Pierce and myself. The butler attended to my chair.

“Forgive the informality, Miss Lion,” Islington said. “I was looking for a comfortable evening rather than fanfare.”

“I always forgive informality,” I replied. “Now, infamous behaviour…?”

The duke looked amused.

And we were served the first course.

Knowing I was as welcome as any other did a great deal for the settling of my nerves, and I soon relaxed. Nor was I troubled by the fact that I was eating dinner alone with three men, three unmarried men, and how significantly problematic it would prove if the fact ever came to light in polite society. No, not troubled at all.

That is not true.

I felt scandalous.

At first.

However, despite the unsteady terrain of my having been the target of the joke, as we ate and talked, something of a wonder happened. Hawkes, who is apparently great friends with Islington, smiled a bit more than I’m accustomed to seeing—a bit is all. It would not do to lose his somewhat pained philosopher’s expression altogether. And Islington was conversant and charming. While Pierce—his storm cloud at bay—filled the room with bits of story. As for myself, well, I said what came to mind, at times it was even clever.

And at some in-between moment, a key fit a lock, a door opened.

As if the four of us created a room not having previously been in existence before.

Which sounds mad.

How can I say what I mean?

Islington, a long-standing friendship with Hawkes and comfortable acquaintance with Pierce, seemed to have decided I, too, had a place inside whatever circles make up his life. Hawkes was…well, Hawkes. Purveyor of his own quiet kingdom. But there was less mystery about him than usual, and more amusement at its leisure. Pierce—whom I’ve seen perform with spectacular ease in public—was more grounded in his comfort. No pretence, no presentation. He allowed a good deal of humour in the remembrances he shared. He also took care to keep his bite against all things religious from leaving a mark, whereas Hawkes seemed to enjoy the challenge of Pierce’s spiritual disdain. All of these dynamics created a sense, of what I cannot say. But there was a prick on the back of my neck, like a whisper of some golden age.

It seems foolish to write now. But there was one moment when the food had been cleared away and we fell silent, all of us glancing about the table. I think more than just myself could sense something  was in the making. We just couldn’t understand what.

“Lion,” Islington said into the silence.

“What?” I answered abruptly. Only one person had ever called me that.

“Pierce, Islington, Hawkes,”—he looked at me—“Lion.”

I blinked. “Do you want congratulations for having remembered four names after nearly three hours in our company?”

“I was thinking it suits you.”

It did. It does. Only, Maxwell was the original owner of its use.

Pierce, I think, saw my ghost with his half-hooded eyes. He measured my pause. I glanced at him, then away, thinking it absurd that I felt like I needed Maxwell’s permission.

It is, after all, my name. All on its own.

“Lion,” I answered. “Or Emma. But only here. Among you, that is. If word was spread I dined with three men, three single men and no chaperone, being called Lion, to boot, I would be ruined. Even in St. Crispian’s.”

Islington straightened his already straight shoulders, considering me with what seemed to be equal parts amusement and pique. “I’ve never been accused of ruining a woman’s reputation before.”

“What would you call this?”

Hawkes, who had pulled his book out once the plates were cleared, smiled above the page he was reading.

“My aunt, the Countess of Alwick, who lives next door, has been ensconced in the library for the express purpose of giving you cover,” Islington informed. “As for my servants, they are as communicative as the dead. You have both a chaperone and discretion. Be at your leisure.”

Well!

“Your aunt has been in the library this entire time? Is she not hungry?” I stammered, picturing a poor (well, not poor) woman in an evening dress, fretting in the library with her fan, dreaming of turtle soup.

“Have you heard anything of the Countess of Alwick?” Islington quizzed.

“I—” Lifting my hands, I shook my head. “Ought I have?”

Pierce let out a small laugh. “Even I have, Emma.”

Hawkes turned a page.

“My aunt is a writer,” Islington answered. “Mad as a hare. She has accepted a tray in the library and is busy scribbling away on her latest novel. When I asked if she wished to join us, she said, ‘Not if the very hounds of hell were after me. I have to finish chapter thirteen.’”

“Does the gift run through your entire family? It’s hard to imagine her writing could be finer than yours.”

Islington narrowed his eyes.

He clearly thought my calling him a fine writer was too close to the dreaded secret of my having read his journal. Twice. I could have helped what I said next had the man not deserved it. But what are Islingtons for if not a small amount of fun now and again?

“Come now, don’t be so modest. Those sentimental letters you’ve sent me are pure verse. Did you ask Hawkes to help you write the poetry?”

Hawkes glanced up.

Islington opened his mouth, then closed it again. A cutting remark at the ready, I’m sure of it, but hampered by his personal code of ethics. Pierce’s curiosity was only disclosed by the fussing of his hand with his napkin left on the table, whereas Hawkes had closed his book and leaned back with folded arms, as if he were watching a spontaneous scene in a comic play.

Islington’s jaw was working back and forth. I grinned. “Only teasing, Islington. I’m sure you couldn’t combine two fit words together. Let alone anything sentimental. It’s providential your aunt represents the family in this thing.”

“Indeed, Lion.”

The butler appeared with the intention of serving the men drinks. A thing I’ve never witnessed, as the ladies have always gone through first. I expected Islington to bid me go sit with the Countess of Alwick, until he asked, “What will it be, Lion? Lemonade? Sloe gin?” Then he added with a challenge, “Whisky?”

“Keep the sloe gin away,” Pierce answered for me. “Lion prefers something a touch stiffer. She’ll take the port.”

“I do not drink port,” I hissed.

“You do with me,” Pierce stated. He looked none too innocent.

Young Hawkes raised an eyebrow.

“I did. I did drink port with you. But I don’t. Often. Or even twice. There is a great difference.”

There is.

I maintain it now in the record of my life. There is a great difference.

“Too much for you?” Islington asked.

“I’ve seen Miss Lion put down The Cleopatra in one swallow,” Hawkes remarked quietly, sitting back in his chair, fingers absently tapping the table.

Pierce did not understand the significance, but Islington did. His face closed. “What in heaven’s name were you doing there, drinking that!”

“And with the vicar?” Pierce added under his breath.

I piously made a motion to push an invisible nest back atop my head and requested coffee.

At some point in the ritual of What Men Do Once Women Have Left The Dining Room (Answer: nothing more than more discussion), I thought of Islington’s aunt and asked, “What sort of books does the Countess of Alwick write?”

“Pirates, rogues, dangerous brigands with guns—” the duke answered.

“Rescuing desperate women,” I supplied.

“No. The rogues and brigands are women who rescue desperate men.”

I very nearly applauded. “You are joking. How does the publishing world stand such a notion?”

“They didn’t at first, so the countess bought her own press. Since that day, she’s sold enough books for them all to come running.”

“Brava! Are they any good?”

Islington sipped his port, then, “I wouldn’t know as I haven’t read any.”

I looked towards Pierce.

“Don’t look to me. I avoid brigands as a rule.”

“Pity.”

Young Hawkes, having returned to his book, said without looking up, “I enjoyed The Rookery Curse.” Then, as if remembering something, Hawkes stood, swept his eyes over the three of us, and left without so much as a goodbye.

“Odd,” Pierce said.

“Not for Hawkes,” Islington answered. “He’s some sort of uncanny— That is to say, he seems to know when he’s needed. And he’ll just disappear.”

It wasn’t much longer before Pierce and I did the same.

I never did see my chaperone, the Countess of Alwick, but I do hope she finished chapter thirteen.

Novel writers, bless them, are such strange birds.

October 12th

Promptness being an important element in the success of my deception, I felt today I ought to compose a return letter to Aunt Eugenia in the voice of one Agnes Dowd.

Miss Dowd’s style is brief and self-defamatory.

Dear Lady Spencer

Madam

My Esteemed Lady Spencer,

You are rather brazen, having the personal gall to stick your nose in business that does not…

I am in receipt of your letter dated the ninth of October, and am grateful for your astute observations, well-placed concern, and condescension. Emma finds it trying. Miss Lion is fortunate to have such a relation.

Your wanting to keep Miss Lion on the societal straight and narrow is the aim of all I do. A young girl cannot be trusted to understand the mechanics workings of her own best interest. While she is not yet ready for a respectable marriage, I stand in eager readiness to aid when the time comes.

As for the warts, I can confirm their existence, although they are rather more like moles. There are three; two on the chin, and one to the side of my nose.*

I will send this letter in the post today, as Emma and I have an afternoon lesson: Beautiful Silence, the Endeavour of Every Maid.

Yours respectfully,

Agnes Dowd

* Best not be too specific.

Later

I dropped in unannounced to see Saffronia March, asking her to transcribe my letter. She was in her studio, covered in paint and half-distracted.

“What is this nonsense, Emma?”

“A deft handling of a deceitful situation,” I answered.

“And you wish me to rewrite it?”

“Yes. It can’t be in my hand, and the only other I can think to ask is a man with rather bold writing. It would send Aunt Eugenia scurrying back to London.”

“I see. Are you certain you don’t wish me to include the lines you struck?”

“Quite.”

“How sad.”

“Isn’t it just?”

She used the paper I provided—a thin, uninspiring white indicating a stingy personality, forced economy, and a diminished artistic soul: three things Aunt Eugenia prizes.

“You might just find yourself in trouble, Emma,” Miss March warned as she returned her attention to the painting on her easel.

“It won’t be the first time.”

“Mm-hmm.”

But I had lost her to her work. Taking my leave (unnoticed), I returned home and posted the letter with confidence I could manage the situation.

I can.

Can’t I?

October 13th

UPDATES ON EMERSON

A List

* I finished reading “Friendship”

“We must be our own before we can be another’s.”

* I finished reading “Experience”

“Sleep lingers all our lifetime about our eyes, as night hovers all day in the boughs of the fir-tree. All things swim and glitter. Our life is not so much threatened as our perception. Ghostlike we did glide through nature, and should not know our place again… Ah that our Genius were a little more of a genius!”

* I finished reading “Circles”

“Thus there is no sleep, no pause, no preservation, but all things renew, and germinate and spring. Why should we import rags and relics into the new hour?”

Any man who can say, “All things swim and glitter” is a rare breed.

October 14th

I was abducted at church. In the aisle.

Speaking of pirates and brigands…

My captors? The Reprobates Ten, who lay permanent claim to the back row.

I don’t quite know how I ended up in the middle of their desperate band, but there I was, flanked by five to the left and four to the right.

“Hello, E of A.”

“Miss Lion, we’ve pined for you.”

“All of you?” I said.

“Certainly,” said Charlie Cross. “We pined for seven different women at the club last night. You were number three.”

“Auspicious.”

“A place of honour. To be the Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

“Why exactly is that?”

A fair enquiry, I hold.

It was then The Boy, who looked like he’d been dragged through Dante’s seven hells, said, “We cannot speak before the coronation.”

“The what?”

“Rules, you know,” Mastiff sighed.

“But I really don’t know.”

“You will,” smiled Striker.

“Hmm,” I replied, sounding more than a little suspect. “Am I now free to go sit on my own bench?”

The Reprobates looked hurt. And baffled. Why would anyone not want the blessed honour of sitting among them?

“We intend to be on our second-best Sunday behaviour,” said Quality Jones.

“You don’t mean to get us all kicked out of the sermon, do you?” I asked.

“Cross our hearts…”

“Hope to die…”

“Oh. Look. Hawkes the Fox is trying to begin the meeting,” said Sargent. “Gentlemen, let’s send our love.”

And all nine Reprobates blew a kiss to Young Hawkes, who let out a long breath of resignation and began the service.

October 15th

Not that I am considering it with any seriousness…but how lucrative is piracy?

October 16th

What are the legal and moral ramifications of engaging in Piracy?

DO YOU HAVE A SHIP?

I do not.

DOESN’T THAT MAKE YOUR QUERY IRRELEVANT?

Simply answer the question, Pierce.

PIRACY IS ILLEGAL.

THE MORAL RAMIFICATIONS DEPEND UPON YOUR MORALS.

My morals?

ONE’S MORALS.

Sigh.

I suppose I ought not consider the option.

I WOULD VISIT YOU AT THE GAOL.

Don’t they hang pirates?

POSSIBLY.

Bring Hawkes then, to read my last rites. But don’t bring Islington. He would smirk.

AT YOUR HANGING? SURELY NOT.

Hmmm. You may remain in your blessed ignorance. I’m not saying the man doesn’t have a heart. He would shed a tear before the end.

DO YOU HAVE THE ENTIRE SCENE ALL WORKED OUT?

No. Though perhaps I should. You will wear black, of course. And spend a year sending notes through the wall. All to go unanswered. Don’t worry, Pierce. You’ll get through the grief.

I’M GLAD TO HEAR IT.

October 17th

I’ve just received a visit from the Whereabouts Lane Committee (each street has their own), reminding me that Whereabouts is to host St. Crispian’s All Hallows’ Eve celebration. A Mr. Spout, a Mr. Cray, a Mr. Lacey. All stepping on each other’s words.

“A harvest celebration.”

“A harvest of souls, as it were.”

“We need you to do something to add to the atmosphere of the evening.”

“We’ve come together and decided that, as you have the one American in your household, we must take advantage.”

“He’s an Englishman,” I said.

“He was in America for years, by all accounts.”

“And so we think your house ought to supply the illuminated pumpkins.”

I frowned. “Illuminated pumpkins?”

“Yes. There are records of it happening in America.”

“For over a hundred years.”

“We were hoping you would place them in the windows of Lapis Lazuli House.”

“All of them?” I queried. “And burn my house down?”

“Oh no. The pumpkin is a wet gourd. It should quench any errant flame.”

“Nothing too ornate, just something to add a certain—”

“Atmosphere,” I provided.

“Yes, atmosphere.”

“I regret to inform you gentlemen that I’ve no idea how to secure a pumpkin,” I said.

“No worry necessary.”

“Indeed, no. We provide the pumpkins.”

“You do?” I asked.

“Of course!”

“We are a working committee.”

“Is your American attending?”

I frowned again. “He’s not American.”

“Miss Lion, we’ve not had an American on our street before. Baron’s Square, Sterling Street, and Traitors all have the advantage of such a peculiarity. You must give us something to work with.”

“Fine.” I threw up my hands. “Mr. Pierce shall be our token American. I will inform him of the fact.”

“Marvellous.”

“Wonderful.”

“I knew we would have one in the end.”

They spent another five minutes congratulating themselves on their catch, then reminded me of what I was expected to provide for All Hallows’ Eve, and left.

October 18th

I have to tell you something.

SOUNDS OMINOUS.

It is. You’ve been designated as the token American on Whereabouts Lane.

I’M NOT AMERICAN.

That fact was brought forth. However, as all the rest of St. Crispian’s has had an American or two, the Whereabouts Lane Committee was eager to claim a victory.

THERE IS A COMMITTEE?

Of course!

BLOODY HELL.

Niall! It is certainly not that bad.

IF I’M THE TOKEN AMERICAN, WHAT ARE YOU?

I’ve never thought about the question. I suppose I’m either the token orphan, the token great-niece who inherited, or the token saint, for living with the less than token madman.

YOU’RE THE TOKEN RABBLE-ROUSER.

Well. In that case, shall we say tea at the Reed and Rite in half an hour? Your treat?

I’LL FIND MY COAT.

October 19th

Parian. Parian!

Of all people, Parian!

Foul times, indeed!

(Insert quote from Macbeth and weep bitterly.)

Parian has seen The Roman!

He was out late for some business of his own—ahem, The Cleopatra, from the smell of it—and just as I was creeping down to the drawing room to retrieve my misplaced Latin Phrases for the Unrepentant, he came in the front door, white as a ghost.

Or so I would imagine a ghost to look.

I wouldn’t know for certain.

SEEING AS HOW THE NEIGHBOURHOOD GHOST FASTIDIOUSLY AVOIDS ME.

“Well, what did he do? Or say?” I asked, more than a little put out.

Parian was shaking and blinking his eyes, ridiculous man. “I wouldn’t know. I turned and ran all the way home.”

It is beginning to feel personal.

October 20th

Mary came for dinner tonight.

I even changed for the occasion.

Agnes was glowing.

Cousin Archibald took his dinner earlier, according to schedule, then spent quarter of an hour shouting in the hall about depravities and deprivations. I don’t think he knows the difference between the two words.

Pierce did not join us.

As for the food, it was as magnificent as our monthly-allotted budget could manage. Agnes did herself proud.

“How’s Jack?” I asked over our second and final course. (Oh, the elegance of Lapis Lazuli.)

“Disappeared entirely.”

“Oh?”

“I tried to send him a message and received a note that he would be unavailable until November.”

“Unavailable? What do you mean?”

“No details. Work, I’d imagine. He has to earn his money somehow. I certainly pay him next to nothing.”

“He could earn his money laying bricks,” I replied with a rather snobbish tone, considering I’ve been fruitlessly thinking of any work I might do myself. “But I don’t suspect it’s anything quite so honest.Neither do I suspect he needs your money.”

“He told me you helped him with a job last month,” Mary remarked, with a not-so-innocent tilt of her head.

I took a strategic bite so as to not have to answer verbally.

October 21st

It was a poetry Sabbath.

Hawkes did not even give an Old Testament preamble. He simply began with Christina Rossetti’s “Echo.”

Come to me in the silence of the night;

Come in the speaking silence of a dream;

Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright

As sunlight on a stream;

Come back in tears,

O memory, hope, love of finished years.

O dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,

Whose waking should have been in Paradise,

Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;

Where thirsting longing eyes

Watch the slow door

That opening, letting in, lets out no more.

Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live

My very life again tho’ cold in death:

Come back to me in dreams, that I may give

Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:

Speak low, lean low,

As long ago, my love, how long ago.

This beginning did not bode well for the congregation. Someone stifled a sob. A sob. And Hawkes, giving no thought to the penetrating subtleties of his voice, kept on in the same form. Ending the sermon with a double dose of Tennyson.

It was enough to do a soul in.

He read “Crossing the Bar.”

That final stanza…

For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar.

That would have been a fitting end, and Hawkes seemed eager to close the book. However, his mouth pulled tight. And—as if against his will—he opened his Tennyson again. After a visible fight with himself, he let his shoulders fall and, with an apologetic light in his eyes, looked over the congregation.

Home they brought her warrior dead:

She nor swoon’d nor utter’d cry:

All her maidens, watching, said,

“She must weep or she will die.”

Then they praised him, soft and low,

Call’d him worthy to be loved,

Truest friend and noblest foe;

Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,

Lightly to the warrior stepped,

Took the face-cloth from the face;

Yet she neither moved nor wept.

And he left it there.

Hawkes did not read the last stanza where the child is set upon her knee and tears finally fall. No, he left us beside the grave with the woman unable to cry. And, looking pained—I could have sworn he caught my eye for the whisper of a moment—Hawkes broke off. He did not even utter an amen.

October 22nd  

It is almost midnight, and I’ve done nothing but stare out the window for hours.

I’ve seen paintings of tragic tableaux, and sometimes there stands a woman, a hand over her mouth to cover the grief of her moment. Strange how I’ve found myself doing that twice now as I look out into the dark.

I’ve seen men in these situations swear and drink.

And women are left standing at the window.

Hardly feels fair.

My packing is done, what little of it there is. Pierce told me to pack an overnight case. “One never knows with these things,” he said.

To think I would be in blissful ignorance, sound asleep, had I not glanced over this morning, and allowed my curious fingers to…

Well. It cannot be helped. Not that I would wish to alter the uncanny course of events.

Quod id est id est

What it is, it is.

I went to Primrose Hill this morning.

My feelings for October are fierce: a sharp love of cool air, a season transforming the landscape towards, and through, death. I’ve always loved it. And this morning as I sat on the bench, near the top of the hill, looking out over London and her trees, there it was. A copy of The Times, happily abandoned.

I enjoy an errant paper.

They often have something interesting to say.

I claimed it and opened the page, scanning the news of the day.

It was then I saw it.

The burial announcement.

Lord and Lady Stuart were announcing the burial of their son, Maxwell Edward Shaw Stuart, brought home three years after his death in Afghanistan. To be buried October the twenty-third, Year of our Lord 1883.

Tomorrow.

Maxwell is to be buried tomorrow.

And Evelyn, who promised me he would write, did not.

I barrelled down into St. Crispian’s, the announcement gripped tightly in my fist. I heard nothing. Saw nothing of those I passed. Eyes blinded by fury or tears. I wished to throw a stone through a window. To curse something, anything. To rage.

And then I walked into a wall and nearly fell over.

Or what I thought was a wall.

It took him grabbing my wrist and saying, “Steady on,” for me to realise it was Pierce.

I made some bad excuse, went to move beyond him, but he held me back. “Emma?”

“Not in the street,” I managed. Handing him the crumpled newspaper, I walked the remaining steps to Lapis Lazuli House.

Pierce followed.

Without speaking, I went directly into his studio.

He closed the door behind us. Tossed the newspaper onto his worktable.

“Tomorrow?” he asked.

“Tomorrow,” I repeated through gritted teeth. “Evelyn promised to tell me. I was to have been there. Now I’ll miss it. I’ve not a single thing to wear except my old worn coat! Not that it matters, as I’ve no money for the train! The bank is certainly closed by now, with not much left in the household accounts, and I can do nothing for it.”

“The service is at eleven?”

“So it says.”

“Berkshire isn’t far away. It would take what, an hour? At very most. Catching the eight o’clock train would leave plenty of time.”

It is an impossible thing, to be proud of one’s messy grief. Reason is taken captive, as all bad manners are thrown forward. I replied from such a place.

“Did you not hear me, Pierce!” I nearly shouted. “I’ve no way to buy the cursed ticket! I expected time. A fortnight’s notice to prepare. To arrange something with my banker. Or sell some small thing of value to pay for a ticket, lodging if needs be. I had it all worked out.”

“I’ll buy the ticket.”

He said it so easily, no fuss, no fury. And I felt foolish and stupid all at once.

“That you most certainly will not! I am not a pauper. I will not accept charity I don’t need.”

His expression was not dismissive of my principle, rather my stubbornness.

“I never said you were a pauper, and it isn’t charity. I’m going to buy your train ticket. And what’s more, I’m coming with you.” He handed me a handkerchief. “Your nose is running.”

I blinked, cleared my throat, and made an inelegant noise.

“You would do that for me?”

“Hand you a handkerchief?” He smiled. “Of course.”

“Don’t jest.”

“Sorry.”

“You would come with me?”

“Of course I’m coming with you. Don’t be daft. My friends do not go to war alone.”

“I don’t have a black dress. Madame Tasset is making one, but it isn’t finished.”

“He died three years ago. No convention should demand you go all in black. Wear another dress, wear black gloves, your black coat. Sorted. Which of your day dresses would Maxwell have liked the most?”

“I should wear the purple. It’s half mourning at least,” I sniffed. “Maxwell, however, would have loved the green.”

“Wear the green.”

“His father—”

“—can throw himself in the lake.”

The image of the redoubtable Lord Stuart tossing himself into the lake was an unexpected uplift. I sniffed, used his handkerchief, hiccupped, and took a long breath.

“What if I had missed it?”

“You didn’t.”

“I saw it in a newspaper left on a park bench. What if he had been put to rest and I had never known?”

“You saw it.”

“By chance!”

“By chance, by accident, Maxwell wanting you there. Who’s to say?”

“But—”

“Perhaps Maxwell sorted it. I don’t know how the hell it works, but maybe he got the information to you.”

For a man who despises the church, it was a show of faith I wasn’t expecting.

“You think he cares?” I asked.

“How could he not?”

And so Pierce ordered me up to pack. The sounds of him doing the same coming through the wall. I…I hate the thought of tomorrow more than anything else.

Later

GO TO BED, EMMA.

The Stuart estate neighbours my aunt’s home. She might be there.

ARE YOU WORRIED?

She will disapprove. Be difficult. As for seeing you with me…

IF SHE’S THERE, I’LL BE NOTHING MORE THAN A FRIEND OF MAXWELL’S FROM AFGHANISTAN. WE MET ON THE ROAD. SOMETHING OF THE SORT. I’LL DO NOTHING TO MAKE IT MORE DIFFICULT FOR YOU. YOU SHOULD SLEEP.

YOU’RE STILL PACING.

I’m done. Getting ready for bed.

AN UPHILL BATTLE IN THE MORNING.

GOODNIGHT

October 23rd  

“You have my dark humour, Emma. At very least, the potential for it. Don’t be afraid to employ it when you must.”

“Declan, don’t.”

“Whyever not? It’s a useful sort of thing.”

These were the words on my mind this morning, a memory of my parents floating through my head before I could pull myself awake.

It was either a cosmic jest—unnecessary, I thought—or my own subconscious trying to give this dark day any advantage it can.

I think it has made things worse.

Later

I couldn’t write a thing on the train. A bare attempt was made to read the newspaper Pierce bought at St. Pancras station. It ended with my absently twisting the pages between my gloved hands until Pierce was forced to rescue what remained.

He didn’t speak. Not this morning when he carried my small case out to the hansom cab, or when he took a worried Agnes aside and whispered a few words, her concern for me apparently greater than her fear of him. Not while we secured our tickets and found a place on the train—my reflection in one side of the window, his reflection in the other.

He had only asked me one question yesterday about the journey.

“Is there any place you wish to see while there?”

“Yes,” I replied, knowing there were places that deserved some sort of benediction.

“There must be an inn? A public house for us to stay the night?”

“Yes.”

Which was why, after we disembarked, we found our way to The Frog and Crown.

“What possessed them to choose such a name?” Pierce asked.

“A frog, I imagine,” I said as we entered. He made short order of  securing two rooms. Embarrassed as I was that I hadn’t considered payment, Pierce saw to it without any fuss.

Once inside my room, I sat down to reset my hair.

I looked pale in the mirror.

Aunt Eugenia has a Strong Belief that grief has a way of making a young woman quite lovely. I disagree.

The green of my dress was too bright. The black gloves and hat too small a tribute.

“Who bloody cares,” I said to myself. Swearing in the style of one Niall Pierce.

I felt better for a moment…and then could feel the reproving chastisement of my dead mother.

And then I felt worse.

Pierce was standing outside The Frog, waiting like a storm on the horizon, arms crossed. When I stepped forward, adjusted my gloves, and said, “We go the back way,” he nodded, and followed without a word.

Pierce’s natural atmosphere slid into the October day, and so as we walked around the back of the village and onto the field road, I scarcely could delineate him from the day at all.

The first twenty minutes were silent. Then, “The paper said it is to be held in the family plot at the churchyard of Barrows Edge.”

“Yes.”

He frowned. “A strange irony.”

“What?” I asked.

“The name. Seeing as how Maxwell’s commanding officer was named Barrows.”

“Yes… I—I suppose so,” I replied, it not making much sense to my preoccupied brain.

I wasn’t prepared for the haunting familiarity. For the road to remember me. For the walk through the hollow, half convinced I was fifteen years old and had escaped some tedious responsibility at Spencer Court. And coming out of the trees, and as the view widened, feeling I should turn to Maxwell and remark how many had been recently cut down.

And then there were the two stone gateposts of the cemetery, just visible at the top of the hill. A figure was leaning against one, smoking a cigarette and looking like he would rather be anywhere else.

Evelyn.

My hesitation caused Pierce to look up. He saw Evelyn, made some internal calculation that played out on his face, and fell a half step behind, walking on the diagonal, setting the silent chessboard between us. Perhaps so I couldn’t be accosted without a fight.

Too soon we arrived at the gateposts.

It would have been impossible to have kept a single thought from my face.

So he knew. He saw me and knew how angry I was. His eyes flickering over my clothes before moving to Pierce at my side. Not having the grace to look remorseful, or even embarrassed, he settled on a flash of discomfort soon covered over by the apathy he knows so well.

“Emma,” he said.

“Evelyn.”

In the moment that followed, in the way he pressed his tired cigarette against the stone at his back and tossed it onto the road, his silence said, I know I should have written.

I stared at the crushed end of ash, counted through ten, then looked up. My way of saying, You owed me that, at the very least.

Pierce, bless him, said nothing. His storm cloud weather at my back.

Evelyn said, “They’ll begin shortly.” As if it were a family not his own burying its favourite son.

I nodded.

I wanted to ask if he was well. But the way he removed another cigarette from his pocket, lighting the end and flicking the matchstick, was Evelyn’s way of saying he had nothing to give me or anyone else.

His defiance has always been his protection.

I began to move past him when he said, “They had to have a way to be certain, to know it was the body. The records were a confused mess. Reported him in two different places.”

I couldn’t turn to face him immediately, just listened to his words, waiting for the knife pain of knowing more than you think you can bear.

“They dug up two graves, poor fools. But when they decided they had found him, they sent home whatever he’d had on his person that hadn’t rotted away.”

I glanced sideward at Evelyn’s face.

That was when Evelyn took something from his pocket, held it in his fist a moment—as if to test the weight—then opened his hand.

A small worn charm—a gold circle with the monogram EML.

The pendant my parents had given me for my tenth birthday.

The pendant I had pressed into Maxwell’s hand the morning he left.

“It’s him all right. You found him, Lion.”

And he dropped it into my hand, threw his fresh cigarette onto the ground, and walked past me towards the knot of people waiting for the service.

I made a messy sound and moved to follow; however, Pierce’s voice called me back.

“It won’t begin for another ten minutes. You needn’t hurry.”

Thanking Pierce in silence only, I turned and strode past him up the road, stopping near a small copse of trees, breathing deeper than my tears could reach.

In few words, Emma M. Lion was coming apart at the seams.

Later

I don’t remember much of the service. Well, I do, but it’s all wrapped in flashes of feeling I can’t bear to record. Maxwell’s mother was startled to see me. I could not tell if it was to good or ill effect. His father did not greet me, did not greet anyone. Just pushed people about with his presence, ever the bully, posturing and ignoring. His mustache as irritating as it had always been.

Evelyn slunk behind the smattering of other guests, none of whom I recognised or remembered.

The vicar was only two years at his post, so he had nothing personal to say. And all I could see was the horribly ornate casket set in the ground, holding heaven knows what.

Pierce stood over my left shoulder, three steps behind, disappearing as much as he is able, but enough a bird of prey to make everyone in the party glance his way once or twice—even Lord Stuart.

The service was brief.

The biblical words chosen not the most beautiful.

Hawkes, I thought, would have done a far more suitable job.

Then we all stepped forward and cast our dirt upon the lid of the casket. Save Maxwell’s mother.

Lady Stuart could focus only on keeping her countenance in an emotionally acceptable place.

It looked to be the hardest thing she had ever done.

Scarcely the final amen, and Lord Stuart left for the house. Evelyn followed, his fashionable, thin frame bent over another cigarette, looking for all the world like he could not care for anything.

The other guests dispersed.

Lady Stuart glanced after her husband, then took a few hesitant steps towards me.

“Emma, such a pleasant surprise to see you. I’m so glad you came.”

We embraced, but it was fragile.

“Lady Stuart.”

“Your aunt is away at a house party, as I’m sure you know. She left before we arranged the date. She sent her condolences.”

“I’m certain she and Arabella would wish to be here,” I replied.

Lady Stuart nodded and glanced nervously about. “I don’t mind the small gathering. It’s been long enough that some people don’t even— Well. And your friend?”

It wasn’t an instance of bad manners on my part. It was an uncertainty of placing any sort of burden on those thin shoulders.

“Yes.” I stepped back so Pierce was, by default, brought into our circle. “Lady Stuart, meet Niall Pierce. He’s a photographer and was— Well, he’s a friend.”

Her blue eyes lit with accustomed grace under fire. “Mr. Pierce. How very nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” he replied, followed with a simple bow of the head.

“Today is”—she cleared her throat—“a difficult day in many respects. I am afraid I am not at my best. Would you come tomorrow afternoon for tea?”

I was uncertain if Pierce would want to stay that long and hesitated with my response.

“That would be lovely,” Pierce answered.

“Of course,” I stammered.

It was settled that we would return to Barrows Edge at three o’clock, and then Lady Stuart followed after the distant figure of her careless husband.

I watched her go.

She looked like a blackbird with a broken wing.

It was not long before she’d managed the gentle slope towards the house.

And without my having to say anything, Pierce removed himself, walking the far perimeter while I stood beside the still open grave.

Unless one is Hamlet, I’ve always held that talking aloud to oneself is far better suited for a comedy than a tragedy.

How maudlin it always seems on the page.

Alas, we cannot always live up to our ideals. However black humoured they are.

It began with me staring at the casket, imagining him inside as if he were asleep, or newly deceased. Still, pale, but…together.

Beautiful.

I think God will forgive this untruth.

Then, without quite realising, I was speaking the dreaded soliloquy of mourning. Mentioning stupid childhood games and long, green afternoons, all in avoidance of not knowing how to say goodbye.

It felt the moment for it.

A goodbye.

Three years due.

Surely even he wishes those of us left would say it and be done. Maxwell had a great heart, but he knew when to draw a line with sentimentality. I could almost hear his voice, “Well, Lion, Evelyn was right. You found me. It was a solid go, but I’m off. And so are you, in your own way.”

“Am I?” I said aloud.

How he would have smiled out of the side of his mouth. “You’ll suss it out.”

“Suss it out?”

“Figure the next step. What was it Shakespeare said, the stuff life is made on?”

“Dreams,” I murmured. “He said dreams. ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.’”

“Dreams, life, figuring out what one does next after dying in the desert…”

“Was it a figuring out for you?”

“In its own way.” He paused. “There is help, of course.”

“One would imagine.”

“I’m off, Lion. And you’re not. Your life moves beyond the point where I left. As it should.”

“Should it?”

“Yes.”

“Agree to consider it a disagreement?”

He laughed. “Agree to give you time to believe such a thing until you see I am right. Until you are ready.”

“One is never ready.” And my own voice rang in my ears and I was back. In the graveyard. Alone. Standing in the end of October, with birdcall and grey clouds, aware of a man leaning against the shaded wall of the church, shovel at his side, ready to bury Maxwell’s body as soon as the lonely young woman could bear to leave it forever.

I still don’t know if it was in my mind—a self-governed back and forth to ease the unbearable vision of his open grave—or if somehow Maxwell had found a way…

How clearly it seemed I could hear his voice.

That voice.

The one that had been the only.

Later

I’m at The Frog and Crown, sitting at a table beside a dusty window. Pierce just brought something suspicious looking in a glass. I told him I wasn’t looking for anything strong, and he smiled as he sat down.

“It’s not spirits.”

I lifted the glass with healthy suspicion, and then took a long sip.

It was apple cider, pressed fresh. And lovely. Finishing with the flair of the exhausted, I set the glass on the table and said, “I’ll have another.”

Pierce laughed. And has gone to see about my request.

Later

There are only two other travellers in The Frog and Crown this evening, and they took their dinner and went up to bed an hour ago. Pierce and I, tired from a long, silent afternoon of walking, walking, walking, have been settled near the fire. Me with my journal, he with a drink and his thoughts. Bless a man who knows how to keep his own counsel when you can’t bear to speak.

Later

I lit a candle for Father.

October 24th  

This morning Pierce said, “These woods remind me of home.”

“Where is home?” I asked.

“A place that ceased to be that a long time ago. Where it was is of little consequence.”

Later

We walked again this morning. Despite the rain that found us in the far fields. I did not want to stay in the village and see any familiar face. Certainly everyone knew that Barrows Edge had brought home the dead son, and everyone knew that Maxwell was…

Needless to say, the long, silent swaths of crossing the country of my summer memories were a balm to my knotted soul.

We returned to The Frog for a midday meal, and now I’m making ready for tea. Pierce is in his room, and when I knocked on his door a few moments ago, he said, “Come in.”

I opened the door but stayed in the hall.

Were my aunt to hear of me stepping into a man’s room at The Frog…

She would send an assassin.

Or Guy Fawkes.

He—Pierce, not Guy Fawkes—was writing a letter at a desk near the window, coat laid across the back of his chair. His boots had been cleaned, and he’d changed.

“Are you attempting to answer your obscene amount of correspondence?” I asked, leaning against the door frame.

He set his pen down and leaned back. “Attempting being the key word in your sentence.”

“And here I was thinking obscene was.”

He smiled sharply and lifted an eyebrow, his dark hair giving him an altogether gothic expression.

“I see why you have so many friends,” I said.

“Oh?” he said in a dismissive way.

“You are loyal, Pierce. True friendship, and all that.”

He looked back at his letter. “If anything, it’s self-serving. I like good people. They remind me of what I used to be myself.”

Later

The train ride home feels like hours, days even, despite us having left the station only a quarter of an hour past. Pierce has gone for as much of a walk as he can find in the cramped corridor; restless, knuckles sore, and unrepentant.

There may have been more violent ends to tea and a stroll through the garden; however, I’ve yet to hear of them.

I suppose one does not take a guard dog if he is never to bite.

October 25th  

Five o’clock in the morning.

I’ve only slept for three hours, and somehow managed to have dream after dream of sitting in the room with Lady Stuart, looking over the back garden.

Yesterday’s entry stopped very short of recording what actually happened.

Perhaps it is better that way.

Avenging angels have their ways of handling matters, but that does not mean we should shout about it.

Later

I should. Write it all down. Before the memory plays tricks.

Someday I will be glad for it.

Later

Walking through the front door of Barrows Edge was something I firmly believed I would never repeat. Not that it happened often. I was not invited overly much, unless under the strict watchcare of Aunt Eugenia. No, Maxwell and I spent more time in the fields about the place, sneaking into the kitchen for whatever we could charm out of the cook. She liked us both a good deal. And she always kept our secrets.

There is a new butler, and it was he who led us into the greenroom at the back of the house. Less formal than the usual drawing room, with views onto the back gardens and bit of lawn where we used to play football.

Lady Stuart greeted us warmly. Pale for all her black.

It was more formal than I was expecting, four places set at the round table before the tall, wide windows.

“Evelyn was to join us, but he’s in the garden and we will see if…” Her words faded into her internal monologue. “You know him, Emma. Let’s not make excuses for his poor behaviour. We will be more comfortable just we three, by any measure. Please have a seat.”

We did, Pierce backlit against the windows, Lady Stuart and I sitting on either side, across from one another.

“I am so glad you could come,” Lady Stuart said as she prepared our tea. “Do you take sugar, Mr. Pierce?”

“Uh, yes. One is fine. Thank you.”

“Emma?”

I nodded.

She served.

We three sat in the small noises of a quiet tea.

It was a strange company. We tried, at various times, to introduce more words than a simple answer.

“I haven’t seen you in so long, Emma. Heavens, when were you last at Barrows Edge?”

I attempted a smile at the memory, but I do not think I disguised the pain of the visit. I had been received by Maxwell’s father and Evelyn. Neither had been gallant. I did not want to tell her it had been the week after Maxwell had died. That she was in her room and her husband had refused to tell her I had come.

“It feels like ages,” I answered.

Then, a few moments later, I attempted, “How was the harvest from the farms this year?”

“Oh,” she looked out past the lawn. “Abundant, I believe. You would have to ask Lord Stuart. Always after the agent to see all goes smoothly. Evelyn doesn’t care a great deal, but Maxwell—”

She took an absent sip of her tepid tea.

“You’re still in Bournemouth, Emma?”

“No. I’ve completed my work there and am in London now, at Lapis Lazuli House.”

“Ah,” she smiled, though it was fixed, ignorant of what I meant. I don’t think Maxwell spoke to either of his parents regarding my London ties.

Just as well.

Then the barest, most honest moment came. “It is left to me to choose an inscription for the stone, and I just— I can’t think of anything that would do. If you think of…anything, really.” Before I could respond, she smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to mention… Yes, well. Mr. Pierce, how good of you to come down with Emma. Are you a London friend?”

“Yes,” Pierce answered. “I rent a studio from Miss Lion.”

He omitted the detail of his living on the other side of my wall.

“A studio?” Her face filled with a small measure of light. “Are you an artist? Wasn’t your father an artist, Emma?”

“He was.”

Then she returned her gaze to Pierce.

“I’m a photographer.”

“How modern! That must be exciting. What do you photograph?”

I didn’t realise my intake of breath would be so audible, but I should have trusted Pierce to carry the day.

“I’m beginning to do an amount of portraiture.”

“Ah.” She began to prepare a second cup for us all without asking if we wished it. “And before that?”

“Before?”

“You said you were beginning portraiture?”

“Before that I travelled.”

“The artist’s theme of faraway places,” Lady Stuart mused.

I held my breath.

“Yes, exactly,” Pierce answered. “Distant places. Unimaginable sights.”

“There now. I don’t usually hear of distant places or unimaginable sights from my guests. You must have gone quite far.”

“I have.”

“Which countries?”

“Oh, a few dozen. America, Europe, of course. The Near East, the… Well, different places on the African continent.”

“What an exciting life to have lived. I’m envious.” She was gracious, but when the words were spoken aloud, all three of us—I am sure of it—were thinking of the young life gone.

And so it went.

Until the unwashed entered the room.

Lord Stuart.

“Maryanne, I— Oh,” he said when he saw me.

“We have visitors for tea,” Lady Stuart smiled.

He nodded. “Hello,” he said, in as unwelcome a manner as he could.

“Lord Stuart,” I replied.

“Join us?” Lady Stuart invited.

“I’m too busy, thank you.”

And he turned to leave. I thought, how marvellous that Maxwell’s father has gained a sense of decorum in my absence.

Until the man turned around.

“No, no, it won’t do.”

“Dear?”

But he was looking at me.

“Why are you here, Miss Lion? When you were here last, I expressly said you were neither wanted nor wished for in my house ever again.”

“Harry!” Lady Stuart whispered sharply.

Pierce tensed beside me. I put a hand on his knee.

“I have come on the invitation of your wife,” I answered, as evenly as I could.

“And a tea has been had, from the evidence on the table before us,” Lord Stuart said.

It was unfortunate, and bitterly comical, that the maid entered at that moment with a full tier of sandwiches and pastries to replenish our scarcely-touched table. Sensing the tension as clearly as any of us, she was in and out in record time.

Pierce’s head was bent by this point, his eyes trained on his hands. His knee was bouncing as if it was taking all his effort to remain silently seated.

“Harry, I really think you should—” began Maxwell’s mother.

“I see you’ve replaced him easily enough,” Lord Stuart interrupted.

Pierce’s head shot up.

“I have not—” I began to defend myself, but he cut me off again.

“Without you, Maxwell wouldn’t have enlisted.”

“Harry! That isn’t true.”

But she needn’t have said anything, for Pierce stood. His chair pushing away in the motion, his eyes trained on Lord Stuart. The sharp angles of his face spoke of more than silent menace. He looked dangerous.

I could feel the flush in my cheeks and avoided Lady Stuart’s sympathetic expression.

But bullies do not often quiet themselves. “I have the right to say anything I like in my own house,” Lord Stuart stated.

“I don’t bloody care,” Pierce answered slowly. “Do what you will. Rant, rave, make life miserable for all those around you. But if you come at Miss Lion, I will come at you.”

He was so quiet, I could hear my heart pounding.

The thing is that I have lain in bed rehearsing such a scene: Lord Stuart being put in his place, complete with Lady Stuart wringing her hands. And in all my imaginings, I speak truth in such a fierce manner that Lord Stuart is silenced. Sometimes he rages out of the room. Sometimes he sees the error of his ways and begs forgiveness. Sometimes he shakes and turns red, and I sweep past him with my high ground and moral victory. But nothing, nothing I had imagined myself capable of doing could ever match the silent, threatening edge of Pierce.

After opening and closing his mouth three times, Lord Stuart finally said, “Leave my house, sirrah.”

And then Lady Stuart stood. “Harry, these are my guests. Whom I invited. Who have behaved with all feeling and decorum. Something you cannot claim. Go now, calm yourself elsewhere.”

I wanted to make our excuses and leave, but the tension between husband and wife kept me rooted in place.

Maxwell’s father left.

Maxwell’s mother looked at the closed door long enough to regain her composure.

“Emma, Mr. Pierce—”

“No apology necessary,” I said.

“Indeed not,” answered Pierce.

“Necessary,” she insisted. “And overdue. Please sit.”

I sat. Pierce did not.

It was a horrible moment, truly.

Then Lady Stuart continued. “I know how he bullied you, Emma. You were not responsible for Maxwell enlisting, nothing of the sort. We both know the boy was after some adventure and would not be stopped.”

She sat back down and took a breath.

“We should go—” I began.

“Please don’t, Emma. There is more I want to say, and I need time to say it. Please sit, Mr. Pierce.”

I had asked Maxwell once why his father had taken such a vehement dislike to me.

“Not vehement, Lion.”

“Vehement, Maxwell. Why?”

“He doesn’t think you bring anything to the table.”

“If he’s considering position and fortune, he’s very nearly right. But I’m not convinced it’s not because of Evelyn.”

Maxwell knew what I meant but didn’t know how to say anything about it.

The memory came just as Pierce said, “Lady Stuart, would you excuse me to go out into the garden? I’m sure you and Miss Lion have things to discuss.”

She smiled, her eyes conveying what seemed to be a silent thanks for the privacy. “Of course.”

He left through the doors behind the table, which opened out onto the lawn, just as Evelyn came into view.

Lady Stuart and I both found ourselves watching as Evelyn eyed Pierce.

When the two men were close enough to speak, Evelyn offered Pierce a cigarette—which Pierce accepted, taking a matchbook from his own pocket to light it—and after a brief exchange of words, Pierce began a slow back and forth along the lawn, while Evelyn walked in a bit of a circle. The grey clouds had mounted a breeze for company, and it pulled at the men.

“Your Mr. Pierce,” Lady Stuart said, “was he in the military?”

Her face had so many more lines than my memory permitted. She was a woman who knew sorrow, with no need of protection. And so I answered with the truth. “No, but he is not merely a travel photographer. He photographs war.”

“Afghanistan?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so.”

And she stood, walked to one of the books, and pulled it open. She returned with a newspaper clipping. It was a photograph of soldiers: fresh, young, provoked by the distance of the place they found themselves. It was no more than a moment before I saw Maxwell, smiling.

The article had been cut away except a few paragraphs and my eyes caught the words “but as photographer Niall Pierce remembers the scene…”

“Unbelievable,” I whispered.

And it was.

Pierce had been standing not twenty feet from Maxwell. He had taken his picture.

I think I said something about not understanding it.

Lady Stuart pressed her lips and shook her head, reining in whatever tears threatened. “Mr. Pierce seems like a good man. I don’t know why knowing that he saw Maxwell, possibly spoke with him, makes such a difference, but I think it does.”

“Yes, it does,” I agreed.

Then Lady Stuart cleared her throat. “Are the two of you…?”

“Oh,” I answered. Unsure. “No, I’ve… Niall is a friend. He lives in an apartment attached to the house and rents my salon for his studio, but we’ve not…”

She nodded. “Yes, I understand. He seems a good friend, a brave sort of man.”

I nodded.

“How did he acquire his limp?”

The question caught me off my guard. I’d grown so accustomed I’d almost forgotten it was a remarkable thing for others.

“I don’t know, but I suspect it is connected to one of the campaigns he was following.”

After, when I described the photograph to Pierce as we walked to The Frog, he was as shocked as I.

“Yes, I remember that. I was passing through. Those boys had only just arrived in the country, and their naiveté was so pronounced, I thought, ‘Hell, why not photograph a happier moment.’ I sent it to The Times. They were looking for something inspirational, for God and country, and all that. I wish I had known. Which soldier was he?”

“Far left.”

“You’re joking. You must be. The one with the half smile?”

I nodded. Silent tears from a relief I did not understand.

“He asked me a question,” Pierce answered, stopping in the road.

“Did he?”

“He asked how long I’d been a photographer. Mentioned how he’d love to learn. ‘Write me a letter,’ I told him, in care of a friend who managed all my correspondence while I was in Afghanistan. He never did.”

I thought again of the soldiers, boys really. And considered Maxwell and his half smile. There was a fire in it. Anticipation crowding out any bewilderment. A boy looking for a life beyond his own. And what he found was a fight.

It was the most tremendous gift, to think that a new piece of my life had briefly touched the old.

“I wouldn’t mind, Emma,” Lady Stuart had said, after I sat staring out the window, the photograph in my hand.

I looked over, and she was looking down at her hands.

“I wouldn’t mind if you and he…if you found someone like him. I believe you have put a brave face on your loss, and I thank you for it, but I think he would wish you to find someone.”

I waited longer than was comfortable, but when my response came it was honest. “I understand what you say in theory, but I cannot see past the limits of my own loss.”

We both looked out the window towards Pierce.

It was then that the nearly-redeemed afternoon took a turn for the violent—I cannot say for the worse, because I’m afraid it felt that fate wanted to teach Evelyn a lesson.

(Fate or Emma M. Lion.)

Evelyn was smoking a fresh cigarette, his arms crossed, standing near the stone archway that led into the meadowlands. And as Pierce was pacing the lawn, Evelyn said something to him. Pierce looked up and gave an answer, to which Evelyn responded. Harmless enough. Pierce wasn’t looking for conversation, walking past, hands in his pockets.

Then Evelyn pulled his cigarette away with two fingers, let the smoke slowly leave his mouth, and said something that caused Pierce to pull his head up sharply.

Evelyn spoke again.

Pierce gave a blunt answer.

Then, with an ugly twist of his face, Evelyn replied, then spat on the ground.

In less than three seconds, Pierce had closed the gap.

“Dear me,” said Maxwell’s mother.

I bit my lip.

With a single fist, Pierce grabbed Evelyn by his shirtfront and slammed him against the stone archway.

Evelyn spat in Pierce’s face.

Needless to say, Pierce punched Evelyn so hard, the latter spun to the ground, holding his nose. It wasn’t over. Pierce waited while Evelyn was trying to stand, and when Evelyn lifted his fists in the most fictional fighting stance ever witnessed, Pierce hit him with his left fist. Then, waiting for Evelyn to sway, hit him with his right.

Lady Stuart gasped.

Evelyn was laid out flat on his back.

It looked for a moment as if he were dead. Then he lifted a hand to his face. Pierce stood over Evelyn long enough for the latter to know it was Pierce’s grace alone that had saved him, then walked off. Evelyn sat up as he glared at Pierce’s back.

It was pathetic, really.

My mouth was open, I am sure of it, and I looked towards Lady Stuart, expecting fretting hands and a disapproving expression.     

Instead I found a look of absolute shock, followed by an almost girlish sound of smothered laughter.

“I am certain he deserved that,” she managed to say before losing control altogether and laughing out loud. It turned to crying, and then returned to laughter, followed by a sigh.

“Your friend has put the men of my family in their place,” she said. Then her hand rested on the photograph of Maxwell. “All of them. According to their deserts.”

“I am so sorry, Maryanne.”

“Don’t be. However, I think it best you go before Harry sees Evelyn’s face.”

“Poor Evelyn,” I sighed.

“Poor Evelyn,” she echoed, the sadness momentarily dispelled creeping back.

We stood. And she reached for something from a nearby side table.

“My husband went through Maxwell’s effects when they were sent home. This was among them. I found it a few months ago. Unopened but unsent. A gift and a sin. I’m sorry it’s taken until now.”

She handed me a worn envelope with my name written in Maxwell’s hand.

Too surprised to verbalize in any meaningful way what this meant, I gave Lady Stuart a hug, and, unlike the day before at the graveyard, she fully embraced me in return—a goodbye to the daughter that never was to be. Claiming my parasol, hat, and gloves, along with Pierce’s gloves and hat, I went out into the garden.

Pierce appeared when I was only a few steps across the gravel drive, and without a word we walked down to the gate and out onto the road.

The letter felt like a stone inside my pocket, and it took me a moment to realise Pierce was speaking.

“Hmm?” I asked.

“I said I’m sorry.”

“For threatening Lord Stuart or hitting Evelyn two times more than necessary?”

“Honestly? For neither. But I hate to think I upset Lady Stuart. She seems a good woman.”

“Oh. She laughed.”

“Did she?” And Pierce smiled. “I’ve split the knuckle on my right hand. Bone on bone as a hit could get, I’m afraid. He’ll look a picture for a month.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Would you forgive me if I don’t tell you?” Pierce asked.

And I, knowing that Evelyn said things that don’t bear repeating, answered I would.

We took the long way back to the village, and not until we returned to The Frog and Crown did the minutes of the day take my feet from under me. I was as weary as Sisyphus and did not wish to eat, only to leave as quickly as possible.

After a walk to the station and a quarter of an hour wait, the six o’clock train to London arrived. We claimed an empty compartment and I attempted to write in my journal, soon giving up.

It was then I showed Pierce the envelope.

“Do you need privacy?”

And I, after an unmoving minute, shook my head.

I’ve never fallen from a cliffside, but I imagine there would be a moment when one’s eyes would connect with their companion’s, the haunting knowledge that they understood you were going to fall. Pierce saw this, I think, for he left his seat and came to sit beside me, shoulder against mine, bracing me for whatever the fall would bring.

Carefully, I opened the envelope, and Pierce turned his attention to the fading evening fields on the other side of the glass.

I read the letter.

I cried. And I couldn’t breathe.

The letter fell to the floor. Pierce retrieved it, slipping it into his pocket.

I kept thinking that it had to be the worst day of all the days.

Emma Lion and the mess she was left with.

Pierce—that man kept me bound together. He wasn’t bothered for a moment how terribly I cried. Not even when curious faces looked through the window into our compartment, wondering why in all of England someone was showing such a display of emotion.

He said nothing, did nothing but keep me close. I, feeling like a ghost he kept chained to earth.

At some silent point, when unheeded tears still remained, he pulled me against his chest as if he could take the beating from the storm on my behalf. I slept, but it was an unsettled, interrupted affair, and when we pulled into the London station, it was near dark and I was numb.

We stepped from the train into the smoke, Pierce carrying both of our bags through the noise and movement. The crowd puddled around us, though I wasn’t focusing on much of anything.

Then a voice broke through the haze.

“Well met,” said Islington, appearing before us. “Pierce, Li— Emma? Are you unwell?”

Pierce answered for me. “She’s been riding roughshod, Islington. A black day.”

Here I failed my countrymen entirely. My stiff upper lip was only stabilized by a swallow, a painfully obvious determination to keep myself together.

“I see,” Islington said with a hasty glance of concern. “My carriage is just outside. Come back to Baron’s Square. Some quiet, something to eat in the library.”

I ought to have resisted politely.

But the knowledge that I might have to face Cousin Archibald, or Parian, or even poor Agnes, was a burden.

“I would like that,” I managed.

The ride to St. Crispian’s was a blur of London, only surreal shadows and lights. Islington was sitting across from me, looking tactfully out the window, making light speech with Pierce, who sat at my side, the toll of the last two days wearing at his edges.

After we arrived, I recall Islington giving instruction to his butler, another to a footman; then we found ourselves guided to a room near the back of the house, stained glass lamps, endless bookshelves, two worn sofas facing each other before the hearth.

I was deposited on one, Islington and Pierce standing, talking about nothing while a maid stoked the fire. The room did not take long to warm.

When we were left alone, Pierce murmured something to Islington before they sat as we had in the carriage. Pierce beside me, Islington directly across.

When the door opened, I was expecting a footman.

I blinked. Like an apparition, Young Hawkes walked into the room.

Pierce—and I suspect, myself—looked surprised, but Islington did not.

“Good instinct, Hawkes,” he said. “Emma’s had a day of it. Have you eaten? No? Join us then? Nothing formal.”

Hawkes sat diagonal from me, offering a sad, half-smile in my direction.

It was not long before one of the men said something, another answered, and I closed my eyes, listening  to the cadence but not the meaning.

I must have fallen asleep quickly.

When I woke there were abandoned glasses of whisky where Islington and Pierce should have been, and only Hawkes remained for company. He was watching the fire, an open book before him.

I blinked and sat in a more decorous upright position. Before I could ask what time it was, Hawkes—as if reading my mind—said, “It’s a quarter past ten. Dinner has been kept warm, for whenever you’re ready.”

“Heavens. Have I been asleep all that time?”

His answering smile was subdued, and he, elbow on the arm of the sofa, absently ran his fingers through his hair. “They’ve gone up to the gallery to look at a Titian.”

“Of course Islington has a Titian,” I replied.

Hawkes’s expression conveyed that it was an inevitable fact of life.

“Am I a frightful mess?”

“No,” Hawkes answered.

“I am rather hungry.”

Hawkes set his book aside and, in only a moment—with the aid of a covered tray I’d not noticed—placed a meal before me.

The aroma of herbs and broth rose, so very tempting I felt a sting in my eyes. Again.

“Soup, bread, cheese. All good,” said Hawkes as he sat back on the diagonal corner of his sofa. “That dish of custard? Best cry off.”

I believe I snorted. Or made some similar sound.

“I love custard,” I answered.

“You’re more than welcome to try.”

“Undaunted,” I muttered as I took a bite of what had offended Hawkes’s sensibilities.

He had not borne false witness.

I coughed and reached for Pierce’s abandoned whisky to wash it down.

Which caused a second fit of coughs—rather strong stuff.

I could have sworn that Hawkes, who was moving the edge of his hand back and forth across his mouth as if thinking, smiled with his eyes.

(There is nothing like realising one has developed a habit of drinking in front of their vicar.)

Halfway through my meal, Islington and Pierce returned.

“I see you tried the custard,” Islington said. “Hawkes, didn’t you warn her?”

“Of course,” Hawkes answered, then turned his attention back to his book.

I asked after the Titian, and Islington told the long historical tale of how his family came into possession of the piece. Pierce resumed his whisky, not mentioning that a finger of it was missing. And I finished my meal, feeling a relief so profound I believe I could have slept all night in the library if I dared.

Islington sent for wine and fruit and, of all things, three kinds of cake.

“You like cake,” he said by way of explanation when he looked at me.

No one asked after the details of my day.

I did not offer them.

Instead, we spoke of a dozen inconsequential things, and twice I laughed at something. Hawkes did not speak often. Pierce and I admired the library, Islington making subtle yet humorous comments regarding my lack of education. Then added, “For all your complaints of faulty education, you seem to know more than a little.”

“Pretence,” I replied.

“Hardly,” said Pierce.

“What happened to your father’s books?” Hawkes asked, looking up from his own. “Wasn’t he a man of substantial reading?”

 So I found myself telling the story of losing my father’s library. I included all the tragic turns with self-deprecating humour, and expected some sort of deserved applause.

Not so.

Pierce swore.

Hawkes grimaced.

And Islington, sitting properly as a duke should, said, “That’s terrible.”

“It’s comparable to The Great Burning of 1882.”

“What’s that?” Pierce asked.

“You don’t wish to know.”

Islington turned to Hawkes. “Didn’t something tragic happen to your library?”

“Only part of it,” Hawkes replied. Then he turned a page, read a paragraph, and looked up. “I dropped a chest of books into the ocean.”

“You didn’t!” I exclaimed. “How?”

“I will only say there was a butcher, a baker, and a—”

“Candlestick maker?” Pierce interrupted.

“No. The fleece of a lamb.”

“It wasn’t Jason’s, was it?” asked Islington.

“Jason’s?” I asked.

“Jason’s Golden Fleece,” Islington supplied. “Faulty education?”

“No,” I challenged. “Everyone knows who Jason is. It just so happens there is a man named Jason Andino who lives on Whereabouts Lane. His brother is a sheep farmer in Greece.”

Hawkes turned the page of his book and cleared his throat. “The fleece was Jason’s. Andino, that is. Not the mythical Jason, son of Aeson, the slain King of Iolcos. Well done, Miss Lion.”

Pierce shook his head, then took another drink.

I smiled at Islington.

He gave an expression of long-suffering.

Pierce and I were delivered home sometime after midnight. I embraced him on the sidewalk—yes, a curtain did rustle across the street—and it felt as natural as anything.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“It will be all right in the end.”

“Do you believe so?”

“For you? Yes.”

We picked up our bags, went up the stairs, and I used my key to open Lapis Lazuli House.

“Goodnight, Pierce,” I said as he moved towards his studio door.

He turned and looked to where I was, halfway up the stairs.

“Did you mean what you said on the train?” he asked.

I wasn’t aware I had strung together any coherent words whatsoever.

“What did I say?”

“That you couldn’t conceive of a life with anyone else?”

It’s strange. I hadn’t remembered speaking them. But they felt true.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Is a life of friends not sufficiently rewarding?”

“It can be. But not for you.”

My smile was half-hearted, and I said goodnight.

Clearly unable to sleep, I sat at my window with a sermon Hawkes gave months ago on my mind, where he mentioned Aaron and Hur holding up the arms of Moses.

They might not be of the Old Testament variety—Pierce, Islington, and Hawkes—but whatever strange confluence of events led to them holding me up was the gentlest hand of fate I’ve ever encountered. It might even be Divine.

Which means I’ve cast myself as Moses.

I quite like that.

If the men are very, very good, perhaps I will pray for manna.

October 26th

July 21st, 1880

Emma the wild girl,

It’s quiet tonight. The unsettling sort. I’ve stolen this last candle from Phips to write you. Feeling strange, and I am not sure what to make of it, except to say it must be the dirt and the heat. The exhaustion of the day. The trying not to think of England.

Home and you feel farther away somehow. As if it’s not just the miles of the earth between us anymore. Nonsense, I know. Homesickness and boredom, I suppose, is to blame. Enough of that.

What news have I from this place? I’d forgotten to check my boots for scorpions a few mornings back, which led to a merry dance. A chance for the boys to ridicule me. Just as well. Morale, and all that.

I am restless.

Odd thing is that I keep hearing your voice. And more often than not you’re quoting Shakespeare. Over and over, you speak that line from The Tempest.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on,

and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

Is it dreams or life? I can never remember. Must be dreams. It’s as if I can hear you clear as day, saying, “It’s dreams, Maxwell.”

Now that is a memory. Trailing after you in the tall grass, hearing you repeat those very lines. Tonight they make me feel small and forgotten. A life moved across an impersonal map.

Will you do something for me? Will you write that bit about dreams in your own hand and send it back to me?

Anything written by you, Lion, is a constellation. I think of where you will be when you scribble it out. What possible scrape you are trying to pull yourself out of—you of the inexhaustible talent for finding yourself surrounded by trouble. Good trouble, I hope.

My thoughts are for you, along with whatever stories I can pull out of this barren land and bring home. I don’t want to come back here when it’s all over. Do you mind? We will find different places. Other roads.

I love you, you know.

Maxwell

October 27th

What force is asking I make sense of that letter? Measuring my worn notches of grief, making me question my sanity. Saying, Here you are, Emma. Speak to your dead. It will be painful.

I cannot tell if it is cruel or kind.

Later

I’ve written the lines from The Tempest, as he asked, and sent them to Lady Stuart, with a note indicating those words were last on his mind and might be fitting for his gravestone.

Tired in every way.

It’s been raining all morning.

The monogrammed pendant is back on the chain it came from, and in the back of my desk drawer, beneath the scatter of notes Pierce and I have written.

Later

Islington came this afternoon.

Pierce had just finished taking a portrait—a friend of Lady Trewartha who had heard “marvellous things about his work”—and joined in.

The frayed edges of the week were treated to nothing more than wandering conversation. It was comfortable. Neither of them mentioned that my eyes were red from crying. The storm has blown north, the London sky is uncharacteristically clear, and so the windows were flung open, even if Agnes did tell me afterward it was unfitting.

I sighed, “You seem overly distressed regarding the matter, Agnes.”

“Oh, Miss, it’s only that a lady does not fling the windows of her drawing room open. Especially not in the presence of a duke. It’s the dust, you see. And the absence of decorum.”

“I see.”

“Now that the issue of dust has settled, Miss Lion, I was going to ask, might I have the night off for the All Hallows’ Eve fair? After I illuminate the pumpkins in the window.”

“Of course. And you won’t even need to worry over the pumpkins. I will give Parian that task.”

“Oh, thank you.”

Agnes returned blithely to the kitchen.

And I returned to my garret.

October 28th

Cousin Archibald has been invited to spend a few days with a friend in Bath.

“I’ve no desire to be present for All Hallows’ Eve, nor All Saints’ Day. Hawkes keeps those vile bells ringing all the day long, come the first of November. Obscene and unnecessary.”

I did not realise Archibald had any friends.

Let alone in Bath.

Bully for that.

October 29th

All the trees on the street have gone gold.

It makes me feel so very sad.

Later

I retired to bed early this evening. An effort to manifest unto the Powers That Be that I intend to lead a life of pious solitude, where I wrap messages of encouragement around small stones and throw them at the passersby on Whereabouts Lane. (It feels a solid scheme for my future.)

I lay awake what felt like hours, but must have eventually fallen into sleep, for I certainly fell out of it. A noise woke me, and in the truth one finds after only an hour of messy sleep, I was quite out of sorts: a potpourri of melancholy and treason. The noise came again, like the sound of Visigoths battering the gates.

I threw my mother’s silk robe over my nightdress and followed the sounds of siege, cursing the frailties of Rome, the militant ego of the British Empire, and the idea that my going to bed at a reasonable hour could hide me from my own upset state. (Let it be acknowledged, however, that I intended to throw my stones at the passersby with some force, as a counterbalance to despair.)

All this to say that after I had passed Agnes and Parian, crouched beside the stair in the hall, and marched up to the front door, my face showed a wild degree of indignation.

I flung open the door.

Only to be swept away.

By Oberon’s court, no less.

Pouring into the hall came figures dressed in such strange costumes—with feathers, glimmers, and ribbons, holding branches, flutes and drums, a glittering trail of mystical absurdities.

I was swept along with it—them.

Into the drawing room.

Over the din, I heard Agnes scream. (One assumes Parian had fled.)

Before I could say aught, only just realising I’d been lifted so my feet weren’t touching the ground, I was upon the pink chair, standing queen above all I surveyed.

Around me the otherworldly creatures gathered, crouching down at my feet as if to offer me obeisance.

Someone set the fire. Candles were lit and sent round.

I thought that I was trapped in some surreal vision. Whether it be of heaven or hell was still to be decided. It was then that a creature with a shocking amount of feathers, bits of mirror about his clothes, stood before me, his eyes bright.

“Mistress Lion.” And he bowed, a motion between regal counsellor and court jester. “It is our pleasure to coronate you queen.”

“Gentlemen, have ye the sceptre?” said one.

“Gentlemen, have ye the crown?” said another.

From the folds of their strange attire such items were produced, glittering in the fey light.

“Here is the sceptre for our lady.”

“And here the crown.”

My eyes were quite wide at this point, and I truly believed that I had either found my way into Oberon’s wood, or that Pierce was right—there was such a thing as too much Shakespeare.

Then, one figure in the centre stood upright, reached into a pocket, and removed…a cigarette. “I say, does anybody have a light?”

A general cry arose as everyone straightened.

“A smoke? Now? Really?” cried a woodland sprite.

“No sense of ceremony,” muttered another.

“This seems as good a place as any,” defended the offender.

“Blasted, where’s Striker. Striker?”

I, standing atop the cushion of the pink chair in my nightdress, covered my face with a hand and began to laugh.

The Reprobates Ten.

Or Nine. I counted, and guessed Hawkes was not in costume.

“Hello, Reprobates,” I said.

“Hello,” they muttered, the carefully woven spell limping along.

The Boy, disrupter of the game, grinned up at me. What cheek. “Tell you what, let’s finish this thing, then we can see what’s in the pantry.”

After three minutes of debate whether an intermission should be pronounced, the pantry raid in immediate effect, it was decided they would finish the job.

“Right then,” said The Boy, who flung his cigarette into the fire. And just like that, they were all back in character, swirling around, lifting candles; and something unexpectedly, lightly, touched my head. I screamed, and turned to see that one of them—I had no idea who—had climbed up on a small bench and was declaring something, the crown just above my hair.

“That Emma Lion be a good sport, and the honoured E of A—”

“Don’t abbreviate, Charlie Cross. Bad form!”

“—the honoured Eleanor of Aquitaine, who will claim our utmost allegiance, especially on one particular day. The day…?”

“To be revealed?”

“—to be revealed.”

“We know the day—”

“But she doesn’t. Be quiet!”

A sceptre was thrust into my hand.

“She will stand as a pillar of strength and…er…”

“Virtue?”

Someone snorted.

I raised an eyebrow.

“Virtue and jolly good fun.”

“JOLLY GOOD FUN!” they all cried out.

“Heavens!” I said.

“May she be reverenced, and never lose at cards, and…”

“Taken for a good meal now and again?”

“Taken for a good meal. Now and again. That all privileges bestowed upon a monarch of our realm are in full force, and no others—saving the Queen Victoria—usurp—”

“Does he even know what usurp means?”

“Shhh!”

“...usurp her place in the hearts of The Reprobates Ten.”

“THE REPROBATES TEN!” they all thundered.

And the crown was smashed onto my head.

Another cheer all around, and someone lit the lamps.

There I stood. In my bare feet, my white nightdress covered with my mother’s green robe, hair a wild tangle falling down my back—crown on my brow, a sceptre in my hand.

And as The Reprobates flopped onto the various objects of furniture—five of them on the green sofa—I saw an amused figure sitting in the far corner near the door.

Mighty Nigel Hawkes.

“Hawkes!” I cried. And in my current position, it sounded rather like a decree.

The Reprobates all cheered.

“HAWKES THE FOX!”

Then one said, “To the pantry!”

“THE PANTRY!”

And they all stumbled out of the room, leaving me standing in my glory and Hawkes sitting in the far corner, a book in hand, looking for all the world like he hadn’t slept in days.

“Am I allowed to come down?” I asked.

Hawkes rubbed the inside of his eye, stifled a yawn, and closed his book. “If you wish.”

And so I did.

Then came a shout from the kitchen. “ISLINGTON!”

“Oh heavens, they found the painting,” I muttered.

Hawkes’s brow creased in question.

I sat. And gave no explanation.

“You don’t need to be exiled in the corner, Hawkes.”

“I may need to slip out.”

“How did you even slip in?”

“The front door was left open. And I knew what they had planned.”

“But you did not see fit to participate?”

“No. These days I find it wise to avoid certain rituals.”

“Emma M. Lion, the Christian, is comforted by the unsullied character of her vicar.”

“Is there another?”

“Vicar?”

“Emma M. Lion.”

“Emma M. Lion, the Irishman’s Daughter, thinks you may as well have thrown in your lot.”

Hawkes smiled and repeated, “The Irishman’s Daughter.”

“It’s what my cousin calls me.”

“I’m sorry about your pantry.”

“Oh, there’s nothing in it save some stale biscuits, the very end of a loaf, and weak tea. Agnes is set to do some baking tomorrow.”

It was then the sound of defeat came up from the kitchen and into the hall.

Not risking another presentation of similar ilk, I rose and walked across the drawing room, stopping on the threshold.

“There she is!”

“Lovely E of A.”

“With nothing but stale biscuits!”

“You didn’t warn me,” I answered.

“We never do,” claimed Night Watchman.

“Never,” verified Quality Jones.

Added Odysseus, “Once you start warning women, they know what to expect.”

(Poor Greek Penelope!)

“Exactly,” said Sargent.

“Exactly,” I added. “Come another time. I’ll have some sort of pudding on hand. Now, off you all go.”

After an excessive amount of grumbles, a refitting of their masks, and a few suggestions of places they might harass, The Reprobates Ten Nine filtered out into the night.

Hawkes and I trailed into the hall after them, watching, and after a few jostles and jokes, they began running down the lane.

“What do I do with these?” I asked Hawkes, holding up my sceptre and tapping it against my crown.

“I should think it be wise to keep them on hand. You will have need of them.”

“Hmm. Will I?”

“Yes.”

“What if my reputation is ruined after some neighbour reports several young men coming and going in the middle of the night?”

Hawkes looked out into the street. “I shouldn’t worry. It was simply the local vicar visiting the invalid.”

“Cousin Archibald is gone, I am afraid. No invalid here.”

“Oh, I was referring to those fool friends of mine. Mad, every one.”

I grinned.

Young Hawkes tucked his book beneath his arm, his hands in his pockets, said, “Goodnight,” and walked up Whereabouts while the noise of his friends echoed along the lane.

It was then I thought that life—my life, in particular—wasn’t wholly worth giving up on yet.

October 30th

Today Pierce gifted me the photograph he had taken of me.

The flurry that was Tybalt jumping after the bird. My face caught in the motion of a surprised laugh as I reached for him.

I looked happy.

Like myself.

There was something else about the image, and as I scanned the façade of Lapis Lazuli, the folds of my dress, the absolute wildness of the moment, I was struck by how artfully it had been captured.

Glancing at where he stood at his worktable sorting letters, I said. “It’s beautiful. And fitting.”

“I liked it,” he replied. “I hope you don’t mind I’ve sent one to my friend’s wife so she could see Tybalt is alive and well.”

“The accidental wife?”

“Yes,” Pierce replied. “Strangely enough, he writes that he likes the woman.”

I gave a half-smile. “Has he told her?”

“Most likely not.”

“Well.”

“Some people,” Pierce said with a shrug.

“Pierce?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you. For what you’ve done.”

His hands stilled, paused above their work, and he answered, “Of course.”

As I was leaving, he added, “I found a green feather on the walk outside Lapis Lazuli when I arrived home in the early hours of the morning.”

I smiled. “I’m sure you did.”

Then I closed the door behind me.

October 31st

The All Hallows’ Eve celebration, by all accounts, is meant to keep the wandering souls of St. Crispian’s occupied until All Saints’ Day on the first of November. It is rather like a carnival, with odd games and music and dancing. Each year a different street plays host.

The residents of Whereabouts have been scrambling about all day, trying to ready their part of the lane. Several tables of food are to be arranged at Jacob’s Well. (The monks have agreed not to practice until after midnight.)

Parian, having been tasked with carving and attending to the pumpkins, refuses to be comforted.

We were all in the kitchen, and he was eyeing the eight misshapen pumpkins with suspicion.

“But what do you mean by faces?” he complained. “And how’s one to manage it with all the seeds in there?”

I waved a hand. “I presume you scoop out the insides and carve faces. Somehow.”

“I’m not touching the guts of a gourd,” he sniffed.

“The Guts of a Gourd, Parian? That sounds rather dramatic.”

“Oh, Parian,” Agnes sighed, and she pulled a tray of apple turnovers out of the oven. “You cut round the top and scoop out the insides.”

“Grotesque!”

“I’ll do it,” she said. “I’ll prepare the jack-o’-lanterns if you’re set to watch them tonight.”

Before Parian could object, I exclaimed, “How wonderful! See, Parian? It all fits together.”

And I escaped from the kitchen.

The evening’s amusements, in theory, sound something wonderful.

I, however, am not in the most celebratory of moods. I think I’ll wander up and down a time or two, say hello to any of the neighbours, and take myself to bed early.

Later

I stayed longer than I’d anticipated. There were all the games of any harvest festival to be found, with lanterns and cider and a bonfire in the middle of the lane. I played a game with rings and milk bottles and was rubbish. However, the boys of St. Crispian’s (those little ruffians who gave me a clue for Julius Caesar) had laid out a rather elaborate hopscotch. In this I excelled.

My illuminated Lapis Lazuli looked marvellous, and as delightful as it was to see the pumpkins with their crooked faces, my true enjoyment was found in the shadowed figure of Parian, hopping from room to room, ensuring the house was not burning to the ground.

Agnes was with a small knot of maids from other households, and they were laughing, holding hands and telling secrets, eating as many sweets as they could.

I recognised faces from all of St. Crispian’s, but none to keep me in one place. Up and down I walked, and then, instead of returning to the small library of my garret, I turned up Whereabouts and wandered the Diagonal until I found myself across the street from the church.

It had been years since I’d spent any time in St. Crispian’s graveyard.

Entering, I folded my arms and walked about. It was so quiet. Peaceful. I passed through the gate and began walking on the uneven ground between the graves. Then I noticed a strange light in the distance. Nothing fey, only a lantern. Had it been otherworldly, I would not have followed. I was, after all, raised by an Irishman.

Walking closer I could see that it was Young Hawkes, sitting on a bench, his feet propped irreligiously on the top of a headstone, a lantern by his side to illuminate the book he was reading.

Admittedly picturesque.

Gothic religioso.

Without looking up, he said, “Good evening, Miss Lion.”

“Good evening, Hawkes.”

He removed his lantern and turned down the wick until it was only the subtlest glow. I, taking it as invitation, sat beside him.

“What are you reading?”

“Plutarch’s commentaries regarding Sparta.”

“Sounds fascinating. How is it?”

He looked towards me, that face catching all the shadows. “It’s a touch Spartan.”

I grinned. “As one could imagine.”

Five quiet minutes passed, the faraway sound of the festivities competing with the nearby crickets.

“You’ve bored of All Hallows’ Eve?” he asked lightly.

“No. A good deal of fun, actually. I only thought to find myself some quiet, and Jacob’s Well is occupied.”

“In that case, shall I leave you to the dead?”

I shivered. How many times does one have to be left to the dead?

“I’d rather you stayed, if you don’t mind. Looking for quiet does not follow I was looking for solitude.”

Hawkes closed his book.

We sat, the smell of autumn rising among the graves, distant shouts reaching across St. Crispian’s. And then Hawkes said, “I wondered how long it would take.”

Before I could ask him what he meant, I heard two voices.

One deep, one elegant. And two spectres came around the corner of the church.

“There they are,” said Islington, the night carrying the sound of his voice perfectly.

“Morbid place for a morbid night,” answered Pierce.

I watched them pick their way over the grass in the dark, Pierce with his hands in his pockets.

Curious how they’d found us, I asked, “Did you call out the hounds, Islington?”

“Perhaps I ought to have, but no. I was returning to St. Crispian’s by way of Sterling Street just as you were crossing the Diagonal. I guessed your destination might be the church, and thought I would join. I found Pierce coming out of The Cleopatra and invited him to come a-hunting.”

They settled down on the grass, the four of us creating a loose circle.

“Do you think he minds?” Pierce asked with a tilt of inebriated humour in his voice. He was looking at Hawkes’s feet resting on the gravestone.

Young Hawkes did not answer with immediacy, letting the lamp die down and leaving us shadows without form in the dark.

We all waited.

Then Hawkes said, “He doesn’t mind.”

Again, silence.

A breeze began to move through, rustling the golden leaves clinging to their trees. I took a deep breath.

“I think I like the autumn best,” I mused aloud.

“You should see it in New England,” Pierce said. “The most astonishing display of colour. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Islington asked, “Did you spend much time in America?”

“Ten years or so. Off and on, between campaigns.”

I made a mental note in my mind beneath the heading Facts of Pierce’s Life He Doesn’t Share.

“I was under the impression you photographed the American Civil War,” I said. “That was, what? Twenty years ago?”

“It was.” Even in the dark, his silver eyes felt like they went straight through me.

“You couldn’t have been more than—”

“I went to America a year into the war. I learned my trade young. Was an assistant. But that,” he said, building walls against his past, “is a story for another night.”

Islington picked a piece of grass, twisting it between his fingers, and Hawkes was still as a ghost until he very unexpectedly said, “Leonidas, King of Sparta, took only three hundred of his own men with him to fight the Persians. Along the way he gathered six thousand more soldiers from the Greek city-states, but that was nothing against the rumoured Persian army of Xerxes. Thousands upon thousands, and that’s the conservative estimate.”

I laugh now, recalling the moment, for all three of us—Islington, Pierce, and I—settled into a more comfortable position, as if children, awaiting the tale.

“The Spartan aim was to defend the pass of Thermopylae, the only known route the Persian army could come through. However, there was a mountain path. Secret. Unknown to Xerxes and his invading army. Leonidas sent the Phocians to defend the Anapaea path, and he and his own men protected the narrowest point of the pass of Thermopylae themselves.

“The Persian army was more numerous than reported, but Xerxes was no fool. He sent an emissary to Leonidas, the Spartan king, and offered peace, fertile land, and great reward if Leonidas would let Xerxes and his men through the pass unhindered.

“Leonidas said no.

“A second request came, more urgent, more threatening. Again Leonidas said no.

“Finally, the Persian emissary threatened, ‘We will darken the sky with our arrows.’

“And Leonidas said—” And Hawkes said something in Greek, which I, of the Fortitude, A Preparatory School for Girls ilk, could not understand.

But Islington interpreted softly, “Then we will fight in the shade.”

“Brave man,” I murmured.

“A sky so full of arrows, they fought in the shade,” said Hawkes.

Pierce made some approving sound.

It was a noble response for King Leonidas to make, and I was inspired, considering everything with Cousin Archibald, and Maxwell’s burial, missing my parents down to the very bones, and the blank verse of my future—all arrows filling the sky to a tremendous amount. Yet here I was, determined to fight in the shade.

I felt lifted.

Noble.

Spartan.

I was picturing myself taking Leonidas as a guide, a talisman against my unknown future. Victorious against all odds. And wanting to hear Hawkes relay future deeds from the noble king, I asked, “Did Leonidas hold the Persians at the pass?”

Hawkes took in a breath and said, “He died.”

In an instant all my hopes were dashed.

“He died!” I cried.

An arrow to the heart.

I felt bereft.

Those wicked Persians.

“Leonidas and his men held the pass for two days, driving Xerxes to distraction. How could his thousands not move these three hundred men? But then a man named Ephialtes betrayed the Greeks. He went to Xerxes and told him of the mountain path. The Persians marched through unimpeded as the Phocians, tasked with defending the mountain path, were frightened away. And so Leonidas was surrounded on both sides. Most of the Greek soldiers fled, but all the Spartans held their ground. And Leonidas fought like the lion he was until he was slain. The Persians tried to take his body, but the Spartans pulled it back to safety. And one by one they fought to the death, taking as many Persians with them as they could. Tens of thousands of Persians died, and only two thousand Greeks.”

Suddenly the graveyard did not seem so peaceful.

“What kind of an ‘Emma, keep your chin up’ story was that!” I blurted out. “Here I am thinking that despite the cloud of arrows coming for me, I will fight in the shade and come off the victor. And then you kill me before the end! Really, Hawkes. One would think you could have chosen a more inspirational tale.”

There was silence for the space of ten counts, then Pierce laughed, and Islington.

The cover of night will neither confirm nor deny whether Hawkes smiled, but I have my suspicions.

It wasn’t long before we left the churchyard, I carrying Hawkes’s lantern, he his book, Islington putting his jacket back on, while Pierce walked with his hands in his pockets. And as we came to the corner of the church across from The Cleopatra—the inhabitants of which had just broken out into some drunken verse—Islington paused, causing us all to slow our step and puddle in our places.

“I’m going to ask a rather odd question,” said Islington. “It is not very like me to give credit to such things. However…” And he made a motion with his fingers that tied the four of us together. “What do you make of this?”

He was right about there being something, what I had sensed at dinner a few weeks back.

Remembering the very thoughts I’d had after our dinner weeks ago, I glanced from face to face.

Pierce shrugged.

Islington waited.

It was Hawkes who gave voice. “Alchemy.”

I shivered.

That mythical pursuit that turns disparate elements to gold.

None of us questioned the veracity of his statement.

We stood in the dark, feeling that something beyond the ordinary was working on our behalf.

“Alchemy,” murmured Islington.

Pierce added nothing, but the lights of The Cleopatra were bright enough to show a curious smile.

They looked towards me.

“So Heaven has thrown me in with you lot?”

Islington said he wasn’t certain my coming into his life was the work of heaven.

Pierce made some comment under his breath as to whether it be heaven or fate.

And Hawkes? Well, he simply lifted an eyebrow, the trace of a smile following, and said, “Goodnight, all.”

He lifted the lantern from my hand and walked towards his door, just past that of The Cleopatra.

The three of us silently continued down the Diagonal until Islington turned up Sterling with a nod, and Pierce and I wove our way home through the remaining revellers.

Later

GOODNIGHT, EMMA.

What do you make of what Hawkes said?

WHAT DO YOU MEAN?

Just that. What do you make of what Hawkes said?

ISLINGTON IS CORRECT IT’S SOMETHING. BE IT ALCHEMY? I CAN’T RIGHTLY SAY.

I THINK I’D BE AFRAID OF THE IDEA THAT THERE WAS MEANING BEHIND IT.

Why afraid?

I CANNOT RECALL A TIME IN MY LIFE WHERE THAT HAS EVER BEEN A FAMILIAR TETHER. A RIGHT PLACE AND A FITTING TIME. WHAT WOULD THAT SAY ABOUT WHAT I’VE SEEN THAT BROUGHT ME HERE?

I’M UNSETTLED BY IT.

AND YOU? DO YOU BELIEVE IN WHATEVER

THIS ENTANGLEMENT SEEMS TO BE?

Yes

And I believe it to be good.

IT’S HARD FOR ME TO TRUST THERE IS GOOD.

You know there is good. You are good.

I’M RIDDLED WITH ILL WOUNDS.

You are full quarter of this fated alchemy. Without you, it doesn’t turn to gold.

PERHAPS

I’m still upset about the Spartan King, Leonidas.

IT WAS THE NATURE OF SPARTAN KINGS TO DIE IN BATTLE.

Well, let us hold the pass.

No traitors among us.

WE WILL FIGHT IN THE SHADE.

The Personal Library of Emma M. Lion

As It Currently Stands

The Complete Works of Shakespeare by William Shakespeare

Illustrated by Declan Lion

The Holy Bible

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

Gifted by the Jane Eyre Society of Fortitude, A Preparatory School for Girls

Shakespeare’s Comedies, In Full

Gifted by Roland Sutherland

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë

Gifted by Roland Sutherland

Latin Phrases for the Unrepentant by Barclay Stafford

Won at The Dalliance Bookshop

Self-Reliance by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Gifted by Niall Pierce

Essays by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Gifted by Niall Pierce

Meaning of Flowers

Found in the breakfast room

Dear Reader,

As appalling as it is to read another’s journal, I would like to thank all those who made it possible for you to begin reading mine.

Thank you to the family and friends of Beth Brower. She has them in abundance. They are always encouraging and believe in her. Which is the nicest of things. She specifically is grateful for the time given by Caitlin, Jenesse, Kimberly, her Mother, her Father, Rose, Alena, and Lori; your contributions are appreciated.

Thank you, Angie, who listened to the madcap plan over a cup of cocoa.

As for Rob. He tries.

Thank you, Tyson Cantrell, for allowing your lovely design to grace the cover of my journals.

Thank you, Jennifer Lerud. For your brilliant copy editing, your generosity, and your goodness. I sleep better knowing Beth has you on her side.

Thank you, Allysha Unguren, for your talents and wisdom. For sussing things out. And for weighing curious, singular, and peculiar.

Thank You, Ben Unguren, for all the magician’s tricks. And for cleaning my typewriter. And for putting purple ink on the spools. You are a rare combination of the analogue and digital in this degenerate age.

Thank you, Kip. For making the good possible. And for being the best. Beth is a fool if she ever takes you for granted.

 A note concerning the presumptuous Beth Brower, who thought it a good idea to put my journals into the world. She lives with the aforementioned Kip, her chemist husband, and their cat, Spy Cat Grey.

Beth enjoys citrus scents, books, handwoven rugs, and walking in any weather. She listens to songs on repeat. She feels rather fiercely about the ones she loves and needs windows for light and walls for art.

Beth Brower has written the following books:

The Queen’s Gambit

The Ruby Prince

The Wanderer’s Mark

The Q

The Beast of Ten

The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion

You can find more information on her website and Instagram.

www.bethbrower.com

@bethbrower

You can also subscribe to Beth's newsletter and find short fiction about the characters of St. Crispian's on Substack.

Beth Brower Scribbles Away

bethbrower.substack.com

The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 5 is now available.

Sincerely,

Emma