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Copyright © 2021 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

Maxwell Stuart. In memoriam.

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 from his mother.

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

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

Agnes – Maid, Cook. Scottish. Coming into her own.

Niall Pierce – The Tenant. Gothic yet faithful friend. Still mysterious.

Young Hawkes – St. Crispian’s unlikely vicar. Reads aloud in graveyards.

Duke of Islington – Ceasefire called, friendship forming.

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. One favour remains.

Roland Sutherland – Childhood nemesis turned gorgeous Sun God.

Saffronia March – Old Friend. Artist. Back in St. Crispian’s at last.

George West – Possible husband for Arabella. Loves maps and sweet peas.

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

Mr. Penury – Very serious banker.

Mrs. Penury – My serious banker’s silent yet delightful wife.

Lady Sheridan – My aunt Eugenia’s friend.

Evelyn Stuart – Maxwell’s older brother.

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

November 1st

I woke to the bells of St. Crispian’s church.

All Saints’ Day.

Their sound nearly identical to those from Maxwell’s burial.

Nine days. It is now nine days since.

The clanging rang inside my heartsore chest. Like a shout after too much silence, or a song after something fearful. And I’m afraid to understand why it feels like a door, and that going through the door is necessary. Or perhaps it’s more like the edges of a wound, where further exploration will be painful, but all must be cleaned out and cared for, and then allowed to…go.

I’d half slept with the insistent curl of fur known as Tybalt against my legs.

Listening, listening.

I don’t know if bells ring elsewhere the way they do in St. Crispian’s, but, according to strict tradition, our bells peal every half hour on All Saints’, from early morning until midnight has struck. The children are given watch of the bell tower, each getting their turn. Until this morning my knowledge has strictly been theoretical. I now sit by the cold window listening to the proof.

Ah, Pierce is awake. I can hear him slamming his windows shut.

Later

WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THESE BLOODY BELLS?

It’s All Saints’ Day. We ring bells to celebrate.

I WAS ONLY OFF TO SLEEP TWO HOURS AGO.

The whole of St. Crispian’s is not responsible for your disordered sleep, Pierce.

IF I LIVE HERE FOR VERY LONG, IT WILL BE.

Clever you. Don’t disparage. We must uphold Tradition.

MUST WE?

WHAT A PERVERSE CORNER OF THE WORLD.

That is simply bad form. If you can’t fall back asleep, join me in the breakfast room for whatever Agnes conjures.

Later

I sat at the table in the breakfast room, sticking my fork absently into a crumpet, with a tired, bleary-eyed, somewhat fussy photographer across from me.

“Admit there is some small charm to waking with the sound of bells,” I nettled as said bells again began to ring. To which Pierce took air deep into his lungs and released it slowly.

“I am only awake”—he stabbed his eggs—“because I’ve been asked to photograph Westminster and am off early to study the light.” His voice was gravelled.

“They want you to photograph Westminster?” I asked. “That seems dangerous. You’re not turning Guy Fawkes, are you? It may be bad for Lapis Lazuli House.”

“I’ve no intention of blowing up Parliament,” Pierce answered, taking a sip of the steaming coffee Agnes brought. Then he lifted his eyes to mine. “Yet.”

I snorted, refraining from asking why he’d not slept after we’d returned from the graveyard last night.

Such a question does not feel Spartan.

I had not fallen into immediate sleep myself upon returning home. I’d lain in the dark, considering our nocturne among the dead; Pierce and Islington each at their ease, Hawkes reciting ancient bravery and tragedy. A line from Shakespeare surfaced in my drifting thoughts: Keep thy friend under thy own life’s key.

As Pierce readied to leave the breakfast room, I did say, “I should warn you. Tomorrow is All Souls’, and we do celebrate Guy Fawkes on the fifth.”

Pierce scowled. “Do you celebrate everything?”

A worthy question. I myself don’t see any great problem with such a scheme.

The edge of life can be marked in black faster than one would suppose. Why not ring all the bells?

My verbal answer omitted any philosophy. “Isn’t it marvellous? Just be happy you aren’t Young Hawkes.”

“Meaning?” he asked as he stood.

“You’ll see.”

Pierce went to push the door open. “You don’t need anyone to fuss, least of all me…” he began. Pausing, Pierce gave a quick study of my face, then moving the door an absent inch or two with his hand, said, “Never mind. Finish your breakfast. You’ve not had more than three bites together.”

He left, and I looked at my crumpet, rather impressively smashed.

I’ve now been here an hour, staring at nothing. It would have been a better use of my time to sit by the drawing room window, gawking at passersby.

November 2nd

How that man causes trouble!

Not Cousin Archibald, no. He remains in Bath.

His shadow of derision and fallibility, however, is still with us.

In short, Parian spilled a can of violet paint outside his rooms this morning.

The clatter and cursing caused me to throw my volume of Emerson onto my desk and run down the stairs.

“What on earth are you painting!” I demanded across the terrible scene, paint soaking through the carpet and spilling onto the wood floor.

“I— It’s only— I thought—” he stammered like the incompetent fool I took him to be.

“Never mind that now. Help me!”

We cleaned. With haste.

Doing a rotten job of it all.

Thankfully Agnes came to our rescue, and within the hour all was well somewhat settled. The flooring is stained in places. As for the carpet? It is mottled, traumatized, and drying in the back garden. I doubt it will recover.

When I ordered Parian to tell me what he’d been up to, he was shamefaced. “Seeing as how Mr. Flat is still away, I thought I could sort my lodgings. Spruce things up a bit.”

“Let’s have a look at your rooms, Parian.”

He opened the door and I stepped in.

As the rooms previously belonged to yours truly, I was curious.

In truth, rooms is generous. It is a bedroom with a closet and a small sitting room whose wall has been removed, making it more of a corner.

The paper on the walls was the same—white blossoms on pale green—but there was an additional bureau of chipped wood, a bench, and in the sitting room I could see a chair of sailor blue fading to purple by the window.

He had a stack of five well-worn novels on a stool at its side.

My heart softened at the sight.

Just a touch.

The closet door was open to a fastidious but small array of shoes, coats, and the like.

As for the victim of the violet paint?

“You’re painting the trim,” I stated, hands on my hips, glancing back at Parian, still red in the face from the entire scene.

“I thought I might, yes. The paint was marked for a sale and came from my own wages. I don’t really care for winter. All grey clouds. I thought something to cheer me up might be in order. I’ve always liked violets…”

“It’s more pleasant than I would have thought,” I conceded. “However, my preference is that you ask before acting.”

Parian paused between a humble nod and a disapproving sniff. The result making it look like a brief fit of nerves.

I sighed. “When exactly did Cousin Archibald give you permission to move in here?”

The answer must be recorded in case my body is found under suspicious circumstances.

“A few years back, after you went to take care of Mrs. Matilde, Mr. Flat said you had died in a horrible accident.”

“Died!” I snapped, glaring at Parian.

Really!

Cousin Archibald told Parian I had died?

If my life were a novel, I would suspect he had plotted my demise with that scaly sister of his, so he might reign free and clear over Lapis Lazuli and all who dwelt therein. As it is not a novel, I refrain from speculations. Let it be noted, however, that while I think him capable of planning to murder one Emma M. Lion, I’ve no doubt in his failure to actually bring it about.

Perhaps those aged prunes I refused to eat at Cousin Matilde’s were laced with some nefarious poison. She wouldn’t eat them either.

I digress.

“So you moved in without a second thought?” I said to Parian.

Parian gave the most helpless of shrugs. “You were dead, Miss. I wore a black armband in your honour. And hung crepe from the painting by the window. I thought it right sad one so young and sinful had passed beyond recall of rehabilitation.”

Frowning, I turned to fully face him. “Had you supposed me to be in Hell, then?”

“I hadn’t time to decide what punishment God Almighty might have set. A letter came from you soon after, indicating you weren’t yet consigned to any unalterable state.”

I laughed darkly. Parian ran out of the room.

God Almighty might have something in store for Emma M. Lion, but I defy anyone to tell me it is Parian hanging crepe in my memory.

Later

Seeing how it is All Souls’, I stopped by the church and wrote the names of those I wished prayed for.

Declan Lion

Mirabel Lion

Maxwell Stuart

Sitting on the pew in a false reverence, I debated if, upon Cousin Archibald’s death, I will bother recording his name for prayers and remembrance.

Doubtful.

As for his sister, Matilde?

I don’t believe prayers will do her any good.

Later

I’ve just seen something astonishing.

Feeling confined by the walls of my garret, I stole the hour before sunset and went up to Primrose Hill. The clouds allowed for a weak sunlight, and I wandered upon Saffronia March, sitting on a bench, sketchbook in hand, a tray of pencils and pastels at her side.

“Well met,” I said as she waved me to join her.

“Have you come to see the sunset?” she asked.

“Only by default.”

“So you didn’t notice last night?” There was an intensity in her face.

“Ought I have?”

Miss March made an affirmative sound. Then, “Wait here, Emma. You will see something extraordinary.”

And so while she sketched the park, I sat and said little. Half an hour passed before I noticed the light taking on a strange hue. Warm, eerie, and then, like someone had taken a rusted dagger to the sky, sunset came—blood red.

I was on my feet in an instant.

The whole earth looked to be bleeding out.

“Unsettling, isn’t it,” Saffronia said after selecting a red pastel and slashing it across her page. “Yesterday’s as well.”

The entire sky was lit with witch’s fire. Those of us scattered across Primrose Hill were all frozen in place.

“But what’s caused it?” I asked.

“They say it was the volcano.”

I looked at Saffronia sharply, remembering the afternoon Pierce and I had spent reading the newspaper on the stairs of Lapis Lazuli. “The one that erupted in August? Krakatoa?”

She nodded. “There are cables coming from all over. New York, Paris, Oslo. The entire world’s awash in vibrant sunsets. Have you not seen the reports?”

I shook my head.

We watched the entirety until red faded to a sick, dead burgundy underscored with blue.

It was unsettling.

I crossed my arms over my chest.

Saffronia finished capturing what we had witnessed, and then she showed me last night’s sketch. A sky blazing orange.

“I’m surprised you didn’t see it yesterday. All of St. Crispian’s felt like it was on fire.”

“Remarkable,” I murmured. I had fallen asleep in the afternoon and not woken until dark.

“It could last for months,” Saffronia informed. “Perhaps even years.”

I frowned. “They suspect that thirty-five thousand people died from that volcano. Did you know that?”

Her hand stilled, her mouth creasing downward. “I’d known there were casualties, but not how many.”

We sat another thirty minutes before quietly walking back down Whereabouts, Saffronia to Thrush’s Victory, I to Lapis Lazuli House.

Later

Did you see the sunset this evening?

KRAKATOA

Krakatoa

November 3rd

This morning I cleaned the garret.

Then Tybalt came in with muddy paws.

Later

Dear Arabella,

I hope all is well at Spencer Court. I miss you. I do not miss your mother. Stay where you are.

How are the sunsets in Berkshire?

Lapis Lazuli House is treated to an absence of its resident banshee. Cousin Archibald being in Bath. Where all the banshees go.

Now to the real business of the day. I seem to have acquired a…well, I don’t really know what. A set? A knot? A collection? It’s been happening piecemeal, but a night in a graveyard may have turned the strange confluence of acquaintances into a more concrete association.

In short, I’ve acquired a duke, a photographer, and a vicar.

Please advise.

Yours,

Emma

November 4th

Sunday. And an unexpected delight.

Today’s sermon began with Hawkes going over the Rules of Guy Fawkes in St. Crispian’s. He stood with the air of a disillusioned martyr, looking over the congregation twice before saying, “Tomorrow is Guy Fawkes Night and will be celebrated in the usual ways. The bonfire will begin at eight o’clock, set before the gallows on Traitors Road. The Women’s Aid Society of St. Crispian’s will bring stew, bread, and cake. The Men’s Society of Little Aid is joining with The Cleopatra to provide the cider, both hard and freshly pressed; please watch the children accordingly. At a quarter to ten, if St. Crispian’s fails to apprehend me—once again—the appalling tradition of burning Guy Fawkes in effigy will occur. If I am apprehended, then you will hang me in effigy after the burning. A thing which should please some of you a great deal.” He then cleared his throat. “Let me assure the congregation that I will not be in my rooms at any time tomorrow and would appreciate their being left intact.”

There were a few snickers, but most had the good grace to look shamefaced. The Riot of 1877—Hawkes’s second Guy Fawkes in St. Crispian’s—still fresh on the congregants’ minds.

He then gave a sermon entitled, “Blessed Are the Peacemakers.”

Later

I feel a measure of anticipation despite my contemplative ruminative introspective preoccupied mood. My father had glorious stories from attending Guy Fawkes Nights while a student. Tradition holds that the St. Crispian’s vicar in the Year of Our Lord 1605 was, honest to goodness, a friend of Guy Fawkes, and after the infamous Gunpowder Plot was revealed, the vicar was hunted by the parish and hung. We’ve kept the murderous heritage alive. The local vicar must spend the entire day in hiding but cannot leave the neighbourhood. If found, he is bound, gagged, and run through the streets as prisoner. He is then kept captive in the corner of The Cleopatra, only to be released at the bonfire where his mock hanging takes place.

History reports—i.e., my father once told me—that Father May, Hawkes’s predecessor, was notoriously bad at the game, trusting all the wrong people, running from house to house, and never escaping the mob.

Hawkes, in his first year, made the mistake of thinking he could remain in bed all day reading. Foolish assumption. His door was battered down, and he was set upon by a dozen men, spending the entire day bound in his nightclothes, not a book to be had.

The second year he disappeared entirely. The citizens turned into a mob, battering down the door to his rooms once more. Finding no vicar, there was a bit of a mess made. And so The Riot of 1877 entered St. Crispian’s noble ignoble history. He has not been apprehended since, and the people are hungry for it.

After the service, Charlie Cross of The Reprobates Ten, said they felt a divided loyalty. “We owe Hawkes every debt,” he said wistfully. “But the jolly good fun of seeing him bound at The Cleopatra…”

Later

Would you care to attend Guy Fawkes Night?

I NEED MORE INFORMATION.

You hesitate?

I DO.

It will be delightful.

WHY DO I FEEL AS IF I AM WALKING INTO A BEAR TRAP?

Are you?

AM I?

I don’t believe so.

WHAT DOES A ST. CRISPIAN’S GUY FAWKES NIGHT ENTAIL?

A bonfire, scrumptious food, and a hanging in effigy.

A HANGING OF GUY FAWKES IN EFFIGY? IT WAS MY BELIEF HE ALWAYS BURNS.

A hanging of Young Hawkes. If he’s caught, that is.

Of course we burn Guy Fawkes. We’re not heathens, Pierce.

TOMORROW NIGHT?

Yes

ALL RIGHT.

Splendid

IS IT?

Rather

November 5th

Mr. Penury’s mandate I find work is being taken with all seriousness. As exhibited by my choosing to help Agnes clean the silver, tidy up the back garden, and give the drawing room a thorough dusting instead of poring over a lady’s magazine at the Reed and Rite, looking for postings.

While dusting, I heard people roaming the street, calling out for Young Hawkes.

“Dear me,” I muttered as I peered out the window, wishing Hawkes every success.

Afterward, I sorted myself into a semblance of Respectable But Humble Young Lady and struck out on a walk. Agnes ran after me with a few pieces of cake.

“You’ve had nothing to eat, Miss.”

“I can hardly make up for that now, Agnes. One cannot eat cake in the street without good reason.”

(Perhaps something to be questioned?)

It was a lengthy constitutional, and I am feeling rather virtuous for it. I simply did not want to come home. I was down Traitors, taking note of the unusual lamps outside the doors, and up Sterling, the gardens wearing their November best. Coming to Baron’s Square, I did a few laps with my stomach growling then sat beside the fountain, watching the tears fall from Medusa’s decapitated head.

Cheerful.

Needless to say, upon returning home I begged Agnes for a spot of tea.

Later

Dear Emma,

Always lovely to have a letter from you, but what are you going on about? A duke, a photographer, and a vicar? It sounds like an attempt at a clever riddle. What do you mean you’ve collected them? Are they behind glass in the hall? Please answer in the affirmative. I would be delighted.

As for advisement, anyone with sense would marry the duke, have the vicar officiate, and hire the photographer to take a wedding portrait. Knowing you as I do, you’ve no intention of doing anything so prosperous, and so I seek clarification. Dare I ask about the graveyard?

As for Mother, she has developed a cold, which makes her wish to do nothing except criticise the French. I expect she will be incommoded at least seven days, if not longer. My list of Potential Husbands has lost a name, as Mother, in her illness, feels Lord Stansbury is too nice to look at. “One handsome person is enough for any marriage.”

I know you were present at Maxwell’s burial. Lady Stuart mentioned it over tea last week. Why did you not tell me?

Arabella

Later

Parian and Agnes have gone ahead to the bonfire. I’m in the drawing room, neglecting Emerson’s essay on Experience. (Sometimes experience is not the order of the day.)

Pierce warned me this afternoon he would be occupied right up until we left. “Before I go running about trying to hang anyone, I’ve some work that must be readied for tomorrow,” he told me this afternoon. “And I’ve already had a small disaster, so there’s double the bad luck. I can meet you there if you’d prefer.”

I was sitting in the leather chair in his studio, half looking out the window, half paying attention to whatever list he was making before disappearing to develop some of his plates.

“Doesn’t this seem excessive?” he asked.

“Your working?”

“Guy Fawkes Day.”

“It isn’t simply a street carnival,” I defended, as if Queen and Country were listening. “It’s practically the solemn duty of every Englishman to have a bonfire.”

“Or hang the vicar?”

“In effigy, Pierce. We don’t actually hang our vicars. Haven’t done so in years. But no, to answer your question, it is not excessive. Life must be lived. And if we can enjoy some of it, so much the better. Here in St. Crispian’s, we will not be cowed by the foul winds that rail against us.” I took a breath from my rousing speech…as rousing as one can be when seated comfortably in a chair, arms crossed, eyes very nearly closed. “You certainly fuss more than necessary,” I added.

“Do I?” he asked, amused.

I opened one eye at him. “Yes.”

He leaned back against the worktable, hands turned so the edge bit into his palms. “You like it when I complain, Emma. It gives you something to be righteous about.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” I replied. But I smiled.

“I’ll try not to be very late,” he promised.

I left to speak with Agnes soon after that.

Pierce looked particularly well this afternoon.

November 6th

My record of the bonfire is as follows:

Meaning nothing.

I never arrived.

I remember Pierce saying my name and not wanting to drag myself out of the steep sleep I had fallen into. I heard Pierce pour himself a drink. And I, well, I’m not certain. After what felt like years, I could hear Agnes asking Pierce a question.

Suddenly an awareness that I was not where I’d intended to be delivered me from the recesses of my mind. I woke, finding myself lying on the green sofa, a blanket I’d not seen before spread over my shoulders, my corset biting into my left ribcage like the dickens. Pierce was sitting on the pink chair, reading a newspaper, glass of something held loosely between his fingers.

I stretched out my feet and then froze as they encountered something warm and breathing. I tried to right myself so abruptly I almost fell off.

“Steady on,” Pierce said as he made a move to rescue me.

I steadied, however disoriented, and glanced over to see Tybalt curled in a ball.

“What happened?” I mumbled, my words round and strange.

“You fell asleep.”

“Did I hear Agnes?”

“You did. She’s in the kitchen preparing some chamomile tea for you.”

“I don’t want chamomile tea.”

“You might want to drink some.”

“I’m half asleep already, Pierce.”

“You may have been asleep, but your mind wasn’t quiet. You’ve been muttering a good deal. Drink the tea.”

I did. Once Agnes brought it—fussing for an eternity as if I was deathly ill. I held the cup in my hand and sipped slowly, waking sufficiently to feel a little embarrassed mortified at how I must have looked.

Tybalt resettled himself, sitting like the Sphinx and watching Pierce and me with keen eyes.

Pierce continued to read his paper, finishing his drink before I’d finished mine. Then, without looking up, he said, “Forgive my—what was it Agnes called it?—‘appalling familiarity’ by remaining while you slept. I wasn’t certain if you were well.”

“Bless Agnes,” I said, rubbing my eyes. To be frank with myself, it is far more intimate than propriety allows. But I cried against the man for half an hour while on a train to London a fortnight ago, so appalling familiarity has already been breached. To say nothing of notes through the wall. Nor time spent in his studio.

Dear me.

I am a socially loose woman.

Alas. There were clearly medical considerations, as Pierce believed me to be ill.

“We missed Guy Fawkes,” was my only answer.

“He’ll live.”

I snorted. And Pierce smiled in my direction.

“Did Agnes and Parian have a nice time?”

“Agnes seemed to have. Until she came in and thought you dead. It took me five minutes to convince her otherwise. As for Parian, he’s not back yet.” Pierce folded his newspaper and tossed it onto the floor beside his feet. “I apologise for not waking you.”

“Just as well you didn’t,” I mumbled, pulling whatever comfort I could from the last of my tea. “It wasn’t the most important event of the calendar year.”

“That’s not what Charles Goddard said.”

I dropped my empty teacup from surprise.

Before it had rolled to a complete stop on the carpet, Tybalt had pounced and captured it between his paws.

“What did you say?” I asked, fully awake.

“A man named Charles Goddard knocked on your door an hour ago. His disappointment would have been tragic if he weren’t so ridiculous.”

I sought clarification.

“What do you mean Charles Goddard made an appearance?”

The last time I’d seen Charles Goddard was my country visit in September, where he had attempted to hold my hand in church.

I’d fled.

Not far enough it seems.

Pierce fingered his glass as if deciding whether it should be refilled.

He refrained.

“Someone banged on the door and, seeing as how Agnes and Parian were both gone, I answered. He thought I was your butler.”

Taking in Pierce’s attire, I stifled a laugh. Sleeves of his shirt rolled up his forearms. Black waistcoat and black trousers, yes. But he looked nothing like a servant.

“Dare I ask what you said?”

Pierce picked at a thread on the chair absently with his hand and shrugged. “I said you were unavailable. Then he nattered on about him having seen something about the celebration in the paper, and the two of you meeting at the bonfire. Something about precious minutes in your halcyon company, seeing as how your engagement cannot be announced for at least a year. And then came claims about you having the eyes of Diana, the lips of Aphrodite, and the voice of Athena. Followed by something about Romeo and Juliet, at which point I folded my arms and leaned against the doorframe, hoping to shut him up.”

Great and terrible.

To say nothing of Charles mixing his pantheons. Diana is the Roman name, after all.

My cheeks were burning. “Did you manage the feat?”

“Not entirely. He’d discovered you weren’t at the bonfire and felt it his duty as an Englishman to ensure you were not ill. When I answered you were just fine, he asked how long I had been in your employ.”

I put my hands to my face and looked at Pierce through my fingers. “What did you say?”

“That it was none of his bloody business.” As if there were no other way to respond to such a question. “You might have to smooth some ruffled feathers if you expect the romance to last.”

Imagine.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The only romance that exists is within his own delusions. I’ll have to tell Charles you are a…footman. Or…a cousin. Or Mr. Flat’s nephew! That might answer. I only hope he doesn’t write my aunt. She would bring down fire and brimstone on both our heads.”

Pierce did not look bothered by that prospect. Oh, sweet innocence.

It wasn’t long before the two of us—the three of us, Tybalt following Pierce—went out into the hall, and I began to conquer the stairs. Partway up, I turned.

“Do I really have the voice of Athena?” I asked.

If I remember correctly, Roland has paid me the same compliment.

I rather like the thought.

“I couldn’t say,” Pierce answered. “We’re not on speaking terms.”

“Pity.”

“Goodnight.”

Tybalt followed him into the studio.

I went up to bed, undressed, and promptly fell asleep.

An eventful evening, for having slept through most of it.

I wonder how Hawkes got on?

Later

I’m at the Reed and Rite sitting in the corner table. My tea has gone cold twice while I look out the window. I brought Jane Eyre with me only to find I’ve been staring at nothing at all.

From what I’ve been hearing, Hawkes was not found, appearing after Guy Fawkes began to burn. The clerk upstairs said Hawkes had sat on a bench beside his effigy and read a book.

Well now!

Life isn’t all waiting at windows.

I’ve just overheard something of Great Interest. Two women near me were speaking of—if one can believe it—The Roman!

Picking at my scone and looking innocuous, I listened in.

A Conversation Regarding The Roman,

Which Has Given Emma’s Mood a Tremendous Lift

Woman in Mauve: “He often does, you know.”

Woman in Blue: Sniff.

Woman in Mauve: “Oh, don’t be like that, Esther. The Roman has stopped by her garden for years. It’s not unusual for him to pass an evening in her company. She never boasts, you know. Scarcely says a word.”

Woman in Blue: “What he sees in her, I’ll never know. She’s nothing to look at. Ridiculous spectacles, skinny as a foundling, hair going prematurely grey, I swear it. Strange as a backwards cat if you ever see her at The Dalliance. She’s polite enough, but the way she looks at those books. It’s indecent, that’s what. A woman of her age, single! Why, she must be thirty years old! What could a spinster possibly say to interest The Roman?”

Woman in Mauve: “Her father was a famous historian. She must have something to say.”

Woman in Blue: “I suppose. Speaking of gardens, I’ve just received the tulip bulbs from Amsterdam. Albert is planting them in the ground tomorrow…”

The Women in Mauve and Blue are now discussing tulip varieties while my mind is spinning.

Finally!

Something with a spark of interest!

The Roman!

I haven’t thought of him in weeks. And if the rumours are true, he’s spending his time in the garden of some historian’s daughter.Who may be going prematurely grey.

Spinsterhood, indeed.

Later

Dear Arabella,

I am sorry Aunt Eugenia is under the weather. An idea has just occurred to me that perhaps my chaperone would like to send her well-wishes. Aunt Eugenia approves highly of those who correspond with the ill when she is the one that is ill.

As for your question, when I say “collected,” it’s rather like the leaves collecting at the kitchen door. They all reside in St. Crispian’s, and somehow we’ve accumulated into a sort of…fated society. Don’t trouble yourself over the graveyard. It was a Spartan affair. Truly. The Vicar spoke to us about Sparta. And while the Duke and Photographer reclined on the lawn between tombstones, I very primly sat on a bench. And so you see how I conduct myself in the most upright of inappropriate manners?

Emma

Later

It is near midnight. I’ve been at my window keeping an eye on the street. No sign of The Roman.

I wish I knew the identity of the historian’s daughter.

It certainly sounds like he spends a good deal of time with her.

November 7th

I’ve rallied my spirits to address The Great Problem.

What sort of employment I am fit for.

In a show of good faith, and to have something to tell my banker, I sent a note round to Mary asking if she would join me for dinner this evening. Instead of a note in return, there came a terrible bang on the door early this afternoon.

Parian had asked permission to finish painting his trim and was therefore unavailable to answer any bang on the door, terrible or otherwise.

I’d been lying on the green sofa, studying Latin Phrases for the Unrepentant and wishing it weren’t quite so dead a language. Rousing myself, I fussed with my hair and brushed out my skirts as I walked through the hall and opened the door.

There stood Mary, in the flesh.

Oh dear. That makes her sound like the Virgin Mother.

No, it was not a divine manifestation of Our Lady, simply Mary Bairrage, typist extraordinaire.

“Hello, Emma!”

“What on earth are you doing on my doorstep in the middle of the day?”

Mary radiated triumph. “Today is the three-year anniversary of my having moved to London. Thus I asked to take the day. You were my excuse, you know. An ill friend. Now that I mention it, you do look peaked. Are you well? I hope so. I can’t join you for dinner this evening, but I was hoping we could have a jolly tea.”

I waved Mary in, and after shouting for Agnes to bring tea and cake and whatever good thing we had in the kitchen—as ladylike as a barn animal, Aunt Eugenia would say—we decamped to the drawing room.

“I’m fine, Mary,” I said when she asked once more if I’d been ill.

“Are you certain? You’ve lost weight.”

Mary is not a fussy person by nature, and so now that I’ve returned to my garret, I’ve taken an honest assessment by looking in the mirror.

Perhaps Mary is right.

I’m looking worn on the corners.

My cheekbones more pronounced. The dimple in my chin not quite as charming. An unflattering smudge of purple beneath my eyes.

Well.

I digress.

After Agnes brought our tea and a Victoria sponge, we got down to brass tacks.

I produced two written copies of the document entitled POSSIBLE AVENUES OF EMPLOYMENT for one EMMA M. LION, as originally recorded on the 5th of October. We gave it our full attention.

Leading an Insurrection:

Against whom, for whom?

Mary: “You can hardly expect a good outcome, no matter the cause.”

Emma: “Well, yes. It may cast a shadow over my future prospects. Even if said insurrection were to be successful…”

Mary: “And so often they are not.”

Emma: “…I would be made the figurehead of a movement. Figureheads have no peace.”

Mary: “Sometimes they even lose their own heads in the bargain. And I don’t mean figuratively.”

Emma: “Hmmm, yes. One should follow the French in fashion, but not in politics.”

Mary: “I’ve always thought so.”

Kitchen Work:

I would let go of my help before seeking such a thing.

Emma: “I’ve no fondness for food preparation.”

Mary: “I don’t envision you doing well in such a scenario.”

Emma: “I did see to Cousin Matilde for three years.”

Mary: “A woman with little taste. Let us remember that.”

Personal Secretary of Sorts:

Bland, but possible.

Mary: “Possibly.”

Emma: “Possibly.”

Mary: “It could be interesting.”

Emma: “Possibly.”

Mary: “You could become the personal secretary of a dissolute viscount who has much wealth, many business affairs, but no motivation. You would be his saving grace. And he would fall into passionate love with you.”

Emma: “I’ve potential for such a scheme.”

Mary: “You do.”

Emma: “So we’ve found one viable solution?”

Mary: “I believe so.”

Emma: “I feel more cheerful already.”

What Mary Does:

Typing machines; newfangled, rare, expensive.

Mary: “When you came round last month to meet The Machine, you showed some potential. Although I’m not convinced it’s an absolute match. Also, high investment required.”

Emma: “I have a feeling I would get on better with a dissolute viscount.”

Laundress:

See Kitchen Work.

Mary: “No.”

Emma: “No.”

Standing on the Corner, Making Clever Comments to Passersby:

My true strength.

Mary: “You would do well in spirit, but not in the generation of funds.”

Emma: “Honest work is no longer valued in our brash, modern society.”

Mary: “Now, had you been a town crier…”

Emma: “No question, Mary.”

Mary: “You would have excelled.”

Emma: “You speak the truth.”

Treasurer for a Ladies Aid Society:

Embezzlement being the aim.

Mary: “This could work fabulously well if it weren’t a noble cause.”

Emma: “Such as the feeding of orphans?”

Mary: “Exactly.”

Emma: “But if it were the feeding of wealthy women?”

Mary: “That would clear many a moral hurdle.”

Emma: “Like Robin Hood.”

Mary: “Like Robin Hood.”

Shop Girl:

Do shop girls make enough to justify two servants?

Mary: “I don’t believe they do.”

Emma: “Does it depend on the shop?”

Mary: “Possibly. Unlikely.”

Emma: “I am making rent from both Lapis Lazuli Minor and the studio.”

Mary: “True. What sort of shop would you consider?”

Emma and Mary simultaneously: “Bookshop!”

Dancer at The Drunken Duck:

Real Duck Material. However, dancing...?

Mary: “Emma?”

Emma: “A jest, is all.”

Mary: Eyes Emma.

Emma: “I could very well try for a beggar.”

Beggar:

Will take coin or books.

Mary: “I’ve never seen anyone give a beggar a book.”

Emma: “Which would make me a novelty.”

Mary: “You need money, Emma. Pound sterling.”

Emma: “I would accept Egyptian gold.”

Mary: “Without question.”

Marry Roland Sutherland:

Looking more acceptable by the day.

We both deserve better than a marriage of inconvenience.

However, books!

Mary: “Have I met Mr. Sutherland?”

Emma: “No. He’s a former Arch Enemy.”

Mary: “Not the boy who put a salamander in your tea?”

Emma: “The very same.”

Mary: “We shouldn’t reward such behaviour.”

Emma: “The truth is, now he’s lovely.”

Mary: “Is this verifiable?”

Emma: “I could produce witnesses.”

Mary: “Manners?”

Emma: “Refreshing and proper.”

Mary: “Work?”

Emma: “Gentleman.”

Mary: “Situation?”

Emma: “Rich as Croesus. Only son. Parents have already died.”

Mary: “Under suspicious circumstances?”

Emma: “Natural causes, both.”

Mary: “He’s bound to be ugly.”

Emma: “He looks like a Greek deity. The sunny variety.”

Mary: “Emma…”

Emma: “I don’t…want…to be married…to him.”

Mary: Pauses. Takes a breath. “Reason enough for me.”

Emma: “Which is why we are friends.”

Mary: “Although, if you ever changed your mind…”

Emma: “I would accept him in a moment. Do you have any idea how large a library the man must have?”

In the end, Mary promised to look through the advertisements placed in the women’s magazines to which her telephone company subscribes.

Telephones and typewriters, Mary is the most modern woman of my acquaintance.

As a show of good faith and middling action, I’m sending Mr. Penury an update regarding my efforts.

Mr. Penury,

Enclosed is a list comprising possible avenues of employment. My intention is to begin interviewing for something suitable. If you know of any compatible situations, please be so kind as to let me know.

Undaunted,

Miss Emma M. Lion

November 8th

Emma,

Mother seems to be over the worst of her cold. And as we’ve had a good deal of rain, she forbids me to go out. Driving through the mud and getting one’s bonnet wet sets one at a disadvantage. A thing which she only approves of in other people.

As for your letter, if the duke you’re referring to lives in St. Crispian’s, it must be Islington. There’s a triumph on your undeserving part. He is currently one of two unmarried dukes in all of England, the other being sixty-five with several children. Mother has included the geriatric on my list, but I draw the line at being younger than half a dozen of my husband’s offspring. I prefer adoration of my person to have little to no competition.

I assume the Photographer is the one living in your house. And no, don’t fret that Mother will see this. I’m sending it through Nanny, as always.

I can understand you having collected Islington and the Photographer. But as for a Vicar, what could have possessed you? He’s bound to be a bore and desperate to be invited to dinner twice a month. I grant he saves your face a small degree, for you could always argue religious studies, but really, Emma, even I’m slightly scandalized. If you had a flesh and blood chaperone, you could entertain gentlemen friends without reproach, but we both know no such person exists. At least keep your reputation intact until I marry, and then my wealthy husband and I will shower you with such favour that nothing else will matter.

You have said nothing about Maxwell’s burial, which is what you do when something is unendurable. You wouldn’t speak of your parents for years. I understand, in my own way. But mourning him for three years cannot be the same as having to bury him. I saw the inscription on the gravestone. I can’t believe that came from anyone but you. Please be honest with me.

Arabella

Later

It’s late. I’ve been reading through Hamlet and watching the street.

No Roman.

I’m beginning to feel an ugly jealousy of this historian’s daughter.

It doesn’t become me.

Agnes has just knocked on my door. Odd. It’s near midnight.

Later

That was unexpected! I think we all had a pleasant time, even Islington.

I should record the event in full.

When I answered my door, Agnes was standing there with a small cake.

“It’s nearly midnight,” I said. “Why on earth are you bringing me a fairy cake?”

Not that I object to the idea on principle.

Agnes swallowed and held the cake in both of her hands.

“Is something wrong?” I enquired as her eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, Miss, only that I thought, I just…you see, it’s been my birthday all day, and in a quarter of an hour it won’t be anymore, and so when I saw the light under your door—”

“Agnes! Happy Birthday! Shame on me for not knowing!”

A small smile came to her face. “I’ll leave this here for you to enjoy.”

“That you shall not do,” I declared. I banged on the wall to rouse Pierce if he wasn’t still awake, grabbed Agnes’s hand, and dragged her down the stairs. When we passed the third floor, I pounded on Parian’s door.

“Parian! Put on a dressing robe and come downstairs! Hurry!”

I dragged Agnes down into the hall.

“Now, Agnes, what good things would fit our celebration? A tea? Madeira? No, you’re a bit young for that. Into the drawing room with you! I’ll go to the kitchen and see what I—”

“No, Miss Lion!” Agnes stated as she drew her slight frame up. “I’ll go into the kitchen. You see to the drawing room.”

“Right you are, Agnes,” I said, sending her off as a groggy Parian came down the stairs.

“What’s wrong, Miss?”

“A party, Parian! It’s Agnes’s birthday, and we are going to celebrate. Will you set the fire in the drawing room and light the lamps?” I asked as I walked towards Pierce’s studio.

There was light coming from under the door and so I knocked.

“Pierce!”

 The sound of a few long footsteps and Pierce was opening the door, a glass of whisky in his other hand.

“Good,” I declared, “you’re awake and imbibing. We’re having a brief party in honour of Agnes. Before midnight if possible. It’s her birthday.”

Pierce looked at me a moment and then stepped back. “What say you, Islington?”

It feels valid to record my sentiments in the moment.

Firstly, that my aunt Eugenia would be appalled to think I’d invited any duke to a cook/maid’s impromptu birthday celebration.

Secondly, I was in no fit state for such exalted company.

Thirdly, Agnes would feel I had given her the very best possible of presents if Islington acquiesced.

Before Islington had the time and good sense to abstain, I crossed the threshold so that he was in my sights.

“Hello, Islington. You really should make yourself useful. A damsel is very much in distress.”

He looked comfortable, holding his glass with a sophisticated manner as he considered my person. “Are you the damsel in distress?”

“That would be Agnes.”

“In that case, only lead the way.”

I half smiled, half frowned, at the unchivalrous implications.

It wasn’t long before the four of us (Parian pulling his robe tighter about his person once the duke entered) were enjoying the fire and waiting for Agnes.

She walked into the room at three minutes to midnight, beaming, a handsome array of fairy cakes on a polished silver tray—only to turn bright red and nearly trip once her eyes caught sight of Islington.

“Oh!” she sputtered.

The men stood. Well, Pierce and Islington did.

Parian reluctantly followed suit.

“Pardon my intrusion, Miss Agnes,” Islington said, lifting the glass he’d brought from Pierce’s studio. “I hope you don’t mind my taking a few moments to celebrate with the loveliest cook in St. Crispian’s.”

She almost fainted dead away.

Glasses were raised, a toast given. Agnes was left both complimented and disbelieving.

November 9th

I walked longer than I meant to this morning. I’d intended to sit down with Latin Phrases for the Unrepentant and add to my list of Latin Words I Believe I Know.

Example,

Sic Semper Tyrannis

Thus Always to Tyrants

One concludes Semper means Always.

Which I have now written on my list.

I ought to include Tyrannis, because one never knows when Tyrant in Latin would prove needful, if not absolutely necessary. (Islington is in my life, after all.)

I digress.

My Latin was sadly neglected, for I found myself sitting on a bench, feeling hungry, but not wishing anything to eat.

Perhaps I’m coming down with something.

Later

Arabella,

I don’t wish to speak with anyone about Maxwell’s burial.

Not even myself.

As to my situation at hand, if you can’t say anything other than you’re slightly scandalized, I’d just as soon spend my time reading letters filled with foolish stories about Damian.

Your comments concerning the Vicar are very wide of the mark. Hawkes is not old. He is twenty-seven and looks like the errant friend of a brother come down from school, with whom one falls madly in love. Portly? Desperate? Rather like he should be playing hazard at the club. His sermons are poetry.

Blessed are we to have such a vicar.

Thus saith Emma.

P.S. I can’t imagine Hawkes officiating my marriage to anyone.

P.P.S. I recognise my defence was rousing, only I can’t bear to think of Hawkes being misunderstood. We’re all a little more than fond.

November 10th

Miss Lion,

I am in receipt of your list of possible avenues of employment. I have begun enquiring among friends. Might I have permission to share your list with my wife so that she might consider her acquaintances?

Mr. Penury

Of course he may.

All hands on deck.

Mr. Penury,

Certainly.

Miss Lion

Later

This afternoon as I was delivering a basket of odds and ends that have appeared in Lapis Lazuli House to The Keep, I heard one man say to his companion, “You know nothing of the gothic struggle.”

That’s all I was able to overhear. They went upstairs to the shop, whereas I was heading down. After exchanging the lost items for a few of our own—I wonder who found our umbrella stand? It is suspiciously short an umbrella—I walked back up Whereabouts Lane, asking myself if I knew anything of the gothic struggle?

I can’t say either way.

November 11th

I know what I must do.

It is decided.

Sitting at windows all hours of the night will not suffice. If one wants to see The Roman, one must be enterprising. I have devised a clever, possibly pleasant, and intriguing scheme.

Later

Today’s sermon was about minding one’s own business. Hawkes relied heavily on scripture.

Proverbs 27:17 Whoever meddles in a quarrel not his own is like one who takes a passing dog by the ears.

1 Timothy 5:13 Besides that, they learn to be idlers, going about from house to house, and not only idlers, but also gossips and busybodies, saying what they should not.

1 Thessalonians 4:11–12 And to aspire to live quietly, and to mind your own affairs, and to work with your hands, as we instructed you, so that you may walk properly before outsiders and be dependent on no one.

For a moment I thought perhaps I ought to apply the lesson to my own life, but rational thought and a good dose of assurance put an end to self-improvement. After the final hymn and amen, I avoided eye contact with Young Hawkes and waited outside for Mr. Harper.

“Mr. Harper,” I said, as I fell into step once he’d placed his hat on his head. “Good morning, or should I say, afternoon? I’ve a question to put to you if you have the time.”

“Certainly,” he answered as he pulled on his gloves.

Mr. Harper must be nearing fifty years of age and works for some London newspaper or another. He looks the suave newspaper man. Quietly handsome. A sense of charm. Or so I thought. Well-dressed but understated. He has a full head of hair that’s begun to grey at the temples, and observant brown eyes. I don’t know exactly what he does at said newspaper, but he has the air of doing it well. He is also the pro bono editor of St. Crispian’s Gazette, which is why I assailed him in the first place.

“When I was a girl, Mr. Harper, St. Crispian’s had a paper, a periodical. A quarterly gazette? Well, I’ve been in residence since March, more than seven months, and having seen neither hide nor hair—that is, if it had hide or hair. Which a newspaper does not. It is not an animal—I’m only asking if the Gazette is still in print?”

He had given me his full attention, which grew aggrieved as I spoke. (I surmise that, as a newspaper man, he would have edited my speech a great deal.)

“There is a quarterly Gazette, yes. The fifth of each March, June, September, and December.”

“Wonderful. I would like to subscribe and place an advertisement.”

He nodded, but it was accompanied by a frown. “And you are?”

“Miss Lion. Here’s my card.”

And I pulled a cream and gold card from my reticule.

He gave my person an up-and-down glance, and then noted the gold lion before turning it over. “Miss Lion. You reside at Lapis Lazuli House?”

“I do.”

“Lapis Lazuli House has been banned.”

“Banned?” I was astounded. “On what grounds?”

“Poor behaviour. The Gazette bans subscribers who exhibit a lack of respect. Lapis Lazuli House had several infractions, and half-dozen years ago we banned it altogether. So very sorry.”

My mouth opened and closed. As he went to tip his hat in a Good Day But There Is Nothing I Can Do For You manner, I reached for his arm. “Please, Mr. Harper. I can only guess that my Unfortunate Relation, Mr. Flat, has created bedlam and agony. But I am the proper owner of Lapis Lazuli House and am now returned to live permanently in St. Crispian’s. I ask that you please reinstate my subscription, and I promise to keep Mr. Flat in line. Or prematurely in the ground, if it comes to it.”

Mr. Harper had the good grace to smile. “Does Mr. Flat still reside at Lapis Lazuli?”

“Well, yes,” I admitted.

“There you have it. We cannot reward such behaviour.”

“Is there nothing I can do?”

“I do apologise, Miss Lion.”

Taking a moment to curse Cousin Archibald and pity myself—Banned from the Gazette and The Cleopatra? What could Cousin Archibald have possibly done?—I attempted to come in the back door. “Can I at least place an advertisement?”

“Not without a subscription.”

“But I am banned from said subscription.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Harper, I do not ask a great deal of life. Two walks a day, a library, and the occasional fortifying tea. But life seems to amuse itself at my expense, and I’ve had a rather trying go of it as of late. And so I ask again, Is There Nothing I Can Do?”

I think he saw the residue of October in my eyes, for his demeanour softened. “You can appeal.”

“Appeal,” I repeated.

“Yes. Come to trial, as it were, before the Gazette’s Board of Governors. You will need two character witnesses.”

“Residents of St. Crispian’s?”

“Yes.”

I nodded with a firm determination.

“We meet this Wednesday, the fifteenth, at King Tut. Come at two o’clock.”

“King Tut?”

“The room above The Cleopatra.”

“Heavens! Well, all right then. I’ll be ready.”

“See that you are, Miss Lion. We’ve only revoked one ban in the entire history of the Gazette.”

“And how was the ban overturned?”

“The man died.” He smiled. “Good day, Miss Lion.”

And Mr. Harper was down the path, taking what I now consider to be his smug charm with him.

November 12th

Emma,

There was a little bluster in your last letter, but I won’t argue with you about your vicar. I’m certain he is wonderful in his own way, but doubtfully more than that. Otherwise, he would not have gone into the Church. Mother doesn’t believe in vicars being young and playing hazard. She would claim it alters the proper order of the world. We won’t tell her, of course, as she would write the Archbishop of Canterbury, and then you’d be stuck with the stodgy version the rest of us suffer through.

As for our Damian, he is in Paris and has decided to follow the path of all foolish young men and fall in and then out of love with a promising young actress. I believe he’s looking for one now. Seeing a number of mediocre women, but several pleasing performances.

A comment on your situation at hand: Islington has been eluding The Maters of our kingdom these ten years. Mother would love to put him on a list of eligible options for my husband, but I don’t think she dares. That being said, perhaps you could arrange an introduction? I wouldn’t mind a personal challenge…

Mother is beginning to fret, and I fear your name has been mentioned twice in the last hour. I might suggest something to calm her nerves regarding your debased state. Have your “chaperone” send that letter you mentioned, dearest.

Arabella

Arrange an introduction to Islington? A personal challenge?

Islington does not exist for amusement her amusement.

Not that I claim exclusive rights to the sport of sparring with the man, but he has become my friend and I’m feeling rather…protective. Perhaps introducing Arabella to the peculiarities of my St. Crispian’s life is not the wisest course. She would no doubt be entertained by whatever fate has brought about this alchemy—but I don’t think she would understand the something running beneath it all. That I was able to step off a train on one of the very worst days of my life and find myself surrounded by the geometry of this inexplicable brotherhood.

I’m not going to sacrifice it on the altar of one who is content to be cosseted by luxury and ease, readily dismissing what her own heart may or may not feel. Even if it is Arabella.

I think Mary could understand.

And yet I find myself reluctant to try and define it to anyone at present.

As for Arabella’s words regarding Hawkes, heretical.

Later

I’ve just returned from visiting Saffronia March. She wrote a letter to Aunt Eugenia from Agnes Dowd, my chaperone of non-existent nature, to wish her a continued recovery.

 “Are you certain you wish me to write, ‘I’ve taken Emma firmly in hand. She knows any action unworthy of your esteemed self, Lady Spencer, is to be rectified with a belt strap.’?”

“Aunt Eugenia is a believer in corporal punishment if her own children are not involved,” I replied.

“Emma, you are twenty years old. No one should be hitting you with anything.”

“I agree. But the knowledge of ready abuse should I step out of line will keep Aunt Eugenia warm and happy and, ideally, very far away.”

Saffronia frowned. She wrote out the letter which I will post tomorrow.

I realise now that I forgot to ask Saffronia to attend my hearing and provide a character witness. But perhaps I ought to find someone who doesn’t know Agnes Dowd.

November 13th

I had a dream last night that I was falling. Everything was dark. And when I reached out, my fingers couldn’t find purchase, only the cold air blowing past me. Waking while it was still dark, damp from sweat and out of breath, I sat on the edge of my bed until morning began to break.

What a terrible bore.

Emma, you really must pull yourself together.

Later

I paid a call to Islington this afternoon. His butler, upon my arrival, led me to the library.

There sat Islington at his desk, looking important.

 He stood, pen still in his hand. “The infamous Miss Lion.”

“The esteemed Duke of Islington,” I replied, choosing not to offend before I’d secured a character witness.

“To what do I owe this privilege?” he asked.

“I’m glad you see my presence for what it is.”

“I was being polite.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to ask me to sit?”

“That depends.” He gave me a look both superior and suspect.

As if the man had had nothing to do with a midnight celebration for my maid.

“Oh?” I answered lightly. “Depends upon what?”

“What you want.”

“Who says I want anything?”

“I always know when someone wants something from me.”

“You sniff it out like one of your hounds?”

Islington simply stared.

“Fine then. I come to ask a favour, blatantly taking advantage of your title and place of esteem in our blessed neighbourhood.”

“Then, please.” He motioned towards the chair in front of his desk before sitting down himself.

I sat. “You’re not offended at my using you to my advantage?”

“I like honesty. And I don’t wholly distrust you.”

High compliment, indeed.

Emma M. Lion

Not Wholly Distrusted

May She Rest In Peace

“What do you need, Lion?”

Ah. That sounded like the Islington of graveyards past.

“I need a character reference.”

My speaking those words together seemed to have a peculiar effect on Islington, the Duke of. I would call it menacing delight. Another might simply call it amusement. Islington leaned back in his chair.

“Go on,” he granted royal permission to continue.

I frowned. Or at least did my version of a frown that masquerades as a smile bent into an odd shape. “There is nothing wrong with my character, Islington.”

“We can both certainly agree you are one.”

“Is it illegal to pummel a duke?” I asked.

“Only on the Sabbath.”

I snorted.

“Who needs this reference?” he asked.

“St. Crispian’s Gazette. You see, Lapis Lazuli House has been banned. For life. Not due to my misbehaviour, Islington. Don’t look at me like that. Due to my cousin and erstwhile villain, Mr. Flat. I am appealing the decision, and, therefore, two character witnesses are needed at a meeting on the fifteenth.”

Islington tossed his pen onto his desk. “That’s in two days.”

“It is.”

“How can I, in good conscience, give a positive character reference with only two days to observe you?”

“Observe me?”

“Surely you wouldn’t ask me to back your name with mine without a thorough investigation?”

“I surely would and do.”

“On what grounds do you place such certainty?”

“On the grounds that not fourteen days past we were in a graveyard near midnight talking of Sparta.”

Islington’s smile—his true smile from what I can discern—is rather soft. And this was the one he gave me.

“Of course, I’ll help you, Lion. I’m being difficult for my own amusement.”

“A pastime you enjoy.”

“I do.”

“Well, I’m happy for you.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t do the same.”

I opened my mouth and then closed it. He was right.

Then Islington said, “I don’t make friends lightly, Lion. I like to know what I’m getting into. Granted, with you there is always some surprise. But I am certain enough of your character to testify before the committee for the St. Crispian’s Gazette. What time?”

“The meeting is at two o’clock. At The Cleopatra. Well, the King Tut room, actually.”

“I will be there.”

“Thank you,” I said, fidgeting my gloved hands in my lap.

“You need but ask,” he replied.

“And go through a moderate amount of hazing.”

His eyes smiled at me. “Tea?”

“I’d love to, but I have a few things to attend to before dinner. I’ll claim your invitation another day.”

He saw me out.

At the front door, Islington tilted his head to the side. “You said you needed two character witnesses? Who is your second?”

“I haven’t secured one yet. I was going to ask a friend, but seeing as how I’ve just asked her to commit forgery, it felt disingenuous.”

Islington stilled, performed some internal arithmetic, then said evenly, “I’ll ask Hawkes. I’m to borrow a book from him.”

“Oh? Which book?”

“How To Handle Meddlesome English Women.”

I laughed.

And thought a few mean things.

“Do be serious,” I said.

“Polybius,” he gave the true answer. “His thoughts concerning the Roman Constitution.”

“Light reading then.”

“Quite.”

After I left, I thought of a world where if I wanted to read Polybius’s thoughts on the Roman Constitution, all I would have to do is walk down the hallway to my library…

November 14th

This morning there was a distinctive buzz in the air. Like the whining of a small insect. The feeling grew and grew until, when I was in the kitchen with Agnes, helping her make bread (how domestic) and pondering over my plan that relies on St. Crispian’s Gazette (how delightful), there came a screaming from the street.

Cousin Archibald had returned.

Bath could no longer hold him.

I’m worried Hell won’t be able to either.

Later

There is a rather fine envelope in the post today, with the glorified mark of a D and an I. It’s most likely a remonstration.

Delaying won’t help anything.

I’ll be brave and open it now.

Lion and Pierce,

Dinner on Thursday next?

Islington

No remonstration then! I will have to slip the invitation beneath Pierce’s studio door (it being slightly too large for the chink in the wall).

Also in the post, a very unexpected and financially robust note from Mrs. Penury!

Miss Lion,

My husband has shown me your list of considered employments. I pay to be entertained, and enjoy attending revues and plays. Your list was worth three of them. Enclosed is ten pounds for your talents. Begin hunting for your source of employment after Twelfth Night and enjoy the holidays. Meanwhile, I will ask amongst my friends.

With my regards,

Rebecca Penury

Ten pounds!

A small fortune!

Perhaps nothing to a Reprobate’s gambling habits, but I’m astounded.

Ten pounds. I can’t not keep it. It would be an embarrassment to us both to return it.

And ungracious.

One wouldn’t want to be ungracious.

I shall have to think carefully what to apply my small fortune towards. For now, I’ve hidden it inside the split seam of a colourful cushion on the chair near my window.

It’s not that I don’t trust my household. It’s that I don’t trust the banshee I’ve inherited with said household.

Later

Did you see our invitation?

I DID. I’M UNAVAILABLE.

WILL BE IN NORFOLK.

Norfolk? Heavens. Why?

I’VE BEEN INVITED TO A HOUSE PARTY TO PHOTOGRAPH THE GUESTS. AFTER, I TRAVEL NORTH TO SCOTLAND FOR ANOTHER WEEK TO VISIT A FRIEND OF MINE.

A house party! I hope they are not taking advantage of your good nature.

I SET AN ABSURDLY HIGH PRICE FOR MY TIME, WHICH THE GENTLEMAN AGREED TO PAY. I FREELY ADMIT TO BEING THE ONE TAKING ADVANTAGE.

When do you go?

I LEAVE ON THE 18TH, NOT RETURNING UNTIL THE BEGINNING OF DECEMBER.

You’re leaving me to an indeterminate amount of Mr. Flat’s company?

AND A DINNER AT ISLINGTON’S.

You will be missed. Do I need to feed Tybalt?

CHAMBERS HAS AGREED TO KEEP HIM FED. YOU NEED NOT TROUBLE YOURSELF.

The Pirate.

THE PIRATE.

Send me a charming letter.

WHEN HAVE I EVER REPRESENTED MYSELF AS CHARMING?

I’m charmed by your studio.

WILL YOU KEEP MY POST OUT OF MR. FLAT’S HANDS?

Yes, Captain.

Wait. Pierce, has Mr. Flat opened your mail?

I FOUND HIM READING A CORRESPONDENCE OF MINE IN THE HALL THIS AFTEROON. HE CLAIMED IT WAS OPENED, ON THE FLOOR.

I’m mortified. And remind you he’s not a blood relation.

MY DISPLEASURE WAS SUFFICIENT DETERRENT, BUT ALL THE SAME…

I will not fail you.

I’LL SEND YOU A LETTER.

November 15th

Infamous trial pending. I report to The Cleopatra at two o’clock.

At Fortitude, A Preparatory School for Girls, I was the understudy for Joan of Arc. In the moment before the trial, Joan is reported to have uttered:

“You say that you are my judge; I do not know if you are: but take good heed not to judge me ill, because you would put yourself in great peril. And I warn you so that if God punish you for it, I shall have done my duty in telling you.”

Although I never took the stage, my lines were faithfully memorized. On rainy days in Bournemouth, I would run through the entire play while staring out the window. And so, calling on the inner troubadour, I’ve practiced the above Judgement Lines a dozen times this morning, in case such a scene is needed to secure victory.

Later

Reinstated!

Lapis Lazuli House has come off victorious.

It was not as monstrous as I’d imagined.

Neither was it as simple as it should have been.

Really! Give a man control of a gazette and he’ll grow drunk with power.

I entered The Cleopatra hoping to find the stairs and disappear up them without any fuss. No such luck. Gibbs, the infamous barman, gave me a quirked smile.

“Miss Emma Lion.”

A few men who had witnessed my triumph with the Cleopatra in July gave welcome in the form of a drinking song which features a young woman named Lion drinking herself under the table.

I should be absolutely put out at having my name smeared through the gutter—literally, if the man is far enough into an evening’s inebriation—but instead I am a little delighted.

Memorialized, I!

Being polite enough to listen and give a small applause, I was just to enquire where I would find the stairs—answer: just beyond the bar on the left—when I tasted a familiar tang of disapproval.

Setting my expression, I turned around.

Standing behind me was Islington, hat and gloves in hand, expression of incredulity mixed with a disdainful amount of unsurprise.

Is unsurprise a word? Likely not. However suitable.

Let me rephrase. Islington was watching me with a reluctant an annoyed acceptance that I was destined to be the subject of a public house anthem.

“Hello, Islington.”

He looked at his pocket watch and simply answered, “Shall we?”

“Much as I’d love a pint, I have a trial to attend.”

“Wit, thy name is woman,” Islington misquoted dryly.

Up the stairs we went. There was a table near one wall, with one chair behind it. Three chairs were set opposite, ten paces back.

It looked rather ominous. “Does he mean to execute me?”

“We in St. Crispian’s lost the right to perform our own executions in 1625,” Islington pronounced.

How unexpected.

“Are you quite serious?” I turned round to face him.

“Charles the First didn’t care for our form of justice. Previously, we’d been given permission from the crown to manage, ah, certain affairs. Don’t you know St. Crispian’s history?”

“Apparently not the whole,” I said, just as Mr. Harper came up the stairs. He welcomed greeted acknowledged me and seemed impressed at my having rustled up an Islington.

They shook hands.

“Mr. Harper.”

“Islington,”—I noted he did not say Duke or Your Grace—“you likely don’t recall, but we’ve met.”

“At the opera a few winters back, if my memory serves.”

“Just so. You’re a patron, are you not?”

“Yes. My mother’s legacy.”

The introduction taking its natural breath, I asked, “Are the rest of the committee arriving?”

“Oh no,” Mr. Harper replied nonchalantly. “We had our official meeting earlier. They have vested me with full authority in this matter. You must convince me, Miss Lion. I am Fate.”

Truly.

The hubris.

Instead of making an inappropriate comment in the direction of Fate having slightly more grandeur than even a Man of Information such as Mr. Harper, I answered with, “My second witness should be here shortly.”

Mr. Harper glanced at his pocket watch. “The Trial begins in three minutes. If your witness isn’t present, your appeal is void.”

I may have questioned such a strict policy.

Mr. Harper may have explained that time was money.

I may have balked.

Mr. Harper may have doubled down.

Islington may have convinced me to sit.

I did, nervously watching the minutes.

“He’ll be here, Lion,” Islington said quietly, leaning towards me.

“How do you know?”

“Because Hawkes has the uncanny knack of being just where he is supposed to be.”

“What if there’s an old woman dying? Or some boy has been run over by a cart?” I hissed in return.

“Then I’ll lend you my copy of the Gazette.”

Daggers, my expression.

Islington was not intimidated. “The hypothetical boy with the cart will live, and old women usually have someone about. He will be here.”

Mr. Harper had his watch before him. “I’m afraid—”

And, without even hearing his footsteps on the stairs, Young Hawkes appeared, looking a harassed Angel Gabriel.

Hawkes took a moment to greet Mr. Harper, said hello to Islington, and sat down at my left. “I hope I didn’t worry you. I know the committee values punctuality.”

“Islington believed but I doubted.”

Hawkes looked at me a moment, then gave a quiet smile.

The trial of Lapis Lazuli House was a sordid affair.

Admittedly, that may be an exaggeration.

Admittedly, the hyperbole feels justified.

Mr. Harper, with his smooth newspaper ways and hair tinged with sophisticated silver, leaned back in his chair as if he knew the drama was farce but was demanding I play a role.

There were three counts of Gazette Nuisance.

One for harassment, not difficult to imagine.

The second for what he termed Misleading the Committee. Again, Cousin Archibald misleading anyone feels rather day to day.

The third was for Indecent Exposure. I did not ask details, feeling that, as a young female with a delicate mind, there were things I need not burden myself with.

It turns out, Indecent Exposure means circulating the St. Crispian’s Gazette beyond the boundaries of St. Crispian’s.

After a thorough recounting of said crimes, I answered, “Allow me, Mr. Harper, to point out that all those charges were due to Mr. Flat, but I—the actual owner of Lapis Lazuli—am returned. It wasn’t the house that caused the infractions, it was the man. The house is quite innocent. As am I.”

“What qualifications do you have to argue for instatement, let alone reinstatement?” Mr. Harper asked.

“I’m a human, a person, who abides in the neighbourhood. I didn’t realise there was an entrance exam.”

“Cheek, Miss Lion, will get you nowhere.”

“Cheek clearly led us here, didn’t it?”

I felt a slight pressure on my arm from Hawkes and held my tongue. However, Islington was drilling Mr. Harper with an expression sure to leave holes in the collar of his jacket.

And so, the trial—Trial? Nay! Public flogging!—continued. We had to discuss at length all three infractions while I provided convincing argument of why they would never happen again. It wasn’t until Islington started looking at his pocket watch that Mr. Harper called for character witnesses.

Islington, Duke of, was clipped, brisk, and to the point. I was a family friend of long standing, respectable family, roots in St. Crispian’s, et cetera, et cetera. No question I was a person of character. I noticed he did not use the word good. A coincidence, I tell myself.

Hawkes’s testimony was even shorter. “There is almost no soul more deserving of receiving St. Crispian’s Gazette.”

That was all.

I was not trying to look a gift horse in the mouth, but if this was their version of support, I was going to be damned with faint praise.

In the end, after Mr. Harper lectured on comportment, rabble, and taste, he wavered.

“I will reinstate you on a provisional basis. However, Lapis Lazuli must pay a fine to cover damages.”

“What damages?” I demanded. “No one has been damaged! No one even knows!”

“A small reinstatement fee is reasonable.”

Before I could get a word in edgewise, I saw Islington move as if to speak. Seeing as how there was no way on God’s green earth I was going to allow him to pay a penalty in my name, I opened my mouth to accept the charge willingly.

It was not me, however, but Young Hawkes who spoke. “The church will pay the fine, as a token of community and good will.”

Mr. Harper looked from me to the men at my side, then back again. “You are fortunate in your friends, Miss Lion.”

I believe he meant it literally.

November 16th

I wonder if I should take up maths? Perhaps I could sit in my garret and propose complex theories, earning myself a pension from the crown for my brilliance. Rather like Mr. Johnson did for having written his dictionary.

In the meantime, correspondence.

Mrs. Penury,

I am in receipt of your gift and find myself more than a little taken aback by your generosity. Thank you. I shall use it well. I have been remiss in my duties. I meant to have you round to Lapis Lazuli House at the end of October. Unfortunately, unforeseen events consumed all of my time. I ask your forgiveness and your company, if you would care to join me for tea on Thursday next.

Sincerely,

Miss Emma M. Lion

I sent it off with Toff when I saw him running by.

Later

Sorting through the remaining post on the sideboard—nearly all for Pierce, and a response has just come from Mrs. Penury!

Terribly prompt.

Miss Emma M. Lion,

I believe in unforeseen events. We all have them. I hope yours were not too taxing. The remainder of this month I am engaged. My first available day is the 5th of December, on which I would happily join you at Lapis Lazuli House, unless I hear from you otherwise.

Rebecca Penury

Well.

That sorts that.

Later

I was sitting at the table in the drawing room and saw Pierce’s clients leave Lapis Lazuli Minor.

As a means of cheering myself up, I delivered his post.

He was packing a trunk.

“Your basket of letters,” I said, dumping them on the table.

He sorted through, setting some aside in one pile, others in another. Then he came upon one that made him laugh. “Here.” He tossed it to me. “Read this aloud while I finish packing my things.”

“Aloud? Are you quite sure?”

“Yes,” Pierce answered.

“What if it contains personal information?”

“It’s from Maggie, Islington’s sister.”

“Ah.” I studied the envelope—what a sure hand—and opened it, pulling out the letter.

Clearing my throat, I began,

Pierce, you devil,

What do you mean by becoming friends with my brother? How can you stand it? I love him, there’s no getting around the fact. Siblings before and after. But Henry? He’s as staid as country cream. I’d like to see the two of you rollicking about in any form. I can’t. Here I sit, trying to envision him joining one of your more interesting escapades, and the image eludes me entirely.

The man’s shockingly put together. Not a hair out of place.

Don’t try to claim he’s interesting. Interested in interesting things, perhaps, if you can leave the hounds out of it. But it hardly translates. See if he does not agree. As for what you of all people could see in his company? DAMNFINO!

I love him more than anything in the world. Anything that side of the Atlantic, that is. Yet I am befuddled, Pierce, and you know I hate befuddlement.

Johnny’s in a rage this morning. He had to shoot a horse. It was his own fault. I told him she wasn’t recovered enough to jump the hedge. I asked if he wanted to convey you a message. It was this: Go to hell, Pierce. Stop living your life half-rats and bloody come visit. Affectionate, as always, my Johnny.

I’ve been asked about you in New York, Boston, and Baltimore. No one believes it when I tell them you’re taking portraits of London’s wealthy. They all say you should come home.

Maggie

I finished and sat back utterly shocked. Pierce was grinning.

“Maggie, Maggie,” he muttered.

“That letter was written by Islington’s sister?”

“None other.”

“Islington’s Christian name is Henry?”

Pierce shrugged. “Seems to be.”

“She’s really quite cruel about him.”

“She’s just being Maggie.”

“Yes, well, for as much as she claims to know Islington, I’m not certain she does.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He’s not so staid, not boring. I mean, yes, he was very upset to find me dancing at The Drunken Duck, but once I…”

Pierce stilled, and I—refraining from kicking something for my sloppy confession—forced an innocent expression.

“The Drunken Duck?”

“My point is, Pierce, that Islington has a good many interests. He’s reading about the Roman Constitution right now.”

“Maggie would consider that a dead bore.”

“What does she claim as more interesting?”

“The racetrack, music, gambling, excess, adventure, artists who say things they shouldn’t. What do you mean, dancing at The Drunken Duck?”

“Forget The Duck, Pierce. What does she mean by DAMNFINO?”

Pierce grinned. “Damned if I know.”

“You clearly do.”

“No, Emma. That’s what it means.”

Ah.

I pinched my lips together and reread the letter. It was dashed off quickly and there was a warm tone. Something in me felt defensive that she called America Pierce’s home. Pierce’s home is here, at Lapis Lazuli.

“I can scarcely believe she and Islington are related,” I said.

“If you were to meet her in person, you wouldn’t be. As much as it amuses her to speak like one of the people, her air is as aristocratic as any snob. She can’t help it. Worse, she likes it. Her superiority puts people at unease. They can’t make sense of the titled, cigarette smoking, pistol shooting beauty who raises horses and acts like she’s second to none but the Queen.”

“I think Islington is far more open-minded than she gives him credit for.”

“Of course he is. But sometimes family gets their minds stuck on what a person is, and they won’t let it go. She’s taken a piece of Islington, formed a picture as to his character, and run with it all the way to America.”

I fingered the letter and settled back in the chair. Part of me wildly interested in meeting Maggie. The other part of me terrified she would eat me.

“Do you have any siblings, Pierce?” I asked after a few minutes.

Pierce’s face closed. His eyes narrowed, though he tried to pretend he was focusing on the work before him. At length he said, “A sister. Haven’t spoken in years.”

“Do you think she understands who you are?”

It took Pierce a long while to answer, and when he did it was quietly.

“Not at all,” he said.

November 17th

Pierce and I are at a standoff.

I’m almost happy he’s leaving town tomorrow.

For his assessment of the situation is wrong.

It isn’t the same thing.

He may be right about the letter of the thing. But not the spirit.

On paper it looks as if it could be an indication of inner turmoil. But the intangible reality (is there such a thing?) is simply that Emma M. Lion is having a bit of fun.

A diversion.

A much-needed entertainment.

Ergo, Niall Pierce being in the wrong.

Just as well. It’s been cold and raining all day.

We were in his studio this afternoon. He’d finished packing his trunk from yesterday and began another, and I sat on the plum sofa, composing the advertisement I would be submitting to St. Crispian’s Gazette. I soon finished my draft and set it on the table, then opened Latin Phrases for the Unrepentant, watching him work, and asking questions. It was an easy back and forth.

For Example

Emma: “Did you like the food in America?”

Pierce: “It depends on the meal, same as anywhere.”

Emma: “You don’t seem to be a finicky eater.”

Pierce: “Not terribly, no.”

Emma: “I’m going to be bored without your company at dinner.”

Pierce: “You could eat with Mr. Flat.”

This bit was said wickedly. And I denounced it.

Emma: “Is business in London what you hoped it would be?”

Pierce: “My reputation is catching the interest of the town.”

Emma: “You mean the ton?”

He glanced my way, his silver eyes amused. “Yes.”

And so it went.

Very pleasant.

At some point the conversation faded in favour of my reading and Pierce silently organizing his supplies. He’d opened the window so the sound of the rain could come in, and my advertisement for St. Crispian’s Gazette caught the slight breeze and slid delicately to the ground. Pierce, walking by, picked it up for me and then set it on the table. No, actually, he did not.

The man almost set it on the table, only to glance at what I’d written.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Oh yes! An advertisement. I’m placing it in the St. Crispian’s Gazette. We’ve been reinstated. Provisionally, that is. A great feat since the only man who’s ever managed to do it had to die. I can now place an advertisement! Lovely, isn’t it?”

“Charming,” he said as if it were anything but. “However, I’m more concerned with what I’m seeing here.”

    “Did I spell something wrong?” I asked lightly, turning the page of my book with an indifferent air of which Hawkes would approve.

    He read my advertisement aloud.

“Mapping The Roman: Seeking any information concerning The Roman and his whereabouts in St. Crispian’s, day or night. If you have any particulars regarding the pattern of his movements, please send a note to Lapis Lazuli House!”

“It sounded like you added an exclamation point on the end,” I replied. “Unnecessarily.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, tossing my advertisement back onto the table.

“I’m mapping The Roman,” I answered, sitting up straight. “Doesn’t it sound like a rollick?”

Pierce, however, did not look pleased.

“What is it? You’re looking sour.”

“Too Mr. Rochester for you?” he snapped.

“Now that is unfair,” I replied. And it was. “You know how I feel about Mr. Rochester.”

I thought that would get a smile from him.

Instead, it got a rise.

“What could possibly be going on inside your brain?” he said, walking across to his cabinet, pulling something out.

“What issue do you take? It’s a lark is all. Something to do. As far as I know, no one has ever mapped The Roman. It’s interesting. It’s a mystery. It’s science!”

“Never mind,” he growled. “It’s not my business.”

“You’ve clearly made it so,” I answered. My cheeks were burning.

“Fine, then.” And he lifted one of the trunks from the table to the floor, stood up, and looked directly at me, right as a tremendous roll of thunder was heard through the window.

“What?” I badgered.

“You only just buried Maxwell.”

It felt like he’d thrown a stone through my window.

It didn’t help that in that moment the rain began to pound onto the pavement outside.

My chest tightened. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’re an intelligent woman, Emma. Don’t play the fool.”

That was when I stood. “Play the fool?”

“After three hellish years, you finally buried him.”

“Yes, I did.”

It was an awful moment. Like something being ripped away. But Pierce wasn’t finished.

“And what’s the first thing you do after?” he challenged. “Hunt another ghost.”

I stared at him.

He tried to wave the conversation away.

It didn’t work for either of us.

The moment had turned truly awful. I felt made up of torn edges.

The Roman has always been this delightful curiosity. This unbelievable truth that makes no common sense, but simply is.

Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve loved the idea of him.

It has nothing to do with Maxwell.

Nothing at all.

The only thing they have in common is they are both dead soldiers.

The two of them have never even occupied the same thought in my brain.

It’s more likely Pierce’s own demons. He feels threatened. I know he doesn’t like The Roman. The Roman said Pierce would end this house. Balderdash. But Pierce has taken it personally.

“The Roman has nothing to do with Maxwell. Nothing,” I said at length.

“I’m worried for you,” he excused.

“Don’t be.”

“You look worn out.”

“Not especially,” was my answer. Which wasn’t particularly true. “Pierce, if you could just—”

“We’re not going to agree on this,” he clipped.

“You’re not even going to try?”

“All I’ve done is disagree with you, Emma.”

“All you’ve done is take something enjoyable and smear ash over it. Well done, you.”

Pierce narrowed his eyes at what I’d said.

I crossed my arms.

I almost wished him a good journey and left.

Pierce would have gone out for the evening. I would have thought about reading Shakespeare, but the book would have fallen open to Hamlet and I would have slammed it shut again.

One too many ghosts.

As it happens, Pierce shook his head, walking around the table and forgetting he had placed a trunk on the floor. He smashed his shin. As it was his bad leg, he tumbled over the chest and crashed to the floor—cursing, during and after, as if he were a sailor.

I rushed to help, but he was quick to pull himself up, grimacing. He glared at the chest fiercely but was in too much pain to claim his revenge. Instead, he pounded the table with his fist.

Feeling it my duty, I kicked the chest with my shoe. Not hard enough to bruise my toes, but hard enough to get a bang.

“What the hell are you doing!”

I was wondering that very thing myself but wasn’t in the mood to admit it. “I sought to avenge you.”

“I have bloody camera equipment in that chest!”

“Pierce! Look at my shoe.” I pulled up my skirt. “Look at that trunk. If any damage occurred, I will grant you rent de gratis for a month. Can I help you to the sofa?”

“I’m fine.”

“If you’re fine, I think I’ll go now,” I answered, picking my advertisement off the floor, which I’d dropped when Pierce had fallen.

“Don’t be angry.”

His words deflated me, but not completely. “I’m not angry.”

“You are.”

“I’m composing myself. Not the same emotion.”

“I wish you would let The Roman be.”

“Then we are at a standoff,” I sighed.

“We are.”

“At least it no longer feels like an argument.”

“A difference of opinion between friends is all.”

“Safe travels, Pierce.”

But before I could leave the room, Pierce took an unfair advantage. Limping a few steps to close the space between us, he lifted his hand to my shoulder, holding on tight for a moment. It was a way of resetting what was between us. “It’s none of my bloody business,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry you fell.”

He tried to smile, and never quite accomplished it.

I went up to my rooms and felt miserable.

November 18th

The Argumentative Photographer left early this morning.

His moving about woke me up, but as I had a headache, I stayed in bed awhile.

Agnes brought up breakfast, but I did not go to church.

Later

Feeling vindicated, if not triumphant.

I record my conversation with Agnes.

“Did you hear, Miss?”

“What, Agnes?”

“The Roman was seen in The Keep last night.”

I looked up. “Really? In The Keep?”

“It’s a surprise, as he’d been on Traitors Road for a fortnight.”

“How do you know?”

“My friend is scullery maid in one of the houses there.”

“Agnes, can I put something to you?”

“Yes, Miss?”

“Would you be curious to have a record of The Roman’s whereabouts and interactions?”

Agnes paused, frowned. “I’ve never thought of such a thing, Miss.”

“Doesn’t mapping it out sound diverting?”

“I’m…it makes me feel all shivery. Can it possibly agree with the church?”

“I don’t see why not. The church is expressly concerned with the afterlife.”

“I suppose so. May I get you a piece of cake, Miss?”

“Yes, Agnes, you may.”

November 19th

Emma,

I have need of moral support tomorrow afternoon.

Can you offer?

Mary

Mary,

I have need of entertainment.

I therefore offer my support.

Emma

Later

Parian informed me with nasal tones that Archibald wished me to descend to the drawing room for a conclave.

“Oh, Parian, it’s true, isn’t it? There is no peace for the wicked.”

I let out a disturbed breath while Parian eyed the crown and sceptre—both of which look impressively real—that lay on the window seat.

Bless The Reprobates Ten.

I’d scarcely seen them since my midnight coronation last month.

“Is it possible to have a conclave between only two people?” I posited.

Parian seemed to take the question seriously. “I believe so.”

“Too bad.”

Whereas most people go to Bath to get well, Cousin Archibald looks markedly peaked. A bit yellow around the gills, as it were. He was sitting at the round table by the window. I sat opposite him, keeping my back straight.

“Good day, Cousin. Have you something to say?” said I.

“I have.” He cleared his throat and scrunched his nose up as he sniffed. “I feel as if I am owed an apology, and an allowance. I’ve been emotionally mishandled and financially cut off, and find myself needing certain amenities to fit the lifestyle to which I am accustomed. So say the Ericksons of Great Pulteney Street. I have written out—”

It was at this point that I began laughing. Somewhat hysterically.

It could not be helped.

It blossomed into an eruption of puckish mirth. I lifted my hands to my face, then let them fall to the table as I leaned against it for support, gripping it in a manner that can only be described as amused fury. I must have looked slightly crazed, for Archibald shifted his chair backward in such a nervous panic he had to stand up so as not to tumble with it to the floor.

“Stop that, Miss Lion.”

He took another step back.

I snorted. “You, dear Cousin, spent your allowance years ago and have been wasting mine ever since. I will see you fed. I will see you warm in the winter. And we both know you are fully clothed. There is nothing more to be discussed in relation to the fiscal operations of this house, of my house. Ever again. I don’t give two pins about the Ericksons of Great Pulteney Street and their misguided opinions. Am I quite clear?”

I smiled. It was lunatic sufficient to send the man scrambling for his cane.

“You are a cruel, hard-hearted woman,” cried he.

“Save your insults for the deserving,” countered I. “The fact that I keep a roof over your miserable, balding head has just about ensured my place in heaven. You can enquire of Hawkes if you disagree.”

I stood, and while Cousin Archibald fussed and cowed, I swept out of the room.

It would have been more impressive had I not caught my toe on the first stair and tumbled against the banister.

November 20th

Mary and I met outside the British Museum today. The intention being she and I would deliver the latest typed draft of A History of the East India Company.

“I am to bring it to King’s College London, to Professor Fletcher’s study this afternoon. He wishes to meet in person.” She told me this as we were walking towards the college.

“Wonderful,” I answered.

“I need you for moral support.”

“I’m pleased, but may I ask why?”

Mary took a deep breath and swung her umbrella. “He believes me to be a boy.”

Her words brought me up short. “A boy?”

“Yes.”

“With a name like Mary Bairrage? You are certain this man has his wits about him?”

Mary’s smile rather famously slashed across her face. “Mary Bairrage is female. Martin Bairrage, however, is a young clerk.”

“You didn’t.”

“Pretend I was a man to acquire the work I needed to remain alive? I most certainly did.”

I began to laugh. With glee, it must be admitted. “And you have chosen today to reveal your true identity?”

“He said he wished to meet. In person. Could I please bring the typed manuscript to his office? He wouldn’t mind asking my opinion on this or that before beginning the next iteration of what he now calls ‘our little project.’”

“Do you fear losing future work?”

“I couldn’t say.”

A thought came to mind, a small, possibly vile thought. I gave it voice. “And what about Jack?”

“What about Jack?”

“Could he not fill the role of Martin? I assume he’s returned to London now?”

“He has. And no. Jack will not play Martin Bairrage. He has not spent the last year typing page after page, sick to the teeth of the East India Company. Just as well. It is not the wisest thing to bring Jack into every corner of one’s life. However droll.”

“Based on what dastardly experience?”

“Preemptive instinct.”

“Ah.”

“You’ve begun to say that, you know,” Mary then said.

“Preemptive instinct? I’ve never uttered those two words together before in my life.”

“No, silly. Ah. Ah. I’ve no idea where you’ve picked it up.”

“Ah,” I replied, to Mary’s answering glare. “A…friend of mine. He uses it to great effect, and I’m afraid it’s quite catching. Like a cold.”

“Ah,” Mary said.

To which I replied, “Bless you.”

Mary led the way, having the direction written on a piece of paper. It was more than a little exhilarating, walking through the college, the prospect of so many students learning so many things. I have a daydream, one I keep tucked quiet and safe, wherein Emma M. Lion is admitted into one of the women’s colleges recently opened at Oxford or Cambridge. She is sent, of course, by a wealthy benefactor (possibly a dissolute viscount). Although our intrepid orphan is behind in her studies, she burns a candle all the night long, hardly stopping to eat. And in the end, Emma is triumphant. She is valedictorian, and her paper—some studious affair such as Defending Shakespeare Against the Unwashed—would be published and hailed as a great contribution to the English language.

I digress.

We walked past several students—all male—and found ourselves entering a building with pokey, narrow halls, academic figures passing to and fro. Mary stopped before a door, double checked her direction, and then muttered, “Here’s to nothing,” as she knocked. Her lips had formed a tight line, and I could tell by the way she clutched her satchel with the enclosed stack of onion skin papers that she was afraid.

Afraid of losing one of her two needed incomes.

“They do know you’re a woman at the telephone company, right?” I whispered.

“Shh! Of course they do. I couldn’t bally well dress as a man every day.”

A moment of silence followed, then we both looked at one another.

“I could.”

“You could.”

We said it with the simultaneous precision of a good watch. A thing which made us smile.

Then we heard, “Come in.”

“Steady now,” I whispered.

Mary set her expression, reached for the doorknob, and in we went.

It was a cramped room, with one gothic sliver of a window, a carpet so worn it bore no resemblance to colour whatsoever, and piles, piles, stacks, stacks, stacks of papers and books. There was a door that led to another room on the left. It was closed.

“Goodness,” I muttered under my breath.

“Please have a seat,” said a voice. Mary and I looked around, could not identify a single unoccupied piece of furniture, and remained standing. It did not take long to detect movement from the centre of the room. Further scrutiny revealed a desk piled high and a figure behind said desk.

Mary, heaven help her, cleared her throat.

“Yes, yes,” came the male voice. “Just a moment.”

And then there was a minor earthquake.

Meaning, the figure behind the desk stood, and every precarious stack of papers shivered beneath the threat of complete collapse.

No matter.

We were too distracted by the figure itself.

The man was a force of sheer physicality. Meaning, he was tall, with broad shoulders and a looming presence. It was very un-professorial of him. Mary and I both gaped. A thing he did not see, as his attention was still given to the detritus on his desk.

“Sorry for the delay, Martin,” said Professor Fletcher. “Only I have finally identified the central point of a rambling article and thought it best to annotate my thoughts before they fled.”

And he looked up at us. Or rather, down at us.

His hair had been cut recently, and while not ill, it was not very well done. (Possibly self-inflicted?) The jaw was strong, however, and I thought the man rather belonged in hunter’s tweed striding through the countryside. The dreadful spectacles he wore could not obscure the handsome features of his face, lenses so thick that when he blinked in surprise, it magnified the movement. Mary stepped on my foot to keep me, and possibly herself, from snorting with delight.

“Hello?” he said.

However singular the structure of the question, it could not escape its potential for humour.

“Hello,” answered Mary.

I simply smiled.

“I’m sorry,” the professor fumbled. “I was expecting a friend. And you are?”

“Mary Bairrage, with my esteemed colleague, Miss Emma Lion.”

The professor’s face relaxed and he removed his glasses, using his fingers to massage the bridge of his nose. “A sister. I believe in sisters. I have eight of them.”

“Eight!” I exclaimed.

He tossed his spectacles onto his desk. “Extraordinary, isn’t it? One for every day of the week, with a spare for holidays. I’m inundated with sisterly affection, instruction, and, dare I say, distinction. No man is unimportant who has at least half a dozen sisters. A fine institution.”

Mary was standing stock still. (Uncharacteristic.)

Mary was also staring, as if Apollo had taken a lecturer position at King’s College London, something to keep him occupied between inspiring poetry and seeing to the place of the sun.

“Was Martin unable to bring that himself?” Professor Fletcher asked, waving a hand towards Mary’s occupied hands. “Shame. I was hoping to talk over the notes he inserted. Unasked for, but intelligent, I admit.”

Mary, Mary, Mary.

Clever imposter.

I began to smile like an absolute fool. It felt like I hadn’t in a while. Smiled, that is. I’m certainly a fool on an every-other-day basis.

“The notes,” Mary repeated. “You see...”

“He’s a bold one, your brother,” Professor Fletcher continued. “More opinions than you could shake a stick at. Ask the boy to transcribe my notes, and he decides to play editor. Don’t worry, I forgave him. Enjoyed it, actually. Pity. I would have thought such courage deserved a face-to-face meeting. Not that I’m not honoured to meet his sister.”

I knew that the grin on my face was not ideal.

Alas. It could not be helped.

It was a delightful pickle of a moment.

And having nothing to do with me whatsoever.

How marvellous.

How blisteringly marvellous.

The professor studied Mary’s seemingly petrified face, and said kindly, “Please, sit.”

“Professor Fletcher.”

“I am he.”

“I have a small confession.” Mary cleared her throat.

“Oh?”

Pure joy.

“Martin Bairrage does not have a sister.”

“He doesn’t? You’re the cousin—? No, of course not. That was rather thick of me. You’re his wife! I never would have guessed Martin to be married. He’s so young. Mrs. Bairrage, I’m happy to—”

“Professor Fletcher.”

“Yes, Mrs. Bairrage?”

Mary claimed a fortifying breath and gave her head an almost imperceptible self-orienting shake. She looked resolute, and much more like herself. “Martin has neither sister nor wife. Martin does not, in fact, exist.”

“Is this a metaphysical exercise on identity?”

“I’m afraid not,” stated Mary. “Only a straightforward case of fraud. I am Martin Bairrage. Or rather, Mary Bairrage, who used subterfuge to acquire the position as your typist.”

Professor Fletcher stood stock still, the muscles on his face frozen in place. His mind seemed to be in working order, and he was using it—you could tell by his eyes—even as the sheer physical presence of the man was immovable as a mountain.

Mary thought it best to launch her defence. “An institution such as this values the mind despite the packaging. Be the man short or tall, plain or handsome, he is weighed on capability, ingenuity, and intelligence. And yet we find a breakdown in such a system when the individual is a woman. Illogic at its highest order. Whereas Martin Bairrage is employable, respected, and given opportunity, Mary Bairrage is seen fit for anything but the life of the mind. I have a mind, Professor Fletcher. A good one at that. And yes, I saw fit to add some editorial commentary. If I’m going to type endless drafts of your book, I’m not going to let what could stand to be improved repeat itself in the shadow of my silence.”

It was nothing short of glorious.

My gaze left Mary’s face—looking like fire such as with Moses—and went to the unsuspecting professor.

His mouth held a curve of consternation, his eyes, however, were alight.

“Are you finished, Miss Mary Bairrage. It is Miss, is it not?”

“It is. And yes. I am finished.”

“If not literally, she’s possibly finished figuratively,” I muttered.

Mary stomped on my foot, again.

The professor took no notice. His attention was all for Mary’s face. “Then permit me to say you are right. If Mary can do the task of Martin, why should she not?”

“I don’t wish to lose this work—”

“You won’t.”

“—simply because I am a female—”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“—who aspires to live with some dignity in a world—”

“Of course.”

“—that allows her no stability based on her own merits.”

“Miss Bairrage?”

“Yes?”

“I have eight sisters. Your plight is valued and, dare I say, understood? Now, is it too much to ask you both to sit down?”

“Where?” Mary and I asked in unison.

“Oh.” He glanced past us at two suspicious-looking mounds. “I see I’ve let things get away from me. Let’s move into the room next door, shall we?”

The room next door was as fresh and clear as the first one had been assaulted with paper and books. It was small, with a few paintings on the wall, a fireplace—ready for a tidy tea—and a few comfortable chairs. There was one bookshelf with several well-ordered volumes. Mary and I took a seat, and Professor Fletcher sat near the hearth.

“Should we see about tea before we begin?” he asked, looking from Mary to myself then back again.

Mary opened her mouth, but nary a sound came out, so I answered, “Certainly.”

“Be warned,” Professor Fletcher replied. “I prepare it over the fire like a schoolboy. Simpler this way.”

And so, this misplaced sportsman set about making a very small tea. He poured some water from a covered pitcher into a kettle that looked like it had been banged about a good deal.

“I’ve biscuits in that tin there.” He pointed to the top of the bookshelf.

I fetched the biscuits, handed them to the professor, then returned to the bookshelf to investigate while Mary sat stock still in her chair.

“I’m eager to review some of your notes,” Professor Fletcher said to her as he stoked the fire. “Especially your idea that there should be a stronger connection between chapter four and chapter ten.”

Oddly, Mary seemed unable to tell chapter ten from a giraffe. I was worried he would get the impression that Mary was some kind of dolt.

Mary is anything but a dolt.

But it seemed that fate was watching out for Mary.

And ignoring someone else.

“Hello?” rang a young voice.

“Back here,” called Professor Fletcher.

And in sauntered a boy of about eleven.

Professor Fletcher looked more than a little surprised at the appearance of the imp, hands in his pockets, cap set jauntily on the side of his head.

“William? What on earth are you doing here?”

“Johnny’s fallen off the roof.”

“Again?”

“He broke his arm.”

“But it’s already broken.”

William shook his head. “I mean the other one. The right one. The left one seems fine as it’s still in plaster and all.”

“Where is Mrs. Handkerchief?” asked Professor Fletcher, standing and absently patting his pockets for the spectacles he’d left on the desk.

William shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“I don’t know,” corrected the professor.

“I know you don’t. Neither do I,” answered William.

“No, I mean you are supposed to say—never mind. Is anyone with him? Where’s Tad?”

“Tad was the one who found him. We got old lady Jones next door to help us get the doctor.”

“Did she send you all the way into town?”

“No,” answered William. “I just wanted something to do, so I snuck away.”

The mention of a broken arm seemed to have restored Mary to a degree, for she stood. “You go, Professor. Here, take this,” she handed him the satchel with the recent draft of his book. “I’ll put your tea things away.”

“Yes,” the Professor answered, still looking for his spectacles. “Do you mind terribly if we delay our discussion?”

“Not at all. And your spectacles are on your desk.”

“Good, good.”

And he and William were back in his study where he found his spectacles, pulled on an overcoat to wear over his jacket, and added several papers he gathered from his desk to Mary’s satchel.

“Thank you, Miss Bairrage, Miss Lion,” he called. “I’ll arrange our discussion another time.”

And he was gone!

I looked at Mary. “Well!”

Mary lifted her hands in amazement. “I don’t know what to say.”

“So that is the widower?”

“Apparently.”

“He doesn’t look like one.”

“He doesn’t look like a professor,” Mary added. “He should be hunting something.”

“He could easily be striding across the moor, a gun over his shoulder.”

Mary, putting the fire out, paused. “He does seem like a man who would naturally stride.”

“He does.”

“How many dogs? Three? Four?”

“Oh, six or seven at least,” I argued.

“Cap on his head,” Mary said. “Brown tweed.”

“To set off the brown of his eyes,” I answered. “Hunting alone, of course. No one else would look quite enough beside him.”

“But with those dreadful spectacles on…” Mary began.

I snorted. “They do take away more than a little of the romance.”

“This is the man obsessed with the East India Company,” Mary marvelled.

“With three scoundrel sons.”

Once we’d tidied things, I opened the tin. “We might as well each have a biscuit.”

“Of course.”

And so we stood there a moment, eating.

“Very odd,” Mary said.

“Very,” I replied.

“How old do you think he is?”

“No older than forty, if that,” I guessed.

“Not an ounce of Mr. Rochester in him.”

“I’m as amazed as you.”

“Who in the world is Mrs. Handkerchief?” Mary wondered.

“His housekeeper?”

And, laughing, we shut the door behind us.

“That did not go at all how I expected it to,” Mary said, clearly bemused.

Funny thing is, Mary looked quite affected by the whole affair.

I can’t tell exactly what she thinks of this professor.

Most likely he has no idea what to think of her.

Later

Agnes served a late tea in the drawing room.

Cousin Archibald joined me, cane at his side—for protection, I imagine.

Not a word passed between us the entire time.

Only a look of disapproval when either of us thought the other was eating too loud.

I think it was for the best.

November 21st

I’ve read Lady Sheridan’s letter three times. Amazed and more than a trifle affronted.

I almost scribbled a note to Pierce that read: Is the challenge to gain any meaningful control over my life due to the machinations of my relations? My own mismanaging of affairs? Or society’s grand scheme endorsing freedom and power for the few, Emma M. Lion not being one of them?

And then I remembered he was in the North.

I record said missive.

Miss Lion,

I have been exchanging letters with your aunt and, seeing as she is not in London, she has loaned me your services. I have a dinner that requires a single female of not too high social stature, no great beauty but not displeasing to look upon. You would be surprised, dear Emma, how difficult that is.

My gathering is the seventeenth of next month. Too early to send out invitations to my guests, but I wished to make certain you held the evening in reserve. I will send my third best coach to fetch you.

Yours,

Lady Sheridan

Well.

There is always the option of refusal. This, however, could bring the Full Wrath of Eugenia Spencer down onto my head. If the Full Wrath descended, she would thrust her person into every aspect of my life as a way of ridding me of any suspect influences.

January. In January I come into my majority. Aunt Eugenia will have no authority over my person. Cousin Archibald will have no authority over my possessions. I bend to the assumptions of Lady Sheridan for now, intending to blaze into independent glory come the thirteenth.

When Tennyson wrote that “Man is man, and master of his fate,” he clearly did not mean to include females.

November 22nd

I don’t forget my appointments by nature, but earlier this evening I was sitting at the window, once again staring blankly at Jane Eyre, when Agnes came in.

“Which evening dress should I prepare for your dinner, Miss?”

I had no intention of dressing for a dinner of one and told her so.

“No, Miss. I meant for the Duke of Islington.”

Bless Agnes. It’s Thursday!

I had clean forgot.

It was a sprint against time, for I had taken no care to prepare anything. Luckily, Agnes had cleaned and ironed a chemise and petticoats. An elaborate process, the ordering of all appropriate underclothing.

“The deep red, I think,” she suggested for the gown.

It’s a shot silk, a merlot red on one side, with an almost black on the other. Elegant, appropriate for winter. I sat down for Agnes to arrange my hair. She frowned.

“What is it, Agnes?”

“Only, your dress isn’t fitting quite as well as it ought. A lady’s clothes should fit as a glove, my mother always says. And this is too large for you. Your décolletage was fuller a month ago.”

It was the first time in my life anyone had discussed my décolletage.

“Agnes!”

But Agnes has been acquiring a backbone of late and held her ground.

She was going to serve a lady—or me—if it killed her.

“Miss, pardon, but you have been eating less and less. It worries me ever so.”

It worries her ever so?

I could tell she had been practicing the line. She sounded like a member of the Lord Chamberlain's Men.

“Oh, Agnes, don’t be a ninny. I’ve not been as hungry is all.”

“I’m going to have to take in your clothes soon. All these beautiful clothes. Should I call a doctor?”

“You should leave it alone.”

“But your plates come back to the kitchen half-eaten most evenings.”

“What business is that of yours?” I snapped. “I should hardly think your mother would approve this line of questioning.”

I shouldn’t have.

Agnes is the best soul at Lapis Lazuli. She is faithful as the dawn and never gives me an ounce of trouble. And I could see in the mirror that I’d hurt her feelings terribly.

“Oh, Agnes. I’m a beast. And I’m sorry for it. You’re right that my appetite has not been…normal. Don’t bother to take anything in. I’ll be right as rain in no time.”

Agnes, whose eyes were a little glassy, gave a small sniff. “My mother says rain isn’t always right, Miss.”

“I daresay she’s correct,” I replied calmly.

I was the model lady from that moment on, and even let Agnes pile my hair with a touch more fashion than I usually care for. Once her ruffled feathers were smoothed, she ended up jabbering about the sorts of people I would meet at the duke’s dinner. I did nothing to correct her. The last thing Agnes’s mother needs to know is that it will simply be a party of three.

I had planned to walk myself to Islington’s, but when I opened the door to leave, there in the darkening evening waited Islington’s carriage.

I felt irked at the presumption.

However, as Agnes was watching from the window like I was Cinderella, I smiled at her and put up no fuss. Parian, having just come from seeing to Cousin Archibald, was impressed enough to volunteer his services, and handed me into the carriage.

I settled myself and muttered, “What a bother.”

In the dark, someone cleared their throat.

I jumped.

Young Hawkes sat in the opposite corner, his left arm leaning against the side of the carriage, his hand running absently through his hair. A book was open on his lap.

I was startled. As indicated by my saying, “Hawkes!” with more gusto than I meant.

“Good evening,” he half smiled.

In comparison to his clean but comfortably tussled appearance, I was feeling overdressed.

“I wasn’t expecting to be accompanied to dinner,” I said.

Hawkes wasn’t looking at me when he replied, “Islington thought he should provide means of conveyance as you would not be arriving with Pierce. But he predicted that if you were forced into a carriage while I was allowed to walk, you would raise high dudgeon. He’s not in the mood for high dudgeon tonight.”

I snorted. “He’s not in the mood, is he? Well, most of my high dudgeon was spent on poor Agnes.”

Turning the page of his book, catching whatever light he could, Hawkes said, “Agnes is a dear.”

“She is. I fully admit my sins,” I replied, uncertain how well Hawkes really knew Agnes, seeing as how she does not attend this Heathen London Church of ours. “If you wish, I can confess all behind that silly curtain you put up for Cousin Archibald. He still wastes a fair amount of your time, I presume?”

It was more statement.

Less question.

Hawkes smiled. Closing his book, his face a dance of light and shadow as the carriage made its way down Whereabouts and right onto King Henry’s, he considered me fully.

“Mr. Flat says you walk to and fro like the devil.”

I grinned. “I do like walking to and fro.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“To be fair,” I added, “so do you.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Hawkes repeated.

We were turning up Sterling when I said, “You never seem ruffled, Hawkes. How do you manage?”

He did not answer until we’d stopped before Islington’s. “We all have our demons, Miss Lion.”

“Our angels as well, I suppose.”

“Sometimes they are the same.”

When he said that, I thought of Pierce.

I—eeeeeeep!

Later

Tybalt brought a mouse into the garret and dropped it.

Right onto my desk.

It appears to be of the garden variety, which Tybalt believes is a tremendous gift.

There are now little muddy footprints all over the pages of my journal.

Tybalt gave chase, and the poor mouse squeezed itself under the door to the west garret. It took me the better part of an hour to find the thing. Once caught beneath a bowl, I managed to slide a book—Latin Phrases for the Unrepentant—beneath and take the mouse out to the garden.

Thus worn out, I lay down my pen.

Dinner at Islington’s to be relegated to faulty memory of pleasant reminiscence.

Though I must record Islington’s aunt—my chaperone—crying out in despair from some nearby room.

“She’s writing,” Islington explained, unruffled.

“I didn’t realise it was such a gladiator sport,” I replied.

“Writing often is,” murmured Hawkes.

November 23rd  

As arranged last evening, Islington and I walked about Regent’s Park this morning. He arrived at the appointed hour, looked perfectly presentable, and made a comment about my red gloves being unusual.

I thought about remarking how I had to give him something to disapprove of.

However, I refrained.

It was colder than it appeared, the sun being missish. A thing with which I was annoyed. Islington misinterpreted my scorn as suffering.

“Is it too cold?” Islington asked. “We could take tea somewhere.”

“Certainly not. I find that if I can embrace pain a quarter of an hour, almost everything becomes tolerable.”

Sound practice when it comes to weather.

Islington, pulling his gloves tighter from habit rather than necessity, said, with a Tone of Voice, mind you, “Is that your life motto?”

“Upon reflection, I suppose it could be.”

“Something to aspire to, I’m sure,” he answered with an unattractive amount of sarcasm.

I replied with, “Have you heard from your steward at Stonecrop? How are the dogs?”

“Hounds, Lion. Hounds.”

“I know,” I smiled. “I just like to tease. Your correction is so very predictable.”

To which he opened his mouth, closed it, and continued forward with all the dignity of a man who benevolently decided not to swat at a fly.

We ended up comparing arguing over The Tempest and A Midsummer Night’s Dream, interrupted a few times by acquaintances of The Duke’s. The nod, tip of the hat, occasional word. I behaved myself and drew as little attention as possible.

Mostly we were left to ourselves.

Once Islington asked, “Who do you keep looking for?”

I almost asked him what he meant, but as the Bard once said, “No legacy is so rich as honesty.”

And so I decided to unburden the true answer.

“Someone who isn’t there anymore.”

He didn’t answer, nor did he press.

Instead, he hailed a hansom, and the two of us enjoyed an afternoon tea.

Later

I lit a candle for Father this evening.

The sunsets continue to bleed.

November 24th

EMMA,

I PROMISED YOU A LETTER, SO HERE GOES. TRADITIONAL COUNTRY HOUSE PARTIES BORE INTO MY SKULL LIKE SHRAPNEL FROM A CANNON. IF YOU ARE NOT CHARMED BY THAT, NOTHING CAN HELP YOU. I WAS COMMISSIONED TO TAKE THE PORTRAITS OF THE GUESTS AND A FEW PHOTOGRAPHS OF THEM PLAYING OUT SOME GREEK TRAGEDY OR OTHER. AT DINNER I WAS EXPECTED TO ENTERTAIN.

I PASSED A VERY UNINSPIRED FEW DAYS.

ONCE I FULFILLED MY DUTY, WAS ABLE TO PACK MY THINGS AND ESCAPE. AM NOW IN ABERDEEN WITH A FRIEND, EDWARD MANSEL, A FELLOW PHOTOGRAPHER. WHILE WE WERE DISCUSSING OUR WORK THIS MORNING, A BIRD FLEW IN THROUGH THE OPEN WINDOW. IT WAS A JACKDAW.

FOR SOME REASON IT MADE ME THINK OF YOU.

PIERCE

November 25th

Emma’s Sunday Consisted Of

One Tybalt.

Two accusations that I was trying to vex a certain elderly relation to an early grave.

Three cups of tea while a Mrs. Burns complained about the local boys who run amok through her back garden.

Four times today’s sermon was interrupted with hoots and hollers from the go-here-and-thereians of the back row. Translation: The Reprobates Ten have returned from a string of rambunctious house parties and are hell-bent (Yes, Mother, I know you would disapprove of the phrase) to enjoy London’s entertainments.

Five sparring matches with Islington.

I should elaborate.

One

With Pierce away, Tybalt has been spending a good deal of time in my garret. Mostly watching out the window and swishing his tail. The Pirate enters Lapis Lazuli Minor twice a day—I occasionally hear him moving about—and I presume he is keeping Tybalt fed. Not wanting to incur the wrath of The Pirate by existing in the same space, I avoid him. The Reed and Rite was out of shoe polish yesterday, and I almost ran down to The Hound, as certainly a gentleman’s shop would carry such a thing. Realising that The Pirate might be behind the counter, I went home without the polish.

Two

The accusations from Cousin Archibald that I am trying to send him to an early grave are self-explanatory.

Three

Mrs. Burns lives directly across from the Reed and Rite. She keeps watch from her front window and—rumour has it—takes tallies of who enters and how often, and whether they have gone up to the shop or down to the coffee and tearoom below, how many items they seem to have reclaimed from The Keep, etc. She is not so wearisome as she sounds, with a good mind for her puzzle, of which we are the pieces. Her attentive nature to the happenings of Whereabouts Lane, however, leaves her back garden undefended a good deal of the day.

“All hours, Miss Lion, I find evidence of them bolting o’er the fence and through the roses. The back tree has a rope swing appearing every other week, and Friday I found a circle in the middle of my irises for…marbles! You must think of something.”

“I? What makes you believe I would have a solution to the problem.”

“The Watchers of Whereabouts are more than a little impressed with you.”

“The Watchers?” I enquired.

“There are half a dozen of us or so who keep a nose on the comings and goings. We meet monthly to discuss what we’ve seen.”

Fascinating!

And were it anyone else, disturbing.

“Might I attend said meeting?” I enquired.

“Members only dear, and you’re far too young to be watching everything from your window. Although we do notice how often you gaze down from the garret. It has been deduced your cousin has forced you to live there.”

I gaped. “I— Yes, but no. I’m fond of my garret.”

“It’s one of the reasons we like you.”

“I don’t understand?”

“Archibald Flat, while amusing, has caused us tremendous angst. We’ve watched his actions these several years, and he’s on our Blacklist.”

“Oh dear. I’m certain it’s well deserved, but that does sound very dire.”

And then Mrs. Burns said, “When one commits to be a Watcher, one must have a spine of iron. Blacklists may not be pleasant, but they are necessary. You understand.”

I do, having my own List of Enemies.

Four

The Reprobates Ten felt it their duty to harass their tenth and errant member. While Hawkes was giving the sermon on Ezekiel, they were awarding themselves points if he used words they’d written down on a predetermined list. Each word mention was worth two points. If the word had more than eight letters, five points.

The sermon proved very exciting as all the congregants were doing our level best to discover which words were giving points to whom.

Which leads us to Five

Islington sat beside me in church today. There was a slight stir of admiration among The Reprobates at his appearance, and when he sat at my side, they gave a round of applause. All other members of the parish glanced around confused. Islington looked straight ahead.

“Hello, Lion.”

“Hello, Islington. You honour me with your presence.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied, holding his (expensive) hat in hand, his green neckcloth setting off his eyes in a rather nice way. I told him so.

He raised an eyebrow and said, “Thank you.”

He did not sound as if he meant it.

A quarter of an hour into the sermon, when we had all deduced The Reprobates Ten were playing their game—Hawkes pausing to give them a withering glance before continuing—Islington whispered in a sour tone, “One is not supposed to grin in church.”

It’s true. I was.

“It’s a joyous gospel, Islington.”

“Smile, then.”

“A grin is only a smile that’s fully decided to get on with it.” I then grinned along with the rest of the congregation as three reprobates were awarded five points each when Hawkes said the word sanctification.

After the sermon—Hawkes lifting an eyebrow when The Boy stood and declared himself the winner—Islington and I found ourselves wandering in the graveyard behind the church, the events of the sermon spurring a light discussion regarding Appropriate Public Behaviour.

At one point, I guffawed at something he’d said regarding propriety.

“Does that sound translate into an actual word, or has the conversation devolved into a barbarian tongue?” Islington asked.

A second guffaw followed. “Let me tell you something, dear Islington. Every time you preach of how I ought to behave, I think of Joan of Arc.”

“Joan of Arc?” Islington laughed.

“The very same!”

“You are justifying your behaviour because of Joan of Arc?”

“No. I am pointing out that women have been doing far more daring things than anything you could tally beneath my name! I’m as tame as a nun.”

“A nun! That’s calling it too tall, I assure you. You couldn’t be a nun if you tried.”

To which I replied, “One never knows.”

November 26th

Walking through Regent’s Park this afternoon, I saw the saddest figure sitting on a bench alone, eyes rimmed with such tears as depressing novels are made of, accompanied by an expression of grief.

My heart fell.

And then the pill bug nature of the man brought to mind recollections of the sweet pea and mappa mundi, giving him away as one Lord West—potential husband of Arabella Spencer.

I thought to walk on, giving West some privacy. But as I approached, he sniffed and began fussing about for a handkerchief. He was such a miserable specimen I couldn’t pass without an attempt to aid. Wracking my brain to see if there was any random fact regarding cartography I could gift him—none came to mind—I sat down and wordlessly handed over my handkerchief.

He took it while I politely looked away, and once he was settled, I braved a glance at his face.

I could see the pain and had to blink once or twice to gain my own composure.

“Lord West, how lovely to see you.”

“Pardon. Do I—?”

“Miss Emma Lion. We’ve met a time or two at my aunt’s house, Lady Eugenia Spencer. I am of similar age to Arabella, my cousin.”

“Oh. Oh yes, yes.” He sniffed again.

“Please pardon my interruption, Lord West, but you appear distraught.”

“Forgive me,” he replied in a hushed tone. “I’ve lost… She’s gone. She died.”

“Do you mean your sister?” I asked with some surprise.

His face hardened. “She is alive as ever. No, my—my—my favourite sweet pea!” And he let a half wail escape his mouth.

It was such a mix of authentic pain and absolute absurdity that I did not know what to do.

“Your sweet pea?”

He told his sad tale. “I left Great Travail to visit a friend in Hampshire. He also grows the fair ladies we so admire. I passed a very”—he hiccupped—“happy week and came home with a few new specimens. Though none could touch Her. Upon my arrival, I rushed to the greenhouse where she’s been thriving. I had instructed my sister to take care. The servants can’t be trusted with family treasures, you see. She promised. She promised!” It was here he turned to me, hands reaching for mine. “But when I entered, something was wrong. The beauty of her, I couldn’t feel it. I rushed to the bench where she abides and—” He choked on his own words. “The glass was broken. Someone had thrown a rock. And she’d tipped over and not been watered properly. She was as dry and brittle as the death that took her!” He then let out a wail. “And so, you see, I’ve come to London to arrange for a proper casket.”

“A casket,” I repeated.

“Black walnut, stained dark, with a name plate of brass. I intend to keep her in the library, after the service.”

I offered all Appropriate Expressions of Sympathy, and then said in the most empathetic manner I could muster, “You will have a service for her, then?”

It was here that this dear little pill bug of a man turned his face inexplicably hard. “My sister will not have it. She says it is sacrilegious. The life of Elizabeth is to be unsung and forgotten.”

“Elizabeth!” I exclaimed, turning my unavoidable laugh into a halting sob. “What a beautiful name!”

He nodded.

“So very stately for a sweet pea.” And then, in my effort to minister to his grief and appease my own guilt for my growing amusement, I verbalized the madcap plan that was flickering across my mind.

“Perhaps we can honour Elizabeth at Lapis Lazuli House. I’m certain we could say a few words over the…remains…and then she could be at peace for her journey back to Great Travail.”

It was as if I had plucked the moon down from the sky and placed it in Lord West’s hands.

“You would do such a thing for me?”

Apparently so.

“I—I would, knowing that it is what my cousin, Arabella, would do if she were here.” This insertion was a way of honouring my pledge to Aunt Eugenia. Although I wonder if Arabella is aware the man’s country estate is called Great Travail.

“The casket is supposed to be finished tomorrow afternoon,” Lord West said. “The day after should suit very well.”

“Day after tomorrow? I—ah, yes, certainly. Whyever not? I’ll ask my cook to prepare some light refreshment. Will it be you and your sister?”

His face darkened again. “No. Not her. Only a few friends who would wish to support me at this time. I’ll send word today. They should all have time to make it to London by, say, eleven o’clock?”

“Eleven o’clock it is.”

“I have been having a difficult time finding a man of the church to take on a memorial service.”

Here, I admit, I grinned. “Lord West, I have just the man.”

November 27th

I never anticipated that preparing a small service for a pea, no matter how sweet, would take so much effort.

I sent a note via Toff to Madame Tasset’s, enquiring if my mourning dress was finished and could be sent ahead of my remaining wardrobe. Afterward, I reviewed the meaning of the sweet pea in my Meaning of Flowers. There are two. One was of leave takings and goodbyes—fitting, and sad. The second was for delicate pleasures. Not so simple to incorporate, but I’ll think of something.

I then rearranged the drawing room so the round table, usually by the window nearest the door, is now in the centre of the opposite wall. The sofa and pink chair are arranged to open up the room, and chairs from the dining room have been placed along the walls. Parian complained about the Long and Brutal History of indentured servants. I happily suggested we exchange the terms of employment for an indentured position, for then I would not have to pay him.

He closed his mouth.

Around midday, Madame Tasset not only sent my mourning gown, but the entire wardrobe. A contraption arrived on wheels. Not carriage, not wagon, but some elegant child of the two.

Madame Tasset

Fine Dressmaking

“Oh dear.” I frowned at the sheer volume.

Agnes looked delighted.

Parian, whom I instructed to carry all the parcels up to the west garret, did not.

If the man could get excited over a flounce, I might like him better.

There was a note:

I have finished, Mademoiselle. Treat these clothes well.

Promising the spectre of an angry French seamstress that I would, I gave a cursory glance over the additions to my wardrobe. In short, seven dresses: one tea gown, three afternoon dresses, two proper gowns for Society, one all black for mourning, skirts and bodices all separate pieces; two serviceable walking skirts, as per my request; four blouses; petticoats; a new chemise; stockings; various underthings, and even a set of starched handkerchiefs.

If I can avoid mishap, I should be able to wear my newly acquired wardrobe for years!

As for the food, Agnes is preparing a tour de force, both savoury and sweet.

“Agnes, dear, are you certain you haven’t let your enthusiasm run away with you?”

Shaking her head, she wiped her hands on her apron. “Miss Lion, the cardinal sin of hosting a solemn event is running out of food. Ya ken?”

She’s in earnest when she drops her acquired English accent, so I kenned.

“I suppose we can eat what is left over for our meals this week,” I said, “to save on the groceries.”

“I haven’t worried over the grocer’s bill in months,” Agnes answered, checking something almost near a boil on the stove.

Our joint future in a gutter flashed before my mind.

“Oh?” I managed to say.

“Pierce contributes more than enough. Haven’t you noticed I’ve sometimes been serving two meats at dinner?”

I have not.

“What do you mean, Pierce contributes?”

“He dines with you half the nights in a week, if not more, so a few months back he gave me money towards the groceries. Surely you’ve noticed how I prepare one of his favourites at least once a week?”

Again, no.

“Oh, Agnes. We can’t have that.”

“Miss Lion, we feed the man out of our kitchen. He helps pay for the expense. It is very much a Done Thing.”

And I, embarrassment commingled with gratitude, left Agnes to her work.

The only task left me was securing a Man of The Church for the service.

I donned my green afternoon dress, gloves, and a hat, and walked to the church. He was not to be found. I entered The Cleopatra. There arose a great cheer, to which I bowed—someone offered to buy me a pint, which I politely declined—but no one knew where to find Hawkes. I walked up and down St. Crispian’s until finally, on my second glance in The Cleopatra, I was informed by an older gentleman that he’d seen Hawkes not a half hour past entering the domicile of a Mrs. Ribbits.

“A Mrs. Ribbits?”

“On the Diagonal, last house on the right before Sterling. Green door. Roses in the winda.”

And so with such clear, if not drunken, directions, I went in search of Mrs. Ribbits.

I found it.

Green door.

Rose-patterned curtains.

And the brass knocker on the door was…a frog.

Delightful.

I frog knocked. The frog did an estimable job of it, and in only a moment the door swung open. It was Hawkes himself who answered.

He was slightly bent over—the door frame was a touch low—and did not look surprised to see me.

“Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” I replied.

Then Hawkes frowned. Without taking his eyes from mine, he reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and handed it to me.

It was a toffee.

“Thank you?” I replied.

He nodded. “Once you’ve eaten that toffee, knock on the door again.”

And he slammed it in my face! I stood amazed, toffee in hand, before unwrapping it and sticking it in my mouth. There I was on the Diagonal, eating a most sticky, buttery bit of toffee. It felt like forever. Certainly not a horrible way to spend forever, but I did get more than one odd expression.

Once I’d swallowed the thing and enlisted my tongue to clean my teeth, I raised the frog again and let it drop.

The door opened. Hawkes stepped out onto the Diagonal, shut Mrs. Ribbits’s door behind him, and began to walk up towards The Cleopatra. I blinked, licked the sweet taste of toffee from my lips, and followed.

“How is Mrs. Ribbits?” I asked amiably when I caught up with him.

“She’s a little under the weather.”

“Is she? Dreadful.”

“It seems she has what the Americans would call a frog in her throat.”

I gave a half laugh. “Where on earth did you hear such a phrase?”

Hawkes, his clear, troubled blue eyes watching the road ahead, answered, “It was on a medicine package. Apparently, it means a cough. Did you eat the toffee?”

“It was delicious.”

“Good.”

“Hawkes,” I said, almost out of breath; he was walking at a faster pace than usual, “I need your help.” I chose to interpret his lack of answer as an implied Go On. And so Go On I did. “I need you to preside over a funeral tomorrow, at Lapis Lazuli House.”

That brought Hawkes up short. He ran a hand through his hair (his rarely seen hat firmly in the other hand) and stared ahead. “A funeral?”

“It’s not for a parishioner. It’s not even, ah, human. Rather, an exceptional specimen of Lathyrus odoratus.”

This caused Hawkes to swivel his gaze in my direction. “You wish me to preside over a service for a sweet pea?”

Instead of giving him full marks for his knowledge of Latin Flower Identification, I said, “Her propagator, and chief mourner, says she was unlike any other.”

“What time shall I be there?”

“The gathering begins at eleven, so maybe a little before?”

Hawkes nodded. It’s not often that Young Hawkes gives you his full, undivided attention. Even more rare when there isn’t a book tucked under his arm. But in that moment he did. He looked at me and…well, if it had gone any further, it would have been a frown. Fishing inside his pocket—his other pocket—he withdrew a second toffee.

Placing it in my hand, he turned around and left.

November 28th

Far more than I had imagined were desirous to pay Elizabeth her final respects.

Lord West arrived at half past ten, the dark walnut casket beneath his arm, a plaque with the elegant nomenclature in peerless script. Thoughtfully, Parian had supplied black crepe—left over from when he donned his rooms on the event of my death. Cousin Archibald was waiting. There was no way around his attendance once he heard tell of the event.

“A funeral. I’ve always dreamed of a funeral at Lapis Lazuli!”

After a few minor significant negotiations, I allowed him to attend if he sat in the far corner by the fireplace.

Shock of all shocks, as soon as Elizabeth was laid out on the table, Cousin Archibald, in all his state (which is not much), proceeded to comfort our distraught botanist. The two men sat in the corner, and I swear it was Archibald Flat’s finest hour. I could hear snatches of phrases like, unendurable loss, soldier on, insurance monies.

At a quarter to, Hawkes arrived. He looked so very like a Religious Figure I wasn’t immediately certain it was him. Never fear. Once inside he took off his hat—so appeared his lovely, dishevelled coiffure—and approached the two pathetic souls in the corner.

Cousin Archibald was only too happy to offer introductions, and I was only too happy to let him. Finally. I have found some use for the man.

Perhaps Lapis Lazuli House can embark on the stately (lucrative?) career of undertaking?

Note: Speak with Mr. Penury about pay in the funerary arts.

By the time guests began to arrive, Lord West was practically glowing in anticipation of the event.

Dear me, were there ever so many guests! I learned this afternoon there is a Sweet Pea Society of London, and an English Society of Sweet Pea Appreciators. Mostly men, with the exception of two women, one accompanying a brother, one accompanying a husband. They clung to each other as if on life rafts in a storm, and I—peerless hostess that I am—gently tucked them in the far corner, moving a side table in between.

“Ladies, while you may be very interested in the sweet pea and…what seems to be a rather lonely man’s greatest tragedy, if you are more inclined towards other topics of interest, I will tell my maid to keep you supplied with tea and cake and whatever thing seemeth good.”

I’ve never used the word seemeth in my life, but it biblically rushed forth, regardless.

The women were relieved, and I could hear them happily—and ever so quietly—chattering about dress patterns and tatting. Or was it faffing?

Things were going well. Hawkes played the most attentive clergyman in the history of the civilized world.

Suddenly, Islington!

Islington was at my elbow, consternation in his eyes. “Forgive me, but Parian answered the door and said I was to join you in the drawing room where I seem to have stumbled upon—”

“A funeral, yes.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“As am I. Her name was Elizabeth. Lord West loved her very much,” I said lightly.

His eyebrows came together, and he stepped back, drawing me away from the crowd. “Your levity is hardly appropriate.”

I’d not realised I’d been smiling. “Don’t be so fustian, Islington.”

“Fustian?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know what that word means?”

“Something to do with you?”

“It is a coarse cloth.”

Of course it was.

I’d thought it meant something else. Dukes and their lofty educations, waving their knowledge over the rest of us like a banner. Islington added, “It sometimes denotes pretension of writing or speech.”

“Ah!” I exclaimed. “There you have it!”

“Emma, this really isn’t the time—”

“Oh, Islington. Elizabeth was very productive. She has daughters scattered all over the country, as well as Europe.”

Now Islington blinked. “What do children come to bear when honouring this woman’s death?”

I slipped my hand through Islington’s arm and brought him to the table.

“Behold, Elizabeth.”

Islington leaned forward. “She was cremated?”

“I’d say it was inevitable. She was dust before anything could be done.” I snorted and then quickly covered it with a false wail of grief, pretending to be overcome with emotion, I leaned on Islington for support. He stiffened, uncomfortable at my behaviour.

Suddenly, Hawkes.

“I’ve been sent by Lord West,” he said with tremendous solemnity, “who, upon seeing your distress, desires you to be comforted in the promise of the resurrection.”

I snorted again.

“Death is hard on us all,” Hawkes smiled wryly.

“What is the matter with you two?” Islington hissed.

“It’s a flower, Islington,” I whispered. “Elizabeth is nothing but the dried up remains of a beloved sweet pea.”

 “May she rest in peace,” Hawkes appended.

Islington’s confusion shifted to a keen awareness of the humour inherent in the situation.

“Don’t you dare, Islington,” I whispered. “Lord West is considered a possible intended for my cousin. I cannot afford for this funeral to go awry.”

At that very moment, we three standing before Elizabeth’s casket were joined by the possible intended. Lord West exchanged nods with Islington and then stood, head bowed, hands clasped, eager, nay, determined, to hear our eulogies.

Islington cleared his throat. “She was a beauty not soon forgotten. In an age stifled by the rose and the dahlia, we are left to remember the peerless grace that was, ah, Elizabeth.”

Hawkes quoted Scripture. “And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”

Lord West let out an anguished cry—a wail that caused all the room to take a reverential pause and then continue in hushed tones.

“Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air,” quoth I, stealing the line from Thomas Gray. “But not our Elizabeth. No, as Arabella would surely say, Elizabeth shines forth a beacon of hope in a bindweed world. May we strive to be worthy of her memory.”

Hawkes uttered an amen.

Islington mouthed “bindweed world?” at me when no one was looking.

Lord West dropped to his knee, took my hand in his, and bestowed upon it a kiss.

After Hawkes gave as formal a ceremony as the Church of England could allow any flower, and final condolences were given, guests trickled out, Hawkes standing at the door as the mourners travailed once more into the grey world of mortal death.

Unfortunately, Lord West had attached himself to my person.

Islington observed with an untoward gleam in his eyes.

“I feel this is a time best for family,” he offered in all faux sympathy.

“Don’t you dare desert me,” I hissed.

But my attention was claimed by Lord West, who felt the need to examine the ceremony. Islington began to move away, but I grabbed hold of his wrist.

When I could get a word in edgewise, I said, “Now, Lord West, you are tired. You should go and rest.”

I glared at Islington.

“Indeed, Lord West,” he said. “Elizabeth should have peace now, and quiet.”

“I confess to be done in,” Lord West said, looking at me and then at Hawkes, who had just come to his side.

“Good,” I answered. “That is to say, yes, you are.”

Alas.

Alack.

An uncomplicated parting was not to be. For his eyes grew rounder and he took my available hand in his. “May I write to you, Miss Lion?”

“Of course,” I answered, thinking that if I were as affable as possible it would not seem rude when I whisked him out the door.

“With purpose, you understand.”

“Lord West, we must all have someone with which to share…”

But before I could say, “our grief,” Lord West had already inserted, “Elizabeth would not want me to suffer alone. She must be replaced by one worthy.”

“I agree.”

“Heaven help us,” I heard Islington mutter.

Hawkes blinked.

I stood there gaping sympathetically like the fool I am.

“After a proper mourning period, you understand. After the New Year.”

“As is only proper,” I said gently.

“Lord West, I have somewhat more to say to you about the immortal soul of Elizabeth,” said Hawkes, and he led him and his deceased out the drawing room door, through the hall, and towards his waiting carriage.

Islington and I were left alone among the black crepe.

“Emma?” he said.

“Yes?”

“I thought Lord West was intended for your cousin?”

“He is. Well, he is at least in the running for it.”

“You just promised to write.”

“Yes, about his replacement for Elizabeth.”

“Lion, you are to be his replacement for Elizabeth!”

It dawned.

Red in the morning, sailors take warning.

“No!” I pronounced. “Certainly not! All this was done in the name of Arabella!” Just then Hawkes reentered the room, his blue eyes on mine. “Did I…?”

 “The Reprobates Ten will be terribly disappointed,” he replied, “however impressed at your following in the footsteps of a flower.”

Islington muttered something under his breath. Then, “I can take care of this if you wish.”

I levelled my accidentally affianced gaze on the man. “How exactly?”

“Go to the man’s house in the morning before he leaves London and convey you were only offering support as a friend, but…”

“But what?”

“But have no intention of marrying any time soon.”

Islington’s certainty—correct as it may be—earned him a glare. “And you know this how? I could very well be looking for a wealthy botanist husband.”

“Because, Lion,” Islington stated, “if you became affianced, you could not dine with Pierce, Hawkes, and myself on occasion.”

“Is that a standing invitation?”

“Possibly. If you’re willing to oblige us with your continued presence.”

“I suppose it depends on what you’re serving.”

Islington scowled at my manners. “By all means, make the request.”

I grinned. “In that case, I expect a fairly substantial library to be on the menu.”

“Virgil it is, with Goethe for dessert. Do you wish me to, ah, delicately dispatch Lord West?”

The implications to my own life, my cousin’s life, and my gorgon of an aunt were all in my favour. I answered in the affirmative. Charles Goddard was enough of an Unintended Intended to manage.

“If you’re able.”

“Quite able.”

After he left, I slumped into my pink chair.

“Islington is exceptional at avoiding engagements. I’m sure he’ll do a creditable job.”

With a jolt I glanced up to see Hawkes sitting on a chair in the far corner, a book open.

“Hawkes! I had forgotten you were there.”

“The best sort of clergyman.”

“Thank you for the memorable service.”

“Flowers are far less complicated to eulogize than people,” he said.

“That is probably true,” I answered ruefully. “Can I offer you anything?”

He sat back and tapped his finger on the open page of his book.  “Tea?”

Hawkes actually asking for something.

Small miracle.

“I’ll tell Agnes.”

And so it was that Hawkes and I—after shifting the furniture back into place—sat before the fire in the drawing room, he on the green sofa, me on the pink chair, and enjoyed a post-mortem tea.

It felt like a blessing, an invocation upon Lapis Lazuli.

Agnes brought a fresh pot, and after I handed Hawkes a second cup of tea, I brought my Emerson down and we read in silence.

Over an hour later, Hawkes abruptly shut his book and stood.

I looked up, expecting a thank you. Instead, he said, “You need another chair. Here, by the fireplace.”

“Why is that?”

Hawkes waited a moment, as if an obvious thing was before me. When I said nothing, he tilted his head ever so slightly. “Islington, Pierce, Hawkes, and Lion.”

And without another word he was into the hall and out the front door.

November 29th

Pierce came home today.

Seeing the studio door open, I called, “Pierce? Is that you?”

“Emma!” I place the exclamation to indicate apparent enthusiasm, and while it may not be the true grammatical mark to represent his tone, it does symbolically reference that he sounded pleased at the thought of seeing me.

That is until he actually saw me.

We met in the doorway. And his face, which looked relieved to be home, adopted a rather ill-tempered scowl.

“You’ve ruined Christmas.”

Just like that. No greeting. With that single pronouncement I, Emma M. Lion, had somehow ruined Christmas the world over.

“Don’t be absurd,” I replied. “It takes many people to ruin Christmas. I don’t see why all the blame should be placed on my shoulders.”

Pierce walked—limped—back into the studio.

I followed. “What have you done to your leg?”

He stilled.

I realised my mistake.

My enquiry was into his recent injury, not the original event that caused it all. We’ve never spoken of that. I’ve never dared ask.

“Meaning,” I clarified, “did something happen while you were in the North?”

“Muscles a bit cramped. I took a fall.” He turned to face me, arms crossed. “What have you been doing with yourself?”

It sounded more like an accusation. “I’ve been doing a great deal. We held a funeral at Lapis Lazuli. It wasn’t anyone you know. It was for a flower, actually. Lathyrus odoratus. Solemn affair. Hawkes was the spiritual guide, of course. All went as planned, except my accidental acceptance to a proposal of marriage. Luckily, Islington was dispatched to tell Lord West that I could not marry him even if Elizabeth had prepared the way, you see. And then Hawkes and I read by the fire. All that to say, how exactly have I ruined Christmas?”

Pierce was bemused.

“I’ve no idea what anything you’ve just said means.”

“Turnabout is fair play as I’ve no idea what you could possibly mean.”

Pierce moved his hands to his pockets and glared at me, his head bent forward a touch. “I was going to take a portrait of you. A present.”

I blinked.

How thoughtful.

How unexpected.

“Did I break your camera when I kicked that trunk of yours?” I asked.

“No.” Pierce’s expression softened. “Only I can’t take a photograph with you looking as you do.”

“Pierce! Who would say such a thing?”

“A friend.”

“I might beg to differ.”

“You’re tired, worn-through, and you’ve lost half a stone in the last month. You haven’t been eating.”

“Haven’t been— A stone— What on earth are you talking about? I’ve been eating!”

“That’s not what Agnes wrote.”

Agnes.

Wrote.

To Pierce.

It is Beyond The Pale.

I demanded to know what he was talking about. It just so happens that Pierce gave Agnes his friend’s address, in case.

“In case of what?” I demanded.

“In case you weren’t well. Don’t be daft, Emma. Do I have to spell it out?”

And then the words he said may have well been a gunshot, point blank. I can’t even remember them all, but it was something about my living three years of grief all at once. Then a litany of signs. Dark circles under my eyes, no appetite, distracted or staring out the window. I tried to laugh when he finished with, “And you pretend like nothing has happened.”

I crossed my arms.

“Don’t look like that. You do it all the time. Do you know what makes me a sought-after photographer?” he asked. “I give people a portrait, one for show, that conveys their public facade. Beautiful, stately, whatever they want it to be. But there is always a second portrait, private, one I never see hanging on the walls. This is the photograph I take when they don’t realise they’ve let the mask fall and I capture the inside out. Sometimes it’s terribly happy, other times wonderfully sad. I don’t know why or how, but I know how to find the truest thing inside of them. So, when I tell you I cannot take a portrait of you in this state, it is because any photograph would expose all that pain you’ve so carefully tucked away. However polite your grief is, Emma, it will be all the camera sees.”

And so I challenged him to take a photograph. That very instant. To prove his hypothesis.

He did.

He prepared his camera. He had me stand against the dark wall, took one plate—my eyes blinking at the flash.

“Is that all?”

“I only need the one,” he stated.

Pierce and I didn’t have a lot to say to one another after that.

November 30th

He was terribly right.

Pierce showed me the portrait this afternoon. Fitting, for it’s been torrential rain all day and certainly wasn’t letting up. A dreary mood for a dreary business. He called me into his studio, and when I sat on the plum sofa, an expectant expression on my face, he left the mess of correspondence on his worktable, walked over, handed me the small photograph, and returned to his business.

There I was in awful black and white.

Only it wasn’t the face I see in the mirror each morning. It was Emma M. Lion hollowed out.

Sad. And abandoned.

He was watching me from the corner of his eyes, pretending to read his letters.

Not willing to become a melodrama, I said, “It’s a wonder you get commissions if you’re turning out work like this.”

I think he smiled, but I had looked away.

“I know how to photograph a well-constructed mask as well,” Pierce replied. “I can flatter.”

“Why didn’t you flatter me?” I asked.

“I don’t flatter my friends.”

Pierce then asked if I would like him to throw the portrait away. I almost said yes, but then I stood and crossed the room, opening the armoire holding boxes of his work. Tipping the lid of the one entitled AFGHANISTAN 1880, I slipped the photograph inside.

There has been a price paid, and it would be a shame if the full toll were left unaccounted.

It’s not only the faces on the battlefield that tell the story of war.

“Now”—and I brushed my hands on my skirt as if to sweep away the cobwebs—“Agnes is preparing tea in the drawing room. It is rainy and miserably cold. Why don’t you bring your correspondence and unread newspapers and join me?”

It took almost an hour, but we set the mood to rights.

Pierce spoke of his journey up north, and I asked all the right questions. While he was reading mail, I began glancing through his newspapers. He followed suit and we fell into reading, taking extra care to shake the papers so as to create the most noise. Any particularly amusing headlines were read aloud. We’d worked our way through three days’ worth when the unexpected came to call.

Hawkes.

Agnes showed him in with a frown.

He was dripping wet.

I jumped to my feet. “Hawkes! You’ve been out in this storm?”

He pushed his sodden hair back away from his forehead, his eyes a startling blue against the grey day. “I thought I might wait out the worst of it.”

Sending Agnes for a clean towel and a fresh pot of tea, I tried to bring a chair near the fire for Hawkes. He refused the offer, sitting at the round table near the window. He nodded to Pierce, who nodded in return, offering Hawkes a paper, which was refused.

Pierce always looks at Hawkes with a question in his eyes, a dampened disdain for Hawkes’s profession, no doubt.

I sat at the table with Hawkes.

“You look like a wet cat,” I said.

“You look like you need the sea,” he answered.

“What a strange Georgian remedy.”

Pierce glanced our way. “She looks like she needs ten square meals.”

Hawkes lifted an eyebrow. “No,” he disagreed. “I think the sea. The appetite will follow.”

A sound came from our disapproving photographer.

“I’m not sure what brought on this lovely thought,” I said, “but it is almost December and miserably cold. The seaside will do me little good.”

Agnes arrived then, and I went about preparing Hawkes some tea. When I handed it to him, he wrapped his fingers around the cup—red with cold—and said, “I said nothing of the shore, Miss Lion. You need a ship.”

“A ship?”

“Yes.”

How does one answer such a pronouncement?

“A ship,” I repeated.

“Among other things.”

“What things?”

“Pirates.”

“Pirates?”

“Yes. And a few propitious turns of fate. Stars. And a bit of luck.”

I sat contemplating how one would go about ordering such an elusive list while Hawkes took a sip of tea. He closed his eyes with a sigh, as if to let his exhaustion spill out into the room. He looked very cold.

Then, opening his eyes directly into mine, he said, “I should be off.”

“But you’ve only just come.”

“Elsewhere calls.”

“Soaking wet and with half a cup of tea left behind?”

He stood and pulled at his wet-through clothing, reclaiming the jacket he’d laid over the back of his chair. I followed Hawkes out into the hall, Tybalt at my heels, and opened the front door with no small degree of disapproval at the rain. Forcing an umbrella into his hand, I thanked him for coming.

“Miss Lion,” he said, taking a step out the door and opening the umbrella, “It is the last day of the month.”

“Yes?” I said, certain Hawkes was not standing in the rain simply to state the obvious.

“I’ve a little luck left over. Not much, but enough for one or two pleasant things.”

I laughed. “Goodness. Is luck allotted monthly?”

“The first of every month is always propitious,” he answered without a smile.

“My mother thought so as well.”

“They’re worried you see, Pierce and Islington, Agnes. Even Miss March, though she can’t guess the reason.”

For the briefest sliver I panicked that they all might be talking of Maxwell behind my back.

“What have they been saying?” I interrupted. “Did Pierce tell them?”

Hawkes gave his head a shake. “Your secrets are your own. But one can see burden even without knowing the cause.”

My half laugh was to cover my discomfort. “Do I look so desperate?”

And then Hawkes said something I’ve been thinking about ever since.

“Some things must wring out every last ounce before the end. But your mettle is proven, Miss Lion. You will be weighed and not found wanting. Memories are preserved, sacrifices are honoured, and all the moments before half-open windows are known. In the end, all is mended.”

I blinked quickly in succession and felt my fingers tingling at Hawkes’s words. It was like a blessing, or a spell. A holy magic.

I sniffed. “And so you’re giving me luck?”

“Some.”

“And a ship?”

“And a ship.”

“I can’t begin to imagine what you mean, but it sounds nice.”

Then Tybalt did what no cat has ever done. He ran into the rain and right under Hawkes’s umbrella, arching his back as he meowed plaintively. Hawkes bent down and gave Tybalt’s ears an affectionate going over; then he lifted the cat with one hand and whispered something. Tybalt’s eyes went wide as he stilled. I realised that Hawkes was speaking in Irish Gaelic. I shivered. It reminded me of my father.

Tybalt, having received whatever it was that Hawkes had bestowed upon his feline spirit, leapt onto the ground and sprinted back through the door. I looked up to say something, but Hawkes was already gone, walking down Whereabouts with his borrowed umbrella.

I slowly closed the door and returned to the drawing room.

“Is Hawkes gone?” Pierce asked, without looking up from his newspaper.

“Yes.”

“He’s a bit mad, that one.”

I couldn’t help thinking maybe it wasn’t madness at all, merely that he understood something the rest of us didn’t.

December 1st

I’ve always enjoyed the small turn that happens when one month folds into another. The exchange of the many for the one, the end for the beginning, over and over and over. My mother would say to look for bright things at a new month—“First day, Emma. What do you see gleaming?”

   What Hawkes said yesterday has been the bright thing on my mind all morning.

Later

Today began as any other.

Agnes kicked Parian out of the kitchen for Blatant Disregard of the rules; she also went through every bit of post twice—even Pierce’s basket—and seemed disappointed. Parian and Agnes then both left for a half day. Cousin Archibald tore up all his old racing programmes and threw them down into the hall from the staircase—a protest for his (lack of) dignity—and then went out, for he could “not  endure a single moment more of your brazen presence.”

The brazen presence in question was mine.

Pierce also left the premises early afternoon. And so I found myself in the shocking state of being entirely alone at Lapis Lazuli House. Well, alone with Tybalt.

Late afternoon, the moment that day makes his final stand before begrudging evening her place, the bell sounded. It’s scarcely rung, the knocker reliably announcing every visitor. But even in my garret, I could hear the chime carry up the stairs, and it sounded like stars.

Like something to wish on.

I went down. When I pulled the door open, a book secured with a sky blue ribbon fell across the threshold. I picked it up. On an otherwise blank card tucked beneath the ribbon were a few swiftly drawn lines indicating a lion.

It was for me.

Taking it into the drawing room, I lit the lamps and sat down.

The book was deep blue. The title? Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson.

I cried out in victory!

The magazine Young Folks (terrible nomenclature) had serialized a story called The Sea Cook. I was guarding the dreadful Cousin Matilde in Bournemouth and had somehow found an edition, reading two chapters from the middle of the story. That was right before The Great Burning of 1882, and, well, my copy was burned. I never came across any others. I’d read—in one of Pierce’s newspapers—that it was being published under the name of Treasure Island.

Here it is.

In my possession.

In actual book form!

I was up the stairs and into my garret before fate or any other force set me a trap. Settling in the chair by the window, arranging cushions just so, I opened the first page.

Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, I take up my pen in the year of grace 17– and go back to the time when my father kept the Admiral Benbow inn and the brown old seaman with the sabre cut first took up his lodging under our roof.

Thus I began the story of Jim Hawkins.

Onto the pages came the Captain with his rum-fuelled temper. Jim’s poor, beleaguered parents. Dr. Livesey—something about Livesey makes me think of Islington.

His general disapproval? That must be it.

I was engrossed.

This wicked Captain and his wicked songs. Dr. Livesey having no patience for it. The coming of the blind and, dare I say, terrifying Pew. The passing of Jim’s father. The visit from Black Dog. The Captain’s fate bound to the Black Spot. And when, in an apoplectic fit, the Captain dies, he leaves Jim staring at the weather-beaten corpse on the floor.

It is a curious thing to understand, for I had certainly never liked the man, though of late I had begun to pity him, but as soon as I saw that he was dead, I burst into a flood of tears. It was the second death I had known, and the sorrow of the first was still fresh in my heart.

Those words shook me—every grief in me, layer after layer. I cried wholeheartedly. I couldn’t seem to help myself. My body would do nothing else. Grief pulled from my toes and my fingers and burned in my chest. These deaths, these unexpected cliffs in my life, falling one after the other.

I cried until I was utterly dried up.

Empty.

Clean, almost.

So weary of it all.

And now Jim and Squire Trelawney and Dr. Livesey prepare to follow the old Buccaneer’s map. But I’ve come away from the sea for a moment, and Lapis Lazuli has wrapped itself around me. As if having found anchor, I’ve set down my heavy sea chest.

Foolishness perhaps.

Yet comforting.

As stories are sometimes meant to be.

It looks like Hawkes has managed to find me a ship.

December 2nd

I took Treasure Island to church with me as a talisman.

“What a lovely Bible,” Mrs. Tribly said.

“Isn’t it just?” I replied, hoping she would not ask me to read a favourite verse aloud.

I do not believe the psalmist wrote,

Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest,

Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.

Though I dare say he may have recruited a few jaded souls to the cause if he had.

Hawkes gave a sermon on the Talents. I kept trying to make eye contact, a fervent need to give thanks, but Young Hawkes pointedly ignored the parishioner with the volume of Treasure Island held tightly to her chest. After the service, he disappeared.

There was no finding the man.

With an air of resignation, I took myself and my adventure home, and have been in the drawing room all afternoon, reading, while Tybalt naps on my feet and Agnes fills my plate with foodstuffs from the pantry.

For the first time in weeks, I am hungry.

Notes on Treasure Island

Emma M. Lion Makes Certain Observations

-  Would I have been as terrified of Pew if Cousin Archibald hadn’t recently acquired a cane? The tap, tap, tap of the bloodthirsty pirate in the book was chilling. The tap, tap, tap of my imbecilic cousin the same.

-  What hardships must one endure before turning to Rum for complete succour? Am I close to that line? In which case, I’ll be abandoned by all of my friends. Except Pierce, who very well may have a small problem with drinking and won’t object to the rum.

-  This is how I am now greeting all of my favourite acquaintances: “What good wind brings you here?”

-   I’m feeling rather suspicious of everyone just now.

December 3rd

I read long into the night and have spent all day in bed doing the same.

Agnes says not a word, simply brings me food and takes away empty dishes.

Tybalt is very much a Company Cat, lazily taking up whatever position makes comfortable sense in his feline mind.

Meanwhile, I’ve been gripping my book, hiding in the apple barrel with Jim.

Dratted pirates.

They’ll be the death of us all.

Later

It is late and I have finished.

A feat and a triumph, as I read more quickly than I ever do.

Sitting here in the window of my garret, I’m looking out into a pea soup fog while thumbing through the pages. Several comments written messily in the margins.

And the worst dreams that ever I have are when I hear the surf booming about its coasts or start upright in bed with the sharp voice of Captain Flint still ringing in my ears: “Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!”

Well done, Mr. Stevenson.

And look there! Out the window! Pierce’s friend, Chambers, our very own Long John Silver, hobbling up the lane with an expression of murder.

I should buy him a parrot.

I should not.

One could almost swear the fog is carrying shouts, gunshots, and possibly the last gasp of a traitor hanging in the breeze.

December 4th

I went out early this morning. Very early.

Agnes was just warming the kitchen oven, Parian and Cousin Archibald still abed.

Irrational as it seems, I really did think I might see Hawkes returning from some bedside, or club, or wherever else he goes on a sleepless night. I did not see him. The wild idea occurred that I could throw a stone at his window, but one draws the line at ridiculous. If Hawkes wished to be thanked, he would put himself in the position to be thanked.

One wouldn’t think a tale of piracy, treasure, and woe would be a spiritual balm.

Bless Hawkes.

Later

Lo and Behold, the mystery of Agnes fretting over the post has been solved! She has been waiting for a letter from the Society of St. Crispian’s Senior Servants, which is made up of butlers, cooks, valets, lady’s maids, and housekeepers. Agnes, bless her, serves in three of those capacities. She has applied and been admitted to a round of examinations. She is to brush up on her recipes and other tricks of the trade, and is to report to an undisclosed address (disclosed to Agnes, undisclosed to me) on the nineteenth of December. She told me while we were discussing the menu for my tea with Mrs. Penury tomorrow.

“Oh, Miss, I might very well die.”

“Before the examinations or after?”

“In the middle, more like.”

“Well, if you do, I’ll have some tea ready.”

“But I would be dead, Miss.”

“And greatly relieved for a solid English tea before moving on to your Eternal Rest. Don’t fret, Agnes, chances of you dying are not great. I think you’ll do just fine.”

“Don’t jinx me!” And she threw salt over her shoulder, spun around three times, and ran into the back garden.

I believe Agnes is nervous.

Later

I’ve no idea what Hawkes said to Tybalt, but ever since their serious conversation in the rain, the cat has served as my liege knight. He’s not left me alone for more than three quarters of an hour, a high level of affection from a cat.

Also, the St. Crispian’s Gazette is out tomorrow. I have no idea what time it is delivered, but my advertisement will be in print, and the campaign to track The Roman will officially begin.

The only non-Roman business of the day being tea with Mrs. Penury.

Agnes has a new pudding recipe for the occasion.

December 5th

Arguments are always embarrassing.

Arguments before company? All the more.

Though my guest took it in stride. Which was a better accounting than Islington had when he followed me into the kitchen and was struck dumb.

It was not how I anticipated a tea with Mrs. Penury would go.

She arrived at half-past two. A rational time.

I welcomed her into Lapis Lazuli and warned her kindly, while we were still in the hall, that we might be interrupted by a madman, and that she should stay very still and attempt as little eye contact as possible—as one might when encountering a dangerous animal.

I was preparing her for Cousin Archibald.

I did not think the advice would need to be applied to anyone else.

She is a lovely woman, Rebecca Penury. In person and spirit.

I offered her a seat on the green sofa. Which she did not take immediately. Instead, she looked about the room, noting the colours, the fabric of the curtains, the rather pink chair—a smile here—and then gave her attention to the paintings on the walls. The first of which, one of my father’s seascapes, was in the corner behind the door. While she was studying it, the door positively flew open, concealing Mrs. Penury into a triangle of sorts.

A thought which fled my mind as I was soon greeted by a duke, who held a paper tightly gripped between his fingers. “Are you insane?” he stated in greeting.

“Quite possibly,” I replied. “Although I don’t understand how that question comes to bear this afternoon.”

“What is this!” And he waved whatever he was strangling to death with his hand.

“Do tell me that’s the Gazette! Has mine arrived?”

“This is why I gave you a character witness, Emma?”

“Oh dear,” I replied. “You’re using my Christian name.”

He screwed up his ducal face as if to say, “What?”

I explained. “When you’re feeling a camaraderie, you call me Lion. When you’re upset—with or without just cause—you call me Emma.”

He tossed the paper onto the table and removed his hat and gloves, quoting,

“Mapping The Roman: Seeking any information concerning The Roman and his whereabouts in St. Crispian’s, day or night. If you have any particulars regarding the pattern of his movements, please send a note to Lapis Lazuli House.”

I clapped. I couldn’t help it. “You’ve memorized it! How does it look?”

But my enthusiasm was not to be borne.

“What on earth possessed you to stalk The Roman—yes, stalk. Don’t look at me like that!”

“Whyever are you so upset?”

“Privacy! Dignity!” Islington stated (with zeal, I say!). “Can a man not even die without a woman tracking his every move? They already outline his entire life. His mother! His sisters! And, eventually, his wife! Slow suffocation by silk and taffeta is our fate.”

 “Oh, Islington, do be reasonable!” I roused a defence. “There are gentleman’s clubs enough if you must be rid of us. And it’s not as if your schools and universities are bastions of female inclusion. As a woman of science, I am curious where our neighbourhood ghost passes his time. Aren’t you?”

“No. Because as a gentleman I respect his autonomy—”

“Very rich as this very moment you are not respecting mine!”

Let this honest and true record show that our carefully-curated duke looked slightly flustered at the accusation. “Very well.” Two very terse words. “Only the last thing I would want is to have you know everywhere I go.” As if this justified his opposition.

“I have no interest in such a thing! Once you are dead for a thousand years, maybe I will put together a search party. But until then, no thank you!”

“Ha.”

“To say nothing of The Roman having entered my house—yes, my house—and not bothering to stay long enough to have a civil word with anyone but Agnes. If that wasn’t a breach of privacy, nothing is.”

“He came into your house?” Islington looked curious.

“He did,” I answered. But I did not elaborate further as I’d already stepped up on my rather bluestocking soapbox. “And another thing, Islington, if we’re speaking in general terms, mothers, sisters, and wives seldom get the last word. You men run everything. The entire gambit that has become our society is of your making! We can’t even marry without it being a business arrangement, usually in your favour. As for stalking, an Englishman can walk anywhere without accounting to a soul. A woman can scarcely visit a neighbour without scrutiny. Therefore, I reject your claims.”

I straightened my spine and caught my breath. I refrained from mentioning the vote, but did add, with a degree of pepper, “If a man’s wife knew perfectly well what he was up to, I think the man would try to be better for it.”

Now he was looking amused. “Is that so?”

“Yes! It might keep him from spending all his discretionary time at establishments such as The Drunken Duck. To say nothing of—”

“If I recall correctly, you’re the one who has graced that stage. Has your dancing improved?”

“My dancing, I’ll have you know, is like clouds of cream—”

Islington laughed. “Says who?”

“The man who thinks he’s going to marry me!”

Islington paused. “Lord West? I thought I took care of that notion. I conveyed rather strongly you were acting as friend. Is he bothering you?”

“No, no,” I waved Islington off. “Charles Goddard.”

“There is Another? Who would be so daft?”

It was then the sound of hinges caused both Islington and I to glance at the noise. There, coming out of the corner behind the door, was Mrs. Penury, looking as pleased as if it was Christmas Day.

I had forgotten she was there.

“Oh, Mrs. Penury, I’m so very sorry!”

I was about to rush to her side when Islington, having placed a smooth, unruffled mask over his face, said, “Forgive me, Madam! I deeply ask your pardon for this tremendously uncouth scene. Miss Lion and I are old friends. You mustn’t mind our quarrels. But I loathe you being subject to them.” He looked at me expectantly for introduction.

“Mrs. Penury, this is the Duke of Islington. Islington, may I present Mrs. Penury?”

“How do you do,” he said, claiming her hand and bowing with charm.

He elicited a smile from the corner of her mouth.

I made a face.

“Mrs. Penury doesn’t speak,” I explained when she did not reply aloud. “Meaning, she’s decided she has nothing more to say. You will find her a gracious but silent companion if you decide to join us for tea. That is, if you can bear two women knowing with certainty that you are in the drawing room.”

“I would be charmed,” Islington answered, refusing to rise to my bait. “What a novel modus operandi, Mrs. Penury. Is your husband still living?” He asked his bizarre question in such a likable manner it did not strike one as inappropriate.

How very vexing he is.

Tilting her head in a subtle nod, Mrs. Penury confirmed Mr. Penury was still living.

“Pity,” Islington smiled. “I would marry you myself if it would save me half the prattle Miss Lion puts me through.”

“Islington!”

But Mrs. Penury, vastly pleased at the compliment, patted his cheek like he was an adored son. We all took our seats. Islington claimed the sofa with Mrs. Penury—and continued to say witty, clever things—while I was relegated to my pink chair.

I rescued the half-strangled Gazette from the table and, over tea, read my advertisement aloud with glee, explaining to my guest that, yes, we had a Roman ghost. And, yes, I had decided to make a map of his movements.

“All serious scholars were ridiculed for their work. Look at Galileo, or Da Vinci.”

“You’re no Da Vinci,” Islington stated.

“Let’s not fight again, Your Grace,” I smiled, none so sweetly.

Mrs. Penury simply beamed approval on us both.

We managed a lovely twenty minutes (meaning, there were only three small disagreements) before Pierce sauntered into the room, comfortable despite the limp. He was wearing his dark brown suit; however, the jacket was flung over his shoulder, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up the forearms. He was indisputably dishevelled.

Mrs. Penury must imagine A Great Many Things concerning Emma M. Lion.

“Hello, Pierce,” I stated.

“Pierce,” Islington said.

I was about to make introduction when my brooding photographer abruptly straightened his posture. “I apologise, I didn’t realise you had a guest. Beyond Islington.”

“Yes. Mrs. Penury, this is Niall Pierce. He’s a photographer, a very good one, and my tenant next door. Pierce, this is Mrs. Penury. She is a woman of great intellect and mystery.”

Mrs. Penury’s cheeks turned pleasantly pink, and she stood to take his hand.

“Pleasure,” he said.

She nodded, indicating likewise.

“Do stay, Niall,” I said. “Bring a chair to sit on from the table. Hawkes told me I needed another proper chair for the drawing room. He was right.”

As I prepared Pierce a cup of tea, Islington decided it was again time for open war. “Have you seen Miss Lion’s latest attempts at infamy?”

Pierce gave an enquiring smile. Like a storm cloud tumbling aside so a ray of light could break through. It looked almost affectionate. “What is she scheming now?”

“I am actually present,” I inserted, to no avail. “And feeling rather stalked myself.”

Islington pressed on. “She’s placed a notice in the Gazette seeking information regarding The Roman.”

“Oh, we’ve already rowed over this.”

Mrs. Penury’s eyes brightened.

I frowned.

“If a Roman ghost can’t find any privacy—” Islington began.

“I don’t care about the damn ghost,” Pierce interrupted. “Pardon, Mrs. Penury,” he said as an aside before returning to Islington. “If he’s going to spend a thousand years haunting a place, he deserves what he gets. I care about Emma. In my opinion, this quixotic charade is entirely about a different ghost.”

“What do you mean, a different ghost?” Islington questioned.

I felt the blood drain from my face, and an attempt to shift my teacup ended in a conspicuous rattle. He didn’t mean to do it. But I could see the dirt falling on Maxwell’s grave, over and over.

Pierce took no more than a glance in my direction to realise he’d misspoke. He grimaced with a sense of self-castigation and made effort to remedy the moment. “Pay no mind. It’s not my business. Have you been to the track recently?” Pierce asked Islington.

A gentleman, Islington would never have introduced this line of conversation with Mrs. Penury present, but he knew what Pierce was attempting and went along. “I’ve not been recently, no,” he answered smoothly. “Although there is a sire I’ve been keeping an eye on.”

Mrs. Penury also sought to help, for when I glanced in her direction, expecting either embarrassment or entertainment at my expense, I found what can only be described as immense generosity of spirit. She listened a moment to the conversation about the racetrack—I wasn’t aware Pierce followed anything to do with horses—and then quietly stood, gathered up the tea things onto the tray—reaching out a hand and patting my cheek when I began to object—and exited the room with the finesse of an experienced housekeeper.

I should have felt mortified.

Instead, I felt watched over.

Islington gave an inquiring look.

“The two of you!” I cried. “Are you done harassing me from pillar to post? This is my banker’s wife, Islington.”

“Be assured, I was mortified. Although it does seem that Mrs. Penury has a sense of humour that likes a gallop from time to time.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m going into the kitchen to fetch my guest. The one I actually invited for tea. Let us hope we haven’t shocked the good woman too severely.”

Islington followed Pierce’s invitation to see some photographs of the Sphinx, while I took a fortifying breath and went back to the kitchen.

When I walked down the stairs, it was a sight to behold.

Agnes—chattering like a magpie—was rolling out scones, while Mrs. Penury, apron over her tasteful gown, was chopping vegetables!

“Heavens! Agnes, why is Mrs. Penury cooking!”

Mrs. Penury waved me off, and Agnes beamed. “She insisted.”

“Silently?”

With an arched eyebrow, Mrs. Penury stilled her knife and pointed it menacingly in my direction. “All right then,” I laughed. “Let me help.”

And so together we prepared vegetables for the beef stew Agnes was making.

Agnes and I talked back and forth, sometimes addressing Mrs. Penury, sometimes not. Once the work was done, the biscuits baking, and the vegetables simmering in an aromatic stock, Agnes went outside to check the laundry.

I put the kettle on, and Mrs. Penury and I sat at the kitchen table for another cup of well-earned tea.

“You must think me a perfect heathen,” I said as I brushed a stray lock of hair aside.

Mrs. Penury smiled and gave the barest sound of a contented sigh. We sat quietly.

And then there were unexpected footsteps in the corridor.

“Lion? Are you there?” It was Islington. And then he froze upon seeing Mrs. Penury still in my company. “Forgive me, I seem to have interrupted again.”

“You are welcome to stay, Islington. Mrs. Penury approves of you, I believe, however much you nag.”

Her expression confirmed my assumption.

Islington gave an almost shy smile, and goodness, it was terribly attractive.

He could get away with anything.

And then the smile faded. His expression went to blank, then to baffled. Shoulders tensed as he drew his head back. He had been struck dumb. Before I could ask if everything was all right, I followed his gaze.

The wall.

Just above the kitchen table.

Islington was staring at the portrait of himself.

Pressing a hand to my face, I muttered, “Take me now, Lord.”

I had forgotten the daisy chains Agnes had hung devotedly over the frame, dried but still recognisable. It looked rather like a shrine.

Deciding that prayer alone wasn’t going to resolve the situation, I began, “Islington”—he didn’t take his eyes away from the portrait—“that isn’t what it looks like.” I stalled, not knowing how to explain without embarrassing either Agnes, Islington, or myself.

From the expression on Mrs. Penury’s face, she was living the life she’d always hoped for.

“It’s a portrait of me,” Islington stated.

“It is. But it isn’t meant to be. It’s not what I would have put in the kitchen. As wonderful as you are, and frankly, easy to behold, which not every man can claim, this”—I waved my hand towards the portrait—“was an accident. You see, my friend Miss March is a painter, and she let me choose some pieces for Lapis Lazuli House. So generous. Lovely, really. And I chose a landscape, and a fine architectural piece that I think— Well, anyway, Agnes came along. As fate would have it, she thought this—this portrait of you—conveyed…” I was desperately casting about for any explanation that would save Agnes death by mortification. “She thought it was nicely done, the technique, the palette. Too bad, however, that it was of you. But we don’t get to choose everything in life. No one does. Ever. That is to say, you may have become the Patron Saint of our kitchen.”

I grimaced.

“A Miss March, you say?” Islington asked.

“She lives on Whereabouts. Recently back from Italy. A friend of my father’s. Do you know her?”

That seemed to do the trick. A shade of understanding coming into Islington’s eyes. “Your father asked me to sit for a collection of artists, almost eight years ago now.”

“And you haven’t aged a day,” I flattered.

Islington moved to speak, paused, began again, only to have Agnes return to the kitchen with an armful of sheets. She was all smiles, cheeks red from the cold, until she saw Islington. Her gaze flew to the portrait. I’d never seen someone’s eyes roll back, but there it was. Islington took a step to catch her faint, but Agnes rallied, cast the laundry onto a nearby bench, and fled. We could hear her feet up every flight of stairs.

“Poor girl,” I muttered.

Mrs. Penury pinched her lips together and offered a commiserating nod.

Islington looked wholly baffled.

I take it as a great accomplishment that I manage to set him so off his practiced ease.

“Would you like more tea?” I offered. “Something soothing? Chamomile perhaps?”

But Islington shook his head, lifted a hand absently to the side of his perfectly coifed hair, and very graciously excused himself.

With a resigned expression, I turned to face Mrs. Penury and sighed. “I wish I could say this was entirely abnormal.”

To which my dear lady began to laugh.

I only realised just now that I forgot to thank Mrs. Penury for her ten pounds in person.

December 6th

This morning Islington sent two bouquets of flowers.

The first was for me.

Lion,

I do hope things weren’t spoilt with your guest. Mrs. Penury seems an estimable woman. I have also sent her flowers in apology for any impropriety on my part.

Islington.

The second was for Agnes.

Miss Agnes,

I am honoured to have a place in the kitchen of a most excellent cook.

You have my blessing.

Kind regards,

Islington

I don’t know where he could have found them in December, but Agnes’s bouquet included daisies.

Later

This afternoon I committed fully to my scheme of studying The Roman.

Having procured a large piece of paper from the Reed and Rite, and laying it out on the dining room table, I proceeded to draw a map of St. Crispian’s.

I began with Sterling Street straight up the middle, ending in the pleasant rectangle of Baron’s Square. To its left I drew Traitors Road, complete with gallows and the nook. Then, to the right of Sterling, I drew Whereabouts Lane with its funny little quirk that keeps it from being straight, and added Jacob’s Well and The Roman’s wall.

Just as I was slashing the Diagonal from Traitors all the way down to Whereabouts, my peace was broken.

“What! What!” cried Cousin Archibald, coming into the room waving his cane.

“Hello, Cousin,” said I.

“This is no place for your silly illustrations! We are not animals here!” insisted he, and he slammed his cane down on the table. I knocked it aside.

“I’m perfectly within my rights. It is three o’clock in the afternoon and we’ll not be eating for hours,” sighed I.

Then the madman in question saw what I was doing. He ran the back of his hand across his brow.

“Is that St. Crispian’s?” questioned he.

“‘Tis,” affirmed I.

“I heard a rumour this morning,” stated he.

“What was that?”

“That you are mapping the movements of one known as The Roman.”

“This is true,” admitted I.

And then most unexpected of all. He clasped his hands together, his cane falling to the floor. “Please, Please, I beg of you. Let me take part!”

“No,” quashed I.

“Whyever not!”

“Because last week you told the neighbours I robbed you blind.”

He had. I could hear him through the window.

I would fear for my reputation, but Cousin Archibald did such a credible job inadvertently placing the blame squarely on his shoulders, I decided that to interrupt the fool would only make matters worse.

Blinked he. “A man makes mistakes.”

“He most certainly does! Would you mind putting that in writing and sending it to Islington?”

I returned to my work. But Archibald Flat was not deterred.

“You must let me help. I’ve had a great interest in The Roman for years! I will behave. I will, I will…I will let you use the map!”

I looked up from my paper.

“What map?”

Archibald Flat made a decision in that moment. The skinny, greasy weasel of a man picked his cane from off the floor, squared his shoulders, and hobbled away.

Minutes later he returned with a cartographer’s case I had never before seen.

With more solemnity than I believed the man capable of, he took it from his shoulder, removed the cap from the cylinder, and tilted it so a bound paper fell into his hands. He carefully undid the ribbon and let the map ease open over the table.

It was the most beautiful map I had ever seen. Inked to perfection, painted with clear strokes. An extraordinary treatment of our beloved St. Crispian’s.

“Where did you get this?” I breathed out.

Then I saw the signature in the corner, frowned, and looked again. It was signed, A. Flat.

“You?” I looked at the man. “You did this?”

Archibald’s cheeks turned pink. “I was something of an artist in my day. A cartographer, mostly. But your great-aunt preferred your father’s work to mine, so we never hung anything in the house.”

If anyone had told me my heart would break a little over Archibald Flat, I would have laughed in their face.

However, this admission did not leave the heart untouched.

“It’s beautiful.”

“And just the thing we need!”

“Oh, we could never! This is a work of art!”

“I know that,” snapped he. And some of the world’s order was restored. “I have a frame we can put it in, using an adhesive to secure flags to the glass.” And from his pocket he withdrew an envelope filled with small, green, triangle-shaped flags, and a handful of red ones mixed in. “We could hang it in the drawing room. Green is for one to five sightings. Red is for five or more.” He swallowed, ran a hand over his nearly bald head, and folded his arms.

It was a tempting system.

I was Eve standing in the garden, knowing the snake had naught but evil intentions and yet still wondering if the fruit was worth the momentary alliance.

“I won’t have you railing about,” said I, sternly. “If you are to join the endeavour, I won’t have the fun taken out of it. You are not to harass or even speak to any member of this neighbourhood. No. You may help me record the correspondence that arrives. You will be Master of the Map.”

Archibald scrunched his nose as he nodded, and then repeated the words, “Master of the Map.”

“Dear me,” said I.

“I will fetch the frame,” said he.

Later

After Cousin Archibald and I hung the map on the wall behind the pink chair—the map framed in a gaudy, golden monstrosity—we each sat with a copy of the Gazette—Islington having left his here—and reviewed my advertisement.

When the first note was discovered, put through the mail slot in the front door, he nearly cried of happiness. Not the usual temperament of Villainous Rotten Thieves.

I suppose we all have our small pleasures.

On the note was scribbled:

I seen the Roman on the Diagonal, just below Sterling, three nights back at four o’clock in the mornin’.

“Well, there’s our first,” I beamed.

Cousin Archibald took a green flag out of its envelope, rolled his gummed adhesive in a small ball, and carefully pressed it to the glass. We stood staring as if it were an adored child.

“It’s agreed then,” I reiterated. “Only I open the correspondence.”

“And only I place the flags on the map.”

We moved as if to shake hands, and then, both equally disturbed at the notion, pulled our hands back and simply nodded.

He is my cartographer.

He is also my enemy.

I suspect that sort of alliance only gets one so far.

December 7th

Saffronia March came by Lapis Lazuli this morning, bearing tidings of great joy.

A party!

“Of artists and musicians and whatnot,” Saffronia explained. “And I’m taking you with me.”

I lay aside Treasure Island, which I am rereading.

“Did Hawkes order you to give me an invite?”

“Hawkes? I haven’t spoken with him since I returned. Why do you ask?”

“He…he thought I needed some luck and gave me his for the month.”

Saffronia blinked. “Is it any good?”

“His luck?”

“Yes.”

“So far I would say it’s exceptional.”

“You look better than you did when I last saw you.”

“I’ve been reading about pirates.”

“Hmmm,” she nodded. “Stranger things have been known to happen. Bring your luck this evening and we’ll have a grand time of it. I promise not to let you stray.”

“Stray from what, pray?”

“From the path of virtuous ignorance.”

“Can ignorance really be virtuous?” I philosophized.

“Can Emma Lion be uninvited from a party?” Saffronia replied. “The answer is yes. If she’s a bore.”

Later

Tonight was the most singular party I have ever attended.

Rather too interesting. I forgot to eat.

I’m now sitting quietly in the kitchen, so as not to wake Agnes, drinking tea and trying to consume every decent thing from the pantry.

I Start at the Beginning

We arranged that Agnes and I would arrive at Saffronia’s house—Thrush’s Victory—where we would make ready for the evening together. Our discerning eyes had settled on a recent addition to my wardrobe, a silver affair meant for The Nicest of Houses. When I finally put it over what felt like an hour’s worth of undergarments, Saffronia—whose maid was seeing to her hair—said, “Look at those tassels! And the fringe. Delicious. If I weren’t so pleased with my own gown, I would beg a trade.”

“I do almost feel like a set of curtains.”

“Very nice curtains,” Saffronia answered. “Have you no jewellery?”

I did not want to wear my gold pendant. Nor explain why.

“What a lovely trinket!” someone might say.

“Isn’t it just? It was found in the pocket of a dead soldier I was to marry.”

I simply said, “No jewellery.”

“I’m wearing my mother’s rubies,” Saffronia answered, looking all the fashion of the Continent. “Why don’t you try the Lovely Rope?”

“A rope? Do you mean to hang me?”

The Lovely Rope was a long string of pearls tied in a knot. But what saved it from acting the dowager were small diamonds seeded every inch or so between the pearls. They twinkled among the luminescent twists—three strands thick.

“I can’t wear this,” I argued. “This must cost a small fortune.”

“You’ll be with me the entire evening. What could possibly happen?”

“Jewel thieves.”

“Like you know any.”

I shut my mouth.

Her maid then showed Agnes a flattering way to style my hair.

Saffronia’s gown was blue-green, the bustle after the Parisian fashion, with a gorgeously gathered skirt that parted to reveal an underskirt of scarlet.

It was lovely.

Like an exotic bird.

I Arrive at the Party

Considering I was young when my father was at the height of his career, I’m familiar with certain names in the art world, but no more than that. I was never exposed directly to any of his friends. Mother preferred to keep our cottage a quiet, private place, and Father preferred to keep Mother delighted. He would go off to London to meet a magazine editor, or elsewhere for commissions, but as I grew older, he was away less and less.

I asked Saffronia if he would have attended a gathering like tonight’s if he were alive.

“He certainly would have been invited. He was adored.”

The house was in Holland Park, and a beautiful, imposing white, softened by lights spilling out the windows. The complementary sound of conversation and music accompanied our entry, meeting us full in the face, along with the heat of so many gathered.

I expected a level of bonhomie, but seeing as how my social scope is strung between my parents’ cottage, Fortitude School for Girls, and Aunt Eugenia’s high, yes, but very tame circles, I was unprepared for this world of art and literature.

Everyone seemed to know everyone.

Saffronia was greeted warmly, kisses on cheeks, kisses on lips, and full laughter not bound in by societal chins chains. I meant Chains. Societal chains.

Although societal chins bind plenty with their wagging disapproval.

I digress.

The guests filled up the rooms, the stairs, doors were flung open on the various floors. Saffronia whisked through, and I with her. The rooms themselves were shocking. In a wonderful, resplendent way. Each based in a single colour and expanding into a bold palette from there. It was like walking through one impressionist painting after another.

The guests played their part. Clothing that ought to have been garish was, instead, arresting.

 A series of rooms on the first floor—inundated with lamps and smoke—seemed to be the heart of things. We found ourselves in a room with scarlet carpets and coral walls, brass Moroccan lamps hanging in the corners, and fabrics covering sofas and lounges that looked to have been hand-picked from the farthest reaches of the globe. There was a blue lounge, set against the wall amidst all the hot colours, like an oasis. I hid there when I could, but Saffronia was moving me from group to group, introducing me as Emma Lion (no Miss). I smiled, happy when their attention returned to Saffronia, leaving me to observe.

It was a level of social noise Aunt Eugenia would find obscene.

One man, upon hearing my last name, said, “Don’t tell me you’re Declan’s daughter?”

“I am.” And was pleased to speak with someone who knew my father.

Until.

“Curse the man. He buried his genius, and now it’s buried with him. I told him he was made for more, but he wouldn’t listen. Did he ever complete the Shakespeare Collection?”

I had no idea if he was talking about the illustrations in my Complete Works or something else, and so I struck the balance by standing like a complete fool with a half open mouth. “I—”

“He whittled away his talent on illustrations so he wouldn’t have to leave your mother too often for larger commissions. Shame, really. But the country has what? A dozen of his portraits? Better than nothing. Could have sworn he was really going somewhere with Shakespeare. Foolish man. Wives are dead in what, fifty, sixty, seventy years at most? An oeuvre lasts centuries, if not millennia, in the right hands. Arguably, I did like your mother. Beautiful woman. Though I could never remember her name. Love and all that.” He looked disappointed.

And he was off before I could blink.

What passionate criticism.

I couldn’t help but laugh.

I know Father would have.

Saffronia’s circle of friends—discussing the unusual sunsets—had gradually migrated away from me, and I was pleased to return to  the unoccupied blue lounge and watch the spectacle.

Not quarter of an hour later, their laughter preceding them, a knot of attendees entered the room. Among them was a distinct figure with silver eyes, his arm casually tossed over the shoulders of the woman beside him, a glass of something dangling from his hand, another man at his other elbow providing some humorous anecdote.

I could almost smell the impending storm.

Pierce. My brooding photographer. Looking quite the joie de vivre artiste!

He said something to his companions, which made the woman under his arm laugh.

With my shocked expression, I felt a tremendous prig.

Then, as Fate would have it, Pierce glanced in my direction, accepted a cigarette from a friend, and then furrowed his brow and looked sharply back at me.

I gave a small wave.

He looked at the drink in his hand—his arm still draped over the shoulders of the woman at his side—and then back again. It made me wonder just how much he’d already consumed.

Breaking from his friends, Pierce worked his way through the crowd. Someone called his name and he grinned, taking another draw from his cigarette as he closed the last few feet of distance. Frowning, he sat down beside me, making for a cosy situation.

He said, “It’s ridiculous how much you still surprise me.”

“Hello, Pierce.”

“Emma,” he nodded, putting his cigarette out in the dregs of his drink. “Is it worth my asking what you’re doing here?”

Of course, that was the moment Saffronia’s Sense of Chaperone told her to turn and behold Pierce sitting beside me, looking for all the world like a fallen angel, his glass releasing a slow line of smoke.

I stood as Saffronia approached. Pierce followed suit.

“Miss March,” I said, sounding so terribly formal I thought the entire room would bury me in shame. “Do you know Mr. Pierce? He’s my tenant. Pierce, this is Saffronia March.”

Saffronia turned her full gaze on the pair of us.

Surprise and disapproval are not the same emotion.

Only I couldn’t tell which was trespassing her face.

“Did you say he was your tenant?”

“He lives in Lapis Lazuli Minor. Separate from the house.”

“Very separate,” Pierce added under his breath.

“I’ve mentioned him, surely. His studio is in the salon. It’s very respectable.”

Pierce grinned. Then he extended his hand in a way I can only describe as one artist greeting another. “Niall Pierce, photographer.”

“Saffronia March, painter. Do you know Gregory?”

“Of course. Everyone knows Gregory. But it was Marianne who dragged me along.”

“Ah, yes,” Saffronia replied. “She’s lovely. Do you know her from Paris?”

“New York,” Pierce supplied evenly.

“I’ve heard of their house on Fifth, rather like a gothic fairy tale. Sculptures in every room.”

Pierce lifted an eyebrow. “That’s the one.”

And they began to trade names back and forth like children with marbles. I did not put a tremendous amount of effort in following. Then Saffronia said, “Oh, there’s Gregory making the rounds. What an astonishing jacket. I’m determined to sell him one of my Italian paintings.” She was off, leaving Pierce and me to our own company.

We sat back down.

And then, because Emma Lion is as impertinent as a cat watching a goldfish, I added, “Who was that woman?”

“Which?”

Not a promising reply.

“The one whose shoulder you were draping your arm over.”

“Oh. Daphne. We exhibited in Paris at the same time. She’s a sculptor.”

“She looks…”

“Mad as the hatter in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.”

“…lovely,” I finished. Then, “You’ve read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland?”

“The year after the war. A friend thought I’d find it diverting, if not somewhat symbolic.”

I did not ask which war.

Pierce was commandeered by a trio debating if Impressionism was bowing to post-Impressionism, and Saffronia stole me for introductions. The remaining hours of the fête were spent circling but not speaking.

I met the hostess. In a whirlwind of faces came a flash of elegance. Eyes of some otherworldly hue set in a pale face, cheekbones rising with her smile, and dark hair the colour of polished cherry wood. She took my hand as Saffronia made introductions.

“Bold women wear silver gowns.”

And she was off.

“She wasn’t born in our time,” I told Saffronia as we watched her gracefully weave through the room. “She’s too beautiful.”

“Her husband claims she’s more fey than human,” Saffronia remarked. “Come along, there’s a composer here somewhere whom I’ve been waiting to flirt with for years.”

It was a small relief when Saffronia declared fin, and we were off home.

I Record Three Things of Note

One, I was told I would never make a striking portrait.

Two, I was told I would make a very striking portrait.

Three, Pierce. I kept my eye on him. As his landlady, I claim monitoring rights. It was wonderful really, to see him at such ease that he forgot even about his limp. He wasn’t apologising for his existence among these people. Perhaps the wars bring out his darkness, and the arts keep it at bay.

And yes, his ease translates into his having thrown his arm over the shoulders of more than one woman.

Far more.

December 8th

I woke up disoriented, and with a pleasant headache—not the sort that pounds or throbs, but a persistent reminder that it will take a day of moving slow to get sorted.

Perhaps it was all the smoke.

Pierce was home late—much later than I—and noisy enough that I noted the event. It must have taken him a long while to find sleep, for I’ve not heard him yet.

It was a rather wonderful evening.

I can’t decide if it’s my own life’s doing or Hawkes’s luck.

Later

Emma Reports on The Keep’s Annual Sale

Today was The Keep’s Annual Sale. I’ve known of it as long as I can remember, but have never attended. All items that have remained in The Keep for over a year—and whose value is less than twenty pounds—are sold at a discounted price. The man who owns the Reed and Rite presides, and even welcomes outside auditors to look over the records and check prices.

It is very serious.

Pierce’s mention of Christmas has made me realise that if I am to have gifts for anyone, I’d better be smart about it. The budget is thin but not emaciated, due to the generous infusion of grocery money from Pierce and the ten pounds from Mrs. Penury. Reviewing household expenses with Agnes, I skimmed what I could and went to the sale, hopeful I would know just the right thing if I saw it.

I expected there to be a good showing.

It was, however, a solid mass.

There was no fighting through the crowd, and hands reached out and snatched goods from the table so quickly that pilfered might be the more appropriate verb. I saw nothing that would make a good present for anyone, and was feeling discouraged until I happened upon two things. The first was a half-used tin of watercolours. No artist I, but it did make me think I could use the colours to make some very simple cards. The second was a bag stuffed with embroidery floss and goose feathers. The floss was a bit tangled, not too badly, and I realised that if I were willing to put in a little work, utilizing a skill beat into me at Fortitude, I might have the gifts sorted. Bag in one hand, watercolours in the other, I worked my way to the front and paid a very modest amount, wishing the man behind the counter luck with the rest of the sale.

Afterward I went upstairs to look at their new goods and found—for a reasonable price—a charming book meant for recipe keeping and a set of pens.

I think Agnes will like them.

Later

Emma Reports on The Roman

We now have eleven points of reference on our map, with five more notes delivered today. No distinct pattern, but I claim the highest of hopes. There is one unanticipated challenge, that being that some sightings are from last week, while others are from thirty years ago!

Cousin Archibald and I have agreed we must moot regarding the issue and devise a plan.

“We must moot,” said he.

“Moot, Cousin?”

“We live in a vile, modern era,” snapped he, “if one cannot use the word moot.”

“Let us moot,” said I.

Very serious, indeed.

December 9th

Young Hawkes was late to church today. The congregation had gathered, had sung, and still no vicar. By the third hymn, the chorister and organist were giving one another desperate looks.

But Lo and Behold, the doors opened with gusto and in poured The Reprobates Ten.

All ten of them.

Hawkes did not look like he was so very wrung out as the rest of them, but I hazard a guess he had not slept in his own bed. He walked up the nave with an admirable certainty, disappeared into his study in the back—the old vestry—and then returned to the pulpit. Looking over his puzzled congregants, he opened the book in his hand and said with great decorum, “Marley was dead.”

Understanding dawned on the congregation, followed by a wave of approbation, and we all settled back to listen while our Blessed vicar read the first three staves of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. Mrs. Owlsfield (a name I’ve always liked) had smuggled a full tin of biscuits into the service, which she shared with our entire row.

Islington was not present, most likely in an attempt to avoid my knowing his schedule.

After the service—everyone pleasantly happy—I found myself surrounded! People from all over St. Crispian’s had stories to tell me concerning The Roman. I was not prepared.

“Can you write that down?” I asked. “Oh, do send round a note.”

Just as I was losing hope that I’d ever remember all occurrences mentioned, a pad of paper was slipped into my hands, along with a pencil.

I walked home with a heart full of Dickens and a pocket full of sightings.

When I looked at the notebook for clues as to its owner, I found only the initials F. N. H.

Who is F. N. H.?

H could stand for Hawkes, of course, whose name is Nigel, from all information yelled from the back row. But that would mean he’s another name, a different name than any of us know.

I tried to find him, Hawkes, not only to enquire after the notebook, but also to thank him for Treasure Island. But, like the tide going out, he was nowhere to be found.

December 10th

Word spreads. I’ve now been called The Girl After The Roman twice by strangers on the street. As if I were a country maid with my heart set on the Squire’s son.

Later

Emma,

We’ve guests for Christmas. You are expected on the first train the morning of the twenty-first. You will bring your chaperone. She will assist you, as well as give whatever additional help my housekeeper requires for a large company over the holidays. She will keep her mole out of view of my guests. You will keep your smile in check. Pack the entire Winter Wardrobe. I want to inspect the quality. And Emma, seeing as how I provide your clothing despite your having an allowance, please bring a gift for each of the guests. I enclose a full list.

Aunt Eugenia

No.

I will not.

I simply will not do it.

For Aunt Eugenia you will always have with you.

I do not believe God will mind the retranslation.

No. He would say, “Emma, chin up. You’ve lied your way in, you can lie your way out.”

Perhaps not.

One recalls certain biblical opinions regarding the bearing of false witness.

I am decent as far as Christians go, but certainly not exemplary.

I shall have to enquire of Hawkes if my generously housing a degenerate villain balances certain small falsehoods, i.e., a non-existent chaperone.

As for Christmas, even if I wished to go to Spencer Court—which I do not—I am not yet ready to fess up to my lack of proper chaperonage and lose whatever freedom I’ve carved out for myself.

Is it too much to ask that a young woman be allowed to Christmas at home with a cat that is not really hers, a Scottish cook who is slowly drowning in worry over her upcoming examination, and a mad relation?

I hope Pierce is not going to be away.

Later

While lying in bed just now, I heard bells. Not the bold bells of the church tower ringing through the neighbourhood, but small and clear, like sleigh bells or magic.

December 11th

Agnes is seriously endeavouring to improve her recipes. I am seriously endeavouring to assure her I’m not lying when I say she’s improved a good deal since I arrived in March. It’s growing tiresome.

I’ve begun working on my Christmas gifts, and my fingers are raw from being poked through. I’d forgotten how ill-suited I am with a needle.

Later

Dear Aunt Eugenia,

Your holiday invitation was generous, but I am sorry to say I cannot join you for Christmas. I will be needed at Lapis Lazuli. I can report that I have seen Lord West and, knowing he is still on Arabella’s list of potential husbands, came to his aid in her name.

I look forward to you and Arabella returning to London after the New Year.

Respectfully,

Your Niece

The likelihood of Aunt Eugenia accepting such a refusal is small. However, I’m not going to Berkshire without a fight. I’ve sealed the envelope and read a Shakespearean soliloquy over the letter for luck.

December 12th

My mother always felt that Christmas—a proper Christmas—was meant to delight every sense.

She would have Father paint scenes on the windows and hang a string of bells from the door for fairy music. A pot on the stove would simmer cinnamon and lemons, and there was a Christmas blanket cut from velvet and silk dresses she had worn as a young woman—before the act of marrying my father caused her to be cut off from a wealthy life. And every twelfth of December she would make gingerbread.

Without exception.

I would wake up to the smell of ginger and molasses encompassing the warm cottage.

She would bake a gingerbread family and all the pieces to construct small houses. And once they had cooled, we would pack a ginger house to send to Arabella and Damian at Spencer Court, and another for Maxwell and Evelyn at Barrows Edge.

Father would illustrate a Christmas card, and I would write letters.

Once the parcels were sent off, the three of us would construct our own, royal icing holding it all together. Sometimes Mother had candied violets saved from the spring.

I dreamt all last night that Mother was at Lapis Lazuli baking gingerbread. I was helping. No one else. We made a house for Arabella, and Mary, and Saffronia, Roland, Pierce, and Islington, and Hawkes.

“What about Maxwell?” I asked, when we’d spread them out on the table.

And Mother—she was so tangible I could scarcely breathe—linked her arm through mine. I noticed we were of a height. “I’ve already given one to Maxwell.” And she kissed my cheek.

I woke up from the dream.

Tybalt was purring like a small storm beside me, his wet nose against my face, and the house, the entire house even up to the garret, smelled of ginger and molasses. Throwing my mother’s shawl over my nightdress, I raced downstairs.

The kitchen was warm, and there was Agnes pulling a sheet of gingerbread from the old, stubborn oven.

“I thought that, as it’s Christmas, I might be tested on my gingerbread,” was all she said.

And Agnes handed me a gingerbread man, soft and perfect.

“Do we have enough to make a house?” I asked.

“I think we have enough for three of them,” she replied, rolling out more dough.

Forcing myself back upstairs to change, I soon came down and helped Agnes.

And in two boxes I placed enough gingerbread for a house. One with a letter to Arabella. One with a letter (short) to Evelyn. Painting a card with the watercolours I’d bought at The Keep’s sale, I tied the box shut with kitchen twine and asked Parian to send them straightway.

The last house I decorated myself.

Later

Pierce had clients all afternoon, in and out, in and out. I tried to keep Cousin Archibald out of the hall—where he is prone to shout the injustices against his person at random intervals on any given day. After Pierce’s last client left and he had propped his studio door open, I carried in a tray with tea and a mound of gingerbread men.

Pierce was rolling up a few backgrounds and replacing them, camera equipment strung about the room. “Godsend,” he muttered. He ran a hand across his face and limped towards me. In my Things I’ve Noticed About Pierce But Would Never Dare Ask (a title not rooted in veritas, for I never know what I might dare ask from one moment to the next), I’ve decided that Pierce does all he can to control his limp when interacting with clients, only to pay for it later as the muscles in his leg must argue against such tactics.

“Sit down,” I said. “I’ll pour.”

He claimed his brown leather chair and I the sofa, preparing his tea how he likes it (which is not very much without whisky) and forcing him to take some gingerbread.

“It smells like Christmas,” I smiled. “Cheery and solid.”

He grunted and took a sip of his tea. Then, taking a flask out of the pocket of his coat that he’d abandoned over the arm of the chair, he made it more to his liking, and his second sip produced a sound of relief.

“You’ve been working too hard, I imagine,” I said.

“I have to pay for my luxurious lifestyle.”

I snorted and Pierce smiled, then his eyebrows drew together as the pleasant undertone disappeared. “I hate this time of year.”

“It’s Yuletide!”

“I’m aware of that. Don’t care for it.”

“Whyever not?”

“Too much drinking,” he answered carelessly. “And cheer. I’m not one for cheer.”

“Be serious. Doesn’t it make you think of any happy Christmas, Pierce?” I wanted a real answer, not a clever one. And he could tell, for he took a cigarette and small matchbox from his pocket, lit it, allowed himself one long drag, and then, letting the smoke rise slowly, finished his tea in a swift motion.

Aunt Eugenia, had she seen it, would have thrown such a fit she would have to be institutionalised.

A fairly sturdy argument in favour of arranging such an encounter…

I digress.

Pierce sighed before he answered. “When I was a very small boy.”

“Was it magical?”

“No. Yes. I can’t rightly say. It was warm and there was meat pie and pudding, a present on the table Christmas Eve for my sister and me. My father had a strong singing voice and…”

And that was it. He stopped speaking, eyed the empty teacup, and then ran his hand over his face and swore.

I apologised for asking him to recount anything painful, to which Pierce remarked that it was all painful.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” he finished. “Are you going away for the holiday? With your aunt, perhaps?”

“Here,” I replied, helping myself to another gingerbread man. “I plan to have a festive Christmas Eve and a calm, indulgent Christmas Day. I was hoping you would join me, for Christmas Eve at least. Unless you’ve already been invited somewhere else?”

“I have been, yes.”

“Pity for me, but happy for you.” I smiled. “One of your artist friends?”

“I’ve been invited to half a dozen places, but I’ve turned them all down. So, yes, I’ll accept your invitation as long as I’m not expected to play any silly games. Or sing. Or be overly festive.”

“Will you be pleasant?”

“Very.”

“Wonderful.”

And so it’s arranged; I won’t be left to Christmas alone with Cousin Archibald.

Even I do not deserve that.

December 13th

I’m on a train.

Unexpectedly.

A stone-faced confidence man is sitting across from me, staring out the window as if discerning a stubborn crystal ball.

Jack has called in his second favour, and he does not seem pleased.

I was working on my Christmas gifts in the garret this afternoon—embroidery, Emma. How mad could you possibly be?—when Agnes ascended the mount and informed me someone had called.

“He looks upset.”

“Does he? Is it Islington? Has he come to tear down my map? We’ve almost fifty reported sightings, you know. Not all of St. Crispian’s disapproves.”

“It isn’t Islington, Miss. I think he was here once before, when all those women who think they’re Jane Eyre were at the house.”

“Yes, Islington.”

“The other.”

“Jack?”

“And Mr. Flat is talking to him about morning robes, and the man seems angry.”

I rushed down to the drawing room.

Jack was standing by the window.

Walking in a half circle around him was a pontificating Cousin Archibald, wearing a robe, of course. Jack’s mouth was turned dangerously downward, and I suspect Cousin Archibald will never understand how close he came to his demise.

My attempts to avoid a murder investigation by Scotland Yard went something to the tune of, “Jack! So sorry for the delay. Cousin Archibald, Agnes needs you in the kitchen. There is still gingerbread to be eaten, and she thought you deserved it the most. Yes, that’s fine. No, no need to finish your discourse. Mr. Hollingstell has already been given a lot to think about.”

At which point I had managed to corral Cousin Archibald, push him and his cane out the door, and close it before he could turn around.

“I’m terribly sorry, Jack,” I said as I held the door closed, despite Cousin Archibald’s attempts at jiggling the handle. “It’s harder than one would think, exorcising Mr. Flat.”

I should have spared my words.

Jack was in no mood for humour.

He gave me a dark look. “Be at the train station in two hours. Pack an overnight bag.”

Clearly, I was mistaken to think The Drunken Duck was as far as Jack would go.

“But—”

“You owe me a favour, don’t you?” His interruption was sharp, and he displayed a callousness I’d suspected but not seen. “Don’t break your word to me. I’ll send a hansom to take you to Victoria station half past five.” He walked across the room towards me. “Don’t be late.” And he gave me no choice but to get out of his way so he could leave.

I thought about not going.

May a woman travel on a train? Certainly.

Packing an overnight bag, however, boarding a train, and disappearing with a…whatever Jack is?

I feel that’s a different question.

But he was right.

A bargain was made.

One more favour to be given.

It wasn’t solely my given word, but also something I’d seen in his face. He was angry; worse, upset. Whatever he needs from me is something he would rather do himself. And can’t.

So I prepared to leave.

With a few necessities in a small handbag, I notified Agnes that I was being called away. “To help a friend for the night, so you’ll only need to see to Mr. Flat for dinner.”

“And Mr. Pierce.”

“I thought he was going out. Do you mind?”

“No, Miss. I’ll see he has a good meal,” said Agnes, who sees virtue in his monetary contributions to the butchers and greengrocers.

I wore the green dress beneath my worn grey coat—I wasn’t going to risk my new one—and was ready with my gloves and hat, bag in hand, when the hansom arrived. I slipped out before anyone could ask questions.

The driver was the same who took me to The Drunken Duck.

“Good evening,” I said.

He made a sound in return and hardly waited for me to close the door before ordering his horses on.

The station was filled with tired travellers. Not given our destination—and carrying the grim reality of having no idea what the end purpose of this jaunt could be—I was worried I wouldn’t know how to find Jack. I needn’t have.

He was at my side, slipping his arm through mine in a proprietary manner, tickets already in the pocket of his coat. We settled in on the train to Essex.

I looked at Jack expectantly for explanation.

“You’re my wife,” he said, then leaned back and cut the air with his jaw as he turned towards the window, glaring.

That was all.

A marriage then, but not a happy one.

Resigning myself to the mystery, I’ve taken out my journal to record the event. In case my body washes onto the banks of the Thames.

Later

Jack is a scoundrel! A desperate scoundrel perhaps, but it’s no excuse.

Of all the schemes I could imagine, I never expected this.

How can he live with himself? And how dare he embroil me in it?

No, it’s not murder. But it’s deceit of the worst kind.

It’s nearly three in the morning, but I cannot sleep. Neither can Jack. He’s standing at the window staring at the dark.

I’d fallen asleep on the train, so it took a moment after disembarking to find my bearings. Jack took no notice. He carried my handbag and his own and walked into the dark beyond the small station with an assurance one only gains by familiarity.

His mood was blacker than the night.

“Where in the world are we going?” I hissed at one point.

I got no answer.

After what felt like two miles of miserable road, we turned down a small, tree-knotted lane. With no light to guide and the ground being uncertain underfoot, I reluctantly slid my arm through his.

And then, a cottage window illuminating the trees. It was not what I was expecting. Granted, I’ve no idea what I’d had in mind. A smugglers’ hold? A backroom card game for high stakes? Burying a body?

Visiting an old cottager after dark had not been on my list. I thought that perhaps in December Jack chooses to do one good deed. The thought almost made me laugh.

Jack rapped on the door with the back of his gloved hand, and we waited.

He rapped again.

Finally, a middle-aged woman answered.

The door cast Jack’s face in half light, half shadow, and the woman flinched.

Jack said nothing, nor did I. Opening the door wider, Jack nudged me in ahead (nudged is a generous interpretation) and closed the door behind us. He took off his hat but kept it in his hand.

“How is she?” he demanded.

“Poorly.”

“Not surprising after your ministrations,” Jack said. “Stay in the kitchen. Or go home. I don’t want to be bothered with you.”

The woman began to protest, but the way Jack gave a single menacing look kept her quiet. I, on the other hand, was finished.

“Really, dear,” I said, not knowing what name Jack was using in this sad, bent out of shape place. “No need to send anyone scurrying. I’m Emma,” I introduced. “How do you do?”

“Mrs. Shaw,” she answered. “I’m the neighbour’s been helping out with meals and such.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Shaw. Please forgive my husband’s behaviour. He’s cross, hasn’t had anything to eat in hours. Tea, perhaps?”

The woman looked at me in shock, like I was Midas and had turned the room to gold. Jack wasn’t so impressed. He set our bags down, gripped my arm with his fingers, and marched me down the hall. I didn’t immediately register that his hand was trembling.

He opened the door, his hand sliding into my own, and stepped into the room.

“Hello?” said a figure weakly from the bed. There was only a single candle, a rather gothic scene.

Almost gently, Jack replied, “You should be asleep.”

“Jack! Jacky. Is it you?”

“Of course it is, Mother,” Jack answered. “And what’s more, I’ve brought you a Christmas present.”

The woman was openly weeping at this point. “You came!”

Something in Jack’s face shifted. A line of guilt soon curtained.

“I did,” he answered in a dismissive tone. And then, “I would like to introduce my wife, Emma.”

And Jack swept me further into the room and pushed me forward.

My mouth fell open and I tried to turn, but his hands were on my shoulders keeping me in place.

“Emma, my mother, Abigail.”

“A daughter! Oh, Jack. She’s beautiful. I’m so pleased to meet you, Emma. I’ve never seen a”—she took a long breath—“lovelier girl.”

I gulped and managed, “Hello.”

“Emma is an only child,” he began. “Her father, he, well, he’s a good man. He owns, a, he owns—”

The great Jack Hollingstell was flustered. Had this been any other situation, any other scheme, I would have watched him dig his own pit, and happily too. But he placed his hand on the small of my back as if he were steadying himself.

And I knew for a certainty his mother was dying.

“He owns an import business, Ma’am,” I answered for Jack. “The most lovely tea things, ceramic lambs, and all of that. And carpets, of course. And a mill!”

Jack pinched my arm. My fictional Pater, titan of industry, had enough to his credit.

“He’s a good man, Mother. He gave me a chance, and I’ve worked hard. I know you haven’t always been proud—”

She started to make protest, but it was only a token attempt. Jack had clearly broken the woman’s heart.

“—but I’ve been keeping steady work, and then there was Emma.”

“Oh, Jack.”

Oh, Jack, indeed.

Confirmed then that Jack is really Jack’s name. And that I was brought here to make a dying mother think her son had returned to the narrow way and married a respectable man’s daughter.

It was a horrible lie.

I felt like the cruellest person on earth.

Deceiving a dying mother.

She lifted a bone-thin hand. “You must be hungry.”

“Not particularly,” Jack began.

“How kind,” I said sweetly. “Jack, we both could do with some refreshment.”

“I’m actually—”

“Jack,” I threatened through smiling teeth.

“Go, Jacky boy. It won’t take long.”

And so Jack and I retreated from the sickroom, closing the door behind us. After we’d left, his mother began coughing desperately. I closed my eyes at the familiar sound.

Jack made to move towards the kitchen, but I gripped his arm like a vise.

“Jack!” I hissed. “You brought me to lie to your dying mother!”

He lifted a finger to demand quiet. “Just play along. The old lady has hours at most.”

I brought to bear all the strength in my arm and slapped Jack soundly.

My hand smarted and a pain shot through my shoulder. I was ready for him to give as good as I gave. But he lifted a hand to his face instead and moved his jaw.

“Are you finished?” he asked.

“I’m not telling this lie!”

“You already have.”

“Jack—”

“Emma!” And he pulled me not into the kitchen but into a cramped sitting room, left dark and cold, as if a fire hadn’t burned under the lopsided roof for years. He backed me into the corner and grabbed my shoulders, shaking me like I was a child. “Emma, I have been the worst son imaginable. Disappointment after disappointment. All she’s wanted from me was a little decency, an honest life. An honest month, even. I’ve left her cold and tired and ill. She won’t complain. She still thinks I have a better nature. She won’t—she won’t speak an ill word against me. She’s a saint, Emma, a damned saint. She’s dying, and I can’t bear to disappoint her one more time with who I really am. Do you understand? Would you leave her believing she failed?”

The dim moonlight coming through the curtain showed his eyes flickering between mine, determined I understand, but unable to keep a steady gaze.

I think it was unusual for Jack, he who lies as smooth as cream. But the moonlight showed the truth. Jack was ashamed. He was ashamed to stand before the deathbed of his mother being such a man.

“Please, please,” he whispered. “Do this for her.”

“It’s for you, Jack.”

“No.”

“Jack—”

“I’ll owe you.”

My fury bubbled up in me. “This isn’t a transaction! Someone is dying.”

“Then let her die in peace!” And he pushed himself away from me. “It’s not in my power to change anything now, except give her something, anything.”

“A lie,” I pleaded for him to see.

“A hope! Emma, let her believe. Let me believe it could be true.”

He was a false trick. A viper. And I almost told him so. But Jack’s mother began to cough. Rough and miserable.

“Go,” I said.

“Emma.”

“Go! I’ll bring some tea.”

It was such a cold tension, as I stood on one side of the bare room, he on the other.

“Go, Jack.” My voice was shaking. “If she is dying tonight, you are not to leave her side, you hear me? You go in and hold her hand if it kills you.”

Jack lifted his chin in defiance, ran his fingers through his hair.

And went.

I hadn’t realised there were tears on my cheeks until I went to find the kitchen. But it was too late to hide them from Mrs. Shaw. She was a hard-faced woman with a single line for a mouth, but she softened when she saw my face.

“Forgive me,” I managed. “Is there any tea I could take in?”

She stood without nodding, looked me up and down, and went to the kettle on the stove in the corner. “I’m surprised she wants tea.”

“She may not, but I’ll take some to Jack.”

The woman snorted.

“Do you have any bread to go with it?” I was famished.

She put together a small tray. Three cups of tea, two pieces of rough bread spread with butter.

“She won’t eat much,” said the woman by way of explanation. “Hasn’t for months. Consumption.”

I put my face in my hands. “Yes.”

“You’ve seen it, then?”

“My mother.”

She tsked.

I let my chest rise and fall, then said, “I’m going to take Jack out to the woodshed and whip him.”

Mrs. Shaw did not try to fight her small smile.

I took the tray into the bedroom, aware of how stale the air smelled now that I knew what was waiting. Abigail was leaning against two tattered pillows, her hand wrapped around Jack’s. She was smiling.

“How kind,” she managed to say.

“Would you care for any tea? Water, perhaps?”

“No. You have some, dear. And Jack. A foreman must”—she coughed—“keep up his strength.”

A foreman.

Impressive promotion.

I handed Jack a cup of tea and his rough bread, which he looked at with thinly veiled contempt, and took my own, sitting on an old chair in the corner.

“How are you, dear?” Abigail asked.

“Wonderful now, with a bit of tea.” I tried to smile brightly. The tea leaves were old, and I wasn’t convinced it was the freshest well.

“I’m”—she took a breath—“amazed you have the stomach for anything. When I was carrying Jack, I couldn’t eat for five months altogether.”

I rather unfortunately sprayed tea from my mouth, accompanied by a disbelieving sound.

“Poor dear. You are feeling peaked. It will get better. As the baby grows, you’ll feel better. Hungry even, I dare say.”

In a flurry of motion, I was trying to nod while using a handkerchief to dab both my face and my person, setting the teacup on a small stool nearby.

“Uh, yes,” I began. “I see you’ve told her about the baby, Jack. How wonderful.”

Jack was leaning back in his chair, looking at me with a smile that did nothing to dull the sharp challenge in his eyes. “Of course, dear. I wanted Mother to know our happy news.”

So Emma M. Lion rallied and gave as good as she got. “You know, Jack is hoping for twins, as they run in my family. Boys. All of them boys. My father is a twin. His cousin. His grandfather.” And on and on I went about the fictional line of my family tree, and all the things that Jack would do with little Jacky and little George.

Abigail listened with her eyes closed until she twitched, and shifted, and fell further away into sleep. I kept talking about this idyllic life with a comfortable house near the park, and the school I wished the boys to attend, and summers in Scotland until I knew she was no longer hearing a thing.

“I’m so glad you shared our happy news, dearest,” I said, folding my arms and leaning back in my chair.

For the first time all evening, I saw Jack give the flicker of a true smile. He met my eyes. “I know how to sweeten a deal.”

“You could have fooled me.”

And now we’ve been here for hours, Jack standing at the window, I keeping vigil from the corner, watching his mother sleep. Sometimes her breath quiets to such a degree that Jack looks back over his shoulder. Then the slightest movement or sound, and we know she’s still with us.

I’ve been trying to picture Jack growing up here, and I can’t. A conniver like him should have been raised in the city, learning his trade from a young age.

“Jack, do you have siblings?” I just asked.

He shrugged. “No.”

“And your father?”

He shrugged again, but with no other answer.

Mrs. Shaw has long gone home, content to leave the deathwatch to someone else. I was shivering an hour ago—there is very little wood in the house—but Jack, noticing, put his wool overcoat across my shoulders.

We, neither of us, have had any sleep.

It is proving to be a long night.

December 14th

Back home in London. Earlier than I expected, my overnight bag still packed as I never even changed clothes. Jack’s mother has died, and he’s angry.

It was just before dawn she stirred, her hand tightening around nothing. I could see lines of pain on her face, but Jack, who had stood at the window for hours, came back to her side and slid his hand into her wasted one.

“I’m here, Mother.”

“Jack,” she breathed out. “Do you remember that day on the strand?”

“I do.”

“It was the only time, the only time I ever took you to the sea.”

“I remember. I was so shocked at the sheer amount of water I began to cry.”

His mother took a long breath then and said the most peculiar thing. “You never cried as a child, Jack. As a baby, yes. All babies do. But as a child you were such a stoic. Even when you broke your arm. But there you were, seven years old and sobbing at the sea.”

Jack’s smile was uncomfortable. His mother continued, but it was almost a whisper. “Why? I’ve always wondered. Why not over a father you never knew? Why not when you were ill, or when we had to move house? Or when those boys had hurt you time and time again? Why the sea?”

I tried not to move in my dark corner, but my eyes were open.

“Why did you cry, Jack?” she said roughly. “Tell me.”

“I cried because I couldn’t imagine our troubles could ever feel small.”

My sniff was unintentional. But it came as I was pressing my fingers to my cheeks. Jack looked at me, eyes like two unblinking coins. He’d forgotten I was there.

“Will you fetch me some water, Jack?” Abigail asked.

And when Jack left the room, Abigail said my name quietly, so I joined her beside her bed, in the chair Jack had vacated. She reached for my hand, and even though there was some blood on hers from a violent cough, I gave it.

“Emma, I don’t know who you are, but forgive a dying woman for knowing when her son is lying.”

I nearly cried with relief. “I’m so very sorry,” I answered. “He didn’t tell me what he’d intended. I only knew he needed my help.”

“Relieved”—she took a deep breath—“to know he counts you among his friends.” Abigail squeezed my hand. “He wanted me to think better of him, you see.”

“Yes,” I whispered in return. “He wanted you to have a reason to be proud.”

She coughed, only once. “He’s never been able to understand that I’ve always loved him.”

Jack’s footsteps were heard in the hall.

When he entered, he handed me the cup of water, of which I helped Abigail take a small sip, and then Jack brought the chair I’d occupied all night over, placing it beside mine.

He looked relieved to have someone else between him and his mother.

“Promise me, Emma.”

Had I not known she saw through the charade, it would have stopped my heart.

“Don’t ask anything of Emma, Mother,” Jack tried. “I ask too much of her as it is.” It was a noble attempt, but Abigail would not be deterred; her frail hand gripped mine as tightly as it could.

“Promise to watch out for Jack? He can do well…will do well. But he needs good counsel, someone who won’t”—she took a breath—“leave him behind.”

 “As much as he’ll listen.”

The smile she gave me was one of commiseration. Then she shook and rattled in one quavering breath. It was so unexpected Jack and I had to lean forward to understand what the following silence meant.

Jack’s own breath stopped, halting while his mother emptied her diseased lungs into the room and then was simply…gone.

Jack fell back onto his chair. I kept my eyes on Abigail’s face and could not turn around to look at him, could not think of anything to say. As long as Jack was still, so was I.

When Jack finally stood, clearing his throat, coming round the bed to pull the worn blanket over his mother’s form, I slipped from the room, giving Jack his private goodbye.

It was earliest morning, December blue and frost, and I was at the door, looking out on the frozen world, thinking. The relief of Jack’s mother knowing the truth, and having her blessing, in a way, was more than I was ready for. And I think that was the moment I began to suspect that the luck Hawkes spoke of might really only be an awareness, an awareness of grace.

It wasn’t too long before Mrs. Shaw came up the path, walking stiffly, breakfast in hand.

“She’s gone then?” she said when she saw me. And it was said with relief.

“Yes. He’s with her now.”

With a nod, she replied, “He should have been with her a long time ago.”

Yes, he should have. But it felt unfaithful to say it aloud.

I wasn’t expecting Jack so soon, but he came out, coat and hat already on, my own coat over his arm, bags in hand.

“We’re going.”

“But Jack—”

He ran right over my words, turning to Mrs. Shaw and putting something into her hand. “Here’s enough money to pay for her burial. Something decent for her to wear. For any inconvenience caused. Have the vicar say a few words. And flowers, she should have flowers.”

“Jack, you can’t be serious. You’re not going to stay and—”

Mrs. Shaw had already closed her hand around the money, her disapproval undermined by a thin swallow of greed.

“Have you had time, proper time, to say goodbye?” I attempted.

“We have a train to catch.” The command came with a cold edge.

Mrs. Shaw wordlessly retreated into the kitchen, taking the money with her.

Jack was halfway down the path to the gate before I’d even managed my coat. He walked with such force I thought the morning would shatter around us. It wasn’t until we were out on the road that I managed to catch my stride alongside his. When I glanced at his face I could see the hard line of his mouth, eyes frost cold, and the single wet stripe down his cheek.

We took the train back to Victoria station. Upon our arrival, and before I could say anything, Jack disappeared into the crowd. And I was left alone.

However, when I reached into my pocket, I found the exact fare needed to hire a hansom cab.

Later

I’ve been sleeping on and off throughout the day, dreams full of Jack and a little cottage, but it was my mother in the bed, and she’d laughed when Jack had told her I was expecting. I woke and washed my face and scrubbed my hands again and again, even though I’d long washed the blood from them. Rallying, I readied myself for the day only to find the post had arrived, and with it a reminder from Lady Sheridan that I’m being called into battle.

I’m looking forward to your balancing my table at dinner on the 17th. Expect my third best carriage just before eight o’clock.

Warmly,

Lady Sheridan

Warmly.

What distinction.

The thought of an elegant meal, however, does deliver an unexpected uplift, as I’m tired, and feeling sad for Jack, and utterly relieved his mother was gracious enough to spare me a lifetime of guilt.

I would have been ridden.

December 15th

I was given four sightings today and one rather strong affront.

Followed by a miracle for tuppence.

A nice return to my usual life.

The sightings have been recorded on the map, and Cousin Archibald pores over it continually. Like a child with a stack of blocks. If I’d have known it would keep him fixated so, I would have instigated the scheme much sooner.

The affront was not quite so pleasant.

It was a woman I do not know, but who I’ve seen at church. She disapproves of poetry, flowers in church, and young men, which makes her life of worship in St. Crispian’s very difficult. I know this mostly from observation. I have a keen eye. My imagination accounts for the rest.

Her name is Mrs. Halverstock, though I believe I’ve heard it rumoured that she’s actually a Miss who wanted more status. This I cannot speak to. Although my imagination cannot conjure up a man willing to marry such a sour expression, and so I’m likely to believe the rumour.

This afternoon, having purchased kitchen twine and ink from the Reed and Rite, I very nearly had my nose pressed to the window of The Dalliance, wishing I could have a clandestine meeting with a few of the books I saw there, when Mrs. Halverstock harrumphed at my back.

I turned, looked up—she is tall—and decided a young death may not be so very bad if it means I will never have whiskers on my chin.

“You are asking for sightings of The Roman,” she stated at me.

“I am.”

“You have some nerve.”

It is, alas, a true statement. “I can’t argue with that, although I would be served by more. Are you a friend of his? Is that your quarrel?”

“Of The Roman? I’ll have nothing to do with such heathen ways. I’m incommoded by yourself.”

“How terrible for you,” I commiserated. And I meant it. I know I have incommoded more than one person in my lifetime, and I’m convinced it’s not pleasant for them.

She had my full sympathies.

“You have set the neighbourhood tongues wagging.”

At this, a thousand thoughts presented themselves, like birds perching on a wire. Were tongues wagging because of my Tenant? Had The Reprobates Ten been seen leaving my house in the late hours of the night? Had someone other than Islington seen me at The Drunken Duck? Did rumours about…well, most anything somehow make it from Lapis Lazuli into the street? It was a moment of condemnatory introspection, and I’ve decided that my life has fallen into an appallingly degenerate state.

If only I weren’t enjoying it so very much.

“Is there any particular, ah, event that has caused offense?”

“You redirected the conversation of the entire neighbourhood. Everyone is talking of sightings they’ve had of The Roman. There is a particularly perverse delight being shared by all, and I am tired of it.” She sneered at this juncture—sneered I say—and said, “You are far too confident with the space you take up in this world.”

I almost retorted that she was far too confident with the space she was occupying in my world. However, cooler heads prevailed. My strategy of physically biting my tongue may have aided until I reduced my answer to, “We all have to be somewhere.”

With a harrumph, she turned heel and plodded off.

“Goodness me,” I said, watching her leave. It’s one thing to cause offense through a particular action or comment, another entirely by simply existing. As for her comment that the neighbourhood is having a particular (not perverse, certainly) delight discussing The Roman, why, I’ve a small feeling of warmth from it.

As I stood there, considering the encounter, the door to The Dalliance opened. It was Mr. Graves, my enemy across the page.

“Well, then. You best come in.”

I turned towards him. “Pardon?”

“Are you coming in or not?”

And so I went, knowing I was bound for disappointment as I’d not money to buy a book.

He marched behind his counter and then turned to face me, his two hands set before him on the counter edge. “I’ve lost a cover.”

“Pardon?”

“A cover. Lost it.”

“Have you?”

“One of my books was found in The Keep, but the cover is missing. I can’t be bothered with it. It’s yours for tuppence if you want it, however undeserving.”

It sounded too good, and I worried that the book would be something like Conversations with One’s Mother-in-Law or The Proper Way of Ironing a Petticoat. I’m not sure either subject would be worth tuppence.

“Might I enquire after the title?”

He grumbled while fishing in a box and then slapped a book, sans cover, on the counter. I turned it towards my person and read the title page.

Vermilion and the Flaming Sword

“It’s a story!”

I must have sounded too delighted, for Mr. Graves responded, “What did you think it was? A manual on pulley systems?”

“One never knows.”

I extricated tuppence from my purse and set it on the counter. “Thank you, Mr. Graves.”

He pressed his finger to the tuppence and slid it across the counter until it fell off the edge into his other hand.

I picked up my coverless sheath of pages and marched happily home.

I’ve not only been accused of perversely delighting the neighbourhood, but I’ve acquired a new story. A banner day for Emma M. Lion.

December 16th

At church, Hawkes read the last two staves of A Christmas Carol.

“Delightful,” sighed Mrs. Owlsfield, handing me a biscuit.

“It is.”

Later

This afternoon I received an unexpected visit with an expected mandate.

Arabella!

Come to town for a fitting. Accompanied by an elderly cousin of her father’s—no relation to me—who did not deign to come to Lapis Lazuli this afternoon.

I was quietly reading Vermilion in the drawing room when she was announced.

Arabella, radiant by default, as always.

“I’m surprised to see you. And on a Sunday, no less,” I said once we’d sat down.

“My appointment is first thing tomorrow morning, and Mother insisted I attend church by driving past St. Paul’s Cathedral, so here we are.”

“Does driving past in a carriage constitute a worship service?” Knowing full well our vicar had finished reading a Dickens novel.

“One would think it counts for something,” Arabella drawled. She then made no attempt to dissemble. “Mother demands you come for Christmas, Emma. She strongly insists.”

All I could think was, steel yourself, Emma.

Do not buckle.

Do not bend.

“Loveliest cousin, I am sorry, but I cannot.”

“Of course you can.”

“I’m celebrating the season here.”

Arabella sat back in her chair and appraised me with a calm, calculating manner.

“Does this have anything to do with not wanting to be reminded of Maxwell?”

I may have rolled my eyes, but it was a thin attempt. “Certainly not. He’s buried, Arabella. There’s nothing more to it.”

“As long as you don’t bury yourself with him,” she replied smoothly.

I’m very fond of my cousin.

Sometimes I’m tempted to wring her neck.

But I was struck with the realisation that I’ve never given Arabella her due.

In all of my own grief, I’ve taken no time to recognise hers.

“It’s been more than terrible,” I admitted. “And I’m sorry I’ve been such a beast. I’ve not asked after you at all.”

Arabella’s expression of wealthy passivity was in place, but she blinked one too many times to look untouched. “Yes, well, if I have to admit I have a heart, I might as well tell you it’s been feeling more than a little bruised with the entire affair.”

It was an understatement, but as much as Arabella was going to offer.

I smiled. So did she, and then briskly returned to her mission at hand: my seasonal incarceration.

“Mother has planned an entire gathering. From the twenty-third  of December until after Twelfth Night. She is counting on you.”

“And I’ve been in for the count, all year long. Allow me this small celebration outside your mother’s manipulating gaze.”

Arabella tilted her head. A concession. “What am I to tell her?”

“Tell her I am hosting a guest of Cousin Archibald’s and cannot in good conscience leave London.”

“Do you mean Pierce?”

“I do mean Pierce. Cousin Archibald found him, so if we were to strictly adhere to Technicality—a thing your mother believes in—Pierce is a guest. A paying guest.”

“Rather convoluted,” Arabella said with her slow smile.

“As are the evil designs of your mother. I simply must be home. Arabella. I’ve not had a Christmas in my own home since my parents died, and I am determined to do it.”

“Very well.”

“Very well?”

“Very well,” Arabella repeated. “I will smooth it over with Mama. She’s already ordered Damian home, so a small amount of redirection should do the trick.”

“And he’s actually coming?” I asked in surprise.

“She informed him that she would never release his inheritance to him if he did not. Damian needs his inheritance. He has little else to recommend him.”

“Well, that impish smile of his.”

“He does have that.”

“And the actress? Did he ever find one?”

“Oh yes. He followed her around like a puppy dog for three weeks, then let her break his heart. It was done very well, and I believe he’s looking forward to the prospect of another after the New Year.”

We enjoyed a small tea, and then when Arabella was getting ready to leave, I asked, “When do you and your mother return to London?”

“March, from what I hear. We’ve a few Eligibles yet to charm in the country, and then return early enough to be settled well before The Season, where I make my engagement official.”

“The groom still to be decided?”

“Details, Emma, details. I brought a Christmas present,” she said, standing and putting on her gloves. “It’s wrapped in red silk fabric with a ghastly green bow. I’ve left it in the hall.”

“What is it?”

“You’ll have to wait. If I hear you’ve opened it early, a pox on your house.”

“There already is one.”

Arabella replaced her hat and said, “Is your photographer home?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Do me a favour, Emma, and kiss that man on the cheek. Promise me.”

It was not the most unappealing request. “Why in heaven’s name would I do that?”

“Because I saw Evelyn at dinner last week, and his nose is crooked. It gave pleasure.”

After Arabella left, I looked pleasantly towards my present, and then knocked on the door of Pierce’s studio. I didn’t expect him, being a Sunday, although he doesn’t often make the day distinct from any other.

“Come in.”

When I did, Pierce had the doors of one of his armoires open, upon which was nailed a dart board. He stood, darts in hand, playing a solitary game.

“This looks like jolly fun,” I said.

He grunted and handed me three darts. “Have a go?”

“On a Sunday?”

“We’re not putting a wager on the game. It couldn’t be so very damning.”

I threw. Nearer centre than edge.

Then the second, and finally the third, dead centre.

Pierce approved. “Have you played much?”

“All the time with Arabella and Maxwell. We set the game in the stables. Don’t ever tell my aunt that we once stuck one of her matched bays.”

Wincing, Pierce retrieved the darts and divided them equally between the two of us.

“Arabella was just here, trying to lure me into Berkshire for Christmas. I refused, of course.”

“Good for you.”

We played in silence for several minutes, until I said, “Arabella said what I believe you’ve been trying to say all along.”

Pierce looked at me and waited.

“She said not to bury myself with Maxwell.”

Pierce threw another dart, and it hit the centre with a thud. “Sounds like she has some sense.”

“Arabella has too much sense, Pierce.” I threw my dart. It thunked (Is thunked a word? It ought to be.) beside his own.

“Nice throw.”

“Thank you.”

Pierce went to fetch our darts—including the one he’d flung too far afield, impaling the box entitled ASHANTI—then said, “You’ve been looking more like yourself. I think you’re coming around.”

I opened my mouth but faltered. Pierce waited.

“I don’t see him anymore,” I finally whispered.

“What do you mean?”

But he knew what I meant.

He was only helping me say it.

“For these three years I’ve seen him in other faces. In a stranger’s gait. At parks, on the street. I’ve looked for him without even realising I was. Then came the burial. And now he’s gone. He isn’t here. I know it.”

Pierce’s half-smile was sad, and familiar. He understood.

Then something I did not expect.

“Thy sun shall no more go down; neither shall thy moon withdraw itself: for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.”

“Isaiah?”

“Isaiah.”

“I didn’t think you’d read the Bible,” I managed.

He laughed. “There is a great chasm between knowledge and belief.”

“It’s a beautiful verse.”

“I think of it from time to time. I don’t believe it, but part of me would rather be wrong than have it proved false. Don’t you dare tell Hawkes I was quoting the Old Testament.”

I smiled. “On a Sunday, no less.”

He wordlessly offered me half the darts, “Are we going to play properly or not?”

And we did.

I won two games.

He won five.

I forgot to give Pierce Arabella’s kiss.

December 17th

Lady Sheridan—dare I say it?—has the best cook in London. Or may well have. I don’t know firsthand from every table. However, I’ve never had a mint sauce over quail to equal what she served.

My dinner company was another thing entirely.

I was wearing the midnight blue gown, and Agnes had done my hair how Saffronia’s maid had arranged her own. Fashionable, but loose.

“Alluring,” Agnes said.

I’d grinned. If one is going to be the lowest social force in attendance, one might as well be alluring.

When I arrived at Lady Sheridan’s this evening—having been fetched by her third best coach—I found myself in Elevated Company.

The party was made up of forty guests. And whom should I find also in attendance?

Lo and Behold, Islington!

We weren’t given a chance to say hello (he’d arrived fashionably late) before being paraded into the dining room, Islington near the front, Emma M. Lion stringing along in the untitled portion of the parade. We were seated on opposite sides of the table, at a long diagonal. I between two old military men, widowers.

Question: Why was a young woman in a well-cut blue evening dress sat between two old men?

Answer: Lady Sheridan was not going to throw the unimportant niece in the way of eligible gentlemen when there were young women of privilege and their matrons in attendance.

The Old General and Old Colonel were Old Friends, and I felt very old by the end of it.

They were content to talk around me a good deal. The entire meal I was regaled with stories of The Hunt. With one brief pivot to how long it took a grown man to bleed out with no medical intervention.

During the course of such conversation, I used my militant cover to watch Islington in the wild.

It must be admitted.

He has the most beautiful manners.

Excepting when with myself.

No one could accuse him of a misstep. Nothing out of order. The man did not preen or make a fuss over things. He was not loud, but when he spoke, the other guests (he was flanked by two lovely and single women, of course) paid attention.

There was one brief moment when his eyes passed to my end of the table, and our lines of vision tangled. He did not make direct eye contact long, but he raised his glass slightly in my direction. I smiled and endured another glorified hunting story.

After dinner, when the men stayed for whisky and cigars and the women had gone through, a portion of the polite gossip settled on none other than Islington.

The matrons spoke of his wealth: substantial.

“He won’t be caught,” said a married woman who looked to be Islington’s age. “The man pays polite court to all the eligible in equal measure. No favourites. No interest in his matrimonial duty.”

“He’ll be caught,” one of the matrons said knowingly. “He’s only what? Thirty years of age?”

Someone else said something that caused a titter, which I missed as I was standing in the corner, not having much acquaintance to claim of anyone. Soon accosted by Lady Sheridan, who asked after Arabella, I was pulled away from the Islington conversation.

And one must be polite.

Polite I was. At a steep price. The woman spoke excessively of her new drapes.

I am happy for her. Not all of us find true love.

When the moment came for the men to join us, their low rumble of continued conversation preceded them into the room.

“Ah, the men. That should make the gaggle happy,” remarked Lady Sheridan. “Now we’ll see on whom Islington showers his attention. They’ll all spend a week talking of it. You see, Miss Lion, the blessing of the Season is robust gossip. There are a great many To Dos to report on, if you know what I mean. But come winter, we chew on the bones far longer than we might otherwise. My dinner is the only remarkable assembly this week. Come now, make a wager with me. I say he will offer his attentions to Miss Stokes, with Miss Fouquet as runner up. What say you?”

“Oh,” I replied. “I can’t say I know any of the young ladies sufficiently to make…”

“Look at him, smooth as silk.”

Taking the opportunity to not put forth a candidate, I did just that. I looked at Islington. There were plenty of other men in the party, a handful that were unattached and pleasant enough, a degree of wealth. Candidates with more charisma, certainly. But there was something about Islington. He made his way through the shimmering clusters, the beckons of this lady or that, his distant smile, the occasional tilt of his head.

“He is very obliging,” I said to Lady Sheridan.

“He enjoys one of the best reputations in England. Another reason the matrons are desperate to crack his code.”

I snorted. Lady Sheridan looked askance for a moment, but then a smile swept her face. “Indeed, Miss Lion.”

By this time, several conversations had begun around the room.

“He’s coming this way,” Lady Sheridan whispered. “To speak with Miss Fouquet, if I don’t mistake myself.” She patted my arm and said, of all things, “The great men marry the wealthy and beautiful. The rest are left to watch. But don’t you worry, Miss Lion. There is just the right man for you, though I can’t imagine he would be here tonight.”

No matter how often it occurs, I’ve never become accustomed to the pleasant insult. Resulting in my odd expression by the time it was clear that Islington was, indeed, coming in our direction.

“Lady Sheridan,” Islington said. He bowed, taking her offered hand. “I had an interesting conversation with your husband just now about his work in the House of Lords. He also praises you as the perfect hostess, with which I must agree.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” She hesitated to make introductions—conflicted at the momentary elevation of my station by doing so—when Islington turned to me.

“Miss Lion, we meet again.”

“Honoured, as ever, Your Grace.”

His right eye twitched, but good manners prevailed.

“The honour is mine, Miss Lion. I’ve been hoping to speak with you. Lady Sheridan, might I steal Miss Lion away?”

“Certainly.”

To give Lady Sheridan credit, she did remember to smile.

Islington offered me his arm.

“Tell me you have a good hunting story for me,” he said as he directed us towards a settee partially hidden behind the most monstrous fern I’d ever seen in my life.

“I’m rife with hunting stories,” I replied. “Some young hunters shot into the small coveys on Colonel Johnson’s estate. They’ve been banned.”

“Is that all?”

“Would you prefer to hear how long it takes for a man to bleed out without intervention?”

Islington’s scowl was polite. And I decided then and there that I should interact with him more often under the lens of proper society. His manners towards one Emma M. Lion are greatly improved when he’s on a ducal leash.

“What was she thinking, placing you between two old men?” Islington demanded. “There were more than enough gentlemen closer to your age. You might have had a better time.”

I have a great sense of humour regarding my in-between place in this world, but it does not follow that I delight in reminding Islington that I was the charity case of the evening.

We arrived at the settee.

I, unfortunately, sat nearest the fern.

“Are you hoping this fern will eat me?” I asked, instead of answering his question.

“I’m not so fortunate as that,” he replied.

“Best-laid plans.” I brushed the fern off my shoulder and Islington half smiled.

“I was surprised to see you here,” he said, crossing his legs, his arm resting on the back of the settee, hand absently rubbing his bottom lip. “How were you, of all people, pulled into these shenanigans?”

“Of all people? Is that a slight at my low social status?” I asked.

His eyebrows drew together, his hand pausing. “I meant it as a compliment.”

“Did you? I’m not entirely sure your set understands compliment from insult. It’s my third one of the night.”

“Has someone said something to you this evening?”

His tone was gentle. It was also sharp.

“Any slights against my person at gatherings such as these come from the natural order of things rather than decided maliciousness. Usually.”

Islington’s eyes passed over the room, and then came back to mine.

“It’s a fool’s game, you know this.”

And upon this fertile ground for retort, my native quip and humour abandoned me. “It’s a fool’s game that dictates the fate of many lives, Islington.”

His pause held only a moment before he said, “I thought you didn’t care for such things? Society, I mean. I’ve always considered you…above it, in your own ridiculous way.”

“Be careful you don’t say anything too approving! As for Society, I’d rather be in their libraries than their drawing rooms. However, sometimes dissolute viscounts are the solution. Do you know any?”

“A few.”

“There’s hope for us all.”

He opened his mouth to respond just as Lady Sheridan moved with determination in our direction.

“Now you’ve done it,” I murmured. “You’ve elevated the poor. She won’t stand it for long.”

“Islington,” she smiled. “There you are. I have a friend to whom I wish to introduce you. I’m stealing him away, Miss Lion. Forgive me.”

She did not look like she really wished for forgiveness.

She looked like she expected me to beg it from her.

There was the smallest moment where Islington’s expression balanced between pleasing his hostess and, well, me.

“Certainly.” He stood, and then turned back towards me. “What refreshment can I bring you, Emma, on my return?”

I lifted an eyebrow.

It was a clear and very public line drawn.

The Duke of Islington knew Miss Lion. And he’d not only committed to seeking her out again, but he’d used her Christian name before one of the first women of Society.

Said First Woman blinked.

Aunt Eugenia will hear of it within two days’ time, I’m certain.

“Tea,” I answered, glancing around at what the others were taking. “Thank you, Islington.”

But I was asked to join a card game before Islington could return, and we were both pleasantly sociable with other guests until the evening ended. He did not abandon me, however, as Islington volunteered to squire me home.

I’ve never been Squired anywhere.

How novel.

Needless to say, I am certain Islington has created a stir.

On the drive back to Lapis Lazuli, after five minutes of silent staring out of our respective windows, Islington looked at me.

“What’s this about dissolute viscounts?”

 “What?” was my gracious response.

“Dissolute viscounts.” Islington persisted from the shadows of his carriage. “What need have you of them?”

I pulled the rug Islington had offered when we’d first entered the carriage more securely around my waist.

“Oh, I only require one, really.” I shrugged, looking out the window. “You know how it can be.”

“Not really, no.”

Islington, worse than his hounds.

“It was nothing but a jest. I’ve a personal tangle I’m sorting out, is all. I’d half thought Pierce may have mentioned it.”

“Pierce is a gentleman. He wouldn’t have said anything.”

I very nearly grinned. “Pierce? You know I hold him in high esteem, but a gentleman? Are we speaking of the same photographer?”

Islington held the line of his mouth a moment and then it broke. “What I mean to say is that Pierce has a strong code of honour. He would not intentionally disclose your personal affairs to me without your express permission. He felt bad at almost having done so when your Mrs. Penury was over for tea. Did you like your flowers, by the way?”

“I did. Agnes was over the moon.”

He looked out the window, waiting for me to answer his first question.

It was then I noticed snowflakes falling sideways, creating moving shadows in the gaslight. I watched them while I measured what I wanted to tell Islington. I could have lied. But a lie involving dissolute viscounts probably counts for two before Saint Peter at the gate.

I already have enough to account for as it is.

“My banker has asked me to seek out a means of employment,” I answered. “I am, rather unexpectedly, in financial straits.”

“I see.”

“Obviously one would hope a dissolute viscount would come with plenty in the funds, and be excellent at whist,” I answered, a sharp smile on my face. But I was tired from the evening, and the worrisome weight of it all was evident in my voice.

A decent piece of London passed by our windows before Islington said, “Your father spoke to me once about what he wanted for you.”

It was the last thing I was expecting him to say. And with it came oddly-shaped memories, of being a child visiting Lapis Lazuli, and of seeing the young Islington—he wasn’t a duke then, but I cannot recall what he was called before—on occasion in the hall, having just arrived or preparing to leave. For some reason he makes me think of the colour green. As if the entire hall was awash in it. I’ve no idea why.

“I remember you coming and going from the house,” I replied, uncertain if he expected me to enquire after what my father had told him. Then, with no prompting, Islington launched into an entire paragraph of internal thought that had nothing to do with my behaviour.

It felt like a Christmas miracle come early.

“You had just come into the drawing room,” Islington began. “You were ten or eleven, and announced that you would have been a Jacobite. Your father agreed it was likely, as if it were a normal exchange, and you were off again to play in the back garden. I was young, and my father and I did not… it was not the easiest of relationships. Respecting your father as I did, and perhaps craving words of affection in place of censure, I asked what he wanted for you, his child.”

I was surprised, shocked really, and sat waiting, my eyes on Islington’s face. He looked past me.

“I wrote his answer down in my journal and stumbled across it the other day.”

“What did he say?”

Islington proffered me the full weight of his gaze. “He said he wished you to be wise, and good, and true to the beatings of your own heart, and hoped that you could be spared the extremes of society, both the very poor and the very rich, so that neither need nor indulgence would spoil the soul he loved more than anything else in the world.”

Now it was my turn to glance away. And Islington said nothing about the clearing of my throat.

“I stole it,” Islington said. “That wish, that counsel. Pretending the words were spoken for me. And they have kept me on a steady path when I could have fallen into every temptation you can imagine, and some I dare say you can’t.”

Looking back at him, I said, “Thank you for telling me that.”

“Thank you for letting me borrow a wish meant for you. I hope it wasn’t neglectful of me to wait until now to return it to its rightful owner.”

It wasn’t.

And as I sit here now at my window, watching the night in its cold, I’m convinced it is not only the right time for those words, but the graceful time as well. I’d told Islington something of the same when his carriage stopped in front of Lapis Lazuli. Islington smiled quietly but let it leave his face. “I don’t doubt you’ll sort whatever trouble is at your heels, but I won’t let you fall, Lion. I hope you’ll rely on a friend before throwing in your lot with a viscount, however dissolute.”

It was as unexpected as all the rest.

His words fit the night between us, as if they’d always been in existence, unspoken but waiting.

“I dare say you’ll lecture me in the process,” I answered lightly, although my mind was spinning with weighty memories.

“If I thought you wouldn’t quarrel in return, I might even feel bad about it.”

“There’s only one thing for it, then,” I said.

“Which is?”

“Invite you for Christmas Eve. Are you in St. Crispian’s for the holiday?”

“Christmas Eve, yes. Christmas Day I travel to my older sister’s estate to be surrounded by nieces. She demands it.”

“Join us then, Pierce and I? I’m not certain if Hawkes wishes to or not. I’ve not had a chance to speak to him. He did something tremendously generous on my behalf and has hardly looked at me since.”

The snow was increasing, odd shadows in the gaslight. One of the horses made an impatient sound. But Islington sat thinking, giving no indication to his driver we’d finish speaking soon. “He tends to do that,” Islington began slowly. “All the time we’ve been friends, any step Hawkes takes closer to friendship, he counters. He’s wary, for some reason.”

“But you’re intimate friends,” I answered.

“Yes, the whole of the time he’s been in St. Crispian’s. But you know, there is so very little I know about him. Some. Time can’t help that, but it’s almost as if he’s worried he will ruin something, or cause pain. And so he keeps his friends at a distance.”

“Very strange,” I answered.

“True souls sometimes are.”

“Yes.” I smiled. “Christmas Eve, it is. Goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight.”

I remember one summer, when my parents had let me stay at Spencer Court, there was a garden party. The preparations were robust. Aunt Eugenia marching about, giving orders and making the younger members of her staff cry. Damian had run for the brook with Evelyn and Maxwell, and Arabella was beneath an umbrella with a tutor, practicing French.

I, however, was watching the men who had come to set up the canopy.

It was beautiful and white, lying on the ground with no strength. How did it all come together? I’d wondered. But the men were quick about their work, and they had ropes and poles, and through a series of what to my young mind were magician’s tricks, they lifted the tent. And then, anchor rope by anchor rope, it was pulled taut, secured with stakes hammered into the ground. I thought it was the finest thing I’d ever seen.

The garden party was a success, a lovely breeze wafting. And even when a wind rose up and there was rain, everyone beneath remained dry and good humoured. “It’s the stakes,” I’d explained to Maxwell, as I walked him through the miraculous physics of what I had witnessed. “All the stakes keep it taut, in place.”

The memory came to mind just now. And something I’ve not felt for longer than I care to admit began to take shape. That, come sunshine or cloud, I was going to be fine. More than fine. In place, and strong, and anchored in. Tonight, Islington became a stake. And Pierce. And Mary. And Saffronia. And Hawkes.

All I can think of is the sound of the rain on the canopy, and everyone still smiling.

December 18th

Parian put a mouse in the icebox. Agnes, whose examination is tomorrow, ran after him with a frying pan and spanked him so hard it broke his tailbone. Cousin Archibald stormed up and down the stairs three times, declaring how he could not live with such confusion.

As for myself? After scouring the kitchen with Agnes, I sat her down with a cup of tea and Jane Eyre—medicinal, I defend. Parian was treated to an afternoon off with a hot water bottle on his backside as he lay moaning in bed. Cousin Archibald was distracted by the map, which has only just begun to reveal a pattern.

Possibly.

A loose, unsubstantiated pattern.

Fine. I admit there is no rhyme nor reason I can discern as to The Roman’s movements.

As for myself? My fingers are raw from embroidering these dratted Christmas presents. I’ve no idea what inspired me to take on such a task, other than my own perverse sense of humour.

But I’m determined to finish if it kills me.

Well.

Perhaps that’s too committed.

December 19th

I woke early this morning and went down to the kitchen. Agnes was not yet up, which was my scheme. When she finally came out from her room off the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and knotting her apron on, there I was with the stove warm, the kettle almost boiling, with eggs and cold meat and a piece of cake. I told her that as today was her exams for The Society of St. Crispian’s Senior Servants, I wanted her to put her feet up and collect herself.

“Oh, Miss!” And she started to cry.

“Agnes! Steady on. You don’t want blotched cheeks and red eyes. The Society of St. Crispian’s Senior Servants appear to be a discerning bunch. Surely they disapprove of a crying cook.”

Eating her breakfast, Agnes reviewed as many recipes as she could. I helped her get ready—she has one day dress and one hat, and I lent her some nicer gloves. (I shall have to buy her a pair, to go with her Christmas.)

She left the house at ten this morning and still has not returned.

Later

This afternoon I was walking along King Henry’s Road, and from the back of a wagon fell a bag of oranges, of all things! I quickly saved them and ran to wave the driver to halt. It took some doing, but once accomplished, he told me to keep them.

A costly gift. I tried to refuse.

But he shrugged and simply urged his team on.

Very festive, indeed.

December 20th

Agnes came home at quarter to eight o’clock last night. She brought with her a hamper filled with cold chicken and accoutrements—one of her examinations, I gather—and I sent her straight off to bed with some lemon tea.

Pierce was not home, so it was Cousin Archibald and I sitting at opposite ends of the table, considering a life of cold chicken and chilled peas. I brought in five sightings that had been reported, read them aloud, and, after we’d eaten, sent Cousin Archibald to update the map. It’s looking rather beautiful.

I’ve not received a single note from that historian’s daughter I’d heard mention of.

I wonder if I should be nosey and hunt up her address?

Vulgar, yes.

And yet…

I took Parian a plate, followed by tea. He is now sitting in his chair, with a soft pillow for a cushion, reading, looking not nearly as repentant as he should.

After midnight now. Pierce is not home, and my fingers are worked raw from Christmas presents. I’ve finished Pierce’s, and nearly Islington’s. That leaves Hawkes. 

December 21st

Realisation: I’ve not yet purchased a gift for Parian.

It came to me this morning.

Therefore.

I’ve gathered all my courage and am about to set off for The Hound on King Henry’s Road.

I’ve said every prayer I can think of.

The Lord’s Prayer twice.

May it tip the day in my favour so I will not encounter The Pirate.

Later

Prayer does not work that way.

Or so I now gather.

When I walked through the front door of The Hound it was with help from a cold wind that threatened more than frost. Trying to set my person to rights, I closed the door with relief. Behind the counter, unpacking a crate of shoe polish, was Ben Chambers. The shop looked the same as it had when I’d stopped by in July, except there was one attempt at festivity, with a swag limping along the front of the counter. A single red bow hung from the centre. It was crooked.

“Hello,” I said, looking about.

“Oh, it’s you,” he answered without even looking up.

“Not many people are as dour as you seem to be on short notice. A gift, to be sure.”

The Pirate, who was still focused on the polish, smiled. It was rather sarcastic.

He was perched on a stool, his whole leg relying on the stool rung, while the peg extended to the floor. His eyepatch had been tilted up, but when I entered, he’d flipped it downward. His auburn hair had been coiffed with pomade earlier in the day, but had loosened, and a lock was falling over his forehead.

“This is a gentleman’s store,” he said as I approached the counter.

It was the closest physical proximity we’d shared, and I could see he had a series of hair-thin scars coming from beneath his eyepatch down to his mouth, a more pronounced scar cutting through the left side of his lips.

“If this is a gentleman’s store, why have you hung a sprig of mistletoe from the door frame?” I asked.

His lip curled. “It’s a joke.”

“Ah. Please assume I laughed, and I will be about my business.”

“You have no business here.”

“But I do.”

“But you don’t.”

I pressed on anyway. “I’m looking for a small gift, nothing extravagant, for my…well, he’s not really a butler. He’s a valet, soured on life. Understandable, as he was hired by my Cousin Archibald. That is to say, I was thinking a necktie. Have you any thoughts?”

Blowing the air from his lungs through his nose like a dragon, Mr. Chambers pushed his cans of polish to one side of the counter, removed his crate by tossing it onto the ground, and turned to look at me. He did not stand up.

“You’re wanting a gift for Parian?”

“Yes! You know him?”

“He comes in from time to time. Used to a good deal more when Mr. Flat was a regular customer. You’ve clipped his wings, from what I’ve heard.”

I blinked. “I clipped his wings? You’re delusional! Truly. Believe nothing that man says.”

“I don’t believe what anyone says.”

“That might be taking things too—”

“Parian is not a spendthrift,” he interrupted, returning us both firmly to the point. “He looks. He does not buy. Surely you’ve noticed the scandalous state of his shoes.”

“I—”

No, I have not. I’ve been too busy making certain they weren’t propped on an ottoman in the drawing room.

This I did not say.

Mr. Chambers continued.

“Parian likes a good look around. Most of his tastes are”—and Chambers looked my person up and down with disdain—“certainly beyond your reach. But there is one thing. Small, well made, useful.”

His fiduciary insult was effective. I was now determined to buy something from Mr. Chambers’s shop simply to show him I could. “What is the item? I’m not interested in cheap.”

This brought his head back. “I do not sell cheap.”

“Would you kindly show me the item in question,” I replied. Grumbling, Mr. Chambers grabbed a walking stick and hobbled around the corner.

He wasn’t as pleasantly false as Long John Silver, but I most certainly believe him capable of stringing a man up and letting him swing.

I followed him to a table where he picked up a leather case.

“Here.”

It had more weight than I expected, but was not heavy.

 I undid the brass clasp and slid the object out.

A magnifying glass.

Smaller than most, but serviceable. Beautiful wood handle with a brass finial at the bottom, brass casing around the glass.

“Charming,” I said, and it was. “And well made.”

I couldn’t help but notice Mr. Chambers looked moderately pleased.

He must be proud of his shop.

His eyes did not leave my face when he reached a hand over and slid the glass and its case from my hand. “I’ll wrap it for you.”

While he did, I took more of a look around. The shop held what I assume is the usual fare of a gentleman’s store. Leather polish, pipes, cigarettes, cigars, ledgers and account books, neckties, and the like.

But then I began to smile, for other objects, while expected and tasteful, revealed a dose of whimsy. Writing sets, charts, tie pins, yes, but also globes and cases, and the kind of paintings one would expect in a library or a study. Beautiful pens, paperweights, books about faraway places. Walking sticks in the corner, hats, binoculars, playing cards, wool scarves, a rather large selection of leather gloves. Collections under glass, of course: coins, stamps, rare insects and butterflies. I gazed longingly. And then I noticed against the far wall, a bookshelf filled with gloriously bound books.

“Ah!” I cried as I crossed the room. I couldn’t help it.

And there was a two-volume set of Dr. Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language. One of my dreams.

Lifting a hand to caress the spine—a gloved hand, I defend—Chambers said, “Do not even think about touching.”

I faltered, began to reach again, and then, pinching my lips together, spun on my heels to face my adversary.

“Whyever not?”

“Some of those are custom bindings waiting to be taken home by their rightful—and paying—owners.”

“And the others?”

“Do. Not. Touch.”

“You really delight in cruelty, don’t you?”

He held up the magnifying glass he’d wrapped in paper and said, “Would you like to pay me now?”

I reluctantly marched over to the counter, taking a furtive glance at the abundant shelf, and paid the man what he was owed. The bell rang on the door, and, glancing over my shoulder, I saw a gentleman with a fashionable mustache—I admit I despise them.

“Finished?” Chambers snapped as he slid the gift to my side of the counter.

“You mentioned the state of Parian’s shoes.”

“I did.”

“Are they so very bad?”

His expression was all he needed to confirm.

“Do you have a”—I chose the next word carefully—“serviceable pair in his size?”

Chambers made the silence as uncomfortable as possible before answering, “Yes.”

“I will take the shoes as well.”

Another dratted silence, and then he disappeared into a back room, returning with a box.

“These should fit.”

I gathered my courage and committed to buying them.

The transaction complete, Chambers glanced towards the mustachioed man, who was considering the umbrellas, and gave a perfunctory, “Goodbye.”

My determination—or call it bravery—kept my feet firmly rooted before his counter.

“I need one more thing,” I stated.

“No.”

The man who was perusing umbrellas glanced at the counter, then away.

For privacy, I took a small paper from my reticule and wrote a note.

What is the price for the two-volume set of Johnson’s dictionary?

Folding it, I slid it across the counter to The Pirate. He looked at me a full, uncomfortable fifteen seconds before opening the fold and running his eyes over my request.

“Who is this for?”

“Me.”

His eyes flicked again to the paper before bouncing back to my person. Picking up a nub of pencil, he wrote a figure in confident haste, and slid the note back to me

It was unattainable. Grabbing the pencil, I crossed out his number and wrote a lower price—within the mental and moral boundaries of my budget. I slid the paper back to him.

He opened the note. And laughed.

“Good day, Miss Lion.” He crumbled my courageous attempt and tossed it into a bin behind the counter.

My dignity demanded a worthy exit. “Thank you for your help, Mr. Chambers. If you manage to find that particular item nearer my price, please have it wrapped and delivered to Lapis Lazuli House by Christmas.” It was a firm answer, like a steady finger on the trigger of the gun. Or so I compliment myself. Chambers did not look impressed.

I turned to leave.

Just as I was about to pull open the door, someone pushed in.

“Pardon,” I said.

“Excuse me,” came the reply.

And then I realised two horrible things simultaneously, and everything in the world slowed to absorb the shock. I was standing beneath the sprig of mistletoe, and the man with whom I’d collided was none other than Cousin Archibald.

I screamed.

He started and cried out, “What, what!” And he followed my gaze.

I backed away, and he, realising the danger, went pale as he began to hop around, his cane swinging. “What, what, what, I say!”

I slipped past and ran for the safety of King Henry’s Road, Ben Chambers laughing so loud I swear I could hear him halfway home.

December 22nd  

Miss Agnes Dowd,

I am excessively put out that you could not wield your power on my behalf. What do you mean by letting Miss Lion stay home for Christmas? I need you both here! My daughter tells me Lapis Lazuli has a guest, and you worry you are coming down with something like the plague. How very disappointed I am in your moral fibre and physical stamina.

I will expect a good deal more from you in the future.

Lady Eugenia Spencer

Later

Mary was supposed to come this afternoon for tea.

She has not yet come.

I feel some concern, but no great worry.

Saffronia March, however, came by just now. She’s going to a cousin’s house for Christmas.

“A little gift for you, Emma,” she said before she left, handing me a small, wrapped, rectangular-shaped object just bigger than my hand. “Don’t open it before Christmas Eve. It’s bad luck, you know.”

Later

As Fate wouldn’t have it, Cousin Archibald did not eat his dinner at the appropriate time. No, he was waiting in the dining room, and very morose, when Pierce and I arrived at eight o’clock.

“Did you not eat already, Cousin?”

“I cannot eat alone this night,” said he.

“Why is that?” queried I.

“I’m in a Moral Quandary.”

A Moral Quandary.

Pierce and I—standing in front of our accustomed seats directly across from one another in the middle of the table—looked at each other.

“I dare say we’ve all had a few of those,” he said magnanimously.

My answering sigh was full of rue.

We sat. Agnes, who had promised two courses, brought the first.

 It was fortunate that Cousin Archibald’s Moral Quandary cast him into silence.

Pierce and I were talking about the weather, wet and rainy, his knowledge gained from having been out in it all afternoon, mine through Scientific Garret Observation.

Then came the most tremendous clanging at the door.

With Agnes occupied in the kitchen and Parian absent, I stood to investigate.

“Let me,” Pierce said.

And so I sat in the dining room, Cousin Archibald breathing in and breathing out, listening to Pierce walk across the hall and open the door.

I could hear a voice but not the words.

Then Pierce saying, “You look miserable. Come in, I’ll find you a blanket. Emma?”

But I was already out of my chair and stepping into the hall. There was Mary. Shivering, cold, looking like Jane Eyre. I told her so, as friendship demands. And then, “What on earth happened?”

“The professor happened,” Mary sputtered, rain positively dripping off her and onto the floor of the hall.

“You mean Professor Fletcher? With the eight sisters?”

“No,” Mary snapped. “The one with only five sisters. Of course, I mean Professor Fletcher!”

Pierce was back by then, the very same blanket he put over my shoulders on Guy Fawkes night in his hands. I took Mary’s umbrella—little good it did her—placed it in the stand near the door, then peeled her coat from her shoulders. Taking the blanket from Pierce, I wrapped it around her and rubbed her arms.

“You can tell me all about it, but first, would you like tea or food? We’ve just sat down.”

Mary pushed her dark hair away from her face. “I’m terribly hungry. I’ve been hiding in the shrubbery of Regent’s Park for hours.”

“Why on earth did you do that?”

“Widowers can’t be trusted,” she trembled.

“They most certainly cannot.”

I led Mary into the dining room, where Archibald sat mute at one end of the long table, thankfully still lost in the depths of his Moral Quandary.

I sat Mary at the other end, nearest the dining room hearth.

Pierce helped with her chair and then returned to his own, taking the newspaper he’d scandalously left on the table and tucking it out of sight.

Agnes—having heard the commotion—left to bring another plate.

“Mary, this is my Cousin Archibald—”

“I’m in a Moral Quandary,” he inserted morosely, returning his attention to the small stage that hosted his internal thoughts.

“—and have you met Niall Pierce? Pierce, this is Mary Bairrage, Extraordinaire.”

“Emma has mentioned you,” Pierce answered. “A pleasure.”

“Pleasure,” Mary replied, shivering less, her cheeks pink. She sounded only half aware of what she was saying. “You look every bit as handsome as Emma’s described.”

Pierce moved his silver gaze to me. “I’m flattered.”

I could think of nothing clever to extricate myself from the corner Mary’s words placed me in, so I decided to carry on with confidence. “You’ve looked in the mirror, Pierce. Now, Mary, are you quite warm?”

Wondering what this professor could have possibly done to leave Mary in this state.

Just then Agnes brought a plate of fish for Mary, also accompanied by the aroma of beef tea. Mary took several slow slips of the warm broth and then sat back, relieved. “I’m feeling better, thank you. Please eat. Don’t wait on my account.”

It was not until our second course—beef with various vegetables, feast indeed—that Mary joined the light conversation Pierce and I maintained.

I simmered in my curiosity.

 The meal went on.

Once the pudding was had, Cousin Archibald, sitting with his head in his hands saying nothing, and I threatening to boil over, Pierce kindly excused himself, allowing me to drag Mary into the drawing room. We sat, Mary on the sofa as near the fire as she could be.

“I expected you at five for tea. What happened?”

“And I was going to be here,” she said. “But I thought I would walk about first, shake the work from my fingers. To Regent’s Park I went, wielding my umbrella like a sword—”

“Of course.”

“And then, as I was merrily going along, swinging at the errant branch, there came striding—striding, Emma—a rather male…man, you know the type. Large shoulders and a strong jaw, and a tweed cap worn in a jaunty manner. The idea! He was only lacking the gun and the hounds. And then from behind came a pack of boys. Three of them—one with both arms in plaster—yelling, calling, kicking a ball between them. Had the man been wearing his glasses I might have had a moment to collect myself. They are too ridiculous. I would have said, ‘Well, Mary, there is your professor and his ridiculous glasses—’”

“They are.”

“‘—Perhaps you should say hello, reschedule a time to go over your notes, as he’s been clearly too busy all month to do it himself!’”

“Very reasonable.”

“But the glasses were nowhere to be seen, only a book under one of his arms to indicate that, yes, he can read. And then I realised who it was. I panicked.”

“Mary.”

“I ran into the shrubbery. Straight into it. See there, I scratched myself something awful.”

“But it was raining.”

“Yes, it was. And I couldn’t get my umbrella open without attracting attention.” At this point, Mary gave a resigned sigh. “It was just my luck that they decided not to keep walking, but instead kick their ball around.”

“No!”

“For three bloody long hours!”

“The injustice!”

“If he were a regular father, he wouldn’t have even thought of such a thing. Twenty minutes, three quarters of an hour? Sorted. But being a widower—you see now why they’re so dangerous?—his children are halfway to the orphanage already. He’s obligated to go above and beyond. And I couldn’t move at all without giving myself away. Not even he would take my scholarly edits seriously if he knew I hid in the hedgerow at public parks.”

“There was no avoiding it,” I comforted.

“But thank you anyway for dinner. At least I got to see your photographer. It all worked out in the end. He’s very handsome, Emma. Yet almost…unsettling. Like he’s seen too much.”

“Arabella calls him my Avenging Angel.”

Mary grinned. “Better that than Marlow’s devil on your shoulder.”

“Brava, Mary, for being a positive thinker.”

I’ve decided positivity is the Everest of virtues. You have to not only confront the dismal realities of life but choose, ofttimes, to blatantly ignore them.

December 23rd  

There was snow this morning.

It must have blown about half the night, for it crept along the lines of each house and laced across the windows. Agnes had a warm breakfast, and she even asked if Pierce was going to join. I sent Pierce a note through the wall, but I suspect he wasn’t awake.

“I would go to church, Miss Lion, seeing as it’s almost Christmas, but my nerves are shaking and I can’t settle. When do you suppose I’ll know?”

“Soon,” I assured. “They would be fools not to let you in.”

“My mother says God doesn’t like us to call anyone fools.”

“Perhaps not, Agnes. You, however, are simply divine.”

Later

The church was adorned with holly and red berries, evergreen boughs and pine cones near the pulpit. There was an air of enchantment and goodness, and we all seemed pleased to be there.

Hawkes read Luke chapter 2 and Matthew chapter 2:1–12.

After the reading he announced that with the New Archbishop of Canterbury, carols in church were not only condoned but encouraged, and said we would be singing carols the remainder of the service.

“The Cleopatra has offered to supply wassail, and warm milk for the children,” he said. “They should be along shortly.”

Peace on earth and good will, indeed.

The Reprobates Ten, who had managed to wander in—bleary-eyed, somewhat dazed—just as the wise men were giving the infant Christ-child their gifts, groaned at the announcement that singing was the order of the day. Before Hawkes had finished speaking, they roused their dampened spirits and sang a somewhat inappropriate rather bawdy rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” and then filed out of the church as the sound of our applause was too much for their two-penny hangovers.

The organist began “Good Christian Men, Rejoice,” and we all joined in.

Hawkes, however, walked down the aisle and out the front doors.

That was it.

Gone.

And no one knew where he went.

We sang. Old carols, new carols. Some which were unfamiliar, causing us all to sound as if we’d two-penny hangovers.

I left feeling inspired and rather in the mood for a Christmas party. It was snowing, and though my black coat covered most of my bottle-green dress, it still poked out, and with the red gloves looked very festive indeed.

Arriving home held its own surprises. Cousin Archibald was railing about something in the drawing room—door closed, thankfully—Parian was nowhere to be seen, and as I walked into the kitchen to talk with Agnes, I found her already with company.

Sitting at my kitchen table, enjoying a spot of tea, was Hawkes. He whose soul seems to wash up on whatever shore he wishes.

He nodded, taking a sip. And before I could say anything, Agnes burst out, “Miss Lion! The vicar has come to tell me I shouldn’t worry about The Society. That he’s certain it will sort itself out, and worrying through Christmas would be foolish.”

“I said it would be wearing,” Hawkes answered quietly.

“What good advice.” I smiled, still a little stunned.

“Tea, Miss?”

“Certainly. Do you happen to know what Mr. Flat is going on about in the drawing room?”

Agnes said primly, “His Moral Conundrum.”

“I believe it was a Quandary.”

“Yes, his Moral Quandary has been answered, and he’s upset about the outcome.”

I glanced from Agnes to Hawkes, sitting quietly, eyes half closed, as if he’d nothing to do with anything. I knew better.

“Hawkes?”

Just then the repeated sound of Parian dragging a trunk down the stairs—thud, thud, thud—could be heard.

“That’s the sign we’ve been waiting for,” Hawkes said, standing and walking past me, up and out of the kitchen.

“The sign?” I called. “Are we putting Mr. Flat in a chest and sending him by post to Australia?”

Hawkes gave no answer.

I followed. Despite the biblical condemnation of sign seekers, my curiosity knew no bounds.

And as we arrived in the hall, there stood Parian, out of breath, Cousin Archibald’s travelling trunk on the floor, the silk of a morning robe peeking out. Hawkes walked over to the drawing room door, knocked with the back of his hand, and said, “It’s time.”

When the door opened, a resigned Cousin Archibald presented himself.

There is the Old Testament account of Jacob wrestling with the angel. I’ve always imagined Jacob afterward, exhausted, yet surrounded with light for his pains.

Well.

Cousin Archibald, having finished his wrestle, looked only exhausted. His entire face had an unpleasant sheen, his tie was undone, and the little hair he has remaining was assaulted.

And there in contrast before him stood Young Hawkes, as if he were the very angel, wrapped with light.

“Do I have to go?” Archibald asked Young Hawkes, as if their ages were reversed.

“You know it’s your decision.”

“I’ve already been this year, when she was ill,” whined he.

You’re speaking of Matilde, I almost said, but Wisdom reached down and firmly placed her hand over the mouth of Emma M. Lion. Else I might have ruined it altogether.

“The hansom cab has arrived,” said Parian from the door.

“You must come with me, Parian! Parian!”

“Boxing Day I’m off to Shepherd’s Bush with my brother.” Parian looked two parts panicked and one part apologetic. “It’s our day off, Agnes’s and mine.”

“But you’ll come after?”

Parian began to look nervous. His nod noncommittal. “Miss Lion must be consulted, of course. If she agrees.”

Archibald looked as if he were on his way through Dante’s circles of Hell. In which case I would allow Parian to descend only one or two levels. He’s become moderately useful around Lapis Lazuli House.

“Hawkes, oh Hawkes!” Cousin Archibald wailed.

“It will do you good,” Hawkes said, as he clasped Cousin Archibald’s shoulder in an encouraging way.

“She’s always hated me,” Cousin Archibald moaned, morosely following his trunk and the struggling Parian out the door. “And I’ve always hated her. But I suppose our joint dislikes will bring us together.” He glared over his shoulder in my direction. “We get on well enough for it.”

Hawkes and I had, at this point, come to the door. I leaning against the left side of the door frame, Hawkes leaning against the right, arms crossed.

It was cold out, and we could see Cousin Archibald’s breath as he gave Parian instructions regarding Morning Robe Maintenance in his absence.

Our Dante was then helped into the cab. Parian closed the door with an audible sigh of relief and bounded—yes, bounded—up the stairs and inside, as Hawkes and I watched the hansom drive away.

The left side of Hawkes’s mouth was lifted just so. Then, when my nemesis had disappeared from view completely, he tilted his head and looked in my direction.

“Happy Christmas,” he said.

I smiled. “I gather that Cousin Archibald’s Moral Quandary was whether to Christmas with his sister or not?”

“It was.”

“Your words, not his?” I asked.

Hawkes lifted a shoulder. “I may have helped frame the dilemma.”

“Architect of the entire scheme, more like.”

Hawkes turned his half-smile towards the street and took in the grey cast winter day. “I wanted your first Christmas at Lapis Lazuli to be—”

“Survivable? Endurable?”

“—peaceful.”

“Thank you. When does he return?”

“Dr. Fairchild has recommended he stay away from London for a month, at least. The bad winter air, you see, might make matters worse.”

“What matters?”

“All matters.”

He said it so compassionately, but there was an undeniable gleam.

“Thank you, Hawkes.” My heartfelt utterance received no reply. “Islington is coming on Christmas Eve, as is Pierce. I’ve been wanting to ask you to join us.”

Still Hawkes did not reply. He kept looking out on Whereabouts, seemingly content with the quiet, the cold air in his face. He had on a blue coat with his collar—which he doesn’t always wear—and it was a little frayed around the seams. Not in a noticeable way, nothing that would catch the casual eye, but it indicated a mind occupied with other things.

“It was good of you to reassure Agnes,” I added.

“We London heathens do what we can.” Then, with a glance back at me, “Her mother certainly seems to have opinions on everything.”

I laughed.

He pulled away from the door frame, standing up straight. “You find a chair for the drawing room, and I’ll find time for Lapis Lazuli after the Christmas Eve service.”

“A chair? You wish me to find you a chair?”

“I mentioned you needed one.”

“You did, but Christmas Eve is tomorrow, you realise.”

“I suspect you’ll manage.”

I’d forgotten that St. Crispian’s has a Christmas Eve service rather than Christmas Day, and I told Hawkes so.

“Very short. Ten twenty-three to ten fifty-three.”

“Why the strange time?”

“One of St. Crispian’s early vicars lived seven minutes’ walk from the church. He liked to be home by eleven.” Hawkes stepped onto the porch and walked down the steps, then turned to face me. “Why the candle?” he asked.

I had no idea what he was going on about. “What do you mean?”

“Today is the twenty-third. When walking Whereabouts at night, I always see a single candle in your window on the twenty-third of each month. Why?”

How very observant of him. I crossed my arms tighter for the cold. “If you come and sit in the chair I’m somehow going to find, I’ll tell you.”

Hawkes mussed his hair, smiled. And he left.

A wave of the ocean come to shore, then gone again.

Leaving me to wonder how to find a proper drawing room chair on Christmas Eve.

Later

A package has arrived from The Hound!

I am aghast.

No, I don’t think that’s the right word.

I am astonished.

Perhaps The Pirate has discovered through nefarious means that I’ve read Treasure Island. Twice. And has decided to reward my buccaneering spirit.

It’s clearly not the Far Too Expensive two-volume dictionary.

If it were, however, I would be able to look up a clear definition of aghast.

It’s a single book wrapped in dark green paper. No ribbon, no ornament, but a drop of berry red wax with a stamp of a hound holding a note in place.

Elegant but masculine.

Islington would approve.

The note was written in The Pirate’s conceited hand.

This will have to do. You owe The Hound 1s5d.

December 24th  

My first thought when I opened my eyes was, “Emma, what could you possibly have been thinking?”

The answer? I’ve no idea.

What delusion made me think that inviting three…men—I might as well use the word. They aren’t boys. They aren’t come down from school. They are men—to Lapis Lazuli for a Christmas Eve celebration was a good idea at all. I’ve never hosted such a gathering.

And Lapis Lazuli House, while seemingly grand, is in the veil of poverty.

The Veil.

When one lives in said Veil, they ought not be hosting the sort of Christmas Eve dinner a duke, for example, would wish to attend. Even if their banker’s wife sent ten pounds. Agnes refused to go over the menu with me—It’s a surprise, Miss Lion. You will be very proud. You forget, Agnes, I know what is allotted the kitchen. However, Pierce’s contributions will keep it from complete ruin.

Lady Sheridan served eleven courses. Eleven.

When Lapis Lazuli has more than two, it’s an event to be remarked upon in the paper. And while I know Pierce won’t say anything, and I don’t think Islington would, I dread being silently pitied.

As for Hawkes, he consumes mostly poetry and prose and won’t arrive until after he gives his service, in any case.

When it comes to entertainment? I’ve no piano. Carolling without an instrument feels rather far-fetched. Granted, carolling at all feels far-fetched. And I’m certainly not about to convince P, I, & H to play charades.

Am I?

It is tempting.

I’m almost desperate to see it now.

As for the gifts I’ve made, what possessed me to think they would be suitable for a duke, a war photographer, and a vicar?

It must be Puck.

And those things do best please me

That befall prepost’rously.

Yes. I blame Puck. I’ve simply read A Midsummer Night’s Dream too many times.

To bastardize Wordsworth, “Shakespeare is too much with me.”

Foolish.

But look there. Out the window. The morning sun has slipped a few rays beneath the clouds, dazzling the frosted glass. It makes one feel like all will be right.

Perhaps not so foolish after all.

Later

Someone needed to face the cold and secure evergreen swags and a wreath.

Agnes and I voted Parian.

Parian voted for austerity, i.e., no greenery, no effort.

Disabusing him of that notion, we bundled him up and practically shoved him out the door.

The kitchen had been smelling of sweets for days, as Agnes, especially after hearing that Islington was going to be a guest, has been hard at work.

I trekked up to the west garret.

My reasons for going up to the west garret were twofold: look for any old Christmas decoration and see if there happened to be a chair that was not too terribly tatty for the drawing room.

Nothing resembled appropriate seating.

Neither were there any decorations associated with the Yuletide.

There was, however, a trunk filled with old clothing.

Not many pieces, and I could see that Lapis Lazuli had hosted some rather industrious moths. Beneath it all was a dark blue velvet cloak, too bad a state to salvage, but then victory! For the lining of the cloak was a festive crimson.

Armed with a needle and scarlet thread, I took my project into the drawing room where I made an assortment of bows. One for the front door, two for the staircase, three small bows for the swag I envisioned on the mantle of the drawing room, and another three for the dining room.

Grudgingly, I blessed Fortitude for bestowing upon my unwilling person one useful skill, even if it is barely passing.

Later

I’ve finished my bows just now, and Parian has returned.

I greeted him at the front door, opening it wide while he stumbled in and dropped his burden in the hall. It looked as if he’d been to the rag pickers of yuletide boughs. Most of them were weary, skinny branches with a few tufts of needles on the edge.

Parian looked excessively pleased.

Has the man ever celebrated a Christmas?

“Here you are,” is all I could think of to say.

He beamed. “I’ve always been fond of a good branch.”

“Hmm,” I replied. “Well done. Let’s see what can be made.”

Seeing as how Agnes had banned us from the kitchen, we went to work in the hall. With some twine and a pair of shears, we were able to construct one reasonably green wreath. I placed the bow over the barest part, then hung it from the front door.

Afterward I created two swags, frowning at the sparse tufts of green as I placed the smaller bows along each. There was nothing left for the stair rail, but the two red bows are attempting festivity on their own.

Agnes, when she came out to inspect, saw Parian’s face and mine and decided to balance his jubilance with my resignation by suggesting I take the shears into the back garden.

“There is a bit of holly in the corner,” she said, “and the neighbour’s yew has grown over the fence.”

Agnes, thou art brilliant.

Her scheme yielded a small but determined amount of greenery.

I tucked holly and one sprig of red berries into the wreath, which is now less desperate, and wove the yew along the swags.

The first task sorted just before noon, I put my mind towards the acquisition of a chair.

The garret had nothing suitable.

I must not steal Pierce’s.

(Ought I steal Pierce’s?)

No.

Yes.

If nothing else can be found.

And so I took myself to the fourth floor.

As I’ve reclaimed Lapis Lazuli—quite handily, I add—I admit I still feel wary of trespassing on the fourth-floor rooms. Cousin Archibald is determined as ever for them to be left alone. The carpet I borrowed for the garret my only infraction.

“Mutiny, it was plain, hung over us like a thunder-cloud,” I quoted as I opened the door to the first room in a piratical spirit.

 It was a bedroom, the one I’d thieved rightfully taken the carpet from. Dust and faded fabrics, the curtains mostly drawn. There was one small chamber attached that yielded nothing but a door that led into a storage space—too small for a chair. The next two rooms were connected, another bedroom, this one not only more elegant but more whimsical, despite the dust. The second was a sitting room and did have two chairs! Relieved, I walked closer to investigate. Some corners were worn through entirely. My fingers came away with dust.

They were not terrible, but certainly not suitable. I couldn’t sit Hawkes in rags. I cast my eyes about the room—most of the paintings removed from the wall, shelf empty of everything except a small imitation of Aphrodite, but not another chair in sight. The dressing room—more of the same. An old mirror, spotted with age, sent a token amount of light around the room.

Pity, as the rooms are quite beautiful.

They only lack attention.

“Well, Hawkes, it seems your luck isn’t holding,” I muttered as I marched down the stairs.

Just as I was coming down into the hall, intent on asking Pierce if I might borrow his chair, the bell sounded. Parian was nowhere to be found and so I answered it myself.

“Hello,” I said to the young man before me. He was holding a paper in his hand.

“Is this Lapis Lazuli House?”

“It is.”

“I’ve a delivery.”

Glancing over his shoulder, I could see his wagon on the street, with a covering over a strange shape.

“Is that a dead horse?” I asked.

The young man looked confused. “Is it supposed to be?”

“No.” I managed to shake my head without smiling. “I am not a knacker’s yard. Alas.”

Interesting question: Ought Emma M. Lion become a knacker?

Note: Consult Mary.

The boy waved at the wagon. “Do you have a man to help me with the chair?”

It’s what he said.

Truly. Truly.

I was all shock.

“The what?” I said.

“The chair. I was sent to deliver it to you.”

“Heavens. Might I look?”

And so he led the way down the stairs and pulled the covering from the back of his wagon.

Lo and Behold, there was a chair. A proper sitting chair. Only slightly used. It looked, and proved later to be, quite comfortable.

“It’s yellow,” I said in amazement. And it is. A nice yellow, a bit burnished, a bit golden.

The boy was confused. “Is it not supposed to be?”

“I’ve no idea. Who sent it? Was it Hawkes?”

The boy shrugged and handed me an envelope. “Is there a man to help me?”

There wasn’t.

Only Parian.

But he would have to do, and he did.

Grumbling.

We brought the chair into the drawing room and settled it nearest the fireplace, a small table between it and the pink chair, the green sofa across from them both. The drawing room is beginning to look like a gypsy’s caravan. If Aunt Eugenia ever sees such a combination of colours, she might just burn Lapis Lazuli to the ground.

After tipping the young man and sending him on his way, I opened the envelope.

Miss Lion,

My husband surprised me with an early and somewhat large Christmas gift, causing me to quickly dispose of some furniture. When I was at Lapis Lazuli for tea, I remember your being a chair short for the company present. Allow me to answer your need. The whimsical colour seemed to suit. Happy Christmas.

Yours ever,

Rebecca Penury

It seems Hawkes does have all the luck.

Later

Toff has been running notes between the shops and houses of St. Crispian’s, and so I snagged him as he ran past and tasked him with delivering a missive to Hawkes.

Hawkes,

My end of the bargain is fulfilled. The universe has sent a chair. I don’t understand how you manage to sort things the way you do. I look forward to your joining Islington, Pierce, and myself after the Christmas Eve service. I promise pudding.

Emma

Later

As a child, I always thought the shadows cast at Christmastide held something of magic in them. That if you pried up the edges, light would come spilling out from the nooks and crannies of the day. And while Christmas with Arabella and Damian was enjoyable (let us not speak of Bournemouth), Christmas with my parents held wonder. It shimmered like a constellation.

That is how it feels right now.

I’m sitting in Hawkes’s gold chair—which he’s only recently abandoned—gazing at my unexpected gifts and writing in my journal.

Pierce and Islington are across the room at the table, playing cards.

“What mischief are you up to?” Islington just asked.

Pierce answered on my behalf, tossing a card onto the table, his face in shadows. He’s flirting with the line of being more than reasonably drunk. “She’s writing in her diary.”

I frowned. “Journal, Pierce. It’s a journal.”

“Heaven help us,” Islington replied, tossing his own card down. “I’m worried to ask more.”

“I’ve a fairly robust record of your bad behaviour,” I replied.

Islington, still fastidious despite having left midnight behind, glanced in my direction. “No such thing.”

“Your play, Islington,” Pierce murmured.

“Can I trust you not to exaggerate?” Islington asked.

In my efforts to be more Christian until Boxing Day, I was honest. “Likely not.”

Now their attention is back to the game, their own slow conversation filling the silence.

I’m wearing my red gown, but tempted to change into my oldest, most comfortable affair.

Let it be noted, however, that I have looked nice.

Agnes took a few moments to help me into full battle dress before dinner. It fit almost like it should, and, therefore, I was spared any talk of my décolletage.

Small victories.

Pinning up my hair, I accented its unavoidably windblown appearance with a sprig of holly, then went downstairs to prepare for the evening.

Parian had lit more candles than lamps in the drawing room, which I quite liked, and bothered to shine his worn-out shoes. He and Agnes were anticipating their own Christmas games in the kitchen after they’d served dinner and dessert.

Having been trapped in Bournemouth the last three years, I was so giddy to find myself free and home that I didn’t know what to do with myself. There were carollers to be heard. The smell of roast and sauces wafting from the kitchen. The scent of woodfires and brisk air following every opened door.

“Do you think it will snow some tonight, Miss?” Agnes asked when I peeked into the kitchen.

“I hope so. Do you?”

“Only, if it does, the duke may suffer on his way home.”

“I think he’ll manage, Agnes,” I said dryly.

Islington arrived in black, a crisp white shirt beneath his waistcoat, his green eyes sharp, taking in the humble—yet, I defend, not without merit—decorations on the banisters.

Parian had just come into the hall with the Madeira he intended to serve as the aperitif and three glasses on a tray—no mention of sloe gin on Christmas Eve—when Pierce opened the door of his studio.

“I thought I’d heard you both. I’ve something to show you. Parian, good man, bring that into the studio.”

And so in we went.

The table was littered with large photographs which proved to be from his trip to Scotland. Islington began to sort through the photographs while Pierce answered his questions regarding location or time of day. They were moody, atmospheric, and from the little I know, brilliant. It seems Pierce’s genius isn’t limited to capturing people.

Parian had set his tray on the table before the plum sofa, and I poured a drink for Islington, who thanked me as he took it, being distracted with the photographs. Pierce left Islington to it and walked over to where I was pouring a Madeira for him.

“You look rather nice,” I said. “More formal than your usual.”

“I promised you good company.” And he bent down and kissed my cheek. “Happy Christmas, Emma. You look lovely.”

“Happy Christmas, Pierce.”

I shoved his glass at him while trying to keep my cheeks from flaming.

I handed him the glass gracefully; he was overawed by my sophistication and poise.

I moved the glass in his direction. Pierce may have stepped back just a touch to avoid it splashing on his dress shirt. In any event, the transaction was made.

The conversation did not deviate from Scotland, both men sharing their travels. I listened, having been only once, when I was four years old. I remember nothing but being cold, sitting as my father painted the moors.

Parian announced dinner before we’d left the studio.

It was an ambitious celebration, a great extravagance for Lapis Lazuli House. Agnes, bless her, had placed meal cards at each setting, and I was amazed at what she’d managed. It began with a clear broth soup, ended with plum pudding. These were bookends for cod, bread and cheese, and—as Agnes ordered Parian to describe it—a vegetable medley and roast.

Smiling and acting the gracious hostess, I decided that when the souls who abide in Lapis Lazuli are thrown into the gutter, we will have the memory of this one meal to cherish.

Pierce will find another place of lodging. Agnes will likely be poached by another St. Crispian. Parian will apply for a station far above his capabilities. As for myself? Unable to bear the loss of Lapis Lazuli, I’ll refuse to sell the house and live like Miss Havisham. Except without any fuel for heat, no food, and no beautiful child to twist until she tortures perfectly nice young men.

Not very promising.

Cousin Archibald, with any luck, will have perished from eating a bad oyster.

 I must remember I’m trying to be an Exemplary Christian until Boxing Day.

I digress.

We enjoyed ourselves. I needn’t have worried. Nothing of great consequence was said, mostly remembrances, opinions, anecdotes from past travels. Remembrances and opinions, I have many. Past travels? None.

“You’ve not been to the Continent?” Islington was surprised.

“No.”

“But you said you left school, what, over three years ago?”

“Yes, and between leaving school and gracing St. Crispian’s with my divine presence, I served as a companion to Mr. Flat’s sister.”

“Miserable,” Pierce said under his breath.

“I’d assumed you were with your aunt,” Islington frowned.

“I was in Dante’s fifth circle of hell. My aunt lives in the second.”

Pierce laughed.

Islington looked regretful.

After the meal, I was surprised when Parian delivered a bottle of port. Having mingled with enough wealthy countrymen, I recognised the bottle as Quality.

“Heavens,” I said, thinking more of my budget than stilling my tongue. “What was Agnes thinking?”

“I had it sent down,” Islington said. “Happy Christmas.”

And so we toasted, then Pierce smoked a cigarette, and we realised that if we didn’t leave soon, we’d miss the Christmas Eve service. When I asked Pierce if he was going to join us, he gave a dark laugh. “I’m going to wait here and drink myself under the table. Don’t look at me like that, Emma. It’s Christmas. I’m celebrating the season.”

“Are you?”

Islington and I donned our coats, gloves, and hats, and walked to the church. It was cold, and the gaslight captured our breath. There were a few others walking ahead of us, and somewhere a penny whistle was playing “The Holly and the Ivy.”

Islington offered me his arm. Sated from our refreshment, we were silent company.

The church had fresh swags, and a beautiful poinsettia near the door. The denizens of St. Crispian’s filed in, red cheeks not entirely due to the cold. Most everyone was seated, the organ playing a prelude, when Hawkes himself walked in the back doors and up the aisle of the nave. His coat was very fashionable and he looked nothing like a vicar.

“Islington,” I whispered, “are you quite certain Hawkes is truly a clergyman for the Church of England?”

Islington drawled something in return, but it was just as our organist enthusiastically began to play “Joy to the World.”

Hawkes surprised all by reading the traditional Collect, Epistle, and Gospel.

No poetry, but there were some hymns before. At exactly ten fifty-three, we were released into the wild. After the service, Hawkes was surrounded by parishioners. Just as I was debating if we should wait, he glanced in my direction and nodded as if to say he would make his way down to Lapis Lazuli soon.

Trusting I’d read the signal correctly, Islington and I walked down the Diagonal, the pockets of frost and snow crunching beneath our feet.

Crunch.

What an odd word. The way it forces the mouth to do just that.

I mentioned this to Islington, and he only answered with a smile.

Pierce was in his studio, a glass of whisky in his hand, staring absently. My internal arithmetic confirmed he’d had far more to drink than seemed, well, balanced.

Islington had gone back to the kitchen to wish Agnes a “Happy Christmas” while I cajoled Pierce into the drawing room. “Come along. It’s warm and comfortable.”

“How was the service?” he asked.

“Short. Even you would have approved.”

The sound he made was more disapproval. “You go ahead while I turn down the lamps.”

And just as I walked into the hall, a knock came to the door.

Hawkes.

“You made it out of the lion’s den,” I said in welcome, stepping aside so he could come in from the cold. Hawkes shook my hand in a preoccupied manner, and I thought I could smell the faint scent of a woman’s perfume as he passed.

I raised an eyebrow.

I’d momentarily forgotten his chair, but when Hawkes saw it—warm gold, cosy, near the fire —he looked back over his shoulder, a smile lifting the side of his mouth like a sail.

“Do you like it?” I asked.

He promptly walked across the room, took a slim volume of what I believe was poetry from the inner pocket of his coat, and sat down to read.

“You have peculiar taste, Lion,” Islington said when he joined us a minute later.

“Leave my chair be,” was all the greeting Hawkes gave him.

“I think it’s delightful,” I replied. “If unexpected.”

Islington was already sitting on the sofa across from my chair when Pierce joined—another two fingers of whisky in his glass. He claimed the other end of the sofa and eyed Hawkes, his book, and the chair.

“When did that join us?”

“You’re referring to the chair, I presume, not Hawkes?” Islington said dryly.

Hawkes flicked his eyes up to Pierce, looked back down, and turned the page on his book.

“The chair,” Pierce said. He then nodded. “Hawkes.”

“Good evening, Pierce.”

“The chair is for Hawkes,” I said, sitting down. “And I think it rather brightens up the room.”

“It’s certainly bright,” Islington remarked.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit garish?” Pierce asked.

“It’s like a star,” Hawkes stated, his eyes still on his book.

Pierce took a drink. “It’s like the bloody alchemy you cursed us with.”

Islington laughed.

Hawkes smiled.

And that seemed to settle the issue.

How do I describe it? All of us at our leisure. It was unruffled, unfussed. We sat a while, drinks in hand, and talked about childhood. Each of us had things we were willing to say, others we weren’t.

Islington spoke of siblings and tradition, but not his parents.

Pierce, the memories of a young age, but no mention of family.

I shared reminiscence of the cottage and my parents, and nothing of Maxwell.

As for Hawkes, he sat listening, three of his fingers moving slightly, as if playing repeated notes on a piano.

“What about you, Hawkes?” I asked. “Memories of Christmas?”

He shifted in his seat, and simply answered, “There was always the sea.”

Would that I could write it all verbatim. No one else in the world would be amused, but I certainly would. There were sterling snippets of conversation.

For Example

Islington: “There should be some instrument in this room.”

Emma: “What would I do with it?”

Islington: “Play it. Do you know anything?”

Emma: “I know a very righteous and plodding rendition of ‘A Mighty Fortress is our God.’ At Fortitude, A Preparatory School for Girls, we changed the lyrics to ‘A Mighty Fortress is our School.’ The lot of us were whipped and sent to bed without pudding.”

Hawkes: “Perhaps I’ll have you give a rendition next Sunday.”

Emma: “Not if my life depended on it.”

Pierce: “I’d go to church to see that.”

After the sound of Agnes and Parian singing in the kitchen caused a break in the conversation, I announced I had presents.

They looked at me like I was speaking Hindi.

“Presents,” I repeated. “I’ve made something for each of you.”

“In that case…” And Pierce left the room.

Islington, too, stepped out into the hall.

“The gifts are not so very terrible,” I said to Hawkes.

Hawkes turned a page of his book. “I believe they have something for you too.”

The notion took me by complete surprise. I can’t say that bashful is an understood feeling for Emma M. Lion, but when Pierce and Islington both returned with an object suspiciously the size of a book, I suddenly didn’t know where to look. Luckily, I had the excuse of bringing in their gifts.

“Now,” I instructed as I returned to the room, “Pierce, this one that’s slipping out of my arms is for you. Careful, don’t rip the paper. Now Islington, and finally Hawkes.”

Pierce was fingering his gift, a highly amused expression in his eyes. Islington frowned at his as if he distrusted the entire enterprise of gifting. (He may.) Hawkes was leaning back with his eyes half closed, his fingers drumming absently on the package.

“They are all the same, and all different,” I announced. “Using merely adequate skill but a good deal of heart. I think you should open them together.”

Asking three adult men to open gifts simultaneously is an odd request when spoken aloud.

Islington complied first, revealing what I’ve slaved over these last few weeks.

A cushion.

Yes. I admit it freely to the world. I gifted the Duke of Islington a cushion.

But not just any cushion.

A small, rectangular cushion meant for a cose in a chair while reading a book. Islington’s was dark green, and embroidered into the cushion with crisp, white letters? A Latin phrase.

ACTORE NON PROBANTE REUS ABSOLVITUR

Islington scanned his eyes over the phrase and, with enviable command of the language, threw back his head and laughed. He turned the cushion out, and Hawkes read it, quirked his head to the side, and gave me a glance of—dare I say it—near adoring approbation.

“What does it say,” asked Pierce, who did not attend an elite British boarding school.

“It says,” Islington answered, “A defendant is exonerated by the failure of the prosecution to prove its case.”

Pierce smiled. “Is this about you always getting after Emma?”

“It would seem.”

I couldn’t help beaming. “I’ve always been able to prove my case, and ever thus will it be.”

“Spectemur agendo,” Islington murmured.

Pierce was now unwrapping his, white letters on black, and everyone leaned a touch forward, curious.

FLECTERE SI NEQUEO SUPEROS, ACHERONTA MOVEBO

Islington translated. “If I cannot bend the will of Heaven, I shall move Hell.”

Pierce ran a finger along the stubble of his jaw, in both humour and thought. He lifted his glass in my direction. “Well done, Emma.”

“It seemed to suit,” I explained.

We were left to Hawkes.

His cushion was dark blue, and I admit pleasure at seeing it was the exact shade of his coat. But I wasn’t expecting his response.

Hawkes paled.

Eyes tracing the phrase three times, it was as if he’d seen a ghost. Not like The Roman, not a ghost one accepted as normal. But something that haunts.

ASTRA INCLINANT, SED NON OBLIGANT

The stars incline us, they do not bind us.

It was abrupt how he stood, staring at the cushion in his hands, the fire casting his face into sharp relief. I’m not certain why I selected it, but I was drawn to the phrase, and the phrase was drawn to Hawkes.

“Thank you,” he said. As if he meant it but wasn’t certain he believed it.

“Enough of Emma presiding over the evening like Moira. Here, Emma. Happy Christmas.” And Islington handed me a gift, then settled back against the sofa, at his noble ease.

“You didn’t arrive with this.”

“I had it sent with the port. Agnes kept it a secret for me.”

I unwrapped the book and found myself with a handsome copy of Plutarch’s Lives! It boasts a fabulous heft, brown leather tooled with a pattern of gold. The pages are gilded. I’ve never owned such a beautiful book in my life. (Excluding Father’s Shakespeare, always excluding Father’s Shakespeare.)

“Islington!”

“Considering you thought Pliny the Younger is the son of Pliny the Elder, I figured Plutarch was a good place to nudge your quest of self-education.”

“Will my life become more illustrious?”

“Hopefully less ridiculous.” Said with humour.

Pierce also gave me a book, not gilded, and rather slimmer, but beautiful as a dream. It’s by an American poet with whom I’m not familiar, Walt Whitman. The volume is his poem entitled “Song of Myself.”

“It’s not the full volume of his poetry, only the title piece. I asked Ben Chambers to bind it separately. His other poems deal with war and such subjects. I thought this might be your preference. For now.”

This would explain the cover. It was custom. Marbled paper of sea green, sky blue, and brown, with green leather spine and corner pieces.

“Thank you,” I said, running my hand over the cover.

“I think you’ll enjoy it.” Pierce waved a hand dismissively.

Hawkes asked to see it, crossed his legs at the ankles, and started reading. As for Islington, he looked like he disapproved a touch but was not going to say anything. Which has only increased my interest in the volume. Ipso Facto, Hawkes, upon leaving a few moments ago, slipped it into his pocket. He looked at me while doing so, lifting an eyebrow. I nodded. I don’t begrudge this particular borrower. If a highwayman put a gun to my head and demanded, “Tell me who you would trust your most treasured book with!” I would reply with a nervous but bold, “Mighty Nigel Hawkes!”

I’m not certain why the highwayman feels that such information must be extracted by violence, but one can’t explain all human action.

Speaking of Hawkes, I was absolutely surprised when, after Pierce’s gift, he pulled a small, wrapped book from his own pocket and set it on the table between our chairs. “I came across this a few months past in a secondhand shop.”

Here, I admit, I began to cry.

It was not anticipated nor planned.

And I wager Islington and Pierce both prefer the less fauceted variety of friend. But when I opened Hawkes’s gift, I knew what was in my hands, and I cried.

It was bludgeoned and beaten, an old copy with a cover half sewn in place by my mother. On the spine was the yellow sticker claiming this book as property—or former property—of Mudie’s circulating library. Father had signed up for the “infernal society of puritan book snobs” as he put it, known as Mudie’s Select Library, to see if he liked the notion.

He borrowed Ireland: Myth, Legend, and History, written by an Englishman and a Scot. Before he’d even finished the preface, he’d begun crossing out, scribbling in, illustrating the few paragraphs he approved of, and ridiculing the rest.

Mother was horrified.

“The readers will thank me!”

“They most certainly will not. And you’ll be fined, banned from Mudie’s!”

“So much the better. A man should own his own books.”

And so Father kept Ireland: Myth, Legend, and History, and Mother sent the circulation library a letter with the replacement fee enclosed.

Holding it in my hand, I was trembling when I opened the cover to the title page.

IRELAND: MYTH, LEGEND, AND HISTORY

By Alistair T. Moddle and Jonathan L. Kirk

Rapscallion Commentary by Declan Lion, an actual Irishman

“Thank you, Hawkes. Thank you so very much.” I stood, book gripped in my hand, and excused myself. It took half an hour to pull myself together and stop tracing the lines of my father’s handwriting across the pages of that over-read book.

When I did return, Hawkes was reading Whitman, and Islington and Pierce had begun playing cards at the table near the window, Agnes having brought in fresh coffee.

“Have you no gifts for each other?” I asked when I sat down.

Islington and Pierce looked at each other.

“Would you like me to pick you out a necktie, Islington?”

“Certainly, Pierce. And how about I select you a fine pair of shoes?”

“All right, all right,” I waved them back to their game.

Hawkes shifted—my Whitman closing in his hand. “You owe me an answer,” he said.

“To what?”

“Why do you light a candle every twenty-third?”

I had clean forgot.

Setting Ireland: Myth, Legend, and History on the table, I said, “My father was born on the twenty-third day of the month.”

“Which month?”

“I couldn’t tell you. All we know—my mother and I—was that he was born on the twenty-third. And so twelve times a year we would celebrate his birthday. Not always with presents, but cake and a good meal. The best holiday repeated in every disposition a year can hold.”

Hawkes brought the knuckles of his hand up to the side of his mouth, thinking. “Wonderful.”

“It was.”

“And you’ve never looked at parish records?”

“He was born in Ireland. I’ve never been.”

“Would you want to know?” Hawkes asked.

It was the question my mother and I would discuss all the time, placing our bets behind one month or the other.

“I might someday, but not now. Right now, I enjoy the sacrosanct nature of the twenty-third, of every twenty-third.”

Hawkes nodded. “When is your birthday?”

“The thirteenth of January. I come into my majority next month.”

“Ah yes. Mr. Flat calls it The Day of Rank and Ruin.”

Cousin Archibald.

I could wring his neck.

“Isn’t the phrase Rack and Ruin?”

“It is,” Hawkes answered. “But I don’t think he knows that.”

I fell silent a moment until thoughts of my father reminded me of something I’ve been wanting to ask Hawkes.

“Hawkes?”

He waited.

“Was that Irish I heard you speaking? When you spoke with Tybalt? The day you gave me your luck?”

He rubbed his tired eyes with his fingers, then looked at me. “I’ve always thought the cats in our part of the world preferred Irish Gaelic. Wouldn’t you think?” And with that, Hawkes stood, picked up his cushion, and said, “Thank you for the Christmas present, Miss Lion.”

“Thank you for the book, Hawkes.”

“I’ll return Whitman soon.” He gave a single dip of his head and, acknowledging Islington and Pierce on his way out, disappeared into the night.

When I looked out the window, it was snowing.

December 25th  

It is a perfect Christmas morning.

A thick hoarfrost has covered all of St. Crispian’s, and as I sit on my window seat, a cup of warm chocolate in my hands, I’m gazing at a thousand refracting crystals hanging from every branch, stringing every roofline.

Dear me. I’m beginning to sound like Islington’s journal.

When he’d left last night—“to spend a dozen days answering the whims of a thousand nieces”—I wished him well.

“I’ll be buried by the New Year from exhaustion.”

“I’m going to have to meet these nieces, if they can put you in the ground in less than a week.”

“I’m sure you will.” He put on his hat. “At my funeral. Happy Christmas.”

Later

Rather than waiting for Boxing Day, I gave Agnes and Parian their gifts this afternoon. Agnes loved the recipe book, the pen set, as well as the pair of gloves.

“And did you see what Mr. Pierce gave me, Miss?”

“No, I did not,” I answered with some surprise.

She proffered a black-and-white photograph in a silver frame. It showed the outskirts of a small village, with my gaze being drawn beyond the stone houses and out to the moors. “Fishwick. My village. Mr. Pierce passed through and remembered that’s where I’m from.”

What a thing for Pierce to have done.

“It’s lovely, Agnes.”

Parian curled his lip a moment and opened his gift from me with an air of disinterest, and when he unwrapped the magnifying glass, he tried to look unimpressed. Blinking his eyes, giving a little sniff, he did say, “Quite handy, I should think.”

Then came time for the shoes. My instinct had warned it would be best if they’d not come from me, and so I’d left The Hound wrapping and written no card.

“This came for you as well,” I said. “I thought I’d save it for Christmas.”

Parian was baffled. “From whom?”

“The wrapping is from The Hound,” I answered truthfully.

He was taken aback to such a degree that after looking up and then back down at the opened gift half a dozen times, he fled the room.

Agnes and I looked at one another and smiled.

The next time I saw Parian, he was wearing his new shoes, and his collar was straighter.

I’ve opened my remaining presents here alone in the drawing room.

EMMA’S GIFTS

With Commentary

Aunt Eugenia sent a cream for my face.

Arabella is to be engaged by August. I recommend a robust beauty routine for you, as she insists you will help make up the wedding party.

Arabella sent three gifts. The first a pair of cosy house slippers, the second a pamphlet called To Marry a Fool for His Money, the third a spyglass!

I can’t imagine your feet are anything but frozen in that garret of yours.

I came across this pamphlet at the club. It was meant in jest, and the girls read it aloud in mock hysterics. I, however, feel it has some dictums every young woman should follow. However mercenary.

If I know you at all, you gaze out that crow’s nest window of yours. When I saw this, I suspected you might find it useful. Don’t tell Mother. She doesn’t believe a young woman should see beyond her drawing room.

And a delightful surprise gift from Roland! Tickets to a comic opera called Princess Ida, which will be playing at the Savoy Theatre the beginning of next year.

Emma,

I did not dare buy you a book. My record has been disheartening for one of a competitive nature. That battle will be pitched another day. I decided on a night of amusement.

As I am to be held captive at Spencer Court through Twelfth Night, I can’t help but feel you have done me great wrong by refusing to come. My Christmas Day will be under the strict commands of Lady Spencer, while you’ll be flung over the sofa in your drawing room, reading, eating, and revelling in the hedonistic pleasure of it all. I don’t fully wish the plague on you, but I wouldn’t be a former archenemy of any merit if I didn’t wish a little ill will at your desertion.

Your Obedient Servant,

Roland Sutherland

I think I’ll keep Roland.

Saffronia’s gift was the view from Primrose Hill gazing east, the pink light of the sunset catching the spires of the buildings visible. Simple, elegant, beautiful. I will hang it in my garret.

Smiling, I turned to the unknown delivery from The Hound. I have more than enough of Mrs. Penury’s—what shall I call it, a patronage? Ten pounds and a gold chair? I say, aye, a patronage if there ever was one—remaining to pay the debt owed. The Hound had taken great care to wrap the parcel, and I took equal care unfolding the paper.

I made a disbelieving sound. There before me was the first volume of Dr. Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language.

My very own.

Granted, upon further inspection, it was not the full volume, A–K, but rather a damaged copy of only A–J, forgetting K entirely.

(How is one supposed to look up Kaleidoscope?)

The binding matches the binding of the Whitman. Marbled cover of sea green, sky blue, and brown, with dark green spine and corners. The title was stamped in gold, and inside of the front cover was EML.

While the actual pages may be damaged leftovers, the binding itself is worth more than he was asking I pay.

There was a note included.

Miss Lion,

Enclosed are the remnants of a damaged copy I wouldn’t sell to anybody.

Except you, it seems.

I matched the binding to the book Pierce commissioned. This is your binding. It is one of a kind and won’t be replicated for anyone else. I will not bind a book for you in any other way.

Understood?

B. Chambers

Don’t forget to pay The Hound.

December 26th

Pierce is reading the paper, and I’m trying to find outrageous words whose definition I read aloud.

i.e., Finesse: an unnecessary word that is creeping into the language.

As it’s Boxing Day, I am Fending For My Own Comforts, with Agnes joining in the kitchen games of a friend and fellow servant who works for General Braithwaite, and Parian gone to visit a brother who lives in Shepherd’s Bush.

I told him to stay for a few days.

I don’t mind the quiet.

Later

Agnes was invited to visit her friend’s aunt for the last three days of December. The aunt is married to a farmer, and from all accounts there is a cadre of farmhands and stable boys.

A very desirable place to close out the year.

“My mother tells me,” Agnes said as she was setting a tea tray on my desk, “that when in service one does not take days.”

A thing I know too well from living with Cousin Matilde.

“Agnes, I think you should go to the farm. You work tremendously hard. I’ve given Parian leave to stay a few extra days with his brother. This is not a prison, and I want you to be happy in your work.”

“Oh, I am, Miss. I love Lapis Lazuli House.” Agnes arranged her face in as serious a way as she could. “Only I couldn’t in good conscious leave now. Even for a thrill.”

Even for a thrill.

Agnes, dear.

“Do you mean conscience? Didn’t your mother once tell you the lady of the house was also the conscience of the house?”

She nodded.

“While I find that tremendously untrue and dangerous,” I hedged, “in this one instance, I am telling you to go. Go!”

“If I go, Miss, you will be left alone. With Mr. Pierce.”

I lifted a hand to dispute but could not unhear my own conscience in agreement.

“He doesn’t live in the house, Agnes,” I managed.

Agnes’s cheeks pinked, but the brave girl held her ground. “He eats dinner with you half the nights of the week, his studio door is often open, and either you go into his studio or he comes into the drawing room every day, Miss.”

I think she had been practicing.

Granted, my behaviour with Pierce is not always acceptable. I not only know this, I understand it. Which, I argue, are two different things. I could blame it on my father simply for the fact that when I was a child and my mother began to teach me comportment, my father would make unhelpful comments from the corner.

She would straighten her shoulders.

He would add another clever remark, and then feel bad.

Mother would insist her daughter would know how to behave in the world.

Father would argue that Mother could begin reinforcing the daft notions of being a proper young lady when I was old enough.

“She’s ten years old, Mirabel. Don’t make a fuss. When she’s fifteen or sixteen, I can understand breaking her heart over the realities of life.”

“Fifteen? Sixteen! She’s not a criminal in Australia! She’s to live in England and—as I’ve family in certain circles of society—will be expected to handle herself as a young lady should.”

“She’s fine as she is.”

“She climbs trees in skirts.”

“A pair of trousers will sort that out.”

“Declan!”

So the conversation would go.

A deal was finally struck. I could be a child until twelve, and then Mother was going to finish me into something resembling…well, Arabella, if it ended us both.

She never had the chance.

Mother needn’t have worried.

Her older sister took up the job.

“Emma, if you’re going to eat biscuits, pretend like you don’t care either way.”

“Emma, pour the milk into the tea. Not like a flood! Now you’re simply dripping. Good heavens, girl. An even stream! An even stream!”

“Emma, if I see you sitting like a bludgeoned bird one more time…”

“Emma, don’t use the word bludgeoned.”

“Emma, measure your smile or I can’t think of anyone who would want to see it.”

“Emma, I despair of you.”

While Aunt Eugenia instructed me in societal standards throughout my youth, I truly learned to navigate by remembering my mother. She was gracious. She greeted people with sincerity. She tilted her hat just so, to best complement her face.

All this to say, Mother wouldn’t approve of Pierce, and I know it.

“You’re right to stay, Agnes,” I admitted. “But I promise to make it up to you.”

Agnes gave a full sigh of relief.

A touch dramatic.

“I’m ever so relieved, Miss. If I’m to get into The Society, I can’t have you causing a scandal.”

Ah.

Motive revealed.

December 27th

Mother always insisted that the week between Christmas Eve and the New Year was sacrosanct.

“I’ve two illustrated magazines and a new book,” she would say. “Don’t speak to me about anything unpleasant.” And we would all lay about the hearth, reading and doing word puzzles. Father would try his best, but every time he would pick up a pencil, Mother would say, “Declan. It’s Christmas. Must you work?”

“I’m just doing a wee bit of sketching, woman. Must you nag me so?”

She would tsk.

He would smile.

And later that day I’d find some remembrance of the day, pencilled in my father’s distinct style, left on my pillow.

Later

I’ve eleven sightings of The Roman that have made their way to me in one way or another—two of them having been yelled at me across the street by individuals who may or may not have been inebriated. (I’m making note of which reports are of the intoxicated variety, but keeping them all the same.) And then at dusk this evening a man left a note that The Roman had been seen by the fountain in Baron’s Square the last three nights running.

I thanked him, marked it on the map, and then after dinner I put on a walking skirt, my warm wool coat, and traipsed up to Baron’s Square. It was quiet, cold, and there was no Roman.

General Braithwaite kept an eye on me from the second story of his house, and I waved.

He rapped his sabre against the window.

I sat, with my hands tucked under my arms, for as long as I dared. And finally went home.

December 28th

Speak of the devil and he appeareth.

To be fair, I hadn’t spoken of him, and he isn’t quite the devil.

But appeareth he certainly did.

After reading Ireland: Myth, Legend, and History in my garret until well after midnight, I threw a robe over my nightdress and took myself to see if there was anything in the pantry worth getting to know better. Agnes is sound asleep, Cousin Archibald haunting Bournemouth, and Parian is still at his brother’s.

Pierce? I’ve no idea where he’s taken himself to.

Hopefully not The Cleopatra.

Yesterday he drank three glasses of whisky, all before dinner.

I digress.

As I was coming down the staircase into the silent hall, I thought I noticed something. Not a knock, or a voice. But a feeling arrested my footsteps. I opened the door and looked out.

Empty as a tomb.

Cold. Quiet.

Closing the door and relocking it firmly, I turned towards the kitchen only to be caught by the drawing room door. It was open. An inch. I was certain I’d closed it before I went up to the garret earlier in the evening.

Grabbing an umbrella from the stand in the hall, my heart a pounding drum—wondering why on earth I don’t have a cricket bat—I pushed the door open.

The curtains were pulled back, the entire room outlined by a street lamp.

And in Hawkes’s chair, a figure.

I thought for a moment it may be the man himself.

It was not. For the glow of a cigarette butt was hovering in the dark.

“Hello, Jack,” I said, trying not to sound as if I were at all startled.

“Hello, Emma.”

I sat down across from him. “How did you get in?”

“Working locks is part of my living.” A smile was torn away from his hard expression, but beneath it was a bleakness he made no effort to hide. “Do you smoke?” he asked. A way of enquiring if I would allow it, I surmise.

“No.”

“Do you want to learn?”

“Not particularly.”

He blew out a stream of smoke. “I like the ritual of the thing.”

“There are other rituals.”

“I suppose.”

“Would you like tea?” When he didn’t respond, I attempted, “Or something stronger, perhaps?”

His jaw led the single shake of his head.

Then he surprised me. “Do you have chocolate.”

And it wasn’t a question. There was no question mark. It was a statement of the only thing he found acceptable.

“Yes,” I replied. “Agnes has some in the pantry. I will only be a moment.”

But he stood, and followed me into the hall, through the corridor, and down the kitchen stairs. I lit the lamps and told Jack he could sit at the table while I heated some water.

“I didn’t guess Islington to be your muse.”

Eyebrow raised, I glanced over at him. “My muse? What on earth are you talking about?”

He looked towards the wall.

Of course. Islington, in all his glory. Only the daisy chains over his portrait had been replaced by holly, ivy, and a mistletoe.

“Oh dear. Yes. I mean, no. A friend painted the portrait, and my cook took a liking. Admittedly, I’ve become fond of this two-dimensional duke. He criticises less than the living, breathing version.”

I had not made chocolate since leaving Cousin Matilde’s.

She forbade the treasonous act—tea the only acceptable thing—so I would sneak down late at night and make a cup, thick and bitter. This late-night visit from Jack resurrected all the feelings of delicious contraband. I found some shortbread in the cupboard, a few three-day-old jam dodgers, and a bowl of walnuts.

We feasted in silence, Jack alternating between drinking, eating, and smoking. All with a preoccupied expression. After I’d served us our second cup, he looked directly at me.

“I don’t owe you an apology, but I thought I would give you one just the same.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“It must have been a strain on your morality, to lie to a dying woman.”

I wanted to throttle him for what he’d asked of me.

When I said nothing—a wise course I rarely take—he gave his own raw assessment of his performance. “She deserved better than that.”

“She did,” I answered carefully.

I had a feeling that Jack did not often remove the predatorial act that covered the real person beneath, but the turn of his mouth and the honest blink of his eyes were a clear signal that here, in the Lapis Lazuli kitchen, he needed to be a young man who had lost his mother, rather than an effective wheel in the cog of London’s shadier machine.

“Jack?”

“Yes?”

“I can’t say this for certain, but I think if she could have seen you at Fortitude, helping me reclaim Jane Eyre, if she had seen the glasses, the quick wit and quicker fingers, all for a charitable cause, she would have thought it a good thing.”

He took out another cigarette, lit it, blew the smoke across the table, and said, “Perhaps.”

“I don’t think she would have approved of The Drunken Duck.”

This brought a smile. “My mother preferred a chapel to dance halls.”

“I’d imagine.” And then, because his mother had granted me every right to be nosey, I asked, “That man with the scar whom I gave the bracelet to—is he a good man to know? To do business with?”

Jack’s eyes narrowed in challenge, the smoke he released slowly through his lips adding to the menace. “No.”

I wanted to say, “Then why deal with him at all?”

Instead, I settled with, “Be careful. Please.”

“Are you worried for me, strudel?”

“No.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m merely fulfilling my promise to your mother.”

“And protecting your investment?” He lifted both his eyebrows and delivered half a grin.

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m a fair man. I have a code, and I abide by it. You not only discharged your second and last favour to me, but you went above and beyond. The scales tipped. I’m in your debt.”

“Your mother was not a transaction.”

“No, but you answered for more than you owed, nevertheless. You can’t deny it, we both know it to be true.”

Jack. Owing me a favour.

Dangerous.

Intriguing.

Possibly an ace to keep up my sleeve.

“Ever the confidence man,” I replied.

“Always,” he said, putting his cigarette out on his plate. “Do you mind if I slip out your back door?”

“You probably should.”

Tilting his head in agreement, he did the unexpected—he stacked the plates, snagged our cups by their handles, and walked to the sink. He took the remaining water from the kettle and proceeded to wash each dish. I watched in amazement. Before I could ask him as to why, he said, “My mother was a scullery maid when she was a girl. It scarred her hands.”

It was a small act, this washing up. But it eased some of the guilt I feel for having Jack Hollingstell in my life.

December 29th

Agnes has been accepted into the Society of St. Crispian’s Senior Servants!

The two of us held an impromptu celebration in the kitchen.

“It’s been ages since I made chocolate. Care for a cup, Miss?”

Having chocolated with Jack, I declined, then asked cheerfully, “What sorts of things does the Society of St. Crispian’s Senior Servants do?”

Agnes, whose straight shoulders and no nonsense motions she’d acquired upon opening the letter only an hour before, answered, “Now, Miss, it’s private like. Ya ken?”

And thus I was summarily dismissed!

By Scottish slang, no less.

Later

Parian is just home. I would say he looks refreshed, but I suspect his festivities were a good deal more robust than mine.

“Welcome home, Parian,” I said pleasantly as we met on the stairs. “I assume you’re going to be running up to Bournemouth to care for Cousin Archibald now that you’re home from holiday?”

To which Parian fell on his knees—I lie not—clasped my hand, and said, “I will serve you, Miss Lion, here. I will help Agnes. I will scour the floors. But do not send me back to that place.”

Reclaiming my hand as quickly as possible, I answered, “I’m not accustomed to men kneeling before me. It feels very medieval.”

“Please,” he pleaded.

“All right then. I’ll send a letter to Mr. Flat telling him you’re needed at Lapis Lazuli.”

Parian’s face collapsed in relief.

“Now go ask Agnes for a list of household chores she needs done.”

His accustomed sneer started to rise, but he caught himself and bowed his head until I’d walked past him.

December 30th

I did not manage to attend church this morning.

I meant to.

Meaning, I meant to attend, not that I meant to be absent.

Only I’d picked up Father’s Ireland: Myth, Legend, and History and missed the meeting entirely.

In the afternoon, when I had bathed myself, fixed my hair, and put on one of my nicer afternoon dresses as penance, there was a knock at the door.

Parian answered—earning his keep—and into the drawing room came a boy who looked to be eleven or so. Cap in hand, wearing his Sunday Best, but I’m guessing he’d spent the last hour playing marbles. I was sitting in the pink chair, but seeing his state, I did not invite him to sit.

“Hello,” I said.

“You the one looking for The Roman?” the boy said.

“I am. Do you have a sighting for me?”

“Nah. I mean…nah. I run my own rackets. My business is my business.” He was taking himself quite seriously for one so small. I liked him immensely. “I thought it might be you huntin’ him and all,” he finished.

“Have we met?” I asked.

“Behind the fence. You were after clues.”

“Ah! For Julius Caesar! A pleasure to see you again. Might I ask your name?”

“Call me Racket.”

Racket.

As in future racketeer?

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Racket. I’m Miss Lion.”

“I have a message for you.”

“Have you?”

“From the vicar.”

“Young Hawkes?”

“Yeah, Hawkes.” Racket scuffed his boot.

“What’s the message?”

“He’d like you to come to confession tomorrow.”

“Confession?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Where?” I enquired.

“At the church.”

“When?”

“He said”—and Racket gave the exact wording his full consideration—“tell her it’s easier to confess in the morning, but more beautiful to confess at dusk.”

There you have it.

The Gospel according to Hawkes.

“Is it?” I replied. “Tell him I’ll be along at dusk then.”

“He also told me to tell you that we sang ‘A Mighty Fortress is Our God.’ And you missed it.”

I laughed. “Pity I did. Now I have a message for you.”

Racket’s expression turned wary.

“Last month I visited a Mrs. Burns, who lives here on Whereabouts.”

A glint of understanding in Racket’s eye.

“She’s very concerned that the neighbourhood boys play marbles in her garden, you see, and asked me to intervene. Do you think you could find a better location for your sporting pursuits?”

Giving a shrug, Racket was all disinterest. “Don’t see why not. Her garden’s better for Snap, anyhow.”

Racket turned heel and sauntered out of the room.

Now I’ve only to discover if I have any great indiscretion to confess which of my indiscretions he’s expecting me to confess.

There’s no point in telling him everything.

Is there?

December 31st

I have found my own Latin phrase, Pierce.

HAVE YOU?

Igne natura renovator integra.

IN ENGLISH?

Through fire, nature is reborn whole.

IT’S GOOD. VERY GOOD. AND FITTING, I THINK.

I believe so.

Later

Having committed my most recent sins to paper, and deciding they are nothing worth fleeing the country over, I’m ready to go and face the (unorthodox) representative of my Maker.

I’m not claiming God has favourites; he emphatically insists he’s No Respecter of Persons.

However.

If he did, Hawkes might just very well be it.

Later

It is twenty-seven minutes to midnight, a New Year following twelve clangs that will ring out. And I feel I’ve stepped into the realm of Titania and Oberon, where mortals are blessed and cursed in the same sparkling breath. The revels are come and gone. And all have finally made amends.

I’ve given Hawkes back his luck tonight, and may it continue to do him the good it has done me. As for the part of my life that calls forth grace? I think that is mine to keep.

When I entered the church, it was quiet. Empty. A rather blue cold. I walked up the centre aisle of the nave and veered into the north transept where the door of Hawkes’s study—formerly known as the old vestry—was an inch open. A faint light floated into the transept.

I knocked.

“Come in.”

Hawkes was standing with his right elbow leaning against the top of a full bookshelf, the last light coming through a thin window onto the pages of the book he was holding with his left hand.

It was my Whitman.

“Hello, Miss Lion.”

He didn’t look up, and so I took the opportunity to not mind my own business.

Books on the shelf. Read and loved, if I know anything. One side of his desk was against the wall so that if he were sitting, he would face the door. There were two chairs. One behind the desk for Hawkes, one on the other side for a visitor. The room had a painting—not one of my father’s—of an orchard.

The book snapped shut and I started.

Hawkes was looking at me, more than one thought on his mind.

“Shall we sit?” He motioned me into the chair before his desk. I took it and watched while he lit a lamp on the bookshelf and left it there, the warm light against the fading cool through the glass. He then sat on his own chair.

I can understand why Islington listens to Hawkes’s sermons from that room.

It’s a peaceful, tucked away sort of place.

Taking off my hat and gloves, I looked about. “Where is the infamous curtain?”

I could swear a light flashed across Hawkes’s eyes. He reached down behind his desk and pulled up…well, a curtain. It was a simple contraption, a picture frame with a board along the bottom so that it would stand up. Near the top was a wooden dowel set inside the frame, and hanging from the dowel was a curtain. It looked to be made from the silk of one of Cousin Archibald’s more extravagant morning robes, with colours of all kinds in a garish paisley pattern.

I loved and hated it in equal measure.

Hawkes set it on the end of the desk that pressed against the wall.

“If you want the authentic experience,” he said, “you should arrange your chair so you’re leaning against the wall and completely hidden behind the curtain.”

I did so.

If one is going to experience confession, authentic seems the way to approach it.

Waiting only a moment, I drew on any knowledge I have of what a confession consists of, and said, “Forgive me, Young Hawkes, for I have sinned and imagine I will again.”

There was the sound of a smile that came from behind the curtain.

“I’m certain you will,” he finally answered. “But I didn’t ask you here to confess anything relating to your many marvellous transgressions.”

I pushed the curtain aside to see his face. “You didn’t?”

Hawkes stared back, the final light from the window catching his blue eyes, the rest of his face in shadow. “No, I didn’t,” he said. “Although auricular confession is becoming a more common practice in the Anglican church, I’m not keen to encourage it in St. Crispian’s. My objection is my own sanity, rather than some of the common complaints.”

“What are those common complaints?”

“Some argue it weakens male authority in the family.”

I believe I scrunched up my nose at this point. “Why on earth would anyone think that?”

Hawkes shrugged. “A wife could come in and confess whatever she liked, speak to a clergyman instead of her husband. There have been several critics regarding the practice.”

“Well, I didn’t even know it was practiced outside the Catholic church. I’m not very good at being Anglican. Our parish growing up had an old rector who couldn’t do more than read a few beatitudes.”

“I’m sure your father appreciated the brevity.”

“He did,” I replied. “My mother always claimed he’d benefit from Christianity in Long Form.”

This made Hawkes trade me a full smile.

“What did you ask me here for, if not a confession?” I asked.

Hawkes looked pointedly towards my hand. “Drop the curtain and I’ll tell you.”

I dropped the curtain.

“Emma,” he said. Which felt like an occasion. He’d never used my Christian name before.

“Hawkes the Fox,” I replied.

He paused.

I grinned.

Pointedly ignoring his honorific appointed by The Reprobates Ten, he pressed on.

Hawkes: “I mind my own business as closely as possible.”

Emma: “I concur.”

Hawkes: “Do you?”

Emma: “Concur?”

Hawkes: “Yes.”

Emma: “Yes.”

Hawkes: “I don’t think this sort of conversation requires a concurrent.”

Emma: “Pity. Go on, Hawkes.”

He paused, then continued. “The nature of being a vicar means one is often involved, if not aware of, significant happenings in the lives of the parishioners. Now, while you are surrounded with discreet individuals—”

I pulled the curtain away. Cousin Archibald doesn’t even exist in the same county as discreet. “That’s a bit rich, dear vicar. You forget my Unfortunate Relation.”

“True.” He mussed his hair.

I closed the curtain again.

“All this to say,” he continued, “I know you’ve lost someone important to you. That he was only recently buried. I’ll intrude no more, only you look much better than you did a month ago.”

“Did Pierce say—”

“Pierce said nothing. Cousin Archibald mentioned it at the time, as I believe your aunt may have written him when it first happened. Agnes chattered out the rest on Sunday, thinking I knew.”

I leaned into the wall and let my head fall against it. I could feel the cold stone on the skin of my temple. I’d not known Aunt Eugenia had written Archibald when Maxwell died, and as much as he’s the last person in the world one would want to trust with any private information, I thought it was a kind, if misled, gesture on my aunt’s part.

I’m not surprised Agnes had assumed Hawkes knew.

I don’t fault her for it.

Hawkes hadn’t expected or even invited my confidence, but in that moment, he felt like a place more than a person, a space set aside, where time moved differently, and one could find refuge. And so I said what I’d not yet said aloud to anyone. Not even myself. “I wasn’t prepared, no matter how long I’d been thinking that day might come. I wasn’t ready for how difficult it would be.”

I closed my eyes, but Hawkes only waited until I was ready to continue.

“No one warns that you can be ripped, joint from bone, simply by staring at a box, simply by holding a bit of earth in your hand. Mother was a great admirer of the Virgin Mary, and I know that phrase always moved her. ‘Yea, a sword shall pierce through thy own soul also.’  It may be blasphemous to say it, but that’s how I felt, standing there. And not only did the sword pierce, but it was twisted before the end.”

I couldn’t believe I’d finally said the words aloud. Utterly honest and bare.

It helped that I couldn’t see Hawkes, glad as I was that he was the one listening. I suppose the consequence of being a secret is that people feel safe trusting you with theirs.

I spoke the words I felt like telling myself. “I’m mending. I’ve begun to breathe deeper. And your silly pirates and pieces of eight. Well.” I opened my eyes as the glow of the lamp replaced the faded daylight. “He said goodbye, and I’ve almost become brave enough to say it back. To see a life ahead, even if it’s different from what I’d planned.”

Then quiet.

Hawkes began slowly. “It takes a great deal to trust the future after one is acquainted with loss.”

“It feels impossible, for longer than is comforting. And then too tentative to trust.”

“It does. But it seems that sword pierced Christ so that we always have a future. Even one different than planned.”

I have been thinking about this ever since he said it. And I confess that the grace my mother would speak of with such feeling took on a greater dimension than the passing interest I’d always given.

“So one trusts the future,” I answered. “Despite knowing loss will be had again.”

“That seems to be what we are called to do.”

“Keep looking for sun on the horizon?”

“Keep looking for sun on the horizon.”

“Faith in the abstract is more comfortable,” I said.

I heard an amused sound, then, “It is. But I begin to suspect that faith made concrete is more comforting.”

I smiled ruefully to myself.

Then Hawkes shifted, or something did. And I can’t explain how I knew, because I couldn’t see him, nor he me, but it was like someone opened a window.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

“I can’t see you as it is,” I replied.

“Close your eyes.”

I did. And there is nothing like being told to close one’s eyes that makes it difficult to keep one’s eyes closed. My eyelids kept bouncing and letting in lamplight until I set my face, squeezed my eyelids together, and then relaxed.

“Settle your mind; you’re jolting from here to there,” Hawkes said, as if it were completely normal to assume what anyone was thinking. I complied, taking a deep breath until my shoulders released their tension. “Think about the months and years ahead. See yourself in them. Going about your day. Whatever brings you a smile, whatever it is you want to find there. What do you see?”

I drew my eyebrows together, focusing my thoughts on some future that—

“Don’t try and force it with your reason,” Hawkes said, interrupting my efforts.

Pulling my mouth to the side, I let out a breath, and with whatever tricks my mind was trying to conjure, I simply leaned forward into the future I wanted to find.

I was sitting at a table near a window, two or three books at my elbow. I’d a stack of letters ready to post. A cat was curled up on the chair across the room. It wasn’t Tybalt. Early spring, and the window open, but a small fire warming the shadows of the room.

No one was with me. I was alone, and happy to be so. But there was a sense of company having been often in the place. I didn’t seem to be living in extravagance. I didn’t seem to be living with worry. I was happy, and home. There were daffodils in a vase. And just when I thought the edges were fading, that I had seen what I’d needed to see, I heard it.

Clear as day.

Footsteps on the stairs.

There were footsteps on the stairs. And I knew they did not belong to Agnes. Nor anyone in my employ. They sounded like someone as at home as I was. And the very centre of my heart knew they belonged there.

I opened my eyes and blinked, for the strange rush of returning to myself.

I forced the curtain aside. “How did you do that?” I demanded.

Hawkes, leaning back, arms crossed, did not look startled. “Do what?”

“Whatever magic that was.”

Saying nothing, Hawkes simply waited.

“I was there,” I exclaimed. “I could see myself, and the fire, the cool from the window, the table was piled with books, and I was writing something. And it was life, my life, and…and there were footsteps on the stairs.”

“Whose?”

“I don’t know. But he sounded like the other half of home.”

Hawkes moved a hand through his tussled hair, and I let the curtain fall, leaning back against the wall.

It feels almost mad to write it out, but there was such clarity. As we sat there in silence, something nudged my heart into the attitude of looking forward. Perhaps it was a trick of the mind. But it didn’t feel like one. It felt as real as a prophecy.

I don’t know how much time had passed when Hawkes stood, removed the confession curtain from his desk, and put it back on the floor.

It was dark through the window.

A year closing.

Hawkes put on his overcoat, a scarf, and turned down the lamp. He took my Whitman from his desk and slid it into his pocket. I’d wordlessly replaced my hat, securing it with my hatpin, and pulled my gloves back onto my fingers.

In silence we left the old vestry and walked through the shadows of the nave. Hawkes locked the door behind us. Dark as the churchyard was, The Cleopatra was ablaze, and a disordered song poured out the door as someone walked in. All along Traitors Road the lamps were lit, and couples were walking together, pointing out their favourites.

“Would you care to join Lapis Lazuli to celebrate the New Year?” I asked Hawkes, my breath turning the words into clouds.

“I’ve a previous commitment, but thank you all the same.” He pulled the book of Whitman’s poetry from his pocket and handed it to me. “Thank you. I think you will find something here.”

“Did you?”

“A reminder that living is a thing of wonder.”

“Yes.”

Hawkes wrapped his hands behind his back. He looked at The Cleopatra, then back at me. “I’ve something to tell you. I hope you don’t mind hearing it.”

“Heavens!” I laughed. “Is it so very terrible? Are you going to ask I recite the Lord’s Prayer as penance for my sins?”

“The Roman has requested you rescind your call for sightings.”

It was certainly not what I was expecting to hear.

I felt a measure of embarrassment, and another of comedic appreciation. “You’ve spoken with him, The Roman?”

“The other night, yes. We were both wandering about.”

“And he told you he doesn’t want Emma Lion tracking his movements.”

“He said he needed to come and go on his own terms, and would I please tell the lovely maiden on Whereabouts Lane to abandon her inquiry. No offense meant or taken. As it happens, he was tremendously flattered.”

“Are you teasing me, Hawkes?”

He tilted his head. “No, Miss Lion.”

“All right, then. I’ll take the map down before Cousin Archibald returns.”

And with that, Hawkes nodded, his eyes lingering on mine only a moment before stepping away and walking down Traitors Road.

I took myself home.

As I was coming up to the door, Pierce was leaving Lapis Lazuli Minor.

“Emma,” he said, his face shadowed beneath his hat. He was wearing his formal attire.

“You’re off to a party, I presume,” I said.

“No rest for the wicked. I thought you’d gone off to a dinner yourself.”

“Tonight is for home, I think. Perhaps sitting at the window. Perhaps an early sleep.”

Something about the fresh darkness recalled the night I’d stood outside Lapis Lazuli, and he’d walked up Whereabouts, and a kind of magic laced all the pieces of night together.

A similar thought may have crossed Pierce’s mind, for he took half a step forward, his silver eyes lights of their own beneath the brim of his hat. A hand lifted, only a fraction, then dropped again.

He said, “A Happy New Year, Emma.”

“Happy New Year, Niall.”

His sleeve brushed against mine, and he was down Whereabouts Lane, his limp not so pronounced.

I went inside.

Dinner was warm and simple, and Agnes made a special pudding in honour of the occasion. I took my own portion to the garret, leaving Agnes and Parian to celebrate in the kitchen. Once in my room, I changed my clothes, washed my face, and braided my hair. Feat accomplished, I wrapped a blanket around me, grabbed my journal, and set about watching the street.

Well. The Roman has spoken.

I’m astonished he cared to know what I was doing in the first place.

Alas.

A new year tomorrow, and my mind feels clear. I keep thinking of the beginning of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, when Theseus, bored while waiting for his wedding, decides to disturb the intervening hours with enjoyments.

Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments.

Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth.

He then promises pomp, triumph, and revelling. And why not? Why not claim the spirit of mirth for the year ahead if one can catch it?

The year is fresh and unworn, and I’ve not wanted to look ahead, truly ahead, for so long now that I’m determined to keep hold of the courage to do it.

Almost midnight now, my face pressed against the cool glass.

I can almost hear them.

Footsteps on the stairs.

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

Vermilion and the Flaming Sword  

Purchased without a cover at The Dalliance

Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson

Gifted by Young Hawkes

Plutarch’s Lives by Plutarch

Gifted by Islington

Song of Myself by Walt Whitman

Gifted by Niall Pierce

Ireland: Myth, Legend, and History

by Alistair T. Moddle and Jonathan L. Kirk

(Rapscallion Commentary by Declan Lion)

Gifted by Young Hawkes

Dictionary of the English Language A–J by Dr. Samuel Johnson

Purchased from and bound by The Hound

(The entire K section is missing.)

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. 6 is now available.

Sincerely,

Emma