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Dedication

Emma M. Lion

would like to dedicate these pages to those

who take courage & listen for footsteps on the stairs.

Previously Mentioned

PERSONS OF INTEREST

Emma M. Lion – Myself, obviously. Owner of Lapis Lazuli House.

Archibald Flat –  Still a General Plague on mankind. Yet, one must endure.

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

Lady Eugenia Spencer – Aunt with engagement plans for Arabella’s Season.

Damian Spencer  – Errant cousin. Currently…I’ve no idea, actually.  

Arabella Spencer  – Beauty of The Season, will become engaged…to someone.

Parian – Valet, Butler. Less unpleasant than he was.

Agnes – Maid, Cook. Scottish. Impressively capable and earnest.

Niall Pierce – Photographer. Avenging Angel. Much yet to discover.

Young Hawkes – Vicar and Reprobate. Knower of things. Keeper of secrets.

Duke of Islington – Ceasefire called. Will battle for his friends, not only against.

The Roman – Still not seen in person. However, he thinks I’m lovely.

Mary Bairrage – Good chum. Employed by telephone company and Prof. Fletcher.

Jack Hollingstell – Confidence man in my debt. Terrifying thought.

Roland Sutherland – Childhood nemesis turned gorgeous Sun God.

Saffronia March – Artist. Family friend. Fellow St. Crispian.

Charles Goddard – Tall. Skinny. Flagpole! My Unintended Intended. Sigh.

Mr. Penury – Banker endeavouring to find me work.

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

Lady Sheridan –  Aunt Eugenia’s friend. Society Matron.

Professor Fletcher – Widower. Masculine. Cuts own hair. Terrible glasses.

Ben Chambers – The Pirate. Ornery and insulting owner of The Hound.

Lady Trewartha – Gracious Hostess. Lives in Baron’s Square.

Reprobates Ten – Striker, Capper, Quality Jones, Sargent, The Boy, Mastiff, Charlie Cross, Odysseus, Night Watchman, & Mighty Nigel Hawkes.

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

January 1st

This is just the sort of day of which I approve. Brilliant, crisp, clear—owing to a wind that raced through London in the early hours of the morning. Fresh as a New Year deserves.

I’ve walked across Regent’s, scalloped the edges of Marylebone, and am now sitting on a bench in Hyde Park. While not many are out this morning, there are enough specimens to entertain. There’s an optimistic carriage or two of ladies, acting more at ease than they must surely be, due to the cold temperatures. A few knots of riders, mostly men, but some women with their grooms trailing behind. As for the walkers, each and every young woman—some familiar to me, most not—is chaperoned by a respectable female, be she a mother, an aunt, or one of the hired variety.

I suppose there must be one exception to prove the rule.

How magnanimous of me.

Now for the reason of my robust ambulatory efforts. I have walked farther than usual to clear my head and consider the year before me.

1884.

The year I gain my majority.

Which, in the Dictionary of Emma M. Lion, means a good deal of freedom.

So very close I can taste the tang of it on my tongue.

A friend of mine from Fortitude once expressed fuss and worry over coming of age. “So much on one’s own shoulders! I can’t imagine how I’ll stand the responsibility. I’d much rather continue as I am.” I remember staring a moment and then exchanging a pointed look with Mary.

The weight of my entire life had already been placed on my shoulders, but I’d not been given any of the power. And without power, there is little freedom.

But in thirteen days, I will be—in the eyes of the law and without equivocation—the legal mistress of my own home.

Whether I can summon the finances to keep said Legal Home is yet to be determined…

Stealing a Titian from Islington’s walls in order to finance my desired end is likely not morally responsible.

(Is art theft so morally irresponsible?)

(And how many Titians does a duke need?)

Later

Having spent most of the day wondering how one goes about stealing great pieces of art, I’ve decided my efforts ought to be directed towards hard work and pluck.

For now.

January 2nd

My purpose this morning is setting a course of study for the year ahead. Woefully aware of how short last year’s attempts fell, I sit solemnly at my desk, fully dressed, inkwell filled with the blackest of inks, pen nibs clean, and wearing a set of bent brass spectacles I found in the west garret. There are no lenses in the spectacles, only the frames, which will more than do since my eyes don’t need corrective lenses.

Yet.

I intend to rectify that as quickly as possible, bending over my tomes, reading by the stubs of candles I can’t afford, and ruining my eyes in a most glorious manner. Clearly, I have the self-sabotaging negligence required.

The Year in Which Emma Becomes a Scholar

A serious study of a not-so-strenuous schedule

I am currently working my way through Latin Phrases for the Unrepentant for a second time, wishing to increase my knowledge of the Latin itself. It is an easy temptation to be armed with witty phrases but no knowledge. This I will might ought intend to study every day. The same process applies to Dr. Johnson’s dictionary A–J. Speaking of said dictionary, I must remember to send Parian down to The Hound with 1s5d for The Pirate’s coffers.

Regarding my other books, I have laid out a plan.

 January: Continue with Ireland: Myth, Legend, and History. So many of these tales were told to me as stories before bed—my father’s usual toppled humour with some salt thrown in.

February: Whitman’s “Song of Myself.” Pierce gifted it, Hawkes enjoyed it, but it was Islington’s disapproval that carries the greatest recommendation.

 March: Begin Plutarch’s Lives of Illustrious Men. Remind Islington that he has yet to be included in their number.

An aside concerning Plutarch. When Agnes saw my Christmas gift from Islington, the freckles on her face shifted crossways in disapproval. She had assumed Plutarch was not writing about the lives of many others, but his many lives.

“My mother says reincarnation is a sin, Miss Lion.”

“Well, Agnes, for it to be a sin, one would have to have the capacity for reincarnation and then act on it. Do you see?”

She did not see.

January 3rd

Ridiculous—and more than a little unfair—that I’m being called upon to defend Pierce’s actions.

Am I Niall Pierce’s keeper?

The Whereabouts Lane Committee appeared on my doorstep this afternoon. Two of their number, that is, Mr. Spout and Mr. Lacey. I invited them in, Agnes assembled a decent enough tea (the pantry is a touch bare), and after they were served, I asked, “How might I help you gentlemen?”

“We’re here to discuss the American,” said Lacey.

“Yes,” said Spout.

“Indeed,” reiterated Lacey.

My eyebrows drew together. “Mr. Pierce?”

“The very same,” said Spout.

“You see, we need proof,” said Lacey.

“Proof of neighbourhood loyalty,” added Spout.

“Proof of loyalty?” I repeated.

“The very same. Both from Mr. Pierce and the Lapis Lazuli household.”

“Pierce is as loyal as he needs to be,” I defended, despite my confusion. “As for the Lapis Lazuli household, not only did we sponsor your illuminated pumpkins on All Hallows’ Eve, but we also Christmas Eved quite nicely, with guests and puddings, which must count for something.”

Mr. Lacey cleared his throat. “Several eyewitnesses testified that on All Hallows’ Eve, Mr. Pierce was drinking at The Cleopatra rather than attending the celebration. As for Christmas Eve, you very well may have had a wonderful time, but there was no seeing Mr. Pierce at the service.”

I gave my head a single shake. “Did you say ‘testified’?”

“St. Crispian’s is a serious neighbourhood, Miss Lion,” Spout sputtered. “If Americans can’t see that and act accordingly…”

“But he’s not an American! A fact well established last October, if you recall.”

Said Established Fact went unheeded.

Lacey frowned. “Miss Lion, we all expected to have an American on full display for at least one holiday the end of last year. We did not.” He lifted his hands in a What Is A Man To Do? manner. “Traitors Road has had one for years, and rumour has it Sterling Street might be on the verge of their own acquisition. The Whereabouts Committee has decided a show of loyalty to our own little lane will help heal the wounds…”

“Wounds?”

“…created by his absence. You must understand this?”

“Must I?”

“Any show of good faith,” Lacey said, as if it were perfectly reasonable.

“A token is all,” added Spout.

“I understand,” I replied, wishing to end the conversation. “I’ll speak to Mr. Pierce.”

They left satisfied.

Pierce will not be happy.

January 4th

Agnes and I have been discussing the menu. Meaning, I sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, attempting to mitigate my disinterest, while Agnes asks for my opinions.

I find I have very few.

“You don’t need me for this, Agnes, truly,” I attempted. “I’m not finicky—never have been—and you’re well aware of our budgetary restraints. I trust your discernment entirely.”

“All great ladies consult their cook on such matters.”

“Quizzing out the particulars of your sentence allows for my exclusion from said activities,” I replied.

Agnes knit her eyebrows in confusion.

I sighed, my cleverness wasted. “Never mind. What was it you said about the fish?”

As Parian passed through the kitchen, I took the opportunity to order him down to The Hound to pay my outstanding debt. “And pass by The Keep on the way home. I’ve misplaced some shoe blacking and wonder if it wandered off. Blue tin, half used.”

“But I was hoping to finish polishing the banister this morning,” he whined.

“A servant who obeys without question is rarely let go without reason,” Agnes stated, her head still bent over her collection of recipes.

I smiled brightly. “Well said, Agnes.”

“It’s in my Senior Servants book, Miss.”

Parian left immediately for The Hound.

As for Pierce, he must have gone out. Convenient, as I’ve no great wish to speak with him of the Whereabouts Lane Committee.

Later

Ben Chambers is so very skilled at remaining unlikable.

When Parian returned—having found the wrong shoe blacking at The Keep—he said, “Mr. Chambers asked after you.”

Looking up from the tedious chore before me—darning—I said, “Is that so?”

I should have known that Parian’s smugness was a harbinger of Unpleasantness to Come.

“He asked if you were reading your dictionary, as ‘owning a dictionary without reading it constitutes as gross a crime against humanity as there can be, and that persons who do so ought to be drawn and quartered.’”

Pricking myself with my needle did nothing to improve the bent expression on my face. “You can tell Mr. Chambers that when he begins selling dictionaries containing the letter K for reasonable prices, he may have the right to enquire after my reading habits.”

I stuck my needle forcefully into the innocent stocking on my lap.

Parian’s eyes went a little wide. He quickly left the room.

January 5th

I’ve woken earlier than the rest of St. Crispian’s. It is quite cold outside the cocoon of my blankets. And now that my mind has merged the images of sleep with my waking thoughts, I realise that Hawkes had been in my dream.

He and I were wandering St. Crispian’s, just past the gallows. Beyond Traitors Road the entire neighbourhood fell away, and below the unexpected cliff rolled a great sea. We sat on an overlooking bench. He was reading. What, I don’t know.

“I didn’t realise this was here,” I said.

Hawkes scratched his temple as he gave an absent nod, then turned the page of his book.

Then I woke, rubbing at my eyes, staring at the whitewashed ceiling of the garret.

Later

There are good things despite the January cold, and I have proof. An invitation has arrived in an unmarked envelope. And with it, a scarlet mask fashioned with feathers and gold beading. I found both items on the sideboard in the hall.

“Who brought this, Parian?” I asked. He was busy polishing the banister—having not finished yesterday—and glanced down at the mask in my hand.

“I couldn’t say. It was left outside the door after a boisterous knock.”

“How wonderful!”

I approve of boisterous knocks.

Parian does not.

The invitation itself is printed with gold on oxblood-coloured paper.

Nefarious?

Ominous?

Unclear at this stage. Having a degree of concern it might be from Jack, I move with caution.

I pause in my narrative to open said invitation…

Ah!

A celebration this evening! For Twelfth Night!

How marvellous.

The Attire? Something to match the mask, I’d imagine.

The Location? Knightsbridge.

The Host? I’d absolutely no idea until I’d turned the card over and was met with:

“Do come.”

“Jolly good fun.”

“Waste Twelfth Night in our blessed company.”

“Come along, Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

“Don’t be a bore.”

“All the fun in the world.”

“Taste of this fruit, Miss Lion.” (Oh dear.)

“Your court awaits.”

“A romp is in order.”

And finally, scribbled at the bottom of the card was a line from The Comedy of Errors:

“Cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.”

Even Hawkes extends the invitation, I see.

In theory, I might give brief consideration if I ought to make my way to Knightsbridge this evening. But seeing as how my very own vicar has quoted the Bard in favour of the scheme, I consider it my spiritual duty to follow.

“Better cheer you may have, but not with a better heart.”

Later

Agnes is arranging my hair. She is determined to use curling tongs on the entire disaster, and so I’m sitting in the kitchen near the fire while she tortures away.

“Is this necessary, Agnes?”

“My mother doesn’t believe in masquerades, Miss. She thinks they are a sin…”

“Surprising.” My grumbled insert was a little dry.

“…but in my reference book, provided by The Society of St. Crispian’s Senior Servants, there is a paragraph concerning the Masquerade. ‘It is incumbent upon the lady’s maid to arrange her mistress’ toilette in a fetching and enchanting manner.’”

“What else does this reference book say?”

“Secrets of the trade, Miss.”

“Right then, Agnes.”

Later

I’ve been petticoated, chemised, and corseted, followed by Agnes helping me into my seafoam-green dress. We considered the gold, or the shimmering gown Aunt Eugenia gifted me last year—certainly my finest—but I argued the seafoam green a more interesting combination with the mask. Verification of the fact was delayed, as Tybalt had seized the feathered thing between his teeth and trotted into the west garret. Agnes forbade me from aiding in recapturing the purloined item, which was an exercise in patience for us both, as she has no great talent for catching a cat. However, victory eventual victory was ours. Once I’d straightened the feathers, I held the mask up to my face. I grinned. “Do I look fetching and enchanting?”

“You’ll do, Miss.”

My, what a deflating answer.

I have never before been to a masquerade. Not a proper one. The annual masquerade that Maxwell’s mother hosted had not extended beyond their Berkshire neighbourhood.

The year I was invited, I’d known everyone present. More farce than mystery.

Maxwell and I—my mask green, his blue—had danced most of the night and laughed ourselves silly the rest. At the end, I’d realised my gold pendant was missing from my neck. Maxwell spent half the night looking, finding it under a chair, and returning it first thing come morning.

Now that I consider myself in the mirror, my neck is rather bare.

My pendant in the back of the desk drawer...

Mother’s beaded necklace should suffice.

Parian was given the duty of arranging for a hansom cab, and it appears he has done so.

Miracles abound.

Later. Much Later.

I was not at all bothered to arrive alone. The night was suited for it. No one gave two thoughts to the unescorted young woman descending from the hansom cab, moving with the stream of other masked guests through the front door of the house.

Whose house? I’ve no idea. But it was all done up in otherworldly spectacle.

Entering the ballroom was like stepping through a fey mirror, with no little worry of being trapped on the other side. Music, laughter, candles, crystal glimmering like frost—a winter court, I told myself. Then my heart took an unsteady step. For at the far end of the room sat a figure on a throne, and I was no longer certain there was a way back out of the mirror.

Before I could see this unsettling king more clearly, my hands were claimed, and I was swept nearly tumbled into the crowd.

“You look a picture, E of A!”

“Lovely, as befits.”

“Knew she had the stomach for it,” a voice said over my shoulder. He handed me a small burst of deep red rosettes.

“Thank you,” I replied, twisting to see the giver. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by Reprobates, uncertain which was who, and who was what.

“The order of the night is dancing,” said one.

“The order of the night is frivolity,” said another.

“The order of the night is to beat boredom soundly.” This was The Boy. I could tell by the way he lit his words like they were a cigarette.

“I soundly support the scheme,” I replied.

“You see,” said who I think was  Night Watchman, “we Reprobates Twelfth Night just so.”

“How long have you been—”

“She didn’t!”

“She did!”

“How responsible of her.”

“Can’t be helped, I suppose.”

“What are you—” I tried again.

A general sound of dismay.

“No questions,” said a Reprobate.

“It is not the night for sense, E of A.”

“I, yes— I can see. Only I was wondering—”

“You’re paying attention to the wrong sort of wonder,” said another.

I opened my mouth, closed it, and then stepped on my own curiosity’s foot. Figuratively. “All right,” I sighed. “I concede all questions.”

“Marvellous!”

A cheer went up, and they disappeared back into the melee save one (perhaps Charlie Cross?), who offered me his hand. We danced. When the song ended and another began, partners were exchanged without a fuss. The ballroom was bursting, and no one seemed to mind. I danced a second and third. I’d just been spun in a dizzying manner when the music abruptly stopped. The dancers followed suit, some of us less gracefully than others, out of breath and expectant.

The figure on the throne rose.

It is difficult to explain what encompassed this king. Was it presence? Gravitas? I don’t rightly know for certain, but we watched enchanted. Or entrapped. Whispers and more whispers gathering in the shadows of the room. I then understood the name being spoken.

“Oberon.”

“Oberon.”

His movements were exaggerated as he lifted a goblet with his gloved hand in a silent toast.

“I have had a most rare vision,” several from the audience said in response, including my partner still holding my hand. “I had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was.”

I caught my breath. A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

Again the king raised his glass, and the lines were repeated. With more strength, as everyone knew what to say.

Four times this was done. A toast for each corner of the ballroom. And then, having not uttered a word, this Oberon drank everything in his goblet, lifted it up, and threw it on the floor—the sound of bells as the glass shattered. The audience cried out; those nearest from surprise, those furthest from delight. Oberon, after casting his masked gaze over all of us, sat back on the throne, leaning his weight on his right elbow, askew and commanding. A crown was placed on his head.

Someone rushed forward to sweep away the glass.

The music began again. There was a swirl of colour.

I did not see the rest.

I was already in the dance.

There were more guests than I could count. And champagne. Tables laden with food lined the walls. I danced two hours straight. Among my partners were seven of the ten Reprobates, if I counted correctly. My feet ached happily. There were still no clues to our host, but when claiming a moment for myself, I saw a familiar figure clapping in time with the music.

“Lady Trewartha?”

She turned. “Who has found me out? And you are…ah, Miss Lion! No one could mistake the colour of your eyes. Having a nice time?”

“Yes, very,” I spoke over the commotion. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

Lady Trewartha shook her head, but in agreement. “As far as I understand it, the Here and Thereians—for which The Reprobates Ten are responsible in some scheme of backward noble rank—try to find one woman of advanced years to lend credence to this particular night of mischief. The phrase, ‘Lady Trewartha was present’ goes a long way towards respectability when young women are involved. Or so they told me last week.”

My eyes widened. “Oh dear! Your head on the chopping block.”

“Indeed.”

“And do you know who Oberon—” But before I could ask my question, a man with a mask of black feathers reached for my hand and pulled me in for another dance.

I did not see Lady Trewartha again.

When the dancing paused (the music a light accompaniment to the thrum of conversation), everyone began milling about the food. It was then I finally saw Hawkes, or think I did, standing against the wall near an open doorway, watching it all. It wasn’t his person I recognised, but only the blue coat he’d worn Christmas Eve. Intending to amuse him with an account of my dream, I waved. He gave no sign of having noticed. Odd. Before I could make my way to his side, he’d slipped through the doorway to the darkness beyond.

I followed.

The doorway led to a back hall that opened into the bare January garden.

There were torches.

A beguiling silence.

Not a soul in sight.

I stilled, closing my eyes and feeling the heat of my skin challenge the frosted air, deciding then and there that each new year should begin with some unpruned wildness.

Still, there was no Hawkes to be found.

Upon reentering the fray, finding I would rather observe than participate, I made my way to the far wall. On the single step that ran around the perimeter of the room, someone was standing in the shadows next to a tall, potted tree—one hand holding a champagne flute, the other pocketed in such a confident, careless way that I knew him to be The Boy.

“I’m taking advantage of your company,” I said, stepping up beside him and turning to face the room. He nodded without looking at me, his mask just crooked enough to be delinquent.

“A pleasure, E of A. Wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Whyever not?”

“Islington, God bless his soul. He’s the gold standard, but you’ve been under the influence of his respectability far too long.”

I laughed, conceding the point. “True. He, however, is not here tonight, and I am.”

The Boy took a sip of champagne and gave me his usual sardonic smile. “We wouldn’t dare invite him.”

Our attention was stolen by the figure on the throne. He stood and, stepping down from his dais, walked into the crowd. People parted for him with a bow—and he, with his exaggerated courtly gestures, removed his crown and offered it to a figure standing nearby. He was denied. The king then walked to the other side of the floor, once again offering the crown. He was again respectfully rebuffed.

“Oberon?” I whispered.

The Boy nodded.

We watched the performance. It was not peacockery, but rather after the order of an ancient being. How the Lord Chamberlain’s Men might represent a fabled figure. Commanding, enchanting, and…well, almost dangerous, in a way.

Every time he offered someone his crown, he was refused.

“What is he doing?” I whispered.

“He’s offering another the throne.”

“But no one takes it?”

“Of course not.”

“Why?”

“He’s Oberon.”

“On a night such as this, I wouldn’t be surprised if half the women left in love with him.”

The Boy gave me a sideways look.

Closer and closer Oberon came, offering his rejected crown to this lady or that gentleman, and finally, when the way cleared before us, he came up to where The Boy and I stood on the raised step. He looked up at me, his mask made in such a way that a thin film covered his eyes. He could see out, but no one could see in.

I stared.

He tilted his head to the side, considering me in return.

My heart stumbled.

He offered me the crown.

As I took it from his hand, there was a collective gasp. With all the pageantry I could muster, I crowned him the king he was trying not to be.

He stared at me a moment, dipped his chin—Resignation? Acceptance?—and gave me a courtly bow before stepping away, walking the length of the room, and returning to his throne.

The dancing resumed.

The Boy gave a low whistle, followed by, “Bold of you.” He glanced at the now empty glass in his hand. “Can I bring you something, E of A?”

While The Boy went foraging on our behalf, I found two abandoned chairs in the corner of the room and shifted them over, lifting each onto the step. The Boy was pleased with the idea. He handed me a flute of champagne, sat, lit a cigarette, and we had a time of it trying to spot the other Reprobates.

We found everyone except Striker and Hawkes.

“As for Hawkes,” I said, “I saw him against the wall earlier.”

The Boy looked at me sharply. “Oh?”

“I didn’t see him, of course. But he was in the same blue coat he wore Christmas Eve,” I answered.

The Boy began to nod but then elbowed my arm, pointing.

For entering the room was, well, grace personified.

She wore white. There were diamonds at her throat. Her face was entirely concealed.

“Who is she?” I asked.

The Boy’s answer was not immediate. But then, “The face that launched a thousand ships.”

I watched as Oberon—seeing her—stood. The crowd took note and, like a murmuration of starlings, changed shape to allow her to approach the throne. Oberon stepped down.

She curtsied.

He bowed.

For some reason, the sight of it broke my heart.

“She’s beautiful,” I murmured, dreadfully curious.

“She is that.”

“Are they…married? Oberon and…?”

The Boy shook his head. “I don’t believe they ever will be.”

His answer surprised me. “Why not?” I asked, as the graced couple began to dance.

The Boy put his cigarette out in the potted plant at his side. “Oberon is cursed.”

I swiveled a glance in The Boy’s direction and would have made a smart comment about him being ridiculous had it not felt like the hooves of a thousand horses had run down my spine.

“Do you refer to some schoolboys’ game?” I asked. “Some are blessed, some are cursed?”

“No,” The Boy answered. “None of us have our feet tangled in that either way, as far as I can see. Only Oberon. He’s cursed. And it keeps getting in his way.”

I watched the king and his star-crossed love. It most likely was my imagination that I could see something both pulling them together and keeping them apart.

The dance finished. Oberon said something to his partner, then stepped back and returned to his throne. She looked as if she wished to follow. Instead, she stayed on the floor and was invited to dance by another. Then another. She danced, her eyes glancing towards Oberon again and again.

“You really want me to believe that a curse keeps him from his Titania?” I asked eventually.

“She’s not his Titania.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Titania is going to have to be strong enough to break the curse. This one doesn’t have it. I think even Oberon must see this.” He shrugged. “When Titania comes, maybe our Oberon will take his fighting chance.”

“How terribly romantic. Who is he?”

Telling someone off with a smile requires a certain talent. The Boy has it.

“Do I know him?” I tried again.

“I don’t think you do.”

“Well.” I let out my disappointed breath and gazed across the room at this king of Twelfth Night. “I understand why she’s in love with him.”

“You believe in it, then?” The Boy asked.

“Believe in what?”

“Love.”

His question brought a lopsided smile. The Boy was leaning back in his chair so that it balanced on its back two feet, holding steady with the toes of his shoes. As I considered his question, I noted the torn corners of my heart did not give way, but held fast, as if they’d been stitched together with a careful hand. “Most certainly,” I replied. “You?”

The Boy shrugged. And then, “We’ve broken the rules.”

“Pardon?”

“A True Reprobate, or—” and he motioned towards me, “associate thereof, ought not be serious for more than twenty minutes together. Even a quarter of an hour is inadvisable.”

“Heavens! To what dismal fate does it lead?”

“Fever. Dismemberment. Death.”

“How dire.”

“Nor is anyone present supposed to speak of Oberon outside this night. Ever. Ever.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. “The same punishment implied?”

“Oh, much worse. On your feet, then. I suppose we should dance. And for the love of mischief, utter nothing of sense, I beg you.”

Hours later, bleary-eyed and head full of sparkle, I was bundled into someone’s carriage and sent home an hour before dawn. Exhausted, but riveted—so much so that I’ve chosen to write it all down instead of falling into bed.

Now my eyelids are dropping like coins, and I’m done for.

January 6th

Hawkes was not in church this morning.

Neither was a single Reprobate.

I alone of the merrymakers sat in the congregation, head pained, eyes swollen.

Pity, as I wanted to ask Hawkes more about the evening, despite how early he’d left.

A curate spoke on the symbols of the New Year. It was well done and did make one reasonably glad to be in a new year. Yet we were all imagining how glorious it would have been if Hawkes had discoursed on the topic.

The congregants left dispirited, without exception.

I stumbled home and, finding Tybalt curled contentedly in repose, decided to do the same.

Later

I BEGAN MY DAY AS YOU WERE ENDING YOURS.

THIS IS A COMPLIMENT, NOT A REMONSTRATION.

Good afternoon, Pierce. I was celebrating Twelfth Night. In rather spectacular fashion.

WELL DONE.

Did you go out?

NO. I’VE HAD A BUSY FEW DAYS, SO I STAYED HOME AND READ.

Almost as if we switched lives for a night.

Would you care to throw a game of darts after supper this evening?

I’M ALREADY COMMITTED TONIGHT, BUT I’VE NO MORAL OBJECTIONS TO A GAME THIS AFTERNOON.

I warn you that I’m feeling particularly lucky. Engage at your own peril.

I’M NOT AFRAID.

January 7th

Dear Mary,

Do you remember the year at Fortitude when we traded with the boys from Stoicism? Our toad for their set of darts? Well. It is incumbent upon me to inform you that all our practice was insufficient preparation for the realities of this merciless world. Another strike against our education.

As for the holidays at your brother’s, how did it all go? He’s a dismal attempt at a human (we both know this), but your sister-in-law makes up for it, as do the children…when not carrying disease.

My Christmas and New Year were far better than I deserved, mostly composed of the male trifecta otherwise known as Pierce, Islington, and Young Hawkes. Do you remember me telling you of my childhood celebrations at the cottage with my parents? It felt like that—like home, I suppose. Conversation and gifts, a few well-placed insults. Ideal, really.

As for Twelfth Night?

Mary. We live mundane lives compared to some.

It suffices to say, somewhere in this world exists a reluctant king, and I suppose that is a beautiful thought.

Emma

Later

I began this decidedly cold morning with three ambitions. The first, to convince Agnes to alter the recipe she’s adopted for fish. (Too many cloves.) (Far too many.) The second, to give my dictionary a good dose of my discretionary time. The third, to plot ways I might improve my dart throwing. Yesterday afternoon I lost three games to five and am still feeling sore over it.

Later

The following was just delivered to my ill-fated door,

Emma,

I’m having a small tea this afternoon—select company, mind you—and was hoping you might join. I am eager to tell your aunt how obliging you’ve been.

Regards,

Lady Sheridan

I would wager a good deal that she has never considered me Select Company in any shape or form. Before she discovered I was in favour with Islington claims my acquaintance, that is. It seems a particular duke has raised my standing to the level of Tea with Select Company. Most inconsiderate of him.

I would be tempted to throw the invitation to the wind in favour of my dictionary, but I do translate her mention of Aunt Eugenia as a threat. I reject this invitation at my peril.

Later

I’ve never thought of myself as a person who hates. The word itself hits its target with a sickening thud. I know this from having been on the receiving end of such sentiments.

However, I do defend the philosophy that someone can fit rather snugly on an Enemies List without it sneaking over into unadulterated hatred. As a less than average Christian, I do my best to keep my feelings in the realm of extravagant dislike with a hefty dose of disdain.

All that being said…

When I was ushered into Lady Sheridan’s parlour, it was only to be greeted with the stuff of nightmares. Sitting in all her vainglory was Victoria Braithwaite, her mother at her side. I almost marched right out. If Lady Sheridan hadn’t placed her hand on my arm while offering up introductions, I can’t claim I wouldn’t have.

“Ladies, this is Miss Emma Lion, the niece of Lady Spencer. Miss Lion, here we have Lady Clifford and her daughter Annalise. This is Miss Fanny Northgate and her younger sister, May. Lady Frankland with her niece, Leah. And, of course, Lady Braithwaite and her daughter, Victoria.”

I was granted various iterations of the Not Too Polite Smile. Mirroring the same, I sat in the only empty chair—across from Lady Braithwaite—and tried to ignore the glances of the mamas present. The unspoken question being, would I prove a hindrance to their upcoming Season?

My deep blue afternoon dress would have been more fashionable had I not begged the smallest bustle possible. As it was, I looked nice but not arresting. My shoes were more than a little scuffed. I make no remark concerning my hair. It will do what it will. Once my degree of threat had been answered for in terms of Potential Matrimonial Sabotage—very little—the mamas continued in conversation, their words floating from one comment to the next. The other young women exchanged a few undercurrent comments, whereas I held with the notion that a bottom-dweller silence would suit me best. I managed until tea was delivered.

Lady Sheridan served the other guests before arriving at my humble person. We are a nation of social order, if nothing else. “Emma, darling,” she said, “would you like a sandwich, a pear pastry, or a slice of currant bread?”

“Oh, one of each, I should think. Thank you.”

Lady Clifford cleared her throat, and three sets of eyes widened at one another.

In my defence, I was very hungry.

Also in my defence, I was acting on the counsel of my banker.

One’s needs must be met. With the purse of others, if possible.

“Miss Lion always did have a sturdy appetite,” Lady Braithwaite delivered with a tilted smile.

Victoria tittered.

Sipping my tea, I glanced heavenward.

The conversation revolved around fashion—others’ misuse of it—and mourning clothes.

It was when I was finishing my first cup that Lady Sheridan caught me on her line. “Miss Lion is the daughter of Lady Spencer’s sister, of course, and her father was quite the respected artiste.”

“Oh, was he French?” asked Lady Clifford.

“Irish, actually,” I replied. “On his mother’s side.”

There was a look of joint pity.

I tapped my toe beneath my skirts.

Lady Sheridan continued, “Miss Lion, I have discovered, is also a great friend of the Duke of Islington.”

Ah.

Ah.

Here came the Greek chorus of approval.

“The Duke of Islington…”

“So well mannered…”

“…handsome.”

“…charming.”

I was right. Islington was to blame.

I resolved within myself to throw him in a lake as soon as the opportunity would allow.

My social cachet elevated, the mamas reconsidered my person and engaged me in small talk. With a smile I’m convinced was rictus, I did my best to be trivial and polite—every mother’s desire for a single daughter of twenty years of age. It worked. I managed to cause neither offence nor speculation. It was when Lady Sheridan was called out of the room that Lady Braithwaite rocked the boat.

“I didn’t realise you knew the Duke of Islington, Emma.”

Knew.

The word had never suffered a more abominable treatment in its life.

My better nature encouraged me to answer demurely. Something in the nature of “Yes, we are somewhat acquainted with one another.”

Fortunately, I listened to my lesser nature.

“Islington and I are old friends. Why I’ve known him”—I waved a hand—“since I was a child.”

“Why did he not correspond with you all those months my husband and I took you in?” She turned to the other women, their daughters making furtive glances in my direction. “It was a charity case, you see. The vicar arranged it all after the parents died. They were not well off by any standard. And as Lady Spencer was in no mood to rush home to England, Emma simply had no one else.” Then back to me. “Had I known Islington was almost part of the family, I would have asked him for a stay.”

At Fortitude, Mary and I would practice looking inured to insult. We would fling the most atrocious attacks at one another and do our level best to remain unbothered, nay, amused. Of the very little I learned at school, I am now grateful for this robust skill. For instead of letting the high colour rise to my cheeks at how she said the parents, I took a sip of tea, calmly lifted my napkin to the corner of my mouth, and said, “Islington had far more important things to be about than spending time with persons with whom he claims no acquaintance. If I ever felt slighted, I needed only to write. He would have taken me to Stonecrop straightway. I, however, have a rather generous sense of humour.”

It was, I admit, below me.

And yet such satisfaction.

I took a bite of my currant bread.

Lady Braithwaite kept her frozen smile in place. “You did cry a great deal, if I recall.”

I swallowed. “It was a trying time.”

Amid askance looks, Lady Sheridan reentered. “Lady Clifford, you promised to tell us of the upholstery in your new carriage.”

The room moved on.

Only then could I feel a flush rise to my cheeks.

I fully believed the afternoon beyond rescue, but when the mamas were discussing some sort of gossip, I found myself shifted to the other side of the parlour with the younger women. It was when Fanny was entertaining Victoria and Leah with a story that Annalise Clifford and May Northgate leaned close.

“Well done, Miss Lion,” Annalise murmured.

“Brilliant rally against the old bat,” May added.

I was taking a sip of tea and only just managed to keep it inside my mouth, giving them each more consideration than I previously had.

Annalise is a burnished blonde with light brown eyes. May, like Fanny, is dark haired, with the hint of an olive complexion. But where Fanny has deep brown eyes, May’s are robin egg blue.

“The problem with a rally,” I replied, “is the inevitable volley returned.”

“Keep your racket in hand,” May replied.

“Racket?” Annalise retorted. “You’re talking sport? I was thinking combat.”

I answered with a grin.

Returning home, I crossed paths with Pierce on the sidewalk at the bottom of Whereabouts. Twisted paths, more like. I was walking with my hands laced behind my back, looking down as I rounded the corner from King Henry’s, thinking how I very much liked both Annalise Clifford and May Northgate, when a tall, encumbered shadow swung in my direction. I ducked. But Pierce, having turned out of my way to begin with, was nearly bowled over by my attempt to avoid hitting both him and the ground. My arms instinctively flailed forward. I may have elbowed him in the gut. We collided.

“Hello, Pierce,” I said, my hands planted flat against his waistcoat in an effort to right myself. I could feel him try for a breath and I—my cheeks flushed, I’m sure—took a hasty step back before looking up. A camera was flung over one shoulder, his other arm precariously pinning two cases of equipment to his side. He was grimacing, looking as avenging angel as he ever does. I winced. “That wasn’t too terribly painful, was it?”

“Are you always such a damn cannonball?” he managed, his low voice tight, the air in his lungs lopsided. He shifted his camera an inch, his opposite hand gripping the handle on one of the cases.

It was my turn to grimace. “Apologies. I was thinking, and so, not thinking.”

He grunted.

With as much remorse as I could manage, I said, “If it’s any consolation, you are very tall today. You’ve wonderful looming potential.”

The amused sound he made very nearly made me laugh.

I did not ask if he’d tweaked his injured leg. Instead, “Where are you off to?”

“East End,” he replied. Then another deep breath, his silver eyes narrowing. “I’m late getting off, and there won’t be as much light as I’d like, but it’ll do.”

“Enjoy yourself, then.”

He shrugged and took one limping step past me. “Oh,” he paused, half turning back, “I’ve just heard from Islington. He sends his regards and said you’re welcome to steal the direction, if you’d like. The letter is in my studio.”

I brightened. “Wonderful! This allows me to reprimand him by post before I strangle him in person.”

That earned me a full smile. “Always at the ready, you two.”

“Distance does not justify the lowering of one’s defences.”

“Nor proximation, I’m learning. Careful not to pummel any other defenceless bystander.”

“Weren’t you saying something about light?” I retorted over my shoulder. My eyes lingered on his figure a moment. He watched me in equal measure. He was still watching me as I fully turned up Whereabouts. I could feel his gaze on my back.

I very much like encountering running into Pierce in the street.

Later

Islington,

You do realise nearly everything is your fault? Perhaps that was abrupt of me. Allow me to explain why you are the root of all problems. What is that? You feel it is rather unsporting of me to do so in a letter? By all means, let us pretend you are sitting in my drawing room. If I imagine you glaring without evidence or in a state of general disapproval, I’ll have represented the situation accurately.

You have just called—unannounced. Upon hearing you’ve darkened my door, I descend to your level, leaving my crossbow in the garret. I find you sitting on the green sofa in what appears to be Deep Thought. (How generous of me.) You flick your gaze in my direction and stand, despite my attempts at waving you off. (I grant you this one gallant act.)

“How was your day?” Your words are as contained as your dignified appearance when you resettle yourself on the sofa.

“I was invited to tea at Cheswick House,” I state, sitting across from you in my pink chair. A chair which you secretly envy.

“Lady Sheridan?”

I answer in the affirmative. “As for her interest in me beyond being filler at her dining room table, I lay the blame almost entirely at your door.”

“Must you?” This is said as you brush some lint from your collar.

“I must,” I drill. “Your consideration of my person at last month’s dinner party made me vulnerable to the machinations of powerful women.”

At which point you allow one unreadable flash to cross your face and say, “And you wonder why I surround myself with hounds?”

I grin, as is only fair, and ask if your nieces are spoiling you.

There now. You are now privy to the blame I lay squarely at your door.

You have made me guilty by association, and I am finding it inconvenient.

The tea itself, however, was very fine.

Lion

January 8th

I am sitting in my garret window, wandering through Ireland. Admittedly, most of my attention is given over to the commentary my father added.

Such as,

Has this addle-brained Englishman ever been to Ireland?

This entire paragraph is wrong. And poorly written. The second being the greater sin.

A very pretty description of the abbey. Shame he’s placed it in the wrong county.

This well-deserved moment comes after an extraordinary rush of productivity, namely my having dusted the fourth floor. One might argue that my carrying Latin Phrases for the Unrepentant about hindered my effectiveness. I, however, disagree, and say only: in diem vivere. While I am now looking worse for wear—dusting, terrible for both soul and appearance—I’m going to treat myself to tea in the drawing room near the fire.

Ah, I see the postman is making his way up Whereabouts.

Later

No sooner had I tossed a dozen or so letters into Pierce’s basket than I opened the only one with my name. A very fat spectacle, and at first I was cheered, thinking perhaps Mary had committed some horrendous crime and was telling me the whole. As it happens, it was from Cousin Matilde, the Dragon, and Cousin Archibald, whose presence has not been missed.

The letter was authenticated, of all things, by a local solicitor and began like so,

Miss Lion,

My brother and I have spent the new year ranking your very worst attributes and offences. Enclosed is a list of the sixty-seven egregious and significant failures of your person. The first being…

Egregious offences indeed; however, I am tempted to claim at least a dozen as my greatest virtues. It would be a shame for me not to list a few.

3: Better to have your tongue removed than prattle as you are wont to do.

17: You have ill-bred tendencies towards becoming an overlord.

28: You scrunch your nose when amused.

55: Your aspect does not improve the beauty of a room, but rather causes injury.

I am not wholly above self-inspection. On a Sunday. For quarter of an hour. But I do not think even God Almighty would consult Matilde or Archibald on the matter.

January 9th

ARE YOU OCCUPIED THIS AFTERNOON?

I was supposed to sort the west garret with Parian, but he has stubbed his toe and claims it is broken. So no, I am not.

WOULD YOU HELP ME DISPENSE WITH SOME UNPLEASANT BUSINESS AT THREE O’CLOCK?

Will it be dangerous?

NOT FOR YOU.

THE WHEREABOUTS LANE COMMITTEE IS PAYING ME A VISIT REGARDING MY DELINQUENT AMERICAN STATUS. I FEEL YOU SHOULD SUFFER WITH ME.

Ah. I had forgotten.

YOU KNEW ABOUT THIS?

Admittedly, yes. I forgot to tell you. They already paid me a visit. Their claims, however, are baseless, as you are not an American.

I’M AWARE.

It is somewhat entertaining.

Shall I have Agnes put on tea?

NOT ONE DROP. I DON’T WANT THEM TO FEEL COMFORTABLE TAKING UP MY TIME.

Then I shall tell Agnes to prepare a tea for after they’ve left. We can rail against the injustices of this mortal coil over an apple turnover.

Later

There are times when I believe I am blessed for some good deed or other. I’ve no idea what my qualifying good deed may have been, but watching Pierce wrangle the Whereabouts Lane Committee felt like a divine gift. Manna in the form of humour, as it were.

When I entered Pierce’s studio this afternoon, there were three of them sitting on the sofa—Mr. Spout and Mr. Lacey returned, of course, and a third introduced as Mr. Enamel, which I thought an extraordinary name.

Pierce was standing, leaning back against his worktable, a scowl as warning that he was in no mood for nonsense.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I greeted.

They all said a quick hello, then Mr. Lacey led the charge. “As I was saying, Mr. Pierce, we’ve no desire to take up your time—”

“Are you certain about that?”

“—but we feel it would be good for the lane, the entire neighbourhood, actually, for you to offer a symbol of solidarity.”

“Meaning?”

“A donation, of sorts,” inserted Mr. Lacey, cleaning his spectacles with a handkerchief.

“A donation?” Pierce repeated darkly.

Mr. Spout looked mildly alarmed. “Not a grand gesture, by any means. A token, as it were.”

Here Pierce folded his arms, staring the men down. “A token of what?”

There was a moment of dumbfounded uncertainty, until Mr. Enamel hit upon, “Community spirit!”

“Hear, hear!” said Mr. Lacey.

“Amen,” added Mr. Spout, looking from me to the open door as if he expected tea at any moment.

“Gentlemen,” Pierce said, “I am a busy man. Would you please be more direct?”

Mr. Enamel removed a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his coat. “Here is a list of neighbourhood improvements.”

Pierce stared at Mr. Enamel a solid five seconds before easing away from the table, limping towards him, taking the paper wordlessly from his hand, and returning to the table before deigning to give the list his attention.

“We would, of course, prefer you to choose one of the improvements on Whereabouts, as we’ve our standing to consider.” This was Mr. Lacey.

Pierce gave no sign he’d even heard as his gaze raced down the list, the scowl he’d so deliberately set in place upon their arrival growing more pronounced. “You want a bloody fountain?”

“For Jacob’s Well,” said Mr. Enamel.

“Which is under the Whereabouts Lane jurisdiction,” added Mr. Lacey.

“Baron’s Square has a lovely fountain,” sighed Mr. Spout.

“As lovely as the decapitated head of a woman can be,” I murmured beneath my breath.

The far corner of Pierce’s mouth ticked up, and he glanced in my direction.

“We thought we should have one,” continued Mr. Enamel.

Pierce reviewed the list a second time and sighed. It was the sound of the defeated. All three men sat up straighter.

“Fine, then. I’ll buy the bench.”

Mr. Spout blinked. “The bench?”

“The bench. For outside The Cleopatra.”

“But, but…” Mr. Lacy began.

“Mr. Pierce, that’s not a Whereabouts Lane improvement,” stated Mr. Enamel.

“No. However, it is on the list.”

“The general list, yes. But we’d prefer—”

“I don’t give a rat’s tail what you prefer. You asked me to select an item from this list, and I have. I’m going to buy a bench for outside The Cleopatra.”

Disappointment and mild grumbling ensued, but Pierce’s gothic stare prevailed.

All three men arose.

“Fine, fine. However, it is only right that a Whereabouts Committee member preside at the ribbon-cutting ceremony,” Mr. Lacey insisted.

“Yes,” added Mr. Spout.

Pierce dropped his scowl in favour of disbelief. “Ceremony?”

“Any addition to St. Crispian’s must have a formal ceremony,” said Lacey.

“It’s in the bylaws. No way 'round it,” said Enamel.

“And you, as the generous donor, will cut the ribbon,” said Spout.

“Not bloody likely.”

“Oh, come along, Pierce,” I interjected. “It will be diverting!”

He transferred his glare to me.

“It’s settled then,” said Mr. Lacey as he was putting on his gloves. “We can provide a list of approved bench manufacturers—”

“I can find my own bench,” Pierce stated.

“We in St. Crispian’s prefer a certain aesthetic—” attempted Spout.

“I don’t care.”

The men, reading the situation at hand—namely that, despite his limp, Pierce looked like he could pummel all three if necessary—made their way towards the small front hall of Lapis Lazuli Minor. Pierce followed them out. I sat down on the sofa and stole one of Pierce’s newspapers from the table, pretending to be reading when he came back into the studio.

“No great inconvenience?” he said, as the first shot across the bow.

“A little good-doing never hurt anybody,” I said.

“It might if I’m not left alone.”

“Tea?” Agnes said from the door, looking a little apprehensive.

“Certainly,” I said.

Pierce nodded towards Agnes. “Finally, a bright spot in the day.”

Agnes blushed happily and went to fetch our tea.

“You provoked them on purpose by choosing a bench for The Cleopatra,” I said.

“I thought it was the most useful contribution I could make.”

“How community-minded of you.”

Pierce swore under his breath.

Later

Pierce has surprised me. He found me in the drawing room just now and said, “I’m off to Cornwall before dawn, and I’m not certain if I’ll return in time.”

I tried to decipher to what, exactly, he might be referring. “For the ribbon-cutting ceremony?”

“No.” Pierce made a dismissive motion with his hand. “For your birthday on Sunday.”

I nearly dropped Ireland. “Pardon?”

“It’s your birthday on the thirteenth,” Pierce said, sounding anything but sure.

“It is.”

“Congratulations.”

I opened my mouth and closed it again.

I didn’t remember having told him.

Pierce shrugged. “Hawkes mentioned it last week at The Cleopatra.”

“Hawkes?”

“Er, yes?”

“Does Islington know?”

“He does.”

“Well then.” I sat back, and then remembered I’d told Hawkes on Christmas Eve.

“Anyway,” Pierce continued, “I thought I’d wish you congratulations now, in case I’m not back.”

“No—yes, thank you. I’m surprised, is all.” I smiled. “Pleasantly. I accept your congratulations. When you do return, you will find me quite insufferable in my new status.”

Here Pierce smiled, lifting his hand to scratch the back of his neck. “Very unlikely,” he said. He looked, then, as if he would say something more. But he didn’t, and with an almost undetectable nod to himself, Pierce left the room.

As I sit here, a bubble of importance is rising within me. It will pop, to be sure, the next time I walk into The Dalliance or receive a letter from my dearly-departed-from-London Aunt Eugenia, but for now, the thought that one of them knew my birthday and it was discussed over a drink at The Cleopatra…

It leaves one feeling inside of the window, instead of outside, looking in.

January 10th

Lion,

I never leave the house with lint on my collar.

As for the imagined conversation you’ve conjured between us two, I don’t wholly trust your narrating our fictional exchange. Upon reflection, I don’t wholly trust your narrating a non-fictional exchange. I’m very suspect of your journal. It is dangerously fat and self-satisfied, which leads me to wonder if you’ve filled it with questionable material.

Apologies that my acquaintance is such a trial to your existence. The thought of you having to endure quality tea and pleasant refreshment gives great pain. Return the Plutarch if you would care to break off our association altogether. I, however, will not be returning the cushion.

Regarding my nieces, they are all well. Do they spoil me? They run me ragged. Five sprightly creatures with fear of neither puddles nor snails, who believe I should be happy tramping through the woods with them in the muck and bramble of winter. “No complaints, Uncle Henry. You just have to get on with it.”

I can hear them now, forming a posse to hunt me down. May I live to return to London in a few days. Upon my return, I will pay you a visit. That is, if you haven’t barred the door against me.

Islington

January 11th

It was Parian’s turn to receive a letter from Cousin Archibald—addressing loyalty, disloyalty, and pudding appreciation, and how he is lacking in two of these three qualities.

Parian was agitated and pulling at his collar when I came across him in the hall.

“Don’t let it bother you, Parian.”

“I’m not disloyal, Miss Lion,” Parian argued, as if I’d written the letter.

“I don’t think you are.”

“And I do enjoy a good pudding. It’s only I don’t feel very fit if I eat too much.”

“Admirable,” I encouraged. “And your shoes are always shined. I think that accounts for any number of sins. Be at ease, Parian. I am your employer now, not Mr. Flat. Don’t forget.”

He straightened his shoulders. “I’ll try to remember.”

But remember he did not.

Even Agnes asked why he was so morose.

As remedy, I brought down my own authenticated character assassination and said he should read it over a cup of tea in the kitchen.

I take little comfort in the fact that I could hear both Parian and Agnes laughing aloud more than once.

As for myself, I’ve had two letters. The first, from Mary, a comedic and cutting account of her holiday. (It seems that she’s pushed her brother’s patience to the edge of a symbolic cliff, which should make her very happy.)

The second was from Saffronia March. She’ll be back in London tomorrow. Her letter ended like so,

I like to be entertained by other people a great deal, but in concentrated, abbreviated doses. Thankfully, I can always claim my work as an excuse to leave when I wish. May you be so blessed.

If I am not wrong, your birthday is Sunday. Very likely you’ve something planned with a school friend or another acquaintance. If not, I invite you to supper at Thrush’s Victory. We will toast to your coming of age and talk about the marvellous things you wish to do. Fair warning, I intend to break with convention and order you round far earlier than one would expect. I want to begin just as the sun is setting, and we will have a slow, full evening. Send a note to Thrush’s Victory either way, so I will know what to expect.

An invitation.

Unexpected, but not unwelcome.

Strange as it seems, I’ve spent more time thinking of what the day marks than the actual day.

It’s so very cold this evening. And blustery. It’s quiet in the house. Pierce gone to Cornwall. Agnes, having seen to dinner, has left for a meeting with The Society of St. Crispian’s Senior Servants. She left in the company of a fellow cook; otherwise, I’d have made Parian walk her there and back.

As for myself, I’m having tea in the kitchen, with Tybalt for company, while discussing Saffronia’s invitation with Islington, A Portrait of—the real Islington having more contrarian opinions than I care to manage.

Portrait: Emma, I commend you.

Emma: For what, Your Grace?

Portrait: Everything, really. You are the model of what a life ought to be.

Emma: Why, thank you.

Emma: Smiles

Emma: Regarding my birthday.

Portrait: A significant day in your life. Well done.

Emma: Nods in silent agreement.

Portrait: Emma, might I enquire after why you haven’t planned anything for the auspicious occasion?

I’ve stood just now and thrown an apron over Islington, A Portrait of. He was beginning to nose about, and I could feel a remonstration coming.

His was a valid question, however.

Why haven’t I planned anything for such a momentous day?

I think it is because ever since my parents died, I’ve looked forward to this milestone almost too much. My own personal advent, a journey of years. A holy moment. The winter solstice come and gone in the life of Emma M. Lion. From here, there is only more daylight, inch by inch.

Is that a correct answer? It feels so, nestled against my unspoken thoughts.

I do not want a large celebration filled with noise.

I want to give my soul plenty of room to mark the moment. To reach behind me and close the door on my parents’ deaths. “I’ve made it, you see,” I will tell them. “I can now stand on the solid ground of my own choices.”

I imagine I’ll spend the morning at church, take a quiet afternoon with a long walk. Sun breaking through the winter clouds if I am lucky. Unlikely, but no matter.

Do I then spend my evening with Saffronia? She won’t fuss. Nor will she bore. And between us, we can share the day with my parents, if unspoken. Yes, I think that will do.

January 12th

Saffronia,

I would be happy to celebrate with you tomorrow at Thrush’s Victory. I expect very good cake.

Emma

January 13th

I am twenty-one years of age.

Glorious day.

Having washed my face, I looked in the mirror, searching for the inch of added light I’d promised myself.

It was there.

Winter come and gone in my life, spring ahead.

Later

Hawkes was not in church!

For the second week in a row.

And while I do not expect that he never go anywhere, he knew it was my birthday.

Cruel, cruel world.

Instead, we were visited by the bishop of something or other.

He spoke on the divine right of kings.

Or in our case, queens.

I realise now how very much I was expecting a sermon to mark the occasion. I’d counted on three poems at least.

Later

Where is Pierce when one needs him? He’s flitting about Cornwall, living the romantic life of an artist, whereas I have been cornered in the drawing room, living the unromantic life of…myself.

The disaster unfolded like so: The bell rang. Parian had already left for his half day. Agnes would soon follow. Unusual to have a visitor on a Sunday afternoon, but I confidently ignorantly rather stupidly swung the door open, as if an errant Sunday knock could not be so terrible a thing.

It can.

(It usually is.)

I was confronted with the coat buttons on a tall specimen of human life.

Namely, Charles Goddard.

“Oh dear,” I said, the words falling out before I could realise the damage done by their double meaning.

“Oh, sweetheart.” He lifted his hand to his heart. “It has been too long.”

(I declare herewith that Jack is the only person of my acquaintance with permission to call me by any sort of endearment whatsoever.)

“Too long sums up a great many things,” I muttered as I attempted to look up at his face. “How can I help you, Mr. Goddard?”

“I’ve come to give you a happy birthday.”

I snorted.

“Bless you,” Charles Goddard answered. “As your birthday has long been marked in my date book, I am decided that your aunt will not keep us apart on such a significant day. While I do find it regrettable that you are now, shall we say, flirting with spinsterhood, as Arabella is to be engaged this year, I have hopes that next year we might find ourselves…as one.”

“Charles, stop!”

“You see, I am willing to overlook your age, but fear—”

“Charles, please stop!” I collected only myself, as collecting my dignity was now out of the question. “You are very right that I am of age, which, in this modern era of newfangled priorities means I am much more dangerous than I once was. I even own property. Yes, you see? I therefore release you to go and find someone younger. Good day.”

I swung the door closed.

But not before he stuck a rather long foot across the threshold, then yelped when the door bounced off it.

“I am not a fickle youth, Miss Lion,” he breathed out in pain. “Your great age does not dissuade my love nor derail the workings of my heart.”

“Fickleness, in this instance, is warranted,” I sighed.

“Emma, I love you! And on this day of all days—”

He was clearly not hearing a word I said, and so I resorted to the greater machinations of fate.

“Charles, this is not appropriate. We’ve not permission from my aunt to be conversing at all.”

“I—”

“And you know that for me to be a fitting wife, I must respect my elders’ wishes when they suit my own aims.”

He nearly crossed his eyes at this. “But you see—”

“And while I am touched, truly, that you took it upon yourself to make your way to my door, I feel we should hold ourselves to the highest standards integrity can offer. We must part here with a very chaste goodbye. Forever.”

“Yes, but I need to know—”

“Charles,” I smiled sweetly, “will you please remove your foot?”

He did, mouth open.

“And now I must go, for when one is approaching spinsterhood, frequent rest is required. Especially as my left knee has been creaking in an alarming manner. Terrible, you see, if I caught a draft. Thank you for being so caring, so obliging, and so understanding in regard to my age. I am positively withering on the vine.”

“Yes. I mean, no! No, Miss Lion! You are a fresh peach—”

“Goodbye.”

The door was closed—and locked—without any more impediments.*

*That little twist of humour is what’s known as a pun.

Later

When I close my eyes and think about the evening of my twenty-first birthday, I will remember an inky blue sky, fires and frosted glass, a table, smiles, roses, and an unexpected glint of gold.

It could not have been nicer.

I think my parents would have been pleased.

I think my parents were pleased.

Saffronia has a table on the second-floor landing, just inside the glass doors that lead out onto the rooftop garden. It is a squarish space, fifteen feet by fifteen feet, with red Spanish tiles and plants in gorgeously patterned ceramics crowding the glass. On a side table was a vase filled with roses the colour of sunset—“Yours to take home, Emma, for your birthday.” The doors to the patio garden were closed, but out on the rooftop were three large brass bowls, each with a fire blazing. The intrepid maid—“I don’t believe in servants who aren’t intrepid”—would go feed the fires from time to time. This created a sense of warmth from without, and the room was strewn with candles within—“Candlelight instead of lamps, Emma. More charming.”

The table was set for three.

“We have one more guest?”

“We have,” Saffronia said, a confident smile accompanying. “Now, tell me of your Christmas while we wait. Nancy will bring us something to drink.”

I did, lingering over the bright spots as if I were holding my hand over the flame of a candle, moving it back and forth, feeling the warmth puddle against my palm.

“Yes, I remember that Islington knew your father,” Saffronia said when I’d shared something he had said. “He was young. We both were, I suppose. I’ve never spoken with the man, above a pleasantry the day several of us painted his portrait.” She raised an eyebrow. “I do hear he’s acquired an expensive collection of art.”

I made an amused sound. “Have I told you about the day Islington discovered we have your portrait of him in our kitchen?”

Saffronia closed her eyes with pleasure. “I knew you would bring me a good story.”

We were laughing when a knock was heard downstairs. Almost like magic, the topography of the room changed. For there was Hawkes coming up the stairs—the growing shadows catching the tired angles of his face, enhancing the circles under his eyes, hair a mess, and no book under his arm—giving me three-quarters of a smile when I exclaimed in surprise. At his back, a second figure, the shadow limping along the wall before I could see the face.

“Pierce, you’re already home!”

“Only just. Hawkes fetched me,” Pierce said, his gaze moving from me to Saffronia as if to ask if he was intruding.

“I pressed Pierce into service,” Hawkes stated quietly as he greeted her with half an embrace and a kiss on each cheek. I blinked in surprise at this Continental display. I’ve never seen Hawkes embrace or kiss…anyone.

It was not romantic.

Rather, it was affectionate.

A known quantity.

Just as I was going to press an explanation, Hawkes said to Saffronia, “You’ve met Pierce, of course.”

“Yes.” Saffronia stepped forward. She gave Pierce a level gaze as she shook his hand. “Welcome to Thrush’s Victory, Mr. Pierce.”

Pierce nodded. “Forgive the liberty.”

“With Young Hawkes, one is happy to forgive just about anything. Even if he is Church of England.”

Hawkes tilted his head and slightly shrugged his shoulders as he walked to the glass doors and looked at the bonfires on the terrace.

He half turned, glancing over his shoulder, his hands in his trouser pockets. “They say only witches and barbarians light fires in such a manner.”

“Ah yes,” Saffronia answered. “Fitting.”

Hawkes’s eyes narrowed, in amusement, in question. “Which are you?”

“I’ve been called both,” Saffronia replied. “And I’m certain Emma has, behind her back if nothing else.”

Pierce made an amused sound.

Hawkes then encompassed me in the whole of his gaze. “A grand day for Emma Lion.”

Something in my chest lifted and dipped. I swallowed, and managed to sound unaffected as I said, “Something to celebrate.”

“And celebrate we will,” Saffronia said with a clap of her hands. “Sit, everyone. You too, Mr. Pierce. Nancy is just now bringing another setting.”

We sat, Saffronia with her back to the patio, Pierce and Hawkes on either side, myself opposite, with full view of the descending dark.

A long supper began, the conversation as savoury as the food.

After the meal had been cleared away and Saffronia had provided a robust if not odd array of drink, Hawkes removed a rectangular object from his jacket pocket, setting it on the table and sliding it towards me. It was a small box, wrapped in a faint pink paper with a sea-green ribbon.

“From you?” I asked, eyeing the unexpected gift.

“From all of us,” he said quietly. “Islington, Pierce, myself.”

It was so unexpected, the gift. I blinked rapidly, keeping my composure as best I could. “Well,” I said, my voice giving too much away, “I admit to being curious as to how this all came about.”

Hawkes mussed his hair absently, letting a smile escape.

“Islington wrote proposing we find something suitable. So Hawkes and I met on Bond Street last week,” Pierce said with a shrug.

Pierce and Hawkes perusing the shops, discussing the merits of this ribbon or that.

My emotion found escape in a sudden and most unladylike laugh.

I could not help myself. I was in a state of near crying before I could pull myself together.

Of all delightful circumstances.

“You didn’t go to the shops together,” I managed between breaths.

Pierce took a sip of his whisky. “It was a disaster,” he replied, glaring at Hawkes.

“There have been smoother attempts at gift giving,” Hawkes said, his hand—so accustomed to turning the pages of a book—fidgeting with the linen napkin on the table before him.

“Trying to sort a gift with Hawkes was a right pain,” Pierce stated.

Hawkes said nothing.

“We went into every damn store on the street,” Pierce continued. “I smelled like perfumed soap for three days.”

“We hadn’t found the right gift,” Hawkes amended.

“I thought my suggestion ideal.” Pierce leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Hawkes laughed in my face. Don’t be fooled by this mysterious, somewhat holy, attitude he carries about. He’ll give you a set down as sharp as any.”

“I won’t deny,” Hawkes said, “that the notion of buying Miss Lion a pistol for her reticule delighted me on several levels.”

“Oh dear.” Saffronia closed her eyes.

“Bloody useful, I would imagine,” was Pierce’s defence.

I agreed. “I might think it very useful! Only this afternoon, I had to shoo away Charles Goddard with only my wits and a rather stern closing of the front door. A pistol would have hastened the dismissal.”

Pierce waved a hand in a That’s Just What I Thought manner.

“I don’t claim to know the man well,” Saffronia inserted, “but I wager Islington would have ended you both had you actually purchased a pistol.”

True.

Islington would have strung them up.

Then ordered their heads chopped off.

There is every possibility he has a guillotine tucked away for when the rabble becomes unruly.

I digress.

“As this is too small to be a pistol,” I said, tapping the box on the table, “you clearly found something else.”

Pierce grunted. “Not on Bond Street. We’d just left a hat shop when, without a word, Hawkes starts walking. No explanation. No excuse. I followed—complaining and cursing.”

“Rarely have I heard a more colourful description of my character,” Hawkes replied, hand still fidgeting.

Saffronia, at this point, was looking between the three of us like she was beginning to understand the lockstep of our stumbled-upon association. A line appeared between her eyebrows.

“So you were following Hawkes…” I prodded the story on.

“And we’re walking down this crooked, dank, side-winding alley when we pass a storefront. Hawkes stops, without warning, and I almost plough into him. He glances through the window, looks up at the sign that claims it sells antiques and one-of-a-kind rubbish, then without a word goes inside. There it was.”

“What?” I asked.

“Your present.”

I lifted my hands together in a single clap and smiled at my companions. “Shall I open it?” Without waiting for an answer in the affirmative, I untied the ribbon that held the pink paper in place. Once the ribbon came loose, the paper was easy to unfold. I removed the lid of the box and tilted it towards the candles on the table. The light caught a glint of gold.

I gasped.

It was a necklace. A pendant. Similar in size to the one that had brought Maxwell home. It was not a perfect circle, but rather old and hand formed, and on it was the profile of a lion mid roar.

Lifting the gold chain, the weight of the pendant caused it to swing down and spin, giving the sense that it had long lived a life of its own.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, unable to look at anyone.

“A rare antique,” Saffronia said when I held it towards her. “Any idea as to its history?”

“The man in the shop said that it had been in the family of whoever had sold it for a century or two,” Pierce answered.

I made a noise as I studied the pendant. “Why would one sell such a thing?”

Instinctively, we all looked at Hawkes.

“Even beautiful memories are sometimes too difficult to keep,” he replied.

I looked again at the pendant, checking the clasp before securing the chain around my neck. It fell just below my collarbones.

Pierce narrowed his eyes in a smile, his gaze moving from the pendant up to my face. “Well sorted, Emma.”

“Lovely,” Saffronia added. “The perfect choice.”

Strange as it is to say, I thought there was a line of trouble in her smile.

It wasn’t until I returned home that I noticed a piece of paper folded in the bottom of the box.

Many happy returns, Emma. While I know it’s useless to ask you not to do anything shocking in the coming twelvemonth, I do hope you find the year satisfying and plentiful.   – Islington

No one can guarantee good things to come, but I hope you’ll have them all the same.   – Pierce

Fortune favours the bold. So says Virgil.   – Hawkes

Later

I was just startled awake by a very robust performance of The Reprobates Ten (well, Nine) singing “She’s a Jolly Good Fellow” outside my window. I responded with an equally robust applause.

January 14th

Ought one, when entering the realm of Legal Adulthood, put one’s best foot forward?

Or is a mediocre foot a wiser mark?

Likely.

Alas, I woke early, dressed, and took myself down into the warm kitchen, where I poured not only a cup of tea but also pored over every financial detail Mr. Penury has ever given me.

And the morning newspaper.

And a ladies’ magazine.

Both of which I sent Parian to fetch.

“I’d rather not, Miss Lion.”

“And I’d rather not send you to Bournemouth, Parian. But Cousin Archibald may very possibly need help on his return journey.”

The paper and magazine were fetched.

It seems Emma of one and twenty years of age is not above blackmail.

Dare I say it came rather easily?

Agnes prattled away while I tallied incomings and outgoings and reviewed interesting uninspiring postings for work.

“Agnes, dear, how much was it that Pierce contributes monthly to our kitchen expenses?”

“He pays for a third of the grocer and all the butcher.”

“Does he? How carnivorous. My banker would approve.”

“He said to me, ‘Miss Agnes, I am happy to pay for my habits.’”

“If Mr. Pierce ever wishes to leave, Agnes, we must stop him.”

Agnes, drying a dish, let her hands slow as she considered. “I like Mr. Pierce, Miss, a good deal more than I thought I would.” But there was something unspoken in her face. I’d hazard she was thinking of The Roman and his absurd warning.

The advertisements in the magazine mostly revolved around positions such as lady’s maid, cook, housekeeper, et cetera, none of which I feel I am qualified for. Or so I hope.

There was one posting for a companion, requiring a live-in situation.

Thank you, no.

I’ve already tasted that particular brand of insanity.

It was while I was considering a posting for a shop clerk—my fingers toying with the lion pendant around my neck—that an unexpected letter came in the post.

Is it unfair of me to wish it hadn’t?

Dated October, it either spent a few months lost or decided to take a holiday on the Côte d’Azur before winging its way to gloomy England. The partially obscured address appears to have been caused by a contraband tea in a mail sorting room.

October 13th, 1883

Miss Lion,

My apologies that it has taken so long to thank you after receiving Mr. Pierce’s recent letter. When Mr. Stone told me he had a friend willing to take Tybalt in my absence, I was hesitant. A bohemian photographer did not sound like the surest situation. My worries were put to rest when in September a letter arrived from Mr. Pierce, apprising me of Tybalt’s health and happiness and your role in the scheme. Enclosed was a small photograph, Tybalt leaping from your lap to chase after a bird, dated August. The house was lovely, and Tybalt must be happy to have more freedom than he experienced under lock and key at my boarding house. Most of all, I liked what I saw of you. It is a relief, a very great relief, to know Tybalt is well cared for.

While I am uncertain how long it will take for our business to be resolved, I anticipate it will be soon, and I can release you of your charge.

Sincerely,

Jane Carmichael Stone

Ah.

The horn sounds from distant hills proclaiming that the Season of Tybalt will come to an inevitable end. I am very sad at the thought. Not all cats are created equal, and I fear Tybalt is an exceptional specimen. Perhaps the answer is catnapping. I could take Mr. Penury’s advice, sell Lapis Lazuli, and flee to the Continent. Lisbon, perhaps? Or Athens?

A small part of me would have liked her to be less agreeable, so I could feel a justified indignation. The letter was short, not a misstep to be had. Not a single clue as to how Accidental Wifehood happens in the first place. Her recently acquired surname does appear to be hesitantly written, as if she’d splashed Jane Carmichael onto the page and then remembered she was obligated to add Stone.

What could possibly be behind such an arrangement?

How am I to discover the particulars?

Is she enjoying her oddly acquired husband?

It batters my curiosity. (I must remember to ask Mary if she’s heard anything.)

I could always hold Tybalt hostage in exchange for half a dozen important questions.

Drat. I think I’d sacrifice my curiosity to keep him on the premises. (Him being Tybalt, not the husband.) There must be a law that states a cat is yours when having lived in your garret and eaten your mice. Tybalt has become a happy clan member, after all. The other day I found him in the kitchen, lying in a patch of sunshine and gazing at Agnes’s feet.

“Is he bothering you, Agnes?”

“Not at all, Miss. The S.S.C.S.S. thinks very highly of cats.”

“Why is that?”

“Because we think so very little of mice.”

“Sound logic.”

At which point I exchanged a look of commiseration with the portrait of Islington and left Tybalt happily holding down the kitchen floor.

Later

I received a letter this afternoon. Late by almost three months. It must have been lost.

AND?

I’ve just slid it beneath Tybalt’s curtain in the wall.

GLAD SHE LIKED THE PHOTOGRAPH.

She sounds lovely.

THAT’S BEEN MY GENERAL IMPRESSION.

Only she’s planning to return to England and steal our cat.

SHOULD I POINT OUT THE INACCURACIES OF YOUR STATEMENT NOW OR WAIT UNTIL YOU’VE COME TO TERMS WITH THE MATTER?

Tybalt is very happy here.

AS WILL BE OUR NEXT MOUSER.

But won’t you miss him?

CATS ARE RARELY BOUND TO ONE PLACE FOREVER.

IT’S THEIR NATURE.

January 15th

I’ve just endured the most backward mess of a spectacle. Wonderfully amusing if it had happened to somebody else. I do feel it incumbent upon myself to record the whole, in the hopes it will benefit someone, somewhere. If only to illustrate that their life is not nearly as plagued as my own.

I was immersed in Ireland, reading a chapter on the birth of Cú Chulainn, when Parian’s footfalls could be heard doing just that. Falling. Upwards, as the case may be. My garret door was open. I was sitting in the chair nearest the window and looked up as he summited the final flight of stairs.

“Miss Lion,” he gasped.

“Do you need to sit down, Parian? You look as if you’ve been running with the bulls in Pamplona.”

“I’ve just finished sorting Mr. Flat’s closet, as he wrote to ask me to air his morning robes especially.”

“A herculean task. Is that what you’ve come to tell me?”

“No. There’s a visitor for you in the drawing room.”

“Oh. All right, I’ll be down. Who is it?”

“She would not present me with a card.”

And he left.

I had gone walking the hour before and was wearing a divinely proportioned wool walking skirt and a comfortable blouse. Clothing enough for the social crime of a visit sans card. Yet, as I was going to descend—blithely, with good will towards all—I was pricked in the conscience by some good fairy. “Emma, you are twenty-one years of age. You can dress in proper attire to receive a guest.”

And so I did. I chose my grey afternoon dress, which I can manage myself, as the bodice secures in the front. It buttons, marching in a virtuous line up my neck, obscuring my lion pendant. A fact which very well may have saved my life. For upon entering the drawing room, I was met by the end of the world.

There sat Aunt Eugenia.

On the edge of the green sofa, her hand extended to rest atop her cane as if it were a sceptre.

Waiting.

By her expression, I had mere moments to live.

“Oh dear! I mean, that is, hello, Aunt!” I greeted her with faux exuberance, my mind frantically searching for a coherent plan of action. “Welcome to Lapis Lazuli House! What a surprise to see you. I’ll just jaunt back to the kitchen and request some tea.”

“I’ve already done so,” she pronounced.

“Ah, well, the fire needs tending. I’ll find Parian—”

“It was stoked not three minutes past.”

“Wonderful. Let me only go and—”

“Sit. Now.”

She pointed to me and then to the pink chair across from her.

I sat.

“You owe me Explanations.”

Whenever Aunt Eugenia expects Explanation in the plural, trouble brews.

“Oh?” I asked innocently.

“I ordered you to my Christmas.”

“You did.”

“I’ve also heard tell you’re moving through society like a parvenu. Making great men claim your acquaintance.”

“Am I? How impressive.”

“Lady Sheridan assures me you’ve a duke hiding up your sleeve. A thing hard for me to believe. If true, however, he should have been placed at Arabella’s disposal.”

Resisting a comic glance up my sleeve, I played the fool. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“And when Charles Goddard told me that your door had been answered the night of Guy Fawkes by a man no better described than as a hooligan, half dressed, and rrrrrude to boot, why, I knew…”

“Knew what?”

“That you were an ungrateful, degenerate—”

“Aunt, I think you’ve got the wrong end of a number of sticks.”

“You know I don’t like that word, Emma. How crass you’ve become in my absence.”

“Everything can be very reasonably explained.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Good. After tea. What on earth is taking that girl so long? And please, call Miss Dowd. She is to be reprimanded as well and, if necessary, replaced by a servant of my own choosing.”

Ah. The fated hour of Aunt Eugenia demanding to speak with my nonexistent chaperone had arrived. “Aunt, Miss Dowd is— There is no need for— And as I’ve now gained my majority, it will be left to me to choose my own chaperone.”

“Fiddlesticks.”

“Fiddle what?”

“Sticks.”

I grinned.

Her expression soured all the more. She thumped her cane. “Choose your own chaperone? The idea. You can’t even select proper colours for a drawing room. This place is an abomination before the Lord!”

I gave a half-blank expression as I’d thought we’d progressed from poor taste to abomination very quickly. “I think He’d rather like it, Aunt. If you read the descriptions of Solomon’s Temple, it’s quite…colourful.”

Just then, the door of the drawing room opened and in walked Young Hawkes.

Divine approbation, indeed.

Everyone has experienced a disunion of souls. A mismatch of persons gathered. A collision of beings, as it were. However, I defy anyone to describe accurately what occurred when Aunt Eugenia and Hawkes—internal, intriguing, formidable, beautiful Hawkes—occupied the same room.

It was as if Hawkes was inhabiting an entirely different plane of existence from Aunt Eugenia. Two forces created at opposite ends of the universe, brought into contact. Something beyond the usual five senses burst into flame and stole the oxygen from the room.

I found myself standing and saying, “Good heavens, Hawkes— That is to say, Good afternoon, Vicar.”

Aunt Eugenia, hand on her cane, looking decidedly unnerved, drew her eyes into slits.

Hawkes’s bearing was especially secular today, his hair not contrite in the slightest. Thankfully, he wore one of his rare collars. One point awarded to vicars everywhere.

“Good afternoon, Miss Lion,” he said. (Slight nod.)

Then he turned his gaze on Our Lady Eugenia Spencer. With both curiosity and expectation.

“Oh, yes,” I stuttered out the introduction, “you—Vicar, Hawkes, this is, might I introduce you— No, other way around. Protocol, yes. Aunt, this is our vicar. Young— Meaning, um, Vicar Hawkes? Hawkes, this is my aunt, Lady Eugenia Spencer.”

Aunt Eugenia, her gorgon eye still trained on Hawkes, sniffed. “You don’t look like a man of the church.”

Hawkes quirked an eyebrow heavenward—a form of prayer, perhaps?—and let three full seconds pass before answering quietly, “There is none good but God.”

“Indeed,” I murmured, in faux reverence.

Aunt Eugenia had already opened her mouth to retort, “You may flippantly throw scripture here and there. I, however, think there is a Time and a Place. Not that I am convinced the Greek was translated as well as it ought to have been. If you can trust the Greeks to begin with. Which I don’t, as a general rule.”

As if she knew anything of it, Greek or otherwise.

“We are in agreement on the first point, Lady Spencer,” came Hawkes’s reply. And with that, he walked between us, took a book out of the pocket of his coat, and sat in his golden chair.

I fully expected the odd charm of this to be lost on Aunt Eugenia.

It was.

Stumbling to rectify the situation, I said, “Vicar, are…the poor…in their place today?”

The question being for Aunt Eugenia’s benefit.

Hawkes’s expression ticked counterclockwise as he opened the book in hand, his place marked with an ace of hearts. (Aunt Eugenia closed her eyes briefly at the sight.) “There are none on the street,” he answered, his gaze on the page before him. “If that’s what you mean to imply?”

Aunt Eugenia harrumphed. “It’s good to know some parts of London keep things in The Proper Order.”

Hawkes glanced up then from his book, considered Aunt Eugenia—in that uncomfortable way that makes you half-certain he knows all your secrets, or completely certain he knows at least half of them—then returned to his reading without answer.

She harrumphed again. “Why I—”

The door opened a second time. I was hoping it would be Agnes with our tea.

Alas.

It was a different visitor altogether.

The doom of Emma Lion no longer could be held at bay.

“Islington!” I shot out of my chair. “You’re home! I mean, ah, good afternoon, Your Grace. How well you…must be—look, I mean. How well you look.”

Islington was looking something glorious. Clear-eyed and fresh from the country, but with all the polish of a city wardrobe. He took in the occupants of the room with one graceful sweep.

The universe did not have to bend in unfathomable ways to account for Islington and Aunt Eugenia being in the same room, their destinies having both been set in the upper echelons of English society. Though it was amused. I swear I could hear a cosmic chuckle. God certainly amuses Himself at my expense.

“Miss Lion,” Islington answered smoothly, “I see you’re with company. I hope my arrival causes no inconvenience.”

“No inconvenience.”

Oh, but it was.

A rather dire-timed one at that.

I half expected Jupiter to collide with Saturn before the visit was over.

“Allow me to introduce you to my esteemed aunt, Islington. That is, Duke of Islington, might I present my aunt, Lady Eugenia Spencer. Aunt, this is the Duke of Islington, gracing us with his presence.”

Islington, with a glance towards me, bowed to Aunt Eugenia, closed the space between them, and offered his hand. “A pleasure, Ma’am.”

She was displeased at having two males enter the room without warning, nary a teacup in sight. Which she exhibited in a very well-delivered harrumph.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hawkes smile and resisted throwing something at him.

“Please sit, Islington,” I managed, indicating the far end of the sofa—as far as he could sit from Aunt Eugenia.

Islington did so, the slight pinch of his eyebrows possibly owing to his sudden doubts on the wisdom of remaining.

Aunt Eugenia’s calculating gaze followed his every movement.

“Would the both of you care to join us for tea?” I managed, as one should ask when the world is ending.

Hawkes looked up but gave no reply, while Islington carried the day. “Certainly.”

Aunt Eugenia’s left eye began to twitch.

From my extensive knowledge of Domineering Aunt Behaviour, such a twitch means she was deciding the best course of action to get what she wanted. Would she decide to settle firmly on disapproval of Hawkes? (Aunt Eugenia always considers a vicar quoting scripture outside of a church to be Beyond The Pale.) Or would she choose to engage in ducal manipulation? (Here was a high-ranking member of the peerage at her disposal. A handsome, wealthy, and unattached duke, at that.)

The left eye continued to twitch, and I began to pray fervently pray that Pierce not enter. It would be the end of all things. I sighed at the thought, gaining the attention of all three in the room to bargain.

“Only it’s such a lovely day,” I attempted. “I love a cold, smoggy afternoon. A depressing haze is just the thing for…for…”

The door opened again.

It was Agnes.

With tea.

Everyone visibly relaxed.

Except Hawkes. He simply turned the page of his book.

Agnes, for her part, was peerless, setting the tray on the table at my side with grace and leaving with a light step. She’s matured remarkably since last March.

I, in contrast, managed to spill twice while serving.

“I’m quite ashamed of you, Emma,” Aunt Eugenia said as I served her.

“One would think you were trying to incommode us all,” she said as I served Islington. He accepted his tea with good grace and naught more than a subtle, albeit cheeky, expression and raised eyebrow.

My own smile was rather fixed by the time I served Hawkes.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. We shared a look, one honest, bare moment of joint determination—to survive the vicissitudes mortal life affords. Namely, other people. He improved upon his expression by tilting his head just so and letting his smile do the same.

Bless Hawkes.

Once I’d prepared my own cup, Islington opened his mouth—to make polite talk, I gather—but I gave my head a single shake. It was a direct order.

He closed his mouth. If it can be believed.

Hawkes turned another page.

Aunt Eugenia looked from Hawkes to Islington, still deciding between Irritation and Manipulation. My internal wager was that anything approximating religious wrath would be somewhat inconvenient, seeing as how a vicar was in the room—Aunt Eugenia hates to be morally upstaged, for she cannot write The Gospel According to Lady Eugenia Spencer as she is wont to do. Thus, I was not surprised when Islington became her selected target.

“Your Grace.” Her smile could only be described as terrifying. “I’m glad you’re here. And pray”—she glanced at Hawkes with dislike—“for your assistance. I’ve come to discuss Moral Failure with my niece—her Moral Failure, clearly—and could use your illustrious influence as I bend her will to fit the proper order of things. I’ve not got all day, you see.”

I lifted an eyebrow at Islington and dared him to side against me.

“Lady Spencer, I have long believed that Emma’s best course of action is the proper order of things.”

I forced my frown to one side of my face and said, “Islington has better things to do with his time, Aunt.”

“When it comes to matters of Moral and Spiritual Welfare,” Aunt Eugenia said, “I certainly hope not.”

“No, no. Miss Lion’s moral and spiritual welfare are of great concern to me.” Islington raised his left elbow to the arm of the sofa, hand to the side of his jaw, subduing what I could swear was an expression of untoward delight. He did not deserve the gift of this situation. “Please, proceed. I will offer you what support I can.”

It was a misstep. Aunt Eugenia does not receive permission to proceed from anyone. “I do what I will when I will and why I will, young man. I’ll take no ordering about from you, however graced. Thank you.”

“Hear, hear,” murmured Hawkes.

Aunt Eugenia swiveled her gaze. “And you have not been asked to share any opinion whatsoever. In my day, vicars were seen and not heard, much like children. Spouting scripture at a woman of rank would have been tantamount to heresy.”

Hawkes looked up from his book, tapped one finger on the cover, considered Aunt Eugenia, then, “‘Likewise, you who are younger, be subject to the elders. Clothe yourselves, all of you, with humility toward one another, for God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble.’ I wisely put my youth before your great age, Lady Spencer, for instruction.”

We all waited as Aunt Eugenia’s face contorted. He had given an apology, yes. He had invoked humility, true. He had also called her aged and quoted scripture for a second time. One couldn’t make sense if it were backhanded or fronthanded.

I sipped my tea.

Aunt Eugenia, taxed by the complexities of his response, sniffed and said, “See that you do. Now, we must begin, despite Emma’s chaperone still being absent.”

“Emma’s chaperone?” asked Islington. I could have should have kicked him.

“Of course,” inserted Hawkes calmly. “A Miss Agnes Dowd, if I’m not mistaken.”

(And thus it was that Emma M. Lion discovered that Hawkes knows.)

(How?)

Aunt Eugenia waved him off—“What do vicars know about anything,” I’ve heard her mutter on more than one occasion—and turned decidedly towards Islington. “Yes, a Miss Agnes Dowd. The woman with the mole on her face, not the girl from the kitchen. Extraordinary, however, to have two Agnes’s in one household.”

“One would think it almost unbelievable,” Islington replied.

“Do you know Miss Dowd?”

Here it was.

I was to meet my demise, not at the besieged Gates of Troy, but at the cruel, cruel Gates of Islington.

Closing my eyes, I waited for his arrow to find its mark.

Islington cleared his throat in a genteel manner. “Agnes Dowd has been a fixture in Miss Lion’s world since…how long has it been now, Miss Lion, that you’ve claimed an acquaintance?”

I opened one eye. Then the other.

That was smoothly done.

It was no lie. Neither did it shine any light on the truth.

“Since March, er, I mean April,” I answered. “Upon my return to London.”

“One would hope she is a dampening influence on Emma,” Aunt Eugenia said.

“One would hope,” came Islington’s reply.

“But she is not here now!”

“Indeed, no.” Islington looked at me. “Where is our esteemed Miss Dowd?”

“Agnes Dowd…” I began. “That is to say, Miss Dowd has gone…away…to the…to the…Society for the Improvement…of Lower Class…Humility?”

“I wasn’t aware such a society existed,” countered Aunt Eugenia. “I am, after all, a member of all organizations that keep the poor in their proper place.”

Hawkes turned the page of his book.

“Yes, Emma,” Islington said, “tell us more.”

I rose to the occasion. “Oh no, Aunt. This is not organized by the privileged. You see, the Society for The Improvement of Lower Class Humility is sponsored by those of the Actual Lower Class. They feel such a great burden has been put on the wealthy to keep the poor in their place that it is only right they take it upon themselves to aid in the cause.”

“Well,” Aunt Eugenia said strongly, deciding how she felt about this. “It’s a dangerous generosity, as they may find themselves entirely out of control. The duke knows of what I speak. For the poor, the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

Hawkes quirked an eyebrow.

“I look forward to meeting Agnes Dowd,” Aunt Eugenia continued, “and would appreciate if you would send me the notes from today’s meeting. Prove that you have this firmly in hand, as I don’t entirely trust your ability in this matter. You are young, my dear. And more insignificant than many.”

Hawkes slammed his book shut.

Islington’s eyes narrowed, and he pressed his lips together before opening his mouth to speak. I tried to signal him to leave it be, but there was no having it. “I must insist on challenging you, Lady Spencer,” he stated. “Miss Lion is very significant to a great many people.”

I grimaced.

Noble. And foolish.

Aunt Eugenia blinked and looked slowly at him.

He stared in return, his mouth now set in a line.

I, however, knew better than to start an all-out war and acted for my own preservation.

“Your wisdom inspires, Aunt. And now, I’m certain you’ve more important engagements.” I began to stand.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Sit down, foolish girl. We’ve more to discuss.” She took a folded piece of paper from her reticule. “I think having a duke present and a man of the church—however deficient—will add solemnity to the Occasion of Your Shame.”

“Do you?”

Islington’s mouth now gave an impatient quirk.

“Shall we begin?” Aunt Eugenia said. “The first charge against your person is ignoring my order to Christmas at Spencer Court. What have you to say for yourself?”

“I was needed at home.”

“Home is where I say it is, when I say it is.”

“Aunt”—I took a fortifying breath—“I had obligations I could not break.”

“With whom? I demand to know.”

“I chose to remain at Lapis Lazuli House for Christmas. I am sorry you were put out, but I was needed here.”

“You sought to defy me?”

“No, I simply did what needed to be done for my own life.”

“Which amounts to the same thing.”

“If you see it that way, I can do nothing to dissuade you.”

She purpled. “We are fast approaching The Season where Arabella is to become engaged. You have given me your word you would aid in every necessary way.”

“And I will, as often as I am able.”

“Consequences if you don’t. Dire consequences.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

“Remember the nuns, girl.”

“I do, every time Agnes prepares a sumptuous tongue for dinner.”

Aunt Eugenia closed her eyes. “Don’t be ghastly.”

Hawkes, smiling, opened his book once again.

“As for Charles Goddard’s claim, I can scarcely believe it. Do you know of this?”

This last question was directed at Islington.

“I’ve no idea to what you are referring, Ma’am.” His tone had gone very ducal.

Hawkes and I exchanged a glance, perhaps both wondering if we were going to see a battle of the entitled titans.

Aunt Eugenia was not bothered. “For a duke, one would expect better.” Her ire was then back to me. “I was askance when Charles Goddard told me what had happened on Guy Fawkes Night. Askance.”

I grimaced. “How very uncomfortable.”

“I demand to see him.”

“Guy Fawkes?”

“No, I desire to see this man in your employ who was so abhorrently rude to Charles.”

The vision of dragging Pierce into the drawing room and expecting him to behave in any debasing manner, to say nothing of my majority potentially being questioned by Aunt Eugenia’s solicitor, loomed before me.

“Aunt Eugenia, it’s not necessary.”

“It is.”

Hawkes turned the page of his book.

She continued. “Fetch him this instant, Emma.”

“He’s not in,” I argued.

“Go and see.”

“Aunt—”

“Go. And. See.”

I marched to the door and swung it open, only to find Parian standing there, his hand raised in a fist, as if uncertain what he should do.

“Parian!” I startled.

“Pardon me, Miss Lion, but Agnes asked if you were in need of a fresh pot. I didn’t know how to ask.”

“Who is that there?” Aunt Eugenia demanded.

“Only Parian.”

“Bring him in, bring him in! We haven’t got all day.”

Islington looked conspicuously at his pocket watch.

“Bring in Parian?” I reiterated.

“Yes, the man all this fuss is about. Honestly, Emma, sometimes I despair of you.”

My face was caught in disbelief as I stood aside and waved Parian in.

Poor Parian. Aunt Eugenia was going to rip him to shreds, I was certain.

“Are you the only man in Miss Lion’s employ?” Aunt Eugenia asked when he was standing before her.”

Parian: “I…uh, yes?”

Aunt Eugenia: “There is no other?”

Parian: “No.”

Aunt Eugenia: “Are you sure?”

Parian: “Certainly.”

Aunt Eugenia: “Do you make insolence a habit when speaking to those above your station?”

Parian: Glances from Islington to Hawkes in confusion.

Parian: “No, I do not.”

Aunt Eugenia: “Guy Fawkes Night is the exception, I see. Visions of blowing up Parliament leave you at leisure to spurn your betters!”

Parian: “No, I don’t. Miss Lion, if I’ve been dismissive in the past, I’m—”

Aunt Eugenia: “I don’t mean HER. I MEAN CHARLES GODDARD, YOU FOOL!”

Parian: Swallows. “I don’t know how it happened, Your Ladyship.”

Aunt Eugenia: “Charles reported you answered the door in your shirtsleeves. Rolled Up, I might add. Then leaned—LEANED—against the door jamb and profaned.”

By this time, both Islington and Hawkes must have ascertained that Pierce was the man who had answered the door in his shirtsleeves, leaned against the door jamb, and profaned.

Islington drummed his fingers.

Hawkes, marking his place with the ace of hearts, gave the spectacle his full attention, leaning on one elbow.

Parian was wringing his hands. “I don’t recall—”

Aunt Eugenia pounded her cane in unison with her words. “I will not have it!”

“I didn’t—” Parian attempted. “At least I don’t think I did…”

Despite it being one of the most wonderful misunderstandings since Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, it was time to intervene. “Aunt, leave Parian be. Charles Goddard did come very late at night, so it was a good thing that whoever opened the door be intimidating, in case there were, well, rapscallions about.”

“Rapscallions? You have them in this neighbourhood?”

“Not very often, to be sure.”

I glanced towards Islington for confirmation. The last thing I needed was Aunt Eugenia campaigning for me to move house.

“Not many, no,” supplied Islington.

“Only they don’t always stay in the East End,” I added.

“More’s the pity for it,” Aunt Eugenia pronounced. “Go on then,” Aunt Eugenia said to Parian.

Parian turned to leave.

“No, I did not say leave. I said Go On. Meaning, show me how it is you intimidate rapscallions! Charles Goddard was practically shaking when he recounted the tale.”

I have never seen a more confused soul.

Parian took in a breath and held it in as he tilted his head to the side. But Aunt Eugenia was out for blood. “That can’t very well be it. Take off that jacket now, roll your shirtsleeves. There’s a good man. Now, try again.”

“I—”

I motioned for Parian to hand me his jacket.

“You, there!” Aunt Eugenia was now looking at Hawkes. “Stand up, Vicar. You have a part to play.”

Hawkes stood. Wordlessly.

“Really, Aunt,” I attempted.

“Emma, I will not leave here until I have seen for myself the terrifying figure who guards your door. Go on then,” she motioned to Hawkes. “Pretend to knock.”

Hawkes considered Aunt Eugenia a moment. Then, lifting a hand—smile wrapped inside of his mouth—he knocked on the thin air before him.

“A decent job of it, for a man of the church. Now, Parian, let us see your ferocious display,” Aunt Eugenia ordered.

Parian, who was fumbling with his shirtsleeves, his cheeks red, had begun to sweat. He looked up at Hawkes. “I don’t understand what I am to do.”

“Just send Hawkes on his way,” I answered.

“You’re doing just fine, Parian,” Islington said. “You simply have to terrify the man.”

Parian had begun shaking, but he lifted a hand. “Away. With you.”

Hawkes nodded and turned around.

“No. No, no!” Aunt Eugenia was despairing. “Growl. Profane. As Charles Goddard said you did.”

“I don’t profane, your ladyship.”

“Emma,” she looked at me, “I despair of this man.”

“Aunt, he’s doing his best. Parian”—I turned towards him—“just say, ‘It’s none of your bloody business’ and growl.”

Parian’s eyes went wide as I cursed.

Islington covered his face with his hand.

“It’s none of your…your bloody business,” Parian squeaked. Then he whimpered.

“Not very terrifying, I should say,” Aunt Eugenia said, her eyes going up and down Parian like she would feed him to her lapdog. “But the Goddards have always been weak-spined. It doesn’t help they’re so tall. Can’t be good for the musculature. Very well. You may go.”

Parian blinked.

“You are Dismissed!”

Grabbing his jacket from my hand, Parian turned tail and practically ran from the room.

Hawkes, without a word, followed.

A great affront to Aunt Eugenia. “I did not give the vicar permission to leave.”

“He has other parishioners, Aunt. I am not the only one in need of spiritual guidance.”

“Cheeky boy. No business being in the church.” She turned her wrath on Islington. “And what about you? Will you abandon us without so much as a By Your Leave?”

“I am at Miss Lion’s disposal.”

“You most certainly are not! Disposal, indeed. She is at my disposal, and you are to keep yourself at a distance until I’ve devised a use for you. I’ll not have you giving Emma airs. Nor will I have you thinking anything in her direction. Of romance or any other kind.” (I groaned aloud.) “Friend of the Family is what they’ve been saying. Nonsense. However, nonsense of which we can easily make use. I expect you for tea at Spencer House tomorrow afternoon for a thorough interview of your person.”

It was here that Islington—figuratively—drew himself up to the full height of his ancestral power. He looked down his nose at Aunt Eugenia. “I cannot oblige your request, Ma’am.”

Aunt Eugenia opened her mouth to argue, but against the impressive act of Islington asserting his place in the world, she thought it wise to not charge directly.

“Make yourself useful in any case. I’ve a present for Emma that I left on the sideboard in the hall. Fetch it for me.”

Islington is nothing if not well-bred. “Certainly, Lady Spencer.”

He stood, crossed the room, opened the door, and disappeared into the hall, returning before three seconds had passed. In his hand was a gift wrapped in mauve tissue paper.

Never trust a gift in mauve.

“Aunt, you needn’t have.”

“Need I certainly have,” Aunt Eugenia retorted.

Islington handed me the gift and sat not on the sofa but in Hawkes’s chair. Resting his elbows on the arms, he steepled his fingers and looked imposing.

As for the gift, it felt suspiciously like a book.

I smiled.

“I don’t approve of undue excitement,” said Aunt Eugenia. “Open it without smiling if you can manage.”

I unwrapped the paper—revealing the pleasant green of a back cover—and turned the book to read the spine. “Mixing in Society: A Complete Manual of Manners,” I read. “How very considerate, if expected, Aunt.”

It is incumbent upon me to report that I felt a rather unaccountable amount of disappointment, as if some small corner of my mind had honestly supposed that any book from Aunt Eugenia could possibly be delightful.

Islington’s annoyance was giving way to his amusement once again. “You’ve been wanting to add books of substance to your library.”

Turncoat.

“I have, Islington. And when I’m finished, I’ll lend it to you. If I recall correctly, you’ve been wanting to add substance to your character.”

Islington opened his mouth to parry, but Aunt Eugenia’s rapier tongue beat him to it.

“You most certainly will not lend it out, duke or no duke. This, Emma, is to become your bible.”

“But don’t I have an actual Bible for that?”

“Honestly, Emma. I despair of you. The Bible is good for a great many things, but one can hardly expect to maneuver effectively in high society by taking any of its advice.”

“I’ve always felt the story of Jael nailing that man’s head to the ground to be very instructive.”

Aunt Eugenia physically recoiled, and Islington coughed.

“I can see,” she said, once she recovered, “you have much further to go than even I imagined. Open the book.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now. And don’t you be getting any ideas that you will quit the room.” This was said to Islington.

“I wouldn’t dream of depriving myself of this moment,” Islington answered.

I glared at him and looked down at the cover of my book.

It is beautiful, the title stamped in gold, and in quotes on the front, “Manners make the Man.” With my second audible sigh of the day, I opened to the title page, set opposite an illustration of men and women socializing politely.

“Mixing in Society,” I read. “A Complete Manual of Manners. By the Right Hon. The Countess of * * * * * * *” I paused. “Her name is not printed, rather a series of stars. Anonymously written.” I looked up. “How delicious. She can say anything she likes now.” I was met by a hard stare and resumed reading. “Printed by George Routledge & Sons, 1870, in London and New York.”

Aunt Eugenia sniffed. “The Americans do try, however futile their attempts.”

“This looks very instructive, Aunt. Thank you.”

“Turn the page.”

“Aunt—”

“Turn. The. Page.”

I turned the page.

“‘Preface.’” I cleared my throat. “‘Herewith the author aspires to meet a social requirement of long standing; namely, a work of genuine authority on all points of etiquette, ceremonial, and manners. Many books professing to treat of these subjects have from time to time been written, published, circulated; but these books have abounded in errors, indicated an inferior standard of taste, and been written by incompetent persons.’”

“The world is full of incompetent persons, Emma,” Aunt Eugenia said, her eyes closed in snobbish commiseration. “You shall not be one of them. At least not while I need you. Now, turn to the contents page and read each chapter heading aloud.”

“Aloud? Each chapter heading?”

“I’m not going to repeat myself, Emma.”

Eyes widening with impertinence, I turned to the contents page and began. “‘Introductory.’”

Aunt Eugenia: “Ignore that. Introductions are rarely worth one’s time.”

Emma: “Noted. ‘Chapter One: The Arrangement of a Lady’s House, and the Management of Servants. Chapter Two: Letters of Introduction—Cards—Addresses. Chapter Three: Visiting—Morning Calls.’ As this is a social visit, Aunt, shouldn’t it already be ended?”

Aunt Eugenia: “Keep reading.”

Emma: Sighs. “‘Conversation. Letter-Writing—Invitations. The Lady’s Toilet.’”

Aunt Eugenia: “Give particular attention here.”

Emma: “‘The Gentleman’s Toilet.’”

Aunt Eugenia: “Don’t read that, Emma. It would be Inappropriate.”

Emma: “‘Riding and Driving—The Promenade.’”

Islington: “Do you know how to drive?”

Emma: “No, but once I have read this book, will you let me drive your Cleveland Bays?”

Islington: “Certainly not. Possibly. Would you like to learn?”

Aunt Eugenia: Clears throat.

Emma: “‘Morning and Evening Parties. The Ball. Dinner Parties. Engagement and Marriage.’”

Aunt Eugenia: “Do not overly concern yourself with that chapter, as I will decide who and how you engage and marry. Once Arabella is settled, of course.”

I opened my mouth to state that as a twenty-one-year-old woman of property, I was most certainly not going to let her do anything of the kind. But feeling that this interview had gone on far longer than it should have, I simply kept reading. “‘Visiting at a Country House.’”

Aunt Eugenia: “Don’t think I didn’t hear of your running from the church and hiding for hours in a field. It was no way to behave. I don’t care if Charles Goddard did try and hold your hand. There are other ways of handling such predicaments.”

Emma: “Such as?”

Aunt Eugenia: “The heel of one’s boot on a tender and unsuspecting foot. And if one has not the strength to do so with discretion and a pleasant smile—he is a gentleman after all—endure the moment and report to me later. I will intervene with appropriate measures. Whilst it is the inescapable fate of women to come into physical contact with The Male upon marriage, there’s no need to rush brazenly into such preliminary overtures before bound by the immutable laws of matrimony, whereupon one must do their duty.”

Emma: “Oh, Aunt. Really.”

Emma: Gives Islington a side eye, daring him to make a snide comment.

Islington: Suddenly fascinated with his cuff, keeping an impressively neutral face.

Emma: “Here is the last chapter listed: ‘General Hints to Both the Sexes.’ Oh, this will be delightful.” It was said with irony. Lost, misunderstood irony.

“As I expect it to be,” Aunt Eugenia said. “Now, open the book to any page.”

“Any page, Aunt?”

“Are you deaf? Can you not hear as I clearly enunciate my words?” She turned to Islington, “One would think that you might have quit her of this dreadful habit.”

“Me, Ma’am?”

“Here we are,” I interrupted, “page fifty-eight. And I quote, ‘A lady will therefore concern herself less about the size and splendour of her house, than the harmony of its colours, and the good taste of its decoration. The rooms will be furnished with perfect adaptation to comfort, with a careful avoidance of glaring colours, without any undue profusion of ornaments and without any ostentation of upholstery…’”

Aunt Eugenia cleared her throat and looked meaningfully at Hawkes’s chair.

“‘…If there are pictures and other works of art, they must be good. No house, however modest, should be without something like a library. A house without books is a house without a soul.’ Oh, I like that."

“It is not a perfect book, Emma. Not everything is meant to be taken under consideration.”

“But how will I know what is and what isn’t to be considered?”

“If it pleases you, strike it from your mind. If you do not like what is being expressed, assume that is the perfect execution of good taste. Now, I expect you to read this by the time Arabella and I return to London in March.”

“Aunt, I’m reading Whitman in February.”

“Whitman? What? Who?”

I should have known better.

“Meaning,” I recovered, “I’m not reading anything written by a man the entire month, not a whit. So, as this was written by a countess, I suppose I can answer your behest.”

“I approve, Emma. One should always measure how much of a man’s influence one is willing to take into consideration. I benefited a great deal by listening to my husband while I was young, and benefited a great deal more by listening to him not at all the last twenty years of our marriage. Now, you have kept me Far Too Long. It has been one perpetual shock after another. I am leaving.” She put on her gloves. “I am Highly Displeased with what I have seen here. To say nothing of that foul yellow chair. If I weren’t feeling generous, I would have to report you.”

“To whom?”

“Someone with authority to lock you in Bedlam!”

We all stood.

“Arabella’s future depends upon your actions This Season. I can’t have you ruining everything. Despite your carnal and natural state.”

I closed my eyes, pretended Islington had not returned to London, and said, “You’re not alluding to Paul’s Natural Man, are you, Aunt?”

“Certainly not. Others spoke of carnality before Paul, and plenty are practicing it now. I don’t see why he should monopolize comment on the institution.”

I opened my eyes to glance at Islington.

He was studying a painting on the wall.

“Thank you for the gift, Aunt,” I said.

When she was almost out the door, she turned back towards Islington. “As for you, you’ve been less than moderately helpful. One would expect more from a duke. Why, I knew the Duke of Wellington when I was young, and I must say that you Pale in Comparison.”

Islington gave no response. Aunt Eugenia then Removed Herself from the drawing room and swept through the hall, where Parian was standing at the ready with an open door. I swear the very stones of Lapis Lazuli sighed in relief upon her exit. It was only as Aunt Eugenia’s carriage passed the windows that I—standing with my hands on my hips—let out my own long breath. It had been one of the most painful conversations Aunt Eugenia had ever thrust upon me. And to have both Hawkes and Islington snared.

Well.

“More tea, I think,” I said slowly.

“For the lack of anything stronger.”

Determined not to be embarrassed, I looked at Islington. “That could be arranged.”

A single nod. And then, “Any chance she’ll return?”

“No. Aunt Eugenia believes in an Effectual Goodbye. I would apologise, except as you seemed to enjoy yourself at points…”

“Not even I deserved your aunt’s commentary regarding the marriage state.”

My answering grin was challenged only by the mortified flush rushing up my neck. “I’ll go tell Agnes we need Robust Fortification. Tea with a dash of something stronger, sandwiches, a dense cake. And possibly pistols.”

Upon my entering the kitchen, Parian was sitting at the table, clearly distressed, Agnes holding his hand in a supportive manner.

“Oh, Parian,” I said. “I am so very sorry for all of that.”

“She is a formidable woman, your aunt,” he whimpered.

Agnes patted his hand kindly.

“She is formidable, Parian. That’s very decent of you to leave it at that. Why don’t you both have a fortifying tea. Agnes? Islington and I feel we need the same. Add a little something, if you would.” I made a motion with my hand indicating strong drink.

Walking back up the kitchen stairs, I paused in the corridor, took several deep breaths, and told myself that nothing had been said for which I should feel embarrassed overly embarrassed in Islington’s company.

A lie. Clearly.

But a lie that made it possible for me to reenter the drawing room.

Islington was once again sitting on the sofa, sifting through Mixing in Society.

I collapsed into the pink chair.

“Your maternal aunt, I take it?” he said, without looking up.

“Not so very maternal, as you see.” I rested my elbow on the arm of my chair and covered my eyes in an unspoken statement of exhaustion. “You realise I may never look at you again?”

“You realise I’ll never read Paul without remembering today?”

I smiled, but it was sharp. “What did you come by for anyway? Certainly not that ordeal, I’d imagine.”

“My aunt needed Hawkes. I was walking to The Hound and thought I would pass on the message if you happened upon him.”

“Was it urgent?”

“No.”

“Poor Hawkes.”

Islington looked up at me then. “He held his own. Always does.”

“She’s vindictive, my aunt. And she doesn’t forget.”

“He’s encountered worse.”

Tea arrived.

We took it in silence.

Whatever Agnes put in it burned like the dickens, and I coughed several times after every swallow.

A few moments later, Islington cleared his throat and stood. “Thank you, ah, for the unexpected…”

I made a motion with my hand but did not rise.

Islington crossed the room, then turned back. He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it.

I snorted. “What restraint!”

“I do try, on occasion.”

“Oh, Islington!” I jumped up from my seat. “Thank you!”

He looked confused. “For enduring your aunt’s blistering assault?”

“No,” I laughed, “for the gift. My gift from all of you. It’s beautiful.”

A moment of question, and then he remembered. “Ah, yes. Hawkes mentioned he had found just the thing. The pendant.”

“He did. They did. Pierce grumbling the entire time, it sounds.” Walking closer, I pulled the chain from beneath my collar and held the pendant towards him.

“My lion,” I said.

Gaze flicking over the gold pendant held by my fingers, he half smiled. “It suits,” he said, looking back up at me. “Meant to find you, I should think.”

“Yes. Strange to think, lost to someone else, but found for me.”

Islington looked away, towards the window. “As happens in life.”

I can’t say it for certain, but I thought his words sounded like a minor chord, a trace of melancholy beneath them.

And having borne his first bout with Aunt Eugenia with reasonable aplomb, he left.

January 16th

Last night’s repose was a dismal attempt for one Emma M. Lion. All the night long, Aunt Eugenia’s voice was in my head. If I wasn’t hearing a repetition of the many distasteful things she’d actually said, I was trapped in dreams with her chasing me around and saying a great many more. It is not that I want Arabella married to a fool or imbecile, but I am beginning to think the sooner she is married off, the better. For me, that is.

My restless night meant I should have had a long lie-in this morning.

It was not to be.

Agnes, inspired by the Senior Servants Society, decided to bring me breakfast en suite. In her excitement, she forgot to consult the clock. It was very unpleasant.

“Oh, and Miss, here is the book you left in the drawing room. It looks very good, and I thought you’d want it close at hand.”

Smiling brightly, she placed Mixing in Society on my tray next to the ham, eggs, and scones she’d prepared. Eating what I could, I glared at the book with distaste.

When I dragged myself out of bed, I washed and decided the only way to clear my head was a Morning Constitutional in Regent’s Park. As I was going along, thinking it stubbornly cold, I heard my name. It rang out so clear I looked around to find the source. Then up.

Alas, it was not God.

A near guess, however, as when I looked over my shoulder, I saw more glory than that to which January has a right. Immediately, I was restored to a more cheerful version of myself.

“Roland, rascal by half! You’ve returned!”

“Hello, Emma!” he boomed as he walked towards me, unused cane jauntily carried in his hand.

“You’re looking well,” I said as he stopped before me. “How’s the arm?”

Roland was looking well. His hat was new, as were his gloves, and I’d hazard he’d spent a late night at one of his gambling clubs, which seemed to have added to his aspect.

“The arm is more than fit,” Roland answered. “You, however, are a scoundrel of the first order.”

“I like that,” I said, taking his arm as we began to walk together. “Would you tell me why I’ve been awarded such esteem?”

“You abandoned me to your aunt.”

My headache threatened to return.

With sternness, I held up my hand. “Roland Sutherland, I refuse to be lectured twice on the subject, as she has already paid me a highly unpleasant visit from which I’ll likely never recover. Look at my eyes. They are red from exhaustion. I very well may die from it at any moment. Be on the ready, in case I swoon. Now, why don’t we speak of other things, such as your taking me to the theatre on Saturday evening? You haven’t forgotten your gift, have you?”

“You remembered,” Roland smiled. “I was coming to Lapis Lazuli just now to make certain you weren’t going to throw me over.”

“I would never throw you over.”

“You have several times.”

“Well, physically, yes. But socially? What a scandal.”

We had a pleasant walk, exchanging details from our holidays.

“There was a great to-do about you and Islington,” Roland informed. “I didn’t realise you were friends of such long standing.”

I simplified, then redirected. “He knew my father. Lady Sheridan sent a letter, I gather?”

“She sent three. Arabella read each one aloud as she and I were hiding from Charles Goddard. It seems your esteemed connection has given you some social credit to spend on your own account. Your aunt Eugenia doesn’t approve, of course, as it may allow you to step out from Arabella’s shadow.”

Indeed.

“Is there a chapel about?” I asked.

“Why?”

“For offering a prayer of gratitude that I had the wisdom to avoid Spencer Court at any cost.”

Roland’s blinding smile made an appearance. “I could have taught you to play billiards.”

“I thought Aunt Eugenia had redecorated the billiards room?”

“She had, a year or so ago, but there was a complaint amongst her friends that their husbands were wandering the house, aimless and disconsolate, and so it was recommissioned. The men were happy to have sanctuary, and the women were happy to have a gaol.”

“Harmony between the sexes?”

“Something of the sort,” Roland replied.

All in all, it was a pleasant walk. Roland and I stopped in at Everett’s for tea, where I made him promise that he would, at some point, teach me billiards.

“As long as you don’t swing the stick at me.”

“If you’re not stringing wire across the threshold of my room, I’d hazard a guess you’ll not be bludgeoned at my hand.”

Later

Miss Lion,

Would you be so good as to come by the bank tomorrow? My purpose for meeting is twofold. As you’ve come into your majority, I would like to review all your accounts. Also, I have good news concerning an avenue of employment. Let us firm up your prospects.

Mr. Penury

January 17th

Mr. Penury was congenial, greeting me as if I were a patron whose balance made the institution actual monies.

I brought all the notes I’d compiled on Monday—mostly cheeky commentary written into the margins of advertisements for companions and lady’s maids—but did have the current household expenditures and what Pierce is paying for rent and groceries on the ready.

My banker approved. “Good, good,” he said, bent over the notes. “Especially this Mr. Pierce. Is there a chance for a second lodger?”

The thought felt disloyal. “A second lodger would have to stay in Lapis Lazuli, and therefore most likely be a woman. I’m not certain any woman should be put through living with Cousin Archibald.”

Mr. Penury sat in his crisp banker’s black and white, raising his thick eyebrows in consideration but refraining from saying either way. “All that aside, you have managed to make headway, however small. And I am happy to tell you that I have found a trial position for you, some honest and genteel work.”

“Wonderful!”

“As personal secretary for a woman of means.”

I blinked. A personal secretary? Not half-bad at all. It might be just the thing to suit. “How cheering,” I answered brightly. And meant it.

Mr. Penury was very pleased with himself. “An ideal fit, I should think.”

“It could very well be.”

“My wife thinks it wise you will begin on a trial basis.”

“That sounds—” I gave pause. “Pray, what do you mean?”

“Mrs. Penury’s opinion is…less informed than mine, I daresay, but she wonders if it is not the best fit for one of your temperament.”

“Does she?”

A worrisome development.

He did follow it up with, “While my wife is rarely wrong, I defend my choice with enthusiasm! This is a respectable position with Mrs. Whitaker, wife of a solid and very solvent man of business, if you take my meaning. We manage his accounts, you see.”

“Ah.” My smile looked confident, but the thread that stitched it together underneath felt a little frayed. Mrs. Penury is, after all, Mrs. Penury. Unwise to gainsay her instinct.

“The trial will go for one month, every Monday in February. After that, increased hours will be discussed if your work suits.”

“Ah,” I said again. I am not so very unusual a person, but when expected to fit a predetermined mould? Well, I’ve disappointed many a person in the past. And, I daresay, will live to disappoint again.

I left in great thought, Mrs. Whitaker’s address on a piece of paper in my hand.

Later

Emma,

Back in London a week now. The telephone company is running me off my feet. Retyping three chapters for Professor Fletcher this evening. Cheers for your birthday. I hope it was smashing. A triumph for all orphans.

Mary

Emma Darling,

I’ve had the most astonishing account from Mama regarding her visit to Lapis Lazuli. While I’m not certain I can believe the whole, it seems that you, Mama, the Duke of Islington, and your vicar managed to take tea together. I cannot make heads nor tails of her account; something about a door, and a manservant, and the Duke of Wellington?

I toasted you on your birthday and would have sent my gift with Mama, however we both know she’s nosy as a butcher’s wife. I’ll bring it myself when we come to town.

I’ve a new lounge of Roman red velvet. Finally, something to which I can give my heart.

With affection,

Arabella

P.S. Mother does not like your vicar. Between your having defended him and mother having maligned him, I admit to now being curious.

Mrs. Penury,

I had a very encouraging meeting at the bank with your delightfully-mustached husband. He mentioned the post of personal secretary for a Mrs. Whitaker, and the accompanying trial, which was apparently your idea. I must confess (well, I seldom must, but tend to do anyway) that his mention of your hesitancy gave me pause. I will see it through, but am happy, shall we say, to know you urge caution?

With fondness,

Miss Emma Lion

January 18th

All good things come to an end. Which is a philosophical way of saying Cousin Archibald has returned to the land of the living.

What a ruckus. He made a dramatic entrance into the hall of Lapis Lazuli, the pocket of his coat torn, the left side of his face swelling, and a scratch on his nose! His necktie (a style not popular these forty years) was falling apart in disgrace.

A sound of great confusion drew me to the scene.

“What, what! What what what! What now! What! What what?”

And on and on.

Knowing that Pierce had clients in his studio, I rushed down the stairs and was met with this vision of a man falling to pieces. Parian was circling, desperate to manage the situation.

“Cousin Archibald! What has happened to you? Come into the drawing room, no, not that way. That’s Pierce’s studio. Here, Cousin. Over here.”

All the while he was crying out, “What what! What? What what what!”

It was Agnes, in the end, who saved the day.

She was able to drag him away from hiding behind the curtains, settle him on the sofa, and ply him with tea and cake. When his anxieties were mollified and he’d stopped looking at the window in terror, we were able to draw out an account.

Cousin Archibald was robed. I meant robbed. Everyone knows he is often robed. In fact, he was wearing his Out and About morning robe beneath his jacket. It is now—sadly—torn, due to the attempted theft.

The details are not clear; however, these are the muddied bits we do know. Somewhere between disembarking the train and hailing a hansom cab, Cousin Archibald was pickpocketed. It went badly. Hence, the ripped pocket. Whirling through the crowd, he came out to the street, unable to hire a hansom now that the money Cousin Matilde had given him was gone. He made great efforts to engender pity in the breast of his fellow human beings, but none would help him secure transport. His great efforts consisting of berating, yelling, and sobbing against a lamppost. Predictably, he was left to walk, dragging his trunk behind him, carrying his case.

Long, long, terribly long story made short, Cousin Archibald lost his way, took a turn down a less than desirable alley, and was met by some street toughs, who not only had a bit of fun with his trunk full of morning robes but roughed him up as well.

“Did you try to fight them, Cousin?” queried I.

“I had to defend their honour,” snapped he.

“Their?”

“My robes!” he wailed. “My beautiful robes. Gone!”

Agnes was sympathetic.

Parian looked relieved.

I, with the kindest of intentions, reminded Cousin Archibald he had another two dozen at least waiting in his rooms. His resulting lecture regarding Inferior Remnants brought Pierce into the room. Thankfully, his clients had already left.

Later, when Pierce and I were hiding in his studio with tea, I asked, “What did you tell them about Cousin Archibald’s screams?”

Pierce—busying himself with putting away a backdrop he loathes—paused and looked over his shoulder at me. “I told them you had a parrot. And that with any luck, it would soon die.”

January 19th

Roland and I went to Princess Ida this evening at the Savoy.

The production itself was amusing—if not for poking fun at everything.

Princess Ida, who is promised to marry Prince Hilarion when she comes of age, runs away and establishes a women’s  university, whereupon Hilarion and two friends dress as women and sneak into the university at Castle Adamant.

Havoc ensues.

While it did make a satirical mockery of many things—the education of women being one of them—there was enough ridiculousness to go around, and I enjoyed myself.

Our booth held a handful of Roland’s friends—I didn’t even mind meeting them—and Roland and I were seated at the very front, with an excellent view of the other boxes. We entertained ourselves with both the musical and the audience, exchanging, dare I say, clever observations.

There were several women from Westfield College in attendance—how I envy them—some of whom laughed along with the rest, despite the papers claiming Castle Adamant was based on Westfield. There were others, however—and I say this as an aspiring bluestocking—who would not allow the satire any room to wiggle about. Oh no. They sat with folded arms and disapproving expressions. Only when Princess Ida declared, “Man is nature’s sole mistake,” did they clap enthusiastically.

Roland widened his eyes at me with a grin.

“You excepting, Roland,” I whispered, “however unpromising a start.”

During the second act, Roland gave me a nudge. “I think you’re being signalled,” he whispered, handing me his binoculars. I was. How delightful a thing, to be signalled. One now understands the draw of the Navy.

The signal was coming from Annalise Clifford and May Northgate, attempting a message across the theatre.

“You’re right,” I said.

“Do you know them?”

“New acquaintances, a Miss Annalise Clifford and Miss May Northgate.”

“May Northgate? I believe I’ve met her elder sister, Fanny. We were at a house party together last autumn.”

“Heavens. How many house parties do you attend in a year?”

“I’m invited to them all. It’s dashed inconvenient.”

“I can imagine.”

He took the binoculars back and lifted them to his eyes. “What is it they want?”

“The women hosting the house parties? Why, for you to marry their daughters!”

“I am well aware of that,” Roland said, rolling his eyes. “I meant, what do your friends want?”

“Either to inform me a ship is sinking or suggest we meet in the powder room after Act II is over. I’m guessing the latter.”

Trusting that this was not a nautical emergency, I excused myself after Act II—“Bring back some amusing story,” Roland ordered—and elegantly walked almost tripped twice on my way to the powder room.

Upon entering, I was set upon.

“Miss Lion!”

“Miss Clifford. Miss Northgate.”

“We thought it was you. How are you this evening? We’re half convinced we should establish a Castle Adamant ourselves.”

I grinned. And suspected more than one group of women in the powder room guilty of promoting such a scheme.

“You are sitting with Roland Sutherland,” Annalise stated, as if he were Prince Hilarion found out.

“Guiltily so, yes,” I replied.

“Have you known him long?” Annalise asked, with a glance at May.

“We hated one another for a good many years—as solid a foundation for any friendship, I suppose.”

May tried not to smile, but the corner of her lips quivered.

Annalise chortled. “My parents are still building such a foundation, Miss Lion.”

Well!

“It’s not as clever as Penzance,” Roland said afterward.

“I’ve not seen Pirates of Penzance,” I answered, “but I have heard a number of the songs.”

“You’d love it. I did enjoy seeing Rutlage Barrington as Hildebrand.”

“Why, in particular?” I asked.

Roland did not answer immediately, and then let his golden smile appear. “I’ve no idea. That’s just what all the papers were saying, and I wanted to sound like I knew something of the matter.”

“Roland, you goat.”

All in all, a jolly night out.

January 20th

Young Hawkes began his sermon today by saying, “Our text this morning will be the book of Matthew, 10:29–31, chapter and verse, which will be prefaced with Shelley’s ‘To a Skylark.’ Let us begin.”

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!

Bird thou never wert,

That from heaven or near it,

Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

And off he went for all twenty-one stanzas. We did find our way back to Matthew, and then ended with Coleridge’s “The Nightingale” for good measure.

It was a very good sermon.

Islington never made an appearance, but I noticed the door to the old vestry was suspiciously left ajar.

Later

Cousin Archibald, insisting he has every right to remain in a state of distress, has decided to become the Hermit of the Dining Room and refuses to leave for any reason save relieving himself. I theorise this is neither madness nor undue fear due to having been robbed, but rather a calculated revenge on one Emma M. Lion for refusing to sponsor the purchase of a dozen silk morning robes.

“I know you’re simply acting out, Cousin.” I waved at his makeshift tent. “You much prefer the comfort and solitude of your own rooms.”

Sniffing and aggressively itching his nose, he pulled the curtain closed around him.

January 21st

Let the Whereabouts Lane Committee rejoice. Pierce has purchased a bench only this afternoon.

It turns out he simply walked into a pub in Kentish Town and asked if he could take a worn bench off their hands for a more than fair price. He had it delivered to the entry hall of Lapis Lazuli Minor—snug fit—and I looked at the creature with appall and bemusement. There it brooded, in all its aged glory state. Sturdy, one must admit. Painted dark green, chipped and worn. It looks like a man passed out in the gutter.

Emma: “I thought you would commission something new.”

Pierce: “Not on your life.”

Emma: “You mentioned they selected a date for the ceremony?”

Pierce: “The 26th, for my sins.”

Emma: “Are you expected to cut the ribbon?”

Pierce: Glares

Emma: Claps her hands together in glee. “What hour?”

Pierce: “Two o’clock.”

Emma: “I hope they don’t mind the…worn state of things.”

Pierce: “Emma, it’s a bench for outside a pub. Gibbs would hang me if I brought some garden variety nonsense. This bench is meant to make a man feel like he can sit down until his feet are under him again. Every drunk in St. Crispian’s will thank me. It’s a public service.”

Well!

January 22nd

Emma,

The professor and I are arranging to meet and go over the latest draft of his book. His office is unavailable as it’s being given a fresh coat of paint. A public tearoom is too noisy. The university library has too little privacy and too much silence. And we both know Miss Lamb would have a fit if she saw I was employed by a strapping widower less than sixty-five years of age. All this to say, might we use the drawing room of Lapis Lazuli?

Mary, besieged

Mary Besieged,

I’d be delighted! When can I expect the happy event to take place? Also, does he know you spent a very rainy three hours hiding in the shrubbery so as not to have to speak with him in December? I think it a wonderful anecdote with which to begin a conversation. Tybalt has been napping in the drawing room in the afternoon, so I must ask if our professor is allergic to cats?

Emma, entertained

Emma Entertained,

You are generous.

You are horrid.

You know both of these things.

We would like to meet on Thursday, if that’s not too much of a trouble?

I do not believe the man capable of being allergic to anything.

Mary, besieged and heckled

Mary Heckled,

Certainly. Thursday it is.

Emma, of the anticipatory variety

January 23rd  

I ought not complain that with Agnes ever more occupied with the kitchen, it is Parian who must serve as my brother-in-arms in the house cleaning brigade.

“You and I have a task before us, Parian,” I said to him this morning. “We must give the drawing room a good going-over.”

There was little to no enthusiasm in his expression.

“Don’t look so morose,” I continued. “It’s for a noble cause. There is to be an important academic meeting held here tomorrow. It requires silence and decorum and respectability. Which reminds me, you’ll need to extract Cousin Archibald from the dining room tomorrow, insist he wash, and take him someplace other than Lapis Lazuli. I’ll even grant enough for a tea.”

Here Parian’s face completely fell, but he said, “I can manage getting him out the door, Miss. The outing is what I dread.”

“What’s wrong with an afternoon out in London?” I asked.

“It used to be a diversion,” Parian whined.

“Taking Cousin Archibald out?”

“We spent a good deal of money, you see. In the before times.”

My mouth drew into a stern line, as stern as I’ve ever seen on Aunt Eugenia’s disapproving face. “Those spendthrift days are quite over. We—you and I—live in an age of austerity. And be glad of it; otherwise, you would not have a job.”

He did not look grateful.

“What if he won’t go with me? Since the assault, there’s been talk of requiring an armed guard.”

“Well, Parian,” I said, “there is a pair of shears in the kitchen, or perhaps you can borrow one of the butter knives?”

Later

From my reading today:

“Some lands reward the fidelity of those who remain despite impossible circumstances, placing deep in the heart of the rising generation secrets and convictions gained no other way. Ireland is such a place.”

–Ireland: Myth, Legend, and History

Father underlined the passage. How beautiful.

“To do as other people do is the ambition of snobs.”

–Mixing in Society, The Arrangement of a Lady’s House

Ha!

Time, now, to set my candle in the window.

January 24th

There is bedlam, and there is delightful bedlam.

This afternoon touched on the second, much to my pleasure.

Mary arrived half hour early. She looked much improved from when she darkened my door after the shrubbery in the rain debacle.

“You wear spectacles, Mary?” I said as she stepped past me into the hall.

“Not real ones, but he doesn’t need to know,” she replied.

“Ah, wonderful!” I exclaimed. “I’ve a pair of cheaters, myself. I wear them in the garret when I want to feel like an educated spinster. But they’ve no lenses. Yours look positively bluestocking.”

Mary’s cheeks pinked with resolve, and she pulled her grey woolen skirt so that I could see her ankles. Her stockings were blue. Shocking, chalk blue.

“Going for subtlety, are we?” I asked.

“For my own courage, rather. Does Agnes have anything stronger than tea? I’ve twenty-seven minutes until he arrives and must fortify myself. A sip is all, Emma. Don’t look at me like that. I’ve no intention of inebriating myself. Unless it goes very badly. And then I’d prefer to leave here with a determined wobble.”

“Amen.”

We settled in before the fire—she in Hawkes’s chair.

“What’s this?” she asked, giving the arm a pat as if it were the dog of an acquaintance.

“It belongs to the vicar.”

Mary’s glance was quizzing. “Are you…keeping it for him?”

“I’m not…exactly certain. We both claim a kind of custody.”

Mary looked a little more than confused. “So, you own half a cat with Mr. Pierce and share custody of your drawing room chair with the vicar? Do you have a moral stance against sole female ownership?”

I grinned. “Clearly not. Lapis Lazuli is now mine in its entirety. The cat is a lease, technically. As it happens, I’ve had a letter from your friend Jane. She’s going to be home soon, which means reclaiming Tybalt. I’m feeling a bit morose about the whole thing.”

Mary’s eyes lit up. “Is she? Did she say anything about the Accidental Husband?”

“Nothing at all telling. But I fully expect to have them round for tea and to be terribly nosy.”

We decided she and the professor would work at the round table by the window.

“I’ve asked Agnes to bring an afternoon tea first thing, then refill whenever necessary. Scholarship makes one hungry.”

Mary nodded. “And what of the door?”

“The door?” I asked blankly.

“The door to the drawing room. Will it be opened or closed? Will you be in or out? What—in this situation—does propriety demand?”

Considering my own conduct, I hedged. “I’m a poor arbiter of propriety, downright scandalous when it comes to male company. You’ve almost said it yourself.”

Mary screwed up her face in consideration. “Can you remember a time when you would have been led by your scruples when forming friendships with unattached men?”

“It’s all so vague.” I waved a comic hand. “I’m sure there was a time. I believe I did very well in March and April. And then Pierce arrived, and that seemed to begin the barrage on societal moorings. To his credit, he did try not to become too familiar. At first.”

“Emma, you are a near disgrace.”

“You are the one who went gambling at a gentleman’s club with Jack,” I reminded.

“Different matter entirely,” Mary dismissed. “As for this afternoon, the professor and I are meeting as colleagues. Perhaps that is stretching it too thin. Employer and employee, at very least. I am not uncomfortable with the arrangement,” she insisted, a hand to her heart. “But how will he interpret a closed door or an open door? I don’t want him thinking I’m forward and deciding to go find himself a Martin after all.”

“In that case,” I replied, “I will sit by the fire reading, with the door closed to keep out the unclean—namely, Mr. Flat—and if I come and go, the door will remain open. Thus, your professional reputation remains spotless, and I gain some sort of reward in heaven for not leading you astray.”

“We can’t lose,” Mary said definitively.

“No.”

The door sounded.

Mary turned green.

“Oh dear,” I said.

Later

Let no man say Emma M. Lion does not use the resources at her disposal.

Parian was upstairs trying to clothe and coax Cousin Archibald, and Agnes was in the kitchen, and so I answered the door myself—thinking of Pythagoras as I did, so I would exude an ancient wisdom, and the professor would think, “Ah, this is a house of Serious Scholarship.”

Ah, but no.

He was not even looking at me. Rather, he stood—in all his unprofessorial glory—gazing at the stonework, his fingers running over the carvings within his reach. Of course, he was wearing those ridiculous glasses. A box—a worn, battered box just the size of a stack of papers—was under one arm.

“Professor Fletcher,” I beamed. “Welcome.”

“Miss Lion,” he blinked at me through his large spectacles, “if I recall correctly?”

“Quite. Won’t you please come in?”

“I’m afraid I can’t come in just yet.”

“Might I ask why?”

“The acanthus, you see.”

“The— Pardon?”

He smiled. Very manly. Very confident. “The acanthus pattern carved around the door frame? Marvellously done. It’s a fine thematic treatment. When was this house built?”

“I— Well, I—” So much for conveying Serious Scholarship. “I don’t rightly know. It came to my great-aunt through her mother’s family.”

“A friend of mine is studying the effects of carved stone on the latent mind. He has a particular fondness for the symbols of the acanthus leaf. Its meaning is long life, you see. Or immortality.”

“I like the sound of that,” I enthused. “And if you come in out of the cold and take some tea, it will greatly add to that long life we are all bound for.”

The professor pulled his attention away from the stone, registered what I’d said, then smiled at the expense of himself. “Right you are, Miss Lion. Lead the way!”

It was as if we were beginning an expedition. I only felt the lack of a torch and a pair of sturdy boots.

Stepping aside, I waved the professor into the hall, directing him towards the drawing room, but he was then distracted by the ceiling trim. I looked in at Mary, who was standing near the fireplace, fully engaged in an unfortunate wringing of her hands. Thankfully, Professor Fletcher was distracted enough that I gave Mary a wide-eyed look and did a small pantomime with my own hands. Mary unwound her fingers, clenched her fists, then forced her hands to her side.

It was hardly her native buccaneering spirit.

“In here, Professor Fletcher,” I directed.

Finally, he followed. “If it isn’t Martin!” he said, taking off his hat and setting his box down on the table. “Good afternoon, Miss Bairrage. A pleasure to meet you under calmer circumstances.”

She walked to him, an almost bleak expression set on her face, and extended her hand, which he shook.

“Professor Fletcher. How fares your son’s arm? Er, both of his arms, I suppose.”

“Fine, fine. The first plaster was removed by a medical professional, the arm healing but still weak. The second plaster was removed by a bold eleven-year-old who was rather bored at Christmas and thought it would be good fun for them to play at surgeon.”

Mary’s smile was stiff. “No casualties, I hope?”

“Only three frogs and the steward’s son. Thankfully, the latter will live.”

Now they stood looking at one another, both their eyes lingering on the other’s face.

“Yes, he’ll live,” the professor repeated.

Mary swallowed.

I tapped my finger against the skirt of my gown and said, “Tea?”

Tea was brought. Mary invited Professor Fletcher to sit. He did. And opened the box to reveal Mary’s latest typed edition of his manuscript, along with several pages of notes. It was the perfect setting for Intellectual Bliss. Except it wasn’t working as it ought. Each time one would open their mouth to speak, so did the other. Then a joint pause. Followed by another overlapping attempt.

Start and stop.

Stop and start.

Upon my casual direction that they feel free to help themselves—the intention being I stay out of their way—they both reached for the teapot at the same time.

“Allow me—”

“Please, I’ll—”

And ended up fumbling their hands back and sitting awkwardly.

“You’ve so much to discuss.” I rushed over. “Let me see to your tea. How do you take it?”

The two of them sorted, with a cup for myself, I retreated to Hawkes’s chair, i.e., the best angle for spying over the pages of my book. I pretended to read a chapter canvassing the history of the British in Ireland— “Cruelty,” wrote Father—while watching Mary and The Professor trying to steady the words between them, rather like a wobbly stool one is nervous to sit on.

“I— Pardon, Miss Bairrage. You were saying?”

“Only that I, that is to say, I’ve notes here that— But I see you’ve already struck that line in the introduction.”

“No. No, I haven’t. I mean, yes, I scribbled some ideas, but only in preparation—”

“Of course—”

“Yes, I—”

“Shall we start with the introduction?”

“By all means. Unless you think…?”

It was going badly.

Concealing half a grimace behind my book, I knew it was time to trust my skills forged at Fortitude, A Preparatory School for Girls.

I went in search of Parian.

He was standing outside Cousin Archibald’s locked door.

“Parian!”

“He will not go, Miss.”

“Yes,” I held up a hand, “one catastrophe at a time. We need to come up with a plan.”

“Pardon?”

“Disaster is pending in the drawing room.”

“What, what!” Came the cry from the other side of the door. “Disaster what? What!”

Quirking a sideways frown, I motioned Parian away from the door.

“Parian,” I whispered, “is it a terrible idea to let Cousin Archibald…loose?”

Parian’s eyes went wide. “But what about silence and decorum and respectability?”

I gave my head a quick shake. “That doesn’t seem to be working. We need a diversion. An uproar. Now that I think on it, it just might work. What is it they say? A change is as good as a rest? Nonsense, really, but the drawing room is desperate for a change. Don’t look so worried,” I said, for myself as much as for a slack-jawed Parian. “I simply need you to shoo Mr. Flat down into the drawing room in two minutes’ time. Can you do such a thing?”

“How will I get him to do that?” he retorted in disbelief. “He’s bolted his door.”

“Tell him there is a man in the house who not only disapproves of morning robes but is actively campaigning for Parliament to ban them altogether.”

“I don’t see how that could work,” said Parian.

I said nothing, letting the idea percolate in his brain a moment longer.

“On second thought, it just might. I’ll have his coat and hat on hand, so we can get him out the door.”

It had every potential to go wonderfully wrong.

Returning to the drawing room, I found Mary and her professor in the same stilted state as before. Mary’s eyes widened when she saw me. A silent plea.

I offered her a militant nod, short and full of summoned confidence one does not feel.

And then the sound of a wild man pounding down the stairs with his cane. “What is the meaning of this! Underappreciation, that’s what! Lunacy, that’s what! Utter degenerate propaganda of the Liberal Party!”

Professor Fletcher and Mary both looked up at one another, then towards the open door of the drawing room just as Cousin Archibald roared in, swinging his cane.

“You!” he pointed at Professor Fletcher. “You, you gutter-minded scoundrel. How dare you come for the robes! How dare you come for the robes!”

“My good man, I—”

“Is nothing sacred! What, what? You would ban the Morning Robe! Most blessed garment in this fair kingdom!” And then Cousin Archibald went into a sort of frenzy, where his legs and arms all began to shake at odds with one another.

Things had gone far enough.

“Cousin Archibald,” I stated, rushing over, “I think you must have heard wrong. Professor Fletcher is a staunch defender of the morning robe, and has several, I am sure.”

Professor Fletcher then himself stood, his eyes blinking. “I—”

Cousin Archibald shrunk as the professor loomed over him. “Oh dear,” he whimpered. “This is the end.”

“Excuse me, my good man, you seem quite distraught.”

“He only needs to eat,” I said as I pushed Cousin Archibald towards the door. “Take yourself to Everett’s. Parian will go with you. A piece of spice cake will set all to rights. There, there, Cousin Archibald. Parliament will not threaten the morning robe on my watch.”

Professor Fletcher blinked.

I shoved Cousin Archibald, perspiring wire of a man, into the hall.

“There you are,” I said to a waiting Parian. “I think we’ve worn him out. He should be more docile. Two birds with one stone, I should think.”

And I slammed the door of the drawing room shut.

I returned to my stunned guests, now both standing uncertainly.

“Do forgive the intrusion.” I flashed a smile. “My cousin—not by blood, I assure you—is not well. He chases imaginary injustices—much like Don Quixote, but without all the charm. You understand. More tea?”

I don’t know what was said—laughter, silence, a stunned but amused expression shared?—but when I returned with a fresh pot, the awkward nervousness was gone from the room. Mary was in the process of marking her pencil through three lines of the introduction, while the professor sat with a confident challenge in his eyes.

“This needs to be addressed in the actual text,” Mary was saying. “Three sentences in the introduction alone will not do.”

“You’re wandering from the theme, Miss Bairrage,” the professor retorted. “That is how the company itself was built.”

“Yes, and it was not built in a vacuum. The company made an impact on the local communities.”

“As mentioned in those three lines in the introduction. The book is to be a treatise of the company’s impact on industry, not native cultures.”

“I’m not switching your focus to an anthropological study, but the human cost must be accounted for one way or the other.”

“The mention in chapter seven, when company rule in India is established in 1757, does just that.”

It was at this comment that Implacable Mary, fierce beast that would occasionally roam the halls of Fortitude, made an appearance. She crossed her arms, raised her chin, and said, “Professor Fletcher, that is absolute bollocks.”

Professor Fletcher pulled his head back half an inch. Then the corner of his mouth moved suspiciously. “Disagree all you like, Miss Bairrage, but you must defend yourself against me.”

“I intend to,” she said, rather too forcefully.

And off they went.

I passed a very enjoyable hour listening to them verbally wrestling over the text. At one point the professor stood, took off his suit jacket, and tossed his glasses onto the table. He sat down again, leaned back against his chair, lifted his arms so his fingers wove together behind his head, and said, “Miss Bairrage, it was you who insisted there be a stronger connection between chapters four and ten.”

“Yes. By adding an additional chapter to link the two.”

The professor laughed ruefully.

Mary tapped her pencil against the table. “You know I’m right.”

A conciliatory sigh. “I do. But you are wrong about chapter seven.”

Bunching her lips together, Mary stared him down. He did not blink. And as he was not wearing his glasses, there was no ridiculousness in which Mary might seek refuge. No, he looked rather like the hero in an epic hunting poem.

Mary flushed. “You are right, however much it stings to make such an admission.”

“Stings is the word for your criticism of the entire text.”

They looked at one another for too long a moment.

Then, “Chapter eight?” Mary said, sorting through the onion skin papers between them.

“Certainly.” The professor replaced his glasses, blinked, and ridiculous order was restored to the world.

Later, after the professor left and we were sitting by the fire with more tea, Mary said, “Professor Fletcher has invited me to attend his course on technology every Thursday.”

“Has he? Is it not a male-only course?”

“It is, but I would be a special guest. ‘A colleague,’ as he put it.”

“Will you go?”

Mary looked like she was trying to gather enough courage to take up her cross. “Emma Lion, might I be blunt?”

“You must, Mary Bairrage.”

“If I see that man standing in a crowded auditorium, speaking intelligently and confidently on any subject, I may never recover.”

“Overwhelming, to be sure.”

“When he removed his jacket and glasses—”

“I understand.”

“And his mind.”

“It is very quick.”

“If only he wouldn’t try to cut his own hair.”

“Oh, no, Mary Bairrage,” I said firmly. “That is a gift. While he still wears those glasses and cuts his own hair, you have a defence.”

“True. He is a widower.”

“With three boys who operate on frogs and other children.”

Mary made a disapproving sound, then grimaced. “If only he hadn’t wholeheartedly concurred with my assessments of chapter nine.”

She lifted her hand to her heart and closed her eyes.

And in that moment, Mary’s heart tumbled something terrible.

January 25th

A Conversation in the Kitchen.

“Miss Lion.”

“Yes, Agnes.”

“My services have been requested this evening.”

“Oh?”

“There is a Mr. Hughes who lives in Baron’s Square. He hosts a Burns Supper every year, and his cook has sent a note round asking if I might be available to help. They’ve had three of the household staff take ill.”

“That sounds lovely,” I replied. “You’ll be hearing Robert Burns quoted the evening through, no doubt.”

“Yes, Miss. I mean, no, Miss. I’ll be in the kitchen. But the guests will enjoy Burns’ poetry. It’s very important, Miss. A Scottish tradition.”

“Yes, I know. I can’t see any reason why you shouldn’t help, as long as we’ve something put by for Cousin Archibald and myself to eat.”

“Mr. Flat is eating in his hermitage on the dining room floor again. For tonight only, he says. To restore his aquarium.”

“I think the word he was searching for might be equilibrium.”

“Yes, Miss.”

Later

Agnes has returned. I am sitting in the kitchen in my nightdress and robe—having come downstairs to insist that Cousin Archibald cease moaning, and then deciding to take a fortifying tea before bed.

“Agnes! How was the Burns Night?”

“A bonny night ’twas, Miss Lion.”

“Heavens. You’ve gone full Scot!”

She sighed with contentment. “The Duke of Islington and Young Hawkes enjoyed themselves, from what the footmen reported.”

“Did they? How nice for them to be invited.”

“A great honour, on all counts.”

“Hmmm, yes.”

“Is there anything I can get for you, Miss?”

“No,” I answered. “Do remember that Mr. Pierce’s bench is being unveiled tomorrow in front of The Cleopatra. There’s to be a ribbon-cutting ceremony. You’re welcome to attend if you wish.”

“I shall see, Miss. My mother mightn’t approve.”

“Ah. The Cleopatra being unsavoury?”

“Oh, no, Miss. She’s no mind against a pub. It’s only she’s very particular about ribbon cuttings and thinks that only elected officials should hold shears in the public square.”

“Which would keep them from getting stabbed by their otherwise shear-wielding constituency?”

Agnes paused, looked up in confusion, and said, “I…am not certain, Miss.”

January 26th

I worry that Pierce is courting disaster.

He’s certainly not ingratiated himself to the neighbourhood.

I suppose I should give an account as to why.

“Why are you not dressed?”

This demand was made when I entered Pierce’s studio after luncheon.

Pierce took the toothpick from between his teeth and looked at his clothing. “Do you not see a clothed man before you?”

“For the ceremony, I mean. Your bench is to be unveiled, and you are to cut the ribbon.”

It was as dismissive an expression as I’ve ever seen on Pierce’s face. “I’m not going,” he said. As if that were reason enough.

“Not going?”

“I’ve been commissioned by The Times to photograph the docks. I’m starting this afternoon.”

“But Pierce—”

“Emma, I have a profession. I can’t spend all my time running around after the silly—yes, silly—whims of the Whereabouts Lane Committee. I already spent an afternoon finding a bench. That is enough good will for any man.” He looked directly at me. “You go. Cut the ribbon for me.”

“Pierce—”

“If I don’t work, rent doesn’t get paid. If rent doesn’t get paid, your bank account suffers. If your bank account suffers, you sell Lapis Lazuli, and we all scatter to the four winds.” He let out a long breath. “What’ll it be, Emma? Do you cut the ribbon, or shall I?”

I frowned. “Not very gallant of you, to tell the truth so nakedly.”

“It’s very gallant of me, just not in a British way.” His response was followed by a smile. “Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to cut a ribbon.”

Of course I’ve dreamt of cutting a ceremonial ribbon.

Hasn’t everybody?

Pierce smiled at my nonverbal response. “You know you’ll have more fun telling me about it at dinner.”

“I wouldn’t say more.”

“You love telling a good story.”

And so off I went in my striped afternoon dress, hat jauntily set at an angle.

There was more of a crowd than I was expecting. And a small five-man band.

I laughed.

It was Entirely Ridiculous.

I pushed my way through those assembled, debating how I should let the Whereabouts Lane Committee know Pierce was not coming (they were in conference with the Traitors Lane Assembly) when the window to Hawkes’s flat next to The Cleopatra opened. Out leaned a half-dreaming Charlie Cross.

“E of A, what’s the winning horse?” he called down.

“Good day, Charlie!”

Then Mastiff pushed him to one side of the window. “Not yet a good day, Miss Lion. Morning doesn’t start for another hour at least.”

The second window opened to reveal the grimacing face of Striker. Then Quality Jones and Capper and Night Watchman. Finally, a line of cigarette smoke revealed The Boy.

“Heavens! Are all you in there?”

“It was too dangerous to go home in the state we were in last night.”

“But you live on this very street,” I called back.

“Which goes to show how very wast—”

“We were ill,” Charlie Cross interrupted. “Very ill. But Hawkes set us straight.”

I lifted a hand to block the sunlight. “Where is Hawkes now?”

The sound of a throat clearing behind me, and I turned round.

Hawkes.

Not five feet away.

A book under his arm.

Hands in his pockets.

A burgundy scarf I’d not seen before around his neck. It smelled faintly of pears.

“Miss Lion,” he said quietly.

“Oh, hello, Hawkes. Have you just come from the church?”

Hawkes gave a quarter of a nod as he looked past me at the Whereabouts Lane Committee talking with Gibbs. More people were arriving. “Is that Pierce’s bench?”

“You’ve heard?”

A nod. “It suits.”

“Pierce thought so. The committee looks Less Than Enthused.”

A diagonal tilt of mischief came into Hawkes’s eyes, something almost fey, but it was soon smoothed. He looked nothing more than a vicar with a new scarf and half a dozen drunken friends hanging half-dressed from his window.

“Do you tell them Pierce is not coming, or do I?” Hawkes asked.

I scrunched my nose up. “How did you guess?”

“I formed a hypothesis which you’ve just proved correct.”

“A man of science.” I grinned. I then looked towards the Whereabouts Lane Committee. “Why don’t you tell them, Hawkes, and propose me as substitute. I’ve always wanted to cut a ceremonial ribbon.”

Hands still in his pockets, head bent, Hawkes wound his way through the crowd, nodding but not stopping as he was greeted. He then spoke with Mr. Lacey, who called over Mr. Spout, who called over Mr. Enamel, who called over the Mayor of Traitors Road. There was hand waving and necktie adjusting. Hawkes was standing with his shoulders pitched slightly forward as he stared at the ground, nodding when someone talked at him long enough. Hawkes then said something which caused every man in the circle to glance my way. I straightened my back and lifted my chin, thinking eligible thoughts.

Mr. Spout forced his eyebrows together so violently I worried they might come right off his face.

More deliberation.

Hand waving.

Then Hawkes was handed the ceremonial shears.

He tried to give them back. He was refused. Hawkes said something (cutting, I would hope) and tried to walk away, but Mr. Lacey grabbed his arm.

My mouth dropped open.

Manhandling Hawkes!

Has it ever been done? And if so, is anyone alive to tell the tale?

But Mr. Lacey began making his case as he pointed from the church to The Cleopatra to the bench waiting beneath the deliciously thick red ribbon.

Hawkes lifted a hand to his face, gave his head a half shake, then looked right at me. His blue eyes reluctantly asking my blessing.

Drawing my mouth to the side, I lifted my hands in a So Be It manner.

Hawkes, lifting his hand to his heart, bowed his head in a most courtly manner.

Then the ceremony began.

The Mayor of Traitors Road spoke, then a representative from the Whereabouts Lane Committee, who drew our attention to the brass memorial plaque bearing the name of the American who donated the bench—Pierce was going to be thrilled—and finally Gibbs was invited to speak.

He had nothing polite to say, but instead made several jests about drunkards being spared the gutter. There was more laughter than Aunt Eugenia would have approved of on any given day.

Finally, it was time for the ribbon.

Hawkes was asked to step forward. He did so, giving the red ribbon a satisfying slice.

The ribbon floated down to the ground.

The bench outside The Cleopatra was declared Official.

A cheer, and the staff of The Cleopatra began to bring out trays laden with drinks.

“I do like the bench,” Hawkes said in my ear.

I turned in surprise. “You escaped rather quickly.”

“Not quickly enough,” Hawkes muttered. “I apologise.”

“Had you not gestured so gallantly, I’d feel very upset. As it happens, I’m happy for you. Mostly. How did it feel?”

“The ribbon?”

“Yes. Did the shears have a decent heft? Did the ribbon cut like butter? Did you feel like you had finally arrived at your life’s purpose?”

“I admit”—Hawkes tried not to smile—“the shears had a pleasant heft, and were sharp besides. You would have loved it.”

I tsked, but said, “I am happy for you.”

“I’m happy for you,” he said in return.

I laughed and asked, “Why?”

“I think you’ve good things to come.”

“What a pleasant pronouncement.” I turned my attention back to the bench, which people were taking turns sitting on. “In its place, the bench is actually very likable.”

“I had the very same thought.”

“Don’t tell Pierce you approve. He would dislike aiding and abetting the church.”

The edges of his eyes tightened in amusement, but then Hawkes said, “Certain wounds run deeper than their scars.”

It was as if I could imagine jagged, dark lines cutting through Pierce’s core…and then something I did not expect to see as I looked at Hawkes. It was almost as if he too carried a scar, a different sort. Not so violent, but still present and painful. Then it was gone. Like words written in the sand only to have a wave come and wash them away.

I opened my mouth, closed it, and recalibrated my thoughts before I said, “Would you care for some tea, Hawkes?”

“If I weren’t held to a previous commitment, I certainly would. Accept my second apology of the day.”

“Accepted.”

“The Reprobates”—he lifted an eyebrow towards his flung-open windows where a drinking song was receiving a hearty rendition—“have certain attributes prized above others. We enjoy a good sport. Someone who can roll with the punch, as it were.” He turned his gaze on me. “You, Emma, are a good sport.”

My heart closed around the compliment. “Why, thank you.”

Hawkes gave his head a small nod, then turned on one foot, letting the gravity of Traitors Road take him down the street. When The Reprobates saw him on the move, they all began to sing “Away, Away, My Heart’s on Fire.”

Later

“How was the ceremony?” asked Pierce this evening.

“A fair crowd. There was a band. And Hawkes cut the ribbon in your stead—a thing I have forgiven. You missed a memorable afternoon.”

Pierce grunted. “I spared myself, the way I see it.”

“Needless to say,” I answered, “the bench was well received. They’ve even placed a brass plaque on the back with your name on it.”

Raising a glass to his lips, Pierce paused at my words. “Please say you’re in jest.”

I grinned. “Donated by Niall Pierce, the American.”

Pierce groaned.

“Had you been there, you could have prevented them screwing it into place.”

“Why didn’t you intervene for me?”

“Because I’m a good sport, Pierce—and am held in high esteem for it.”

Pierce stared at me a confused moment, then drank full half the wine in his glass.

January 27th

Fate is determined to force the absurd on my person. Heavy-handed. I do not feel I deserve the result of today’s random spin of the wheel.

And on a Sunday, no less.

I even went to church.

All this to say, I found an odd sheaf of papers on a shelf in the breakfast room. A sturdy brown paper, wrapped around one side to keep it all together, held in place with a leather string. Sticking out of the sheaf of papers were bits of advertisements and newspapers which had been scribbled on. If a writer and a crow were one and the same, this is what would be produced.

I began to worry I might know the owner of such a stack.

I asked Agnes, Parian, and The Disagreeable One if it belonged to them. All said no, except Cousin Archibald, who wished to examine it further. I refused.

Untying the leather string and beginning the barest of investigations to identify the owner, I found evidence of a novel in progress, the heroine a swashbuckling buccaneer, implying it likely belongs to a particular relative of Islington, namely, the Countess of Alwick.

I think it unfair and unlucky to account to another member of this family for my being in possession of their private writings. Even if the heroine has a jaunty smile and wears whalebone stays for no man.

Having learned my lesson, I allowed myself one chapter—engagement with the enemy ship, belonging to HRH, the Queen—before safely tucking it away in my desk.

Tomorrow I will return the errant novel.

I hope Agnes has prepared something fortifying for supper.

January 28th

I plan to return the manuscript as early as I deem it acceptable to pay an unannounced visit.

Best do the deed quickly.

I find regret so much more palatable than anxious imagination.

Later

However dubious the habit may be of writing a Full Account of this or that, I can’t seem to break the habit. It requires ink and fresh nibs, both costing money. However, on days like today, I simply do not see a way around the practice. For I want to remember this afternoon’s events. Islington, had he been privy to some of the comments made, would most likely not want me to do so. However, he was keen to have forced the introduction.

As one sows…

And so I give a Full Account of my visit with the Countess of Alwick.

Taking the manuscript from my desk, I sorted my gloves and hat, gave myself a brisk if not militant nod in the mirror, and marched up Whereabouts Lane, turning left onto the Diagonal and then right on Sterling before being presented to Baron’s Square.

There was a carriage waiting in front of Islington’s house, driver talking to the horses in a low tone, their collective breath pillowing in the cold air. As I approached, the door opened and out came the man himself.

“Lion,” he greeted with some surprise.

“Hello, Islington.”

“Were you coming for a visit?”

I took courage from the piratical heroine and explained, handing him the tattered manuscript in the process, “I believe something belonging to your novel-writing aunt has appeared at Lapis Lazuli House.”

The side of Islington’s mouth twitched.

Annoyance or delight?

It was difficult to know. The two are nearly identical on the face of an Islington.

Keeping the leather string tied, he riffled through the papers and glanced at a few random pages. “Yes,” he said, “this appears to be my aunt’s.”

“Wonderful. Be so good as to deliver it on my behalf.”

Islington paused, then shook his head slowly. “I don’t believe I will.”

I scrunched up my nose. “Whyever not!”

“Because, Lion, this is an experience you should have. An experience I wish you to have.”

“You don’t say,” I answered dryly.

“One aunt deserves another.”

If we’re being fair, yes. There are immutable laws about such things. I, however, decided to brazen it out. “That all depends on the aunt in question, Islington.”

“I would never forgive myself if I denied you this…encounter. If I didn’t think you’d enjoy it, I wouldn’t suggest it,” he added. A statement I do not believe. “As I am off to an engagement, I’ll leave you to it.” He placed the manuscript back in my hands. “Invite me for tea tomorrow and tell me all the details.”

“Come for tea tomorrow,” I said, resigned.

“Wonderful. I accept.”

Thus, I was summarily dispatched.

I watched him drive away with little charity in my heart.

When I knocked on the Countess of Alwick’s door, I was expecting it to be answered.

It wasn’t.

That is, not immediately.

After a few solid drops of the knocker, I was wont to give up and leave the book with Islington’s butler. Sadly, the door was opened by a young man, seventeen or thereabouts by the looks of it.

“Yes?”

Yes. As if I’d caused great inconvenience to his day.

“I’m here to see the countess, on…personal business.”

He gave me a forward appraisal. “Will she find said business of interest?”

“I bring her something of great value that seems to have gone missing,” I parried.

His eyes, registering the manuscript in my hands, could not hide their relief. “In that case, come along. But don’t be a dullard in there. She wants interesting people or none at all.”

A mandate to perform.

Dear me.

He led me through a long corridor to a sunroom at the back of the house; black and green checkered marble flooring, various plants, stacks of books, and a table strewn with loose manuscript pages. Standing behind the table was a woman of advanced years—well, nearly sixty at least—in jodhpurs, a white blouse, and a pair of garden galoshes. She leaned back against a waist-high cabinet that looked as if it should be in a post office but instead had pigeonholes filled with various objects.

“Says she’s interesting,” the boy said before disappearing back down the hall.

“Sullivan,” Islington’s aunt nodded in the young man’s direction. “Not a lad of elegant manners, but he does the job well enough.” Then she reached behind her, pulled out a pipe, filled it with snuff, and lit it with credible, nay, admirable proficiency.

She puffed once.

She puffed twice, letting the greenish smoke blow towards my person.

“You’re a queer one,” she said, bold as brass, considering how she was too fantastical to be real. “For the sake of your good name, Islington keeps having me over to play chaperone.”

“I…”

“Cat got your tongue?” Her accent was high class, even if her phrases were not.

I blinked. “If I know anything of your family, I’d claim it was a hound.”

A match was struck behind her eyes, and the countess looked at me with renewed interest. “I’ve been inconvenienced by all this chaperonage,” she stated.

“From my limited experience, Islington’s library is the model of comfort.”

She gave her head a shake and indicated a wingback chair behind me—I sat—then took her own seat behind her writing table. “One is never quite so comfortable as when in one’s own kingdom. Except Stonecrop, Islington’s country seat. Everyone feels at ease there. A good magic about the place. I go up betimes when he stays in town.” She took another pull from her pipe. “What I wish to know is why?”

“Why?”

“Why he’s welcomed you into his Thursdays.”

I’d no understanding of what she meant. “His Thursdays?”

“Don’t you know anything about my nephew?”

“He’s disapproving, for one.”

She laughed. It sounded unkind to start but finished with a stubborn affection. “We’re all good at that. Family gift. And Henry’s particular, to be sure. He cares deeply but for a very small number of people—smaller now, due to all that unpleasant business. So I was surprised when he brought you into his Thursdays. He reserves them, you see. Utterly refuses for anyone else to trample on the day. God may have declared Sunday to be His Sabbath, but Islington keeps Thursday holy for his own sake.”

“Thursdays were made for Islington, not Islington for Thursday?” I misquoted.

A wry lift of the eyebrow that mimicked Islington so completely, I repeated the expression on my own face. “Something of that nature. If he didn’t deem you worthy—a heavy word among our tribe—you would never have dined at his table on a Thursday. Ever. And what’s it been? Three? Four? I lose count. I usually remember them by which chapter I’m working on. Last time he asked me over was for chapter twenty-seven of The Count’s Secret. Nearly finished the thing.”

“I’m partial to viscounts, myself.”

“Are you?”

“A Dissolute Viscount, if one can find him.”

She smiled and let an uncomfortable minute pass. “In any case, we of the house of Devereux are a select group of God’s fools, but we select well for all that. Some would call us exclusive. Exclusive? Why don’t we chalk it up to discerning and call it a day? Islington is more careful than the lot of us. I’d like to see any of those society rat-catchers snag the boy. Not likely.”

“Devereux, as in…?” As in a family that came over with William the Conqueror.

“Yes.” She hit the end of her pipe against her hand. “Those Devereuxs.”

“Henry Devereux,” I said aloud, trying the name on my tongue. “I’ve never thought about his name, only the title. Islington seems to suit.”

“It fits Henry well, as well as it did his father, but in different ways.” She blew a smoke ring from her mouth.

“I—” The impertinent question balanced on the tip of my tongue, then fell forward. “I always had the impression that Islington and his father were a bit at odds.”

“You might say that.” She took a long draw on her pipe. “I’m sure you can imagine what my brother thought of me.”

I attempted to resist snorting. It was not the most graceful sound.

The countess watched me shrewdly as she added, “He liked Henry even less.”

I opened my mouth in surprise, but no sound came out.

At that point, Sullivan returned bearing a tray filled with things for tea. He laid it on the desk, moving a few papers aside, and left.

With movements more graceful than I was expecting, the countess prepared us each a cup.

“Here now, claim your tea and leave that manuscript of mine on the corner of the desk. I’ll edit with a vindictive spirit in remonstration for it having gone wandering. Where were we—ah, that’s right. My brother’s disapproval of his only son.”

Unsure if I wanted to dig about in the graveyard of Devereux family feeling—or lack thereof—I sat silently with my tea and watched her take a frightening amount of sugar in her own.

“Do you know why it happens?” I redirected. “The misplacement of items in St. Crispian’s?”

“I’ve my theories.” She settled back in her chair, holding her cup with two hands. (Aunt Eugenia would have Perished At The Thought.)

“Which are?”

“I wonder if, on the day The Roman no longer walks our streets, things will stay put.”

I’d never thought of that before and said, “Do you really think him responsible?”

“Him, or whatever it is that keeps him here. Perhaps he’s caught in the same web.” She shrugged. “I’ve never asked him because that would be rather tactless, wouldn’t you say?”

“You’ve spoken with him!” I sat straight up, barely keeping my tea from sloshing onto my lap.

Her smile deepened. “Once or twice is all. But I do always put a copy of my latest book in the garden. He likes to read them, I think. Has a chance to, at least, before the damp makes it unreadable. The Pharaoh’s Death seems to be his favourite to date, as more pages were dog-eared than usual.”

“You claim, then, that The Roman can have a corporeal effect on things.”

“It isn’t Islington sneaking into my garden to read my books. The boy’s a complete snob. No appreciation for the vulgar adventure tale. It’s very dispiriting.”

I grinned. “The noblest arts elude the masses.”

She put another lump of sugar in her cup. “I’ve another theory, of course.”

I waited.

She stirred her tea thoughtfully. “I’ve often wondered if we’ve more than one ghost.”

A wash of shivers across my neck. “You think so?”

“I’ve no idea. But someone—something—meddles with the lot of us.”

“We most likely deserve it.”

She shrugged. “Who’s to say. As for you, Miss Lion, I might like you well enough. Still undecided, you understand. I never rush my approval. I do like Pierce, though. There’s a fellow if I ever saw one.”

It was not at all what I expected to come out of her mouth, and I nearly spewed my tea across her floor. “When did you meet Pierce?”

“I’d popped into The Cleopatra to bother Gibbs—he brings in a vermouth I can’t live without—and there they were: Henry with Young Hawkes and Pierce.”

I nodded as if the thought of them drinking at The Cleopatra without me didn’t make me feel somewhat forgotten. A silly and frankly childish response, however.

“And you got on well?”

“Like a house on fire, my dear. As for you, it remains to be seen. Away now, I’ve work to do. Let yourself out, if you would.”

And with that, she pushed the tea tray aside, pulled her patchwork manuscript towards her, untied the leather string, and opened the mess. Reaching for a fountain pen—as if I weren’t in existence, let alone in her writing room—she began to work with a single-minded focus.

Letting myself out, I sat by the cold fountain of Perseus a long while.

I thought of my father.

I thought of Islington’s father, wondering what Henry Devereux—heir and only son—could have possibly done to—unjustly or justly—merit such scorn.

Later

This evening as I was helping Agnes wash up in the kitchen, I said, “I’ve just met a very particularly pruned woman, and I am beginning to believe I want you to encourage my eccentricities when I grow old.”

Agnes frowned. “I’ve no idea what you mean, Miss.”

January 29th

When Islington came for tea, he behaved as if nothing unordinary had occurred the day previous. While I gave no hints that any aunt—sane or otherwise—had divulged details he might consider personal (certainly not), I was more than a little impatient for the topic to be mentioned. Due to a degree of patience that has weaseled its way into my character, I did not immediately say, “What are these Thursdays of which you are so particular?” Nor did I ask, “To what unpleasant business would your aunt have been referring?” Alas, no. Polite conversation rolled along without a single extraordinary mention.

It was very boring indeed.

“Are you not going to say anything worth hearing?” I asked after our second cup.

Islington tilted his chin and lifted a single eyebrow in concert.

I made an impatient motion accompanied by a graceless sound.

“I’ve been politely discussing the weather, Princess Ida, and Agnes’s new recipe for plum pudding. What more are you looking for?”

I gave him a straight look. “We could begin with your aunt, of the shocking variety.”

“Ah, yes, we both have one, it seems.”

It felt unfair to compare. His aunt is eccentric in all the best ways, whereas mine amplifies the very worst.

“She is still deciding if she likes me,” I said.

“Hardly surprising.”

“But Pierce she took to straightway.”

“Pardon?”

“The Cleopatra,” I supplied.

“Ah,” he repeated. “Yes.”

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

“That my aunt likes to acquire her sweet vermouth from The Cleopatra?”

“No.” I frowned. “That you, Pierce, and Hawkes seem to be living a double life.”

“We can hardly invite you to drink with us at eleven o’clock at night in a public house.”

He was right, and I knew it. My foray into The Cleopatra in the middle of the day is only just forgivable—however lauded in some gin-soaked corners.

“I’ll have to content myself with the stage of The Drunken Duck,” I sighed.

Islington opened his mouth to argue, stopped himself, and firmly closed it again.

I gave my most serious expression when I added, “No harm in asking your aunt to teach me how to smoke a pipe, however.”

He was not amused.

January 30th

A quiet day, long hours stretching out.

Having had snow and then rain, it’s been a slushy, tucked inside, lamps lit sort of day. I thought about going to the Reed and Rite, or Everett’s, as I still have some of Mrs. Penury’s generous gift in my pocket. But I couldn’t bring myself to exchange winter as the observer, for winter as the experienced.

I like days of solitude. Not as an everyday dress, but for the special occasion where one’s world revolves so slowly it is almost stillness. And so the long month of January almost comes to an end.

My studies have suffered, but I’ll finish Ireland tomorrow and will have to place it on my green bookshelf, reluctantly closing the cover on the ghost of Father.

Agnes has promised me snow tonight.

“How do you know, Agnes?”

“Only this, Miss. Ever since I was a child, my fingers have tingled before a snow. And they’ve been tingling all day.”

I refrained from commenting that she’d not only done half a week’s worth of baking but also two weeks’ worth of laundry. Anyone’s fingers would be tingling.

Look there. Out the window in the slate grey of evening.

It’s begun to snow.

January 31st  

I heard a good deal of pounding this afternoon but was up in my garret reading the last chapter of Ireland: Myth, Legend, and History, which speculates that Ireland will never be able to throw off its English oppressors.

Dreary thought.

Father’s final margin note read: The bane of the Irish is the English telling us who we are while denying us the freedom to define ourselves. I wish I had more of Father’s thoughts written down.

We often hear people say life is not fair, and yet it always feels like stubbing one’s toe when we actually find it to be true.

As for the pounding…

It wasn’t until I came downstairs, determined to go on a lengthy constitutional, that I was met with Parian and Agnes whispering in the hall.

“Add a third, and you’d be as dangerous as the Fates,” I said.

They both looked up blankly. I sighed.

“Miss…” Agnes began. Parian prodded her to continue. “There’s been an incident.”

“Has someone been run over by a delivery wagon?”

“No. Only…Mr. Pierce’s door has been…nailed shut.”

“Nailed shut? What on earth do you mean?”

“They left a manifesto on the front door,” Parian contributed.

A Manifesto.

I wonder if Parian understands what the word really means.

I marched to my front door and peered out. There were indeed boards nailed to prevent entry or exit of Lapis Lazuli Minor. An envelope was snugged into the door frame. Going down my front steps and up the steps of Lapis Lazuli Minor, I claimed the envelope—smiling blithely at a passerby as if this were all very normal. As soon as I was back inside the hall, Parian and Agnes drew close while I opened the envelope.

“Oh dear,” I said.

It was a notification from the St. Crispian’s Board of Order informing the owner of Lapis Lazuli House that Lapis Lazuli Minor had not received the proper permits to add a front door, and it was therefore illegal to use until such a time as the proper permits were not only submitted but approved.

“Will Mr. Pierce have to move away?” Agnes asked, wide-eyed.

“No,” I answered rationally (required when one is in their majority and the sole owner of a property). “We will simply submit the proper forms.”

“Will he climb in and out the winda?”

“No, he will not, Agnes. He will simply have to use our front door until the matter is resolved.”

She and Parian exchanged a look.

In truth, I was not eager to inform Pierce of this new reality. I took up camp hid in the drawing room, sitting in my pink chair and trying to focus on my Latin. (Dabit deus his quoque finem.)

An hour later, I heard a knock on the front door. Parian answered. A string of questions decorated with words of which Aunt Eugenia would not approve followed. Entering the drawing room, Pierce looked like the avenging angel I’ve accused him of being. I could almost swear he was taller than usual, hair swept in a devil-may-care manner, hat in hand, eyes cutting through anything in his way. He gave no greeting; rather, he drew in a long breath and then demanded, “Why the bloody hell is my front door nailed shut?”

When confronted with an angry photographer, one might choose the calming tones of docility and appeasement. I chose blame and subtle guilt directness.

“I’ve received a notification that the front door of Lapis Lazuli Minor never went through appropriate channels and is therefore considered illegal. It is not to be used until we receive approval.” I held up the notice, which he grabbed from my hand, his gaze racing across the words. A vein in his temple was so pronounced I could see his pulse. “That’s absurd.”

“It is,” I replied. And then decided to take my life in my hands, “I suspect it may be in response to you having been difficult?”

“Difficult?” The word was spat like a shard of glass. “I bought a blasted bench. Bastards!”

It was not the time to praise his lovely use of alliteration.

Alas.

“Yes, you did.” I shrugged. “Let us imagine, as an exercise, the committee’s response to your not being present for the ceremony? Might we argue such an absence did not help matters?”

A blank stare in return.

“If it makes you feel better,” I attempted, “I’ve been hearing positive reports of how often the bench is used. Very popular. They were saying at the Reed and Rite only yesterday that a man, when drunk, is even known to spit shine the brass plaque. Out of respect, I’m sure.”

No reaction.

“Such reports, however, don’t seem to have…appeased the committee.”

He tossed the notice onto the green sofa and crossed his arms. “And I’m to climb through a window? What of my clients? Are they to clamber in after me?”

“No,” I answered firmly. “Although I should very much like to see that.”

He glowered.

“You will use the front door. I shouldn’t think that too much of a burden. And as Cousin Archibald is in residence, we’ve the cover of absolute respectability.”

“I’ll be a tremendous imposition on you.”

“Hardly. I’ll do my best to ask Cousin Archibald to behave.”

Pierce grunted.

“Meanwhile, I’ll discover where I am to acquire these necessary forms and submit them post hoc.” And then, realising I’d used the wrong Latin phrase, I said, “Statim, that is. With all haste.”

He wasn’t happy, but I managed to get a stubborn smile when I handed him a key.

February 1st

I sit at the very top of a fresh month with a choice before me.

One which very well may have an impact on the whole of my existence.

Which book do I read next?

Having finished Father’s Ireland, I’ve gone back to read my favourite passages, and some of his as well. I don’t know why it always feels like a triumph when I find them to be one and the same, but it does. Wouldn’t it be something wonderful to own a book he loved unabashedly, with no qualifications, nothing to argue with?

I have here on my desk “Song of Myself” by Whitman and Mixing in Society. I’ve been coming and going all morning under the glare of the latter, sitting with a judgemental pout. It’s not that we can’t find any common ground. On the contrary. This anonymous countess does, on occasion, make a half-sensible statement. But when I came across, “the men must have both pleasure and personal liberty when their immediate tasks are done … but women are not broad enough for such recognition. They know nothing of physiological truths or of mental necessities,” I snapped it shut and put it on the shelf.

I can hear Mother telling me, “Sort out one’s duty first thing, Emma. Then you may seek out your diversions.”

I can hear Father grunting in the corner with his repeated response, “Only if she’s wise enough to know which is which.”

“Oh, Declan. You are content to raise a wild animal.”

“Animal, no,” he replied one afternoon, glancing up at me with a wink. “But wild, always. My girl, I wouldn’t have you be any other way.”

As for Mixing in Society, it can glare all it likes.

I’ll be hanged if I begin a fresh month by reading, “It is, perhaps, superfluous to say that geometrical patterns are, of all others, the most reprehensible and, indeed, inflict positive torture upon the eyes of very sensitive people.”

Whitman it is.

Later

"Song of Myself"

by WALT WHITMAN

I don’t quite… Only it’s…

I can’t think of what to say.

The way that man swings language about, such an arc of beauty and movement.

A freedom uncomfortable but enlivening.

There is something in his forward courage that feels rather like stars unbound. Changed. A fate rewritten.

I’ve had to leave the house and walk about for a moment. What else is one to do with such words?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,

You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)

You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of

the dead, nor feed on the spectres in books.

You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,

You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

There are millions of suns left!

I don’t even know what he means, but how glorious. I hear the words aloud, but not in my own voice. Rather, in Pierce’s low tumbled sound, his accent turning towards the American in ways he cannot help.

February 2nd

Yesterday a note arrived from Mrs. Whitaker while I was occupied with Whitman. She has been in communication with Mr. Penury and is expecting me Monday morning at ten o’clock. Sharp. I sent back a brief and well-written reply that, yes, I was expecting the same and would be prompt.

Today, when I was sitting at my garret window and committing a few lines of Whitman to memory—“Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt, Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee”—this arrived from Mrs. Penury,

Miss Lion,

My husband informs me you begin your work Monday. I write to wish you luck. You’ve shown a willingness to sally forth I find admirable. Your sense of humour accounts for a great deal, I’m sure. Dare I suggest that in this trial, you have every right to ask if this is the right situation for yourself? Let us hope it will be everything you wish it to be. I intend to have you for tea once the trial period is complete, to satisfy my curiosity. If you’ll allow such an imposition, I’ll look forward to the visit.

Sincerely,

Rebecca Penury

Comforting and discomforting in equal measure.

But I take courage.

As Whitman says, “I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.”

Uncertain of what I will need, I’ve already prepared my pen and a small bottle of ink. I’m looking to purchase a few extra nibs and a satchel.

The nibs a necessity, to be sure.

The satchel, also a necessity a case of honest, green-eyed envy (Mary’s is divine), turned to a convincing belief I am meant to traverse life with one in my possession. I’ll be going out in search this afternoon, returning in time for tea.

Later

I’d secured my lion pendant—talisman that it is—around my neck before going out. It glinted like an old coin against the dark colour of my afternoon dress. Tempted as I was to leave it visible, it felt inside out. I wanted to wear it; I did not want anyone asking after it. We all keep secrets, and I’ve learned that some of them should be what makes the happiness in our life tangible. I tucked it under my collar.

I was walking along Farm Street in Mayfair (having found a serviceable and lightly used satchel of middle brown, with room for a book or two, pen, ink, and pockets for a few odds and ends) when I passed in front of a Catholic church, the name bearing something about the Immaculate Conception. Not having any true doctrinal understanding of the matter, I had my mind on lesser things. The street was crowded, but from the corner of my eye I noticed priests on the sidewalk, beaming, smiling as they conversed with one another, two of them holding donation boxes. (What is the plural noun for a collection of Catholic priests? A parcel of priests? A parliament? A commotion?) Whatever they be called, I glanced at the holy flock for the briefest of moments, then away. Then back again. For standing among them—wearing collar and cassock as reverently as the next man of God, a beneficent expression as he held a donation box and asked passersby to contribute to the Lord’s work—was a man with hair combed earnestly, spectacles perched on his nose, and an untoward amusement beneath it all.

“Jack!” I exclaimed.

His gaze met mine in an instant.

A wolf in sheep’s clothing if there ever was one.

Still smiling, he took a step away from the other priests—who by all accounts looked to be the authentic thing—and greeted me. “Good day, sister in the glorious gospel. Might I beg a donation for the church’s rose window? It’s needing some repair.”

“You bankrupt thief,” I hissed as he drew near.

“Only doing my part.”

I bunched my lips together, gave him my most practiced look of disdain, turned heel, and continued on my way. I could hear Jack explaining to his colleagues, “…friend from home…unbeliever, unfortunately…atheist; yes, quite sad…see if I can do a bit of good…go for a tea…”

And it wasn’t twenty feet later that Jack had caught up to me.

“Hello, sweets.”

“You are horrible!”

“I’m trying to do a bit of good.” He shook the donation box, which rang with coins. “Could you use this?”

“Of course not!” I cried rather indignantly. “Pretending to be a priest, of all things. Isn’t there a Villain’s Code regarding such matters?”

My reward was a grin. “You’re right that the villain’s code does not often lean on the church for support, despite how many villains are actually in the church. Don’t look at me like that. You’d be surprised at some of the corruption I’ve come across. Now, tea?”

“Never. That is to say, yes. However”—I looked at him severely—“I reserve the right to judge your actions harshly.”

He laughed.

And so we found ourselves at The Langham, Jack still in character, beaming benignly at every suspicious Anglican we passed.

“The Langham seems excessive,” I hissed, after we were seated. “You’re not paying for this tea with that donation box, are you?”

“Am I paying for it at all?” he grinned.

“You most certainly are!”

He smiled magnanimously before ordering half the items on the menu.

We both tucked in, exchanging few words until we’d smoothed off the edge of our hunger and could settle down to a more sociable pace.

It must be admitted, Jack and I tea in a very complementary manner.

“I’ve met Mary’s professor,” I said, wishing I could lick the frosting off my finger. I used my napkin instead. “Twice, now.”

Here Jack looked resigned. “Have you?”

“Yes.”

“Dangerous, isn’t he?”

“If you mean dangerously endearing, then yes. The man wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“We have different definitions of what merits trouble,” Jack answered, eating an entire Victoria sponge in two bites. After a little effort and a sip of his tea, he continued, “The man has three children. Boys.”

“Who aren’t wholly delinquents, as far as I can tell.” A lie, if truth be told.

“Beware the wolves in sheep’s clothing,” quoted Jack.

“You’ve some nerve, Jack Hollingstell!”

He winked at me.

I had only just lifted my knife in a threatening manner when a question came from over my shoulder. “Are you considering leaving the fold, Miss Lion?”

Still holding the knife, I looked up to see Hawkes. He was smartly dressed, and one couldn’t have picked him for a man of the church for anything. Jack straightened his spectacles and beamed kindly. “Miss Lion and I have been discussing the evidence of things not seen,” Jack said.

“Hello, Hawkes,” I answered, ignoring my companion as I lowered my knife.

The edge of Hawkes’s eyes creased, and he looked from me to Jack.

“Forgive my manners,” I added hastily. “This is Jack. Jack Hollingstell. Jack, allow me to introduce you to Young Hawkes, our—meaning my—vicar.”

“A man of the church,” Jack replied, hastily standing.

And he held out his hand.

Hawkes did not take it.

There was a degree of arithmetic on both their faces.

I opened my mouth, thought better, and closed it again.

It was Jack who spoke first.

“Shake hands with me,” he stated. “A token of peace between creeds.”

“I’ve no issue with Catholic priests,” Hawkes answered softly. “I’ve several friends among their numbers.”

We all noticed he said their rather than your.

“Is that so,” Jack replied, pulling his hand back and considering Hawkes anew.

“I will happily shake your hand, Mr. Hollingstell, when you’re no longer wearing what by right is not yours to wear. Miss Lion,” he nodded to me. And Hawkes was off.

His eyes following the retreating form, Jack sat down again. “Your vicar, is he?”

“Certainly.”

“Curious.” Jack was thoughtful. “What do you suppose gave me away?”

“Hawkes is his own mystery,” I replied. “And”—I again lifted my butter knife in defence—“under my protection.”

Jack moved his eyes towards the exit Hawkes had used. “No worries I’ll tangle with your man there. I know the incorruptible ones when I see them. Best to leave them alone altogether.”

“What does that say about me?”

He winked at me. “Marvellous things.”

Our tea finished, Jack declared himself late.

“For what?” I asked.

His answering smile presented its sharp side. “Do you really wish to know?”

“No,” I replied before my curiosity could lead me into trouble. “You will return the donation box first?”

“I’m going to donate it to someone who really needs it.”

“Oh?” I questioned.

“A street urchin or two who deserve a day off of begging,” Jack replied. “Don’t look so suspicious. I’ve a network of eyes I like to keep alive if I can help it. It’s good for business. I’ll be making an anonymous donation for the window, as it is.”

“Do try and convince me that’s true,” I laughed. “Why would you ever do such a thing?”

Jack straightened his false spectacles. “Because one of my men broke it. And I like beautiful things.”

Before I could so much as open my mouth, Jack was gone, leaving enough money on the table to settle the bill.

February 3rd

This morning’s sermon was brief: Christ’s words to Nicodemus…

The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth: so is every one that is born of the Spirit.

…and “Water Ballad” by Coleridge.

Come hither, gently rowing,

Come, bear me quickly o’er

This stream so brightly flowing

To yonder woodland shore.

But vain were my endeavour

To pay thee, courteous guide;

Row on, row on, for ever

I’d have thee by my side.

At the end of the service, Hawkes looked directly at me, pinning me into place as if I were a butterfly. He then disappeared into his study while the congregation found their own way out.

I sat where I was—not daring to do otherwise—wondering if Hawkes would interrogate.

Islington certainly would, I know that.

Islington wouldn’t have left me alone with Jack. He would have joined us, crossed one knee over the other, set his gloves across his breeches, and been two parts silent and one part cutting.

But Hawkes is not Islington.

And Islington couldn’t be bothered to come to church today.

I studied the windows while waiting. They are simple but pleasing, with just the right colours for sunshine to find. I am fond of St. Crispian’s church.

“Miss Lion.”

I blinked and brought my gaze earthward. Hawkes was sitting three pews ahead of me, half turned in my direction despite also looking up at the windows I’d been studying.

“Hello, Hawkes. I thought the Coleridge was a nice addition.”

Still gazing up at the stained glass, Hawkes quoted quietly, “Row on, row on, for ever.”

I lifted my hand to my heart.

Oh, how words love Hawkes.

They wrap around the unexpected inflections of his voice, eager, offering their best cadence and lilt and soul. They know him well, and he them. Almost as if words are the one thing in his life he has never had to push away. He speaks words the way they pound in my chest. And it feels like a miracle, finding such a dear part of oneself walking around in someone else’s body.

I blissfully digress.

I waited for Hawkes to do or say anything else.

He didn’t.

And so I tested the waters. “Unexpected to see you yesterday. At tea?”

The briefest moment, Hawkes falling deeper into his own thoughts, then he broke the surface, looking at me and nothing else. “Unexpected people in unexpected places.”

And then a moment of me being my sideways self. “Who were you with?”

Hawkes closed his eyes, smiled, then opened one eye at me. “No one masquerading as a priest.”

“Yes, well, sometimes having questionable friends is doing the work of the Lord.”

This won me a laugh that sounded like it was caught into the air with a kite.

“Perhaps,” Hawkes said. He turned towards the front of the church, sitting back against the pew, arms crossed, shoulders comfortably slumped. “Anything on your mind, Miss Lion?”

I blinked. Yes, there was, but I’d not thought to ask Hawkes about it.

“Tomorrow, I begin a trial post as a personal secretary. It’s somewhat of an unknown, I suppose.”

Hawkes said nothing.

“I’ve nothing against the idea of work,” I continued, my eyes following the stone arches to the high reaches of the ceiling as I leaned back and folded my arms. “And I think I’ve the skills necessary. Only I have a splashing tendency to make a mess of things.”

This was how I earned my second laugh of the day.

“Splashing tendency,” Hawkes repeated. “That’s a nice pairing.”

“As it’s a trial, I suppose I can only do so much damage.”

“One hopes.” He ran his hand through his dishevelled hair.

“If it goes poorly, I can always fall back on…vagrancy?”

“Many have.”

I made a noise of agreement.

We sat in the quiet a few minutes.

And then, “Pierce.”

“Pardon?” I asked.

“Pierce has a good deal of experience working in various situations. His perspective might settle your nerves.”

“I said nothing about nerves, Hawkes.”

“You didn’t.”

He then stood and, without looking at me, walked up the aisle to the chancel, played a run of three notes on the organ as he passed by—one major sound, two minor—and disappeared behind a door.

I sat.

Wondering if he would return.

Which felt antithetical to the nature of Hawkes.

One does not wait for fish or foxes or most wild things to come back.

He, I suppose, is no exception.

February 4th

YOU’RE UP EARLY.

I’m feeling an anticipatory rattle.

AS I SAID LAST NIGHT, YOU’LL DO FINE.

“Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward.”

?

Charge of the Light Brigade, by Tennyson.

RIGHT

You know it?

KNOW OF IT, IS ALL.

Yes, well, your Whitman would tell me something about honest work being the something or other of humanity.

YOU’VE BEGUN WHITMAN, THEN?

Only just. I’m more than a little dazzled.

I can hear you writing at your desk. Stop.

No commentary, not yet. I’m just beginning and want to inspect my initial thoughts before we speak of it.

AGREED

Later

When I was at Fortitude, A Preparatory School for Girls, I engaged in—nay, pitched—several battles with the boys from Stoicism, A Preparatory School for Boys. Having been trained up on the battlefield of Roland Sutherland, I was no novice.

Victory was often mine.

This summarizes the speech I gave this afternoon to the fifteen-year-old son of my Possible Employer. His name is Argus. He was sent down from Eton for misbehaviour and is being tutored at home. (With a name like Argus, of course he was sent down for misbehaviour.)

I shall explain the whole.

Mrs. Whitaker, the wife of a wealthy tradesman, is a rising star among the nouveau riche. The house—in Cavendish Square—was purchased from an aristocratic family who could no longer afford to gamble and have a large home in London (so I gather).

Mrs. Whitaker smiled politely when her maid led me into one of her parlours.

“Good morning, Miss Lion. Your desk will be in the red study. Shall we? Let’s be brisk about it. Work to do, work to do.”

Two doors off the echo-prone hall opened into the study. It was a bold room, walls papered in a two-toned red leaf pattern, a grand marble hearth on the long wall—fire roaring, of course—flanked by two chairs and a sofa. There were potted palms, stuffy paintings, oriental vases, and a large carpet of carmine red, leaf green, and accents of parrot blue, which was my favourite thing in the room. (It is lovely and exotic, making one feel as if they should be reclining on a tiger pelt.)

My desk waited on the left side of the study. On the right was another, behind which sat a young man of dubious character.

“As we’ve agreed this is a trial, let us put our best foot forward,” Mrs. Whitaker reiterated, her hands folded, her blonde hair curled and pinned severely. “On Mondays, I organize my week, answer correspondence, and sort invitations. I expect you to act as secretary and scribe for these activities. I will set you to tasks of both writing and maths in relation to household affairs. I expect you to arrive at ten o’clock sharp, and you will leave for home at four o’clock. You will be paid at the end of the month when we assess your performance. I was led to believe you received an education?”

I nodded. A dismal one, but an education, nonetheless. “Yes, Ma’am,” I replied.

“My son, Argus,” she motioned towards the petulant youth, “has been sent down from Eton for the remainder of the half. A boyish prank is all. He continues his studies here. I think your supervision of his day’s work would suit all involved.” She smiled gracefully in my direction. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Ah.

I was also to be a governess of sorts.

“I would be happy to aid…Argus.”

“It’s settled then. Shall we begin?”

I walked around the desk, set my satchel upon it, looked up, and shrieked. There, on a pedestal to my left, stood a dog. A small, fluffy, black dog.

Dead, as it happens.

And stuffed.

“Good heavens,” I said, putting my hand over my heart. “Your…dog has startled me.”

Mrs. Whitaker, sitting in a cushioned wicker chair before the desk, looked lovingly at the taxidermy. “Valentine. Only six months gone. The other dogs were cremated.” She pointed towards a large Chinese urn on a pedestal beside the hearth. “But I could not part with Valentine. Isn’t he the loveliest creature?”

I looked from his bright eyes—glass, and disturbing—to his paunch.

“Distinguished,” I managed.

Mrs. Whitaker smiled. “Please sit, Miss Lion. This desk will be yours on Mondays, and I will sit here, across from you. Shall we begin?”

Begin we did. First, I was asked for a handwriting sample.

The ink in the inkwell was red.

“My signature colour,” Mrs. Whitaker answered smartly. “Distinctive and commanding.”

“Yes.”

I finished writing out a sample—“Both Letters and Numbers, Miss Lion.”—and turned the paper for her inspection.

“I wasn’t expecting such elegance,” she said.

No so unexpected, I thought, as I’d penned a reply to her note of last week.

She smiled at me.

I smiled at her.

When she looked away, my smile fell prey to the slightest roll of my eyes.

Argus, cheeky fifteen-year-old reprobate (but not Reprobate), caught the expression and smirked.

I lifted an eyebrow in return.

I meant for it to be after the manner of Hawkes.

I’m afraid it was after the manner of Islington.

And so we began.

I opened Mrs. Whitaker’s public diary. We reviewed set appointments for the week—a good many societies and luncheons—then I was directed towards a stack of invitations. I would read them aloud, we would consult her diary, and each was accepted or declined on Mrs. Whitaker’s order. After which, she showed me the receipts for the month. “Please enter these into the ledger here.” She left me to my work.

After a few moments, I looked up. “Argus, do you need any help?”

He made a rude gesture.

“If you intend to shock me, you’ll have to do better than that. What is that you’re reading?”

Argus held up a serious-looking tome, then smiled as he revealed the adventure tale behind it.

“What are you going to do about it?” he challenged.

“If you think your attempts at clandestine reading can hold a candle to my own, you are gravely mistaken.”

I returned to my work.

Explaining the rest of the day as anything less than subtle warfare would be insufficient. Argus, it turns out, has a rather fine shooter for spit pills made from writing paper. There was no way to retaliate effectively except to feign inurement. I did have one moment of triumph when I saw him prepare for an assault and expertly lifted the appointment book in time for it to intercept the missile. My assailant looked deflated.

When his mother brought in a luncheon tea—I suspect she wants neither Argus nor myself to escape the red study during work hours—he sought his revenge. He offered to serve the tea, much to the approbation of his mother, and without my having witnessed the treachery, I found myself with a mouthful of salt instead of sugar.

I spewed the liquid before I could manage anything else.

“Miss Lion!” declared Mrs. Whitaker while I fumbled with my napkin. “What on earth?”

“I do apologise, Mrs. Whitaker,” I managed to scrape out. “The tea caught on the wrong side of my throat.”

I would not give Argus the satisfaction of seeing me turn snitch.

There are codes, and I understand them well enough.

I will come out conqueror, but it will require stratagem.

When this blisteringly long day finally came to an end, I stood, packed my satchel, and walked to where Argus sat spinning a marble on his desk. “If my name were Argus, I would be attempting holy terror myself. I forgive your attempts, truly, and suggest you cry off. I’ve yet to lose a pitched battle. Henry the Fifth has nothing on Emma M. Lion.”

I stared down at him, waiting.

Argus did not accept my olive branch. He did not even look up.

Alas.

I expect he will try again next week.

I shall be ready.

February 5th

Dear Arabella,

The world of genteel employment is not for the weak of heart. I am working as a personal secretary to a very wealthy merchant’s wife. On a trial basis. Knowing you have little interest in such things, I will spare you the details. I know what you would say in any case: “Emma, if you can’t manage a wealthy husband, I undoubtedly will. What an unnecessary fuss you’re making.”

Please do not tell your mother. She can’t stomach people who acquired all their money in the last fifty years. And the thought of her relation working for such… Well, we can’t have that.

Speaking of your mother, in future, please send me a telegram to warn me of any impending visit. It is the least you could do.

Thank you for your birthday felicitations. I look forward to whatever contraband gift you’ve promised.

Sincerely,

Emma

February 6th

I’ve walked two parks this morning in a bit of a daze, Whitman open in my hand. There is a boldness in his unbound verse. He isn’t merely content to throw open the windows, like so many poets before him. He removes walls in their entirety.

He offers an exposure I don’t fully understand and with which I am certainly not comfortable. American sensibility, perhaps?

Later

Dinner tomorrow night at Islington’s.

He stopped by Lapis Lazuli this afternoon to make the invitation in person. I refrained from any commentary on tomorrow being a Thursday—not a topic to broach casually—but I accepted and said, “Agnes will be relieved. She has a meeting with St. Crispian’s Society of Senior Servants and was worried she would not have time to tidy the kitchen after serving our supper. I’ll tell her to prepare something simple for Cousin Archibald.”

“Yes,” Islington replied as he stood in the hall holding his hat. “My butler is quite taken with Miss Agnes’s potential and has recommended poaching her services upon my nuptials.”

My mouth dropped open. “Don’t you dare!”

A challenge rose in Islington’s eyes, followed by a mock scowl, “I’d never stoop so low as to steal a friend’s servant.”

“And are you planning on marrying soon?” I demanded, still ruffled at the thought of anyone poaching Agnes.

Islington laughed. “There’s no way in He— That is to say, certainly not.”

“Good,” I replied. “Tell your butler to hide from me tomorrow evening. I’m displeased.”

February 7th

We learned a sliver of Pierce’s past tonight.

It was interesting and uncomfortable. And sad.

He was far younger than I’d imagined when he went away.

Pierce and I walked. I tend to romanticize London—I know I am guilty of this—but tonight, even I had to admit that St. Crispian’s was more smog than beauty. And yet the eerie atmosphere made one think of a mystery story, the mismatched Diagonal looking different than its daytime personality of quirks and patches, and the church towers rising above the rooftops in gothic refrain as a sense of delicious uncertainty haunted our steps all the way up Sterling.

I simply love this tuck and corner of the world with too much fondness to mind a few several nights of bad air.

I digress.

We arrived at Islington’s—I lifting the brass knocker as high as it could go, a tremendous bang for my pains—and were ushered into the hall by a servant in crisp black and white. I thought I saw the countess walking across the corridor, paying us no attention whatsoever. I was right, Islington (in a pleasant mood) told me in the salon, where the three of us were served the aperitif by a steady-handed footman.

“Does she wish to join us?” I enquired, uncertain if I wished it or not. To have a woman allude to Islington’s secrets is one thing; to have a woman allude to Islington’s secrets with Islington in the room is an entirely different thing altogether.

“Her publisher has sent a galley for review,” Islington said. “I only just convinced her to come play chaperone and was forced to hand over some very good whisky to convince her to use the front door so the neighbours wouldn’t talk.”

I asked, “Does she not usually use the front door?”

“No.” Islington turned an accusing eye on me, as if one errant female is accountable for another. “She comes traipsing through the garden like an explorer searching for El Dorado.”

I brightened visibly. “What a lovely thought!”

“Not what my father said.”

Dinner began.

“If we wait for Hawkes, we might well starve,” Islington stated.

We were lingering over some good joke and our third course when the missing member of our party arrived. Giving no apology, Hawkes took his seat across the table from me and sank against the chair, running a finger absently across his eyebrow, closing both eyes.

He looked exhausted.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been praying over the bird of some widow,” Islington said as he waved a footman to bring Hawkes’s supper.

“Not a bird, no.” Still said with his eyes closed. Then he said, “Pierce.”

“Hawkes,” Pierce answered.

“Miss Lion.”

“Hello, Hawkes. Happy to see you.”

Hawkes opened one eye and squinted at me. “You may be the first today.”

I laughed. “Who wouldn’t want to see you?”

“I can understand not wanting to see the vicar,” Pierce answered, taking a sip of his wine.

“As can I,” sighed Hawkes as a plate of warm food was set before him.

Pierce answered with an amused grunt.

Hawkes began to eat.

It was after dinner that Pierce spoke of his past. We had retreated to the library—Islington’s aunt having taken up camp in the Rabbit Room—sitting on the two sofas flanking the fire, Pierce sitting beside me. That was when Islington asked after his arrival in America.

Pierce offered a shrug. “I was young. Twelve years old, thereabouts.”

“Did you go with family?” I asked.

A glass of port in hand, Pierce gave the slightest hint of a grimace. “By myself, actually. I was a stowaway.”

A stowaway!

The fantasy of every child made real.

Even Hawkes looked up from his book with admiration.

“Were you discovered?” Islington asked.

A memory, old enough to pass off as amusing, woke behind Pierce’s silver eyes. “I’d borrowed some clothing from a wash line in London, and blended in well enough the first week. But with as many places as there are to hide, sorting food can be a challenge. Once found out, I was beaten and set scrubbing the deck for my sins.”

At this point, Hawkes closed his book and set it on the table beside him. “How does a young English stowaway step off a ship in New York Harbor and become a war photographer?” he asked.

Not only direct, but pointed, a tone I’d not heard Hawkes use before.

Pierce took a drink. “That’s too long a story. The short of it is that I fell in with Alexander Gardener—one of the photographers hired by Matthew Brady to document the war. Have you seen their work? Unsparing. Tragic. Grotesque, some call it. Bollocks. If you can’t look at the realities of what you’re championing, you’ve no business talking of the glories of…” He eyed his glass as his words faded away. “Regardless, the war was on, and I was smart enough to know that a scrappy lad willing to carry equipment, run messages, shift a dead body or two for a photograph, and ignore the hacked-off limbs behind the hospital tent, would at least have food in his mouth.”

There was no ready answer for what he had said.

“Could have been worse,” Pierce continued. “There were boys in the field not much older. I’d find myself looking for them when I’d wander the battlefields after a warm fight. Don’t know why. It meant they weren’t me, I suppose. One lad, no older than fourteen, I swear it, was missing most of a leg. He screamed bloody hell. Grabbed my hand. We were both filthy with his blood. Kept calling me Tommy—” He broke off then, the slightest shake of his head, unaccustomed to sharing so much.

I cleared my throat.

Pierce turned his head to look at me, his eyes catching the reflection of the fire the same way a silver stretch of clouds crosses the burning, gold coin of sunset. There was a slight deepening of the lines at their edge, as if he were curious. I think he was studying my reaction. Islington and Hawkes were still, one gracefully allowing the silence to take its course, the other leaning back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. I moved my hand an inch towards Pierce, wishing I knew what words wouldn’t make such recollections worse. His gaze held mine a moment longer, and then he looked away, finishing his port and setting the glass aside. I drew my hand back again.

It was Islington who sent the conversation in a broader direction. “I believe I read that Matthew Brady had trouble convincing the American government to buy his work.”

“He did,” Pierce replied, appreciative, I think, to tilt the conversation sideways and let the blood run off. “Brady put over one hundred thousand dollars into his efforts, but the American government refused to buy the plates. He had to sell his studio. They finally bought a handful for a pittance, not near what they’re worth. His sacrifice has not served him well.” Pierce shook his head. “Thankfully, I was young enough to watch both he and the others. Few governments want their citizens seeing war for what it is. I knew I could only do this work if I found some other means of support. I made friends in New York after the war, learned how to invest in the American market.”

It was a moment of illumination.

“That must account for some of your correspondence, at the very least. It’s a deluge almost daily,” I explained for the benefit of Islington and Hawkes. “Investments were third on Parian’s list, but I’d dismissed it out of hand. You see, investments aren’t one bit romantic.”

Pierce angled his gaze in my direction. “What do you mean by list?”

“Oh, a list of why you have so many letters. We’ve drawn one up: Agnes, Parian, and myself. Agnes suspects wealthy widows who pine for your return to New York. As for Parian, his first guess was smuggling, second, political aspirations—which is ridiculous—and third, investments.”

“Wealthy widows, is it?” Pierce replied. “Smuggling?”

“If it makes you feel any better, when pressed, I’d decided it was nothing illegal, or very illegal, and I told Agnes it was less likely widows and more likely unmarried but hopeful young ladies. We’ve put a wager on it for copious amounts of pudding.”

Pierce continued to stare at me a moment.

Then he shook his head, but it shook loose a smile.

Ghosts banished.

Islington said something about wagers, and then he and Pierce were off on a discussion about horse racing. All the while, Hawkes continued to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling as if he weren’t done thinking of stowaways and distant places, as if he could see the stars.

The walk home was silent, allowing space for one another’s thoughts.

I unlocked the door of Lapis Lazuli and pushed it open.

“Pierce,” I said, as he closed the door shut behind us, his limp more pronounced for our walk, “why did you leave England? What was it that caused you to go in the first place?”

Pierce gave no reply, but the hand nearest me clenched and unclenched, a private exorcism.

“You don’t have to answer,” I hedged, for both of us.

He nodded once. An acceptance. Then he moved his hand, just enough, to touch the side of mine. I could feel it through my glove. The intake of my breath was louder than I wished it to be.

“Goodnight, Emma.” Without looking at me, Pierce limped across the hall and opened his studio door.

“Goodnight.”

The door closed behind him.

I stood in the hall, listening to him move about.

We all cast shadows from our past, only how difficult a thing it is to let others see them.

February 8th

I believe you’ve opened and closed your half window a dozen times, and it’s not yet eight in the morning.

I’M IN A RESTLESS MOOD.

DID I WAKE YOU?

No, I’ve been lying awake, daydreaming about my future library.

Was it our questions that led to this window opening, window closing, pacing back and forth restlessness?

NOT DIRECTLY, NO.

I HAD A DREAM. ABOUT THE FOUR OF US.

Upon consulting your very fine pocket watch, you will observe I’ve waited a full three minutes for a follow-up explanation. None has been forthcoming. You therefore force my curiosity to prod you into sharing said dream.

NOTHING OF NOTE.

I don’t trust your judgement in this matter.

WE WERE ON THE SHIP I’D SAILED ON TO AMERICA. THE FOUR OF US, OUR BACKS AGAINST THE RAILS. WE WEREN’T SAYING MUCH BUT WERE AT OUR EASE. ISLINGTON HANDED ME MY PASSAGE. MY NAME WAS WRITTEN ON THE TICKET. THEN I SAW MYSELF AS A BOY. HE WAS RUNNING ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE SHIP. HE TRIPPED ON SOME ROPE AND ALMOST WENT OVERBOARD.

Did you he catch himself?

IT WAS HAWKES. IN THAT STRANGE GEOGRAPHY OF DREAMS, HE WAS NOW STANDING NEAR THE BOY. HE GRABBED HIS COLLAR, THEN HIS SHOULDER, AND PULLED HIM BACK. I WATCHED IT ALL, WISHING I COULD TELL HIM I HAD HIS TICKET IN MY HAND. YOU TURNED TO SAY SOMETHING, BUT THE WIND WAS TOO STRONG. I THEN WOKE UP.

Did anything like that happen when you were a boy?

NEVER

What do you suppose it means?

FINDING MEANING IN DREAMS IS A LOAD OF BOLLOCKS. ALL IT SIGNIFIES IS I WAS WITH THE THREE OF YOU LAST NIGHT, I HAD TOO MANY GLASSES OF PORT, AND I TALKED ABOUT SOMETHING I’VE NOT THOUGHT ABOUT IN A LONG WHILE. NOTHING MORE THAN THE MIND SORTING THROUGH THE DAY.

GO ON. I SAW YOU PUT A PAPER THROUGH THEN WITHDRAW IT AGAIN.

Only, if this dream had no meaning, and it was nothing more than the mind sorting things out, as you say, why has it kept you up for hours, pacing?

LET’S SAY I’VE A TROUBLED CONSCIENCE, AND CALL IT A DAY.

Let’s say it’s a manifestation that you like Hawkes a good deal more than you let on.

I could hear Pierce laugh just now, which made me smile at the wall and—if I am honest—breathe out in relief.

Time for breakfast, I should think.

Later

Cousin Archibald has got hold of a tambourine.

(Where in heaven’s name did he find it?)

Parian, Agnes, and I have formed a pact. The first to find said tambourine unattended is to bury it in the garden.

February 9th

Whitman leaves me feeling terribly alive and terribly aware of my own self.

I tried to say this to Pierce when we crossed paths in the hall.

He coming from somewhere, I going to the park.

“I see you’re taking Whitman with you,” he remarked, the cobwebs from the other night seemingly swept away. “How is he treating you by now?”

He was wearing his dark brown suit and looked well for it, hair having been freshly cut.

“That’s like asking someone how they like watching the clouds tumbling,” I answered. And proceeded to express my feelings in an utterly incoherent manner. “I want to both run and be still, you see. The meaning—or is it consequence—of a single body in motion feels pronounced and… He is so very honest about the physical experience of this world.” I looked at Pierce, then just past him, flushing. “I realise how very prudish I sound, for I’m continually taken aback with how freely he discusses— Not that I find it, I mean, I understand— That is to say, what a very physical thing he makes of the soul. You want to touch the world differently. You want to consume others differently. Not consume, no, meaning, he’s not afraid of— That is to say, he’s not— I’m sometimes appalled with how bold he— I’m enamoured, only he’s certainly comfortable with his fellow human beings in a way I am not.”

Pierce let his expression fall forward into a smile as I’d begun to stumble over the words. By the time I had finished, he was grinning.

I lifted my chin and said, “That all came out rather badly.”

“Your jumbled monologues are the better parts of my day.”

I tried not to smile, but it couldn’t be helped.

Allowing himself some internal thought, he gave half a nod.

We parted.

I to the park.

Pierce to his studio.

February 10th

After an uninspiring service (i.e., Hawkes being absent. Again. Ought I to give him a stern lecture?), Islington and I walked Primrose Hill. After arguing over the merits of the final hymn—I find favour, Islington finds fault—I confessed how I am not wholly looking forward to my second day as a personal secretary due to the experiences of the first: patronizing employer, heretic of a son, and beloved, albeit stuffed, family dog.

“Grim,” Islington said. But I could tell he was enjoying my account.

“I think you rather like the idea of me suffering.”

“You wound me,” he replied, the same underwater hint of amusement in his eyes. “Speaking of suffering, is Pierce’s door still boarded up?”

“It is. While I endeavour to be a paragon of personal secretaryism tomorrow, I aim to send Parian to the Whereabouts Lane meeting where he can request the proper paperwork, thus restoring Lapis Lazuli Minor to its former glory. Which,” I glanced at Islington, “is not much. The other day Cousin Archibald created such a racket as Pierce’s clients were leaving that he told them there was a theatrical troupe on the third floor preparing for a performance.”

Islington actually laughed. “Mr. Flat should have attended the service today. It would have livened the proceedings.”

“Where was Hawkes today?” I asked.

“Visiting an acquaintance of long standing, I believe,” Islington answered.

“Ah.”

“Is that supposed to be an imitation of me?”

Fashioning my face in an innocent expression, I looked up at Islington. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“You most certainly would.”

Now I laughed.

Islington smiled.

February 11th

Having an occupation is dangerous.

Difficulty. Mayhem. Death.

Certainly nothing dull.

Mrs. Whitaker was brisk when her maid led me into the red study. “Good morning, Miss Lion. Prompt. Thank you. Now, for the week’s schedule…” And away we went. All in the same order as last week. I was then tasked with writing out invitations to a dinner party at the end of the month.

“Please use this custom stationery and that pen with the fresh nib. I only send invitations with my trademark red ink. It sets them apart, you see. Here you will find a list of names. I wish to inspect your work after.”

She left me to it.

Simple.

At least it ought to have been.

Argus, sitting at his desk with remarkable determination to remain an ignoramus, was fussing with some paper. After his mother left, closing the door behind her, I greeted the miscreant.

“Good morning, Argus.”

He paid me no mind, finishing his task before sitting back in his chair, placing his shoes on the desk, and throwing a paper glider. It plunked against the front of my desk.

Our eyes met.

He smirked.

He threw another.

I watched it loop and crash dismally onto the carpet.

Owning that I am twenty-one years of age, I thought it best not to smirk.

I returned to my work.

The barrage continued.

Let it be known that I am no stranger to paper gliders, having been introduced to the idea by my father. At Fortitude, I held great competitions in Dormitory A. My own design is a paragon of speed and distance. All this to say, I was not impressed with his efforts.

One of his gliders managed to make it across the room. Beginning with a graceful dip, it caught an updraft and sailed right into my hair.

Argus’s eyes widened with glee.

I tilted my head, smiled, and then—glider still caught in my hair—set aside my work. Taking a blank sheet of paper, I folded it into my own design, crisp and clean.

I lifted it in faux inspection, raised my hand, and took aim. I released the glider, the doors opened and Mrs. Whitaker entered just as my glider flew straight across the room and hit Argus in the centre of his forehead.

It was not, I admit, ideal.

However.

Best try to carry the day with confidence, when one can.

Removing the glider still nested in my hair, I flashed a smile at my employer. “Your timing could not have been better, Mrs. Whitaker. I was only just explaining the immutable laws of gravity to young Argus here. Fall, lift, and Newton. Apples. You understand. And so has Argus. An intelligent boy. He’ll make good use of his education, I’m sure.”

Mrs. Whitaker did not know what to respond save, “We’re very proud of Argus. I’ve only come to fetch my diary and inform you both I’ve arranged for a luncheon here, before the fire.”

After his mother left, Argus considered me anew. Meaning his face contorted in a displeasing way.

I may have let a degree of smugness enter my own expression as I dipped my pen into the inkwell. One of which even the likes of Islington could be proud.

The inkwell shifted.

I frowned.

It shifted again.

I looked up.

Argus gave another tug at an all but invisible string, and it shifted again.

Taking a letter opener out of the desk drawer—said opener unfortunately shaped like a dagger—I stood, intending to march around the desk and cut the string.

Alas.

Before I could...

The entire inkwell went flying, splashing red across the beautiful carpet.

“Argus!” I rushed around the desk, intending to salvage what I could. It was in this act of desperate preservation that I collided with the pedestal that held dearly departed Valentine.

The dog went crashing down, landing in the spreading puddle of red ink.

The doors again opened.

There I stood over the dead dog, letter opener in hand, red ink oozing into her very expensive carpet.

“Valentine!” Mrs. Whitaker cried. “Mrs. Brown! Mrs. Brown!”

She swooped down and pulled the taxidermic animal from the floor. A maid came rushing in, saw the scene, and went rushing out to find Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper.

I, with nary a word to explain myself, picked up the inkwell and placed it back on the desk, trying to keep my red-stained hands from touching anything.

“Miss Lion!” Mrs. Whitaker near shouted. “I demand to know what has happened to my dear Valentine!”

My head was on the chopping block, no question.

Trial at an end.

But as I opened my mouth, Argus made a fatal mistake.

He gave a half laugh.

The imp has yet to learn the beauty of mortified silence when guilty.

Mrs. Whitaker, her eyes narrowed into slits, turned her death stare on him.

Argus faltered.

I made quick work of calculating my fate. If I were to remain in this post, Mrs. Whitaker’s approval would be important, but winning over Argus would be vital. I cleared my throat, “Mrs. Whitaker, I am so very sorry for this entire debacle. I knocked the inkwell from the desk, and in my rush to rectify the situation, I unsettled Valentine’s pedestal. A tragedy for which I am deeply sorry. Argus was just rushing to help me.”

Argus was standing behind his desk, mouth open in surprise.

Mrs. Whitaker was no fool, and she looked from her son to me and back again.

“The carpet is utterly ruined,” she sniffed. It was then that Mrs. Brown and the maids entered, armed with rags and buckets and soaps. Mrs. Whitaker took a rag and wrapped it around Valentine, cosying the taxidermy like a baby. “Get up what you can,” Mrs. Whitaker ordered. “Once the ink is dried, roll it up and take it out. We will send it to the trash.”

And with the desecrated Valentine in her arms, she swept out of the room.

I sat back down at my desk.

Argus sat at his.

One of the maids handed me a wet rag. I did my best to clean my hands. We watched in silence as the maids still attempted to save the carpet. In the end, it looked like the scene of a murder.

“Pity about the carpet,” I said to Argus when we were finally left alone. “It is one of the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

Argus said nothing.

Nothing more happened, but making it to four o’clock was a miserable task.

When I finally arrived at Whereabouts Lane, feet aching, head pounding, I was wondering how Mary works two jobs day in and day out—enough to drive anyone to Jack, I suppose. Pushing the door open to Lapis Lazuli, I was greeted with a most heavenly smell wafting from the kitchen. Cousin Archibald was screaming for Parian, and the sound of Parian’s feet could be heard on the stairs between floors. Pierce’s studio door had been propped open—sure sign he was done with clients for the day—and I had taken off my gloves and was sorting through the mail on the sideboard when he came out into the hall.

I looked over my shoulder. Pierce looked comfortable and tired, like an easing storm.

“Hello, Pierce.”

“Emma.”

“You have a letter here,” I smiled, handing it over. Our fingers brushed.

“Your hands are pink.”

“They are.”

“Dare I ask?” he said, half his attention given to opening his letter.

“I murdered a beloved, albeit already deceased, family pet.”

Pierce nodded absently, then paused. His gaze flicked to my face. “That sentence is problematic in more than one place.”

“A metaphor of my life.”

“Tell me about it over tea?”

“Blessed tea. Does it still exist in dreary February?”

“Agnes was only waiting for your return. Go sit. I’ll tell her you’re home.”

Something in my heart untwisted when he said the word home.

February 12th

Mary has been named Model Employee at her job with the telephone company. As a reward, she was given a complimentary Lunch with Guest at a nearby hotel.

I was said guest, having accepted Mary’s hastily written invitation.

“I think they must have confused me with Mary Adams,” she said as we walked from the offices of the telephone company to The Baron’s Mistake (which, yes, is the verified name of the establishment). “However, I’m not one to turn down free comestibles.”

“Perish the thought,” I replied.

Once we were seated, I asked the waiter why the hotel was called The Baron’s Mistake. The waiter flushed and excused himself, and then Mary whispered that the hotel had once been called The Baron’s Bastard.

After our food came, I asked Mary, “Have you spoken with Professor Fletcher since your meeting at Lapis Lazuli?”

“No,” Mary replied, sounding just like a latch closing on a travelling case. “I have, however, spent more than one evening in Jack’s company.” At this point, she murdered several carrots with one swift stab. “We’ve gone to the museum twice, the park once, and the theatre three times.”

A beet was then laid waste.

“Goodness,” I said, looking up from the purple stain left on Mary’s plate, “that’s a great deal of Jack.”

“Is it?” Mary challenged. “I would have thought it was just the right amount.”

Clearly, Mary is in The Throes.

Consulting the common sense any young woman should be endowed with, it’s clear that Mary’s response to The Professor is one of terror, confusion, awe, and annoyance.

It seems that Mary is falling in love.

February 13th

The sun is out, and February seems happy with its place in the world.

I’m glad. It can be difficult to truly love February. Out of all the months of the year, it pulled the shortest straw in weather, beauty, and general temperament.

However, there are snowdrops.

Redemption for everything, I suppose.

I have reached a level of industry that might be dangerously close to the Improvement of My Character if I don’t take care. Only this morning I have taken my bedding down to Agnes for a wash, studied Latin—the delightful chapter on insults, mostly—read the first three pages of the F section in Dr. Johnson’s dictionary, and committed two lines from Whitman to memory. Not wishing it to end, I’m trying to extend my reading of “Song of Myself” to the end of the month, while stubbornly ignoring Mixing in Society.

Later

Pierce and I took tea in his studio this afternoon. Owing to Agnes having a meeting of her Senior Servants Society later tonight, I made an inquiry as I poured us each a second cup of tea.

“Pierce, do you mind if we have our supper half an hour earlier than usual?”

“Makes no difference to me, as I’ll be out,” was his reply, scarcely looking up from his paper.

“Oh? I didn’t realise.”

“I thought I told you.”

“No.”

He shrugged. “Can’t be helped, unfortunately. I’d rather enjoy your company.”

“I’ll have Agnes keep something set aside, if you’d like.”

Pierce looked up, his eyes on mine a moment. Then he smiled.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Only that this exchange has been terribly domestic.”

I stared a moment. “Domestic? How is— Ah, I see,” I said in realisation. “I’m sounding too much like a mother. How dreadful.”

Pierce choked on his tea. “That’s not what I meant.”

I understood.

My cheeks warmed.

I thought perhaps setting the house on fire was a reasonable distraction.

Yet before I could think of anything to say (or light on fire), Parian entered the room and announced that Cousin Archibald had taken a carving knife out to the back garden, and ought something be done about it?

February 14th

Saffronia is to blame for telling me of the St. Valentine’s tradition at the fountain.

As for what happened after, I can only blame myself.

I’d paid Saffronia a visit with a wrapped parcel of sticky buns, their being accepted currency in most households. (Agnes brought the recipe home from a meeting of the Senior Servants.) I was immediately ushered up to her studio, where she looked away from her painting and said, “Wonderful timing, Emma. I was just about to paint a mustache on the portrait of Lord Cross and possibly poke out an eye. You’ve saved us both. What say we add tea to your gift?”

We sat in the corner, light streaming in from the window above us, while Saffronia told me of painting Lord Cross, who will sit still for no man. “To say nothing of cooperating with a woman.”

“Why, then, did he ask you to paint his portrait?”

“His long-suffering wife insisted. She likes my work.”

I snorted.

“I’m nearly finished, only he looks like he knows everything, an irritating trait I rather deftly captured.”

“Is he a handsome subject?”

“Unfortunately. Would he were ill-favoured, with terrible teeth.” She brushed a loose lock of hair—paint on both hand and forehead—away from her face, and then asked, “What time are you going up to the fountain?”

My answering expression was all question and no answer.

Saffronia set her teacup amidst the painterly detritus on the table at her side, tipped slightly sideways on a piece of charcoal. “St. Valentine’s Day, everyone goes up to Baron’s Square after dark to throw coins into the fountain—or at the fountain, depending on the state of one’s romance.”

I opened my mouth in protest for having been kept in the dark. “I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

Saffronia tsked, then cast about for a coin. Seeing none in her immediate vicinity, she took a piece of discarded sketch paper and tore it into a rough circle.

“How you toss your coin, and with which hand, sends a very specific message. If you’ve been jilted, you put the coin between the fingers in your left hand and flick it backwards into the fountain.”

“A sort of good riddance?” I surmised.

“Precisely,” Saffronia answered. “I threw more than one coin in such a manner when I was younger. However, if one is searching for love, place the coin in your right palm and toss it in open-handed. If you’re happy with your love, you place the coin between both hands and let it slip into the fountain. If you are mourning lost love, you open your left hand over the water and let it fall in. And if you’ve given up on the institution altogether, you throw the coin at Perseus, hard as you can; either hand will do. It creates such a satisfying clank before dropping into the water below. There are a dozen variations on each theme, of course. The higher the coin’s denomination, the more likely one’s wish will come true, or so everyone believes. The Cleopatra sets up a table and provides drinks—for a fee—and both Perseus and Medusa are blinded with red silk handkerchiefs. I won’t be going myself, but I think you would enjoy yourself.”

I thought, as I walked down the lane, that it seemed like a good spot of fun. What’s more appropriate on St. Valentine’s than throwing a coin at fate? Agnes, as it turns out, was already aware of the event and had intended to ask if she might go with some fellow servants. I promised her a halfpenny from the kitchen purse. Parian had no interest in the ritual whatsoever. All the better, as the plague known as Cousin Archibald needed watching. As for Pierce? He left earlier in the day and has not yet returned, even now, as I sit in the drawing room wrapped in blankets and nursing a beef tea, my feet on a hot water bottle.

After a solitary dinner, I placed a few coins in the pocket of my coat, closed the door of Lapis Lazuli behind me, and walked through the cold up to Baron’s Square.

There were tall torches around the fountain, people spreading like frost over glass, talking and laughing. Pink-cheeked young women exchanging glances with the young men milling about the tables from The Cleopatra. It has not struck my mind until just now how some of them are my own age. Only I feel so much older. Perhaps that is because I have already known a first love and lost him.

Perhaps it is loss that truly ages us in the end.

It was not only the young who gathered. I saw General Braithwaite and Lord Trewartha talking over a cup of cider. Mrs. Ribbits was sitting between two women of her same age, all speaking over one another and happy to do so. Mr. Graves from The Dalliance and Jape from the Reed and Rite must have been talking shop. Even smug Mr. Harper was milling about, drinking a pint with some of the bachelors from Traitors Road.

I wove through the noisy edges of the crowd, smiling occasionally at a familiar face, but not stopping to speak with anyone. Saffronia was right; coins were thrown in every way imaginable. Perseus endured it all, his eyes blinded with the red silk handkerchief. As for the head of Medusa, I could still see the tears running down her cheeks.

I had two coins to throw, but I walked around the square three times before deciding I best get the first over with.

Drawing as little attention as possible, I made my way through a crowd of young men, fished out the coin I’d selected for my purpose, and placed it in my left hand.

I did not force myself to rush.

It was not a farewell—no, that had already happened.

It was a thank you.

Removing my left glove, I placed the coin in my palm and closed my fist round, feeling the bite of its worn edge in my skin. It was a penny marked with 1861, the year Maxwell was born. Standing in the torchlight, glimpsing the misshapen coins beneath the ripples of the fountain, I took three deep breaths. I then slid the coin up to my fingers and kissed it before tossing it into the water. “Take from my heart all thankfulness,” I murmured as the coin sliced gently into the water and disappeared in the shadows among the coins already thrown.

Stepping away from the fountain, I went directly to The Cleopatra’s table.

“Hello, Mr. Gibbs,” I breathed out, blinking my eyes a few times.

He was drying a glass. “If it isn’t the legendary Miss Lion. Come for something to put you under the table?”

“Oh, no.” I shook my head. If he took any notice of my attempts to compose myself, he gave no indication. “Let us draw a line between legendary and notorious.”

He grunted. “What’ll it be?”

“A cider, I suppose.”

“I’ve a few of those.”

“The least dangerous barrel in the bunch.”

Another grunt.

We made our exchange—payment for drink—and I, looking at the boisterous crowd, turned away from the torchlight, stepping across the street towards the darkness around the houses.

I would prepare myself before throwing the second coin.

Near a deeply shadowed tree, in the corner of a front garden, was the faint outline of a bench.

I sat and let out a long slow breath.

“Brave acts deserve a measure of stillness,” a voice said to my right.

I jumped, a bit of cider sloshing onto my gloved hand. At the far end of the bench, in the blackest stretch of our shadow, sat Hawkes.

“Forgive my startling you.”

“Not at all. Only, yes, you did.” Another released breath, not so deep. “Good evening, Hawkes.”

He came into an acceptable focus.

Arms crossed, dark scarf wrapped around his neck, no hat.

“You kissed the coin,” he said. It felt, in the silence that sat between us, as if Hawkes thought I should know that he had seen.

Looking back towards the centre of the square, bodies moving in silhouette, I said, “You could see?”

“If you wish”—he paused over what he was about to say—“to keep the moment to yourself, I’ll give it back.”

I smiled, half for Hawkes, half for myself. I let my eyes mostly close, the torches and figures creating a kaleidoscope of light. “I was saying thank you,” I answered at length. Lifting the mug to my lips, I took a smooth sip of cider, followed by a near-sputtering cough. “Heavens!” I exclaimed, clearing my throat. “Gibbs said this was the gentlest cider he had.”

Hawkes, unfolding his arms, held out a hand. I gave him the mug and watched as he took a taste. He ran his tongue along his bottom lip and gave a slight nod, handing the cider back.

We sat without speaking.

People came and went.

I finished the cider.

I thought I saw Agnes and her friends toss their coins—all with the hopeful right hand—but couldn’t be sure.

Still, we simply watched.

The crowd began to thin.

Gibbs, having done fine business, began packing crates into the back of a wagon.

Hawkes reached for the empty cider mug, stood, and walked unnoticed by the crowd to place it on Gibbs’s table, returning without saying a word.

Studying the houses in the square, my glance landed on Islington’s. The drapes were pulled on the windows of the first and second floors, blades of light escaping between them. I assumed, in the moment, that he was out. But then my eyes wandered to a window higher up. The drapes were open, but the room was dark. It seemed no one was there. Then a movement, the glimpse of a white shirtsleeve shifting, and I could make out his figure, leaning against the side casement, watching everything in the square below. Following Islington’s gaze to the fountain, I frowned, then looked back up. The waning moonlight drew enough lines for me to see his face: an expression of decided distance—stoic, and perhaps sad. I opened my mouth to ask Hawkes of it, then did not.

Hawkes had given space to my moment; I would do the same for Islington.

A quarter of an hour more and nearly everyone had left the square.

“The tide appears to have gone out,” I said, the first words spoken between Hawkes and myself in well over an hour.

“Yes.”

I moved my gloved hands up and down my arms for warmth. Then Hawkes unwound his burgundy scarf and shifted closer to where I sat. Wordlessly, he placed it over my shoulders, wrapping it twice about my neck. I could feel his residual warmth in the wool.

“There’s no need, Hawkes, really.”

His eyes were colourless but clear as he looked at me. “Are you warm?”

“Now I am, yes.”

“Good.” He turned back towards the square and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I wouldn’t want it to get wet, in any case.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” I answered sleepily. Then the realisation. “Wait, what? What do you mean?”

The bells from the church rang across St. Crispian’s. Eleven o’clock.

Hawkes was already up, walking towards the now deserted fountain.

Shaking myself awake, I followed, lifting a hand to Hawkes’s scarf.

Despite the cold, Hawkes was removing his jacket, which he tossed onto the stone edging of the round fountain pool. Sitting, he began to take off a boot.

I’d caught up to him by then. “Hawkes,” I hissed, “what are you doing?”

“It’s a brisk night for a swim, Miss Lion.”

“Yes, but— No, Hawkes! It’s freezing. You can’t possibly think to swim in the fountain.”

“Bracing.” He removed his second boot, a sock following. His bare feet looked blue in the moonlight.

“Hawkes!”

Running his hand through his hair, he then looked up at me.

That Reprobate of a vicar was smiling.

“What are you—? Hawkes!”

In a moment of what I supposed to be madness, he spun himself around and placed his feet in the fountain. A small sound escaped him, the cold catching his lungs. He stood and waded out beyond my reach. I was more than worried he would fling himself flat onto the water, and I’d have to bundle a shivering vicar back to his lodgings.

He would develop a head cold.

I would attempt to nurse Hawkes back to health.

Unable to recover, and having been additionally diagnosed as an absolute lunatic, Hawkes would suffer an untimely death.

All this flashed through my mind as Hawkes rolled up his sleeves, reached down, and claimed a handful of coins. He pocketed the spoils.

“You fountain thief!”

He treated himself to another fistful of coins.

“Hawkes, really, how could you—”

“Miss Lion, would you please hand me the canvas bag you’ll find in my coat pocket?”

I will certainly not, I almost said.

He was fishing more coins from the fountain.

And so there I was, searching Hawkes’s jacket in disbelief. I first encountered a pocket volume of poetry—Keats, from what I could discern—two peppermints, and a key. I checked the other pocket, and there was the bag.

“I really think,” I said smartly, as I held it out to him, “that retrieving coins from a fountain is very bad luck. You can hardly afford such a thing.”

Just as Hawkes opened his mouth to reply, I heard a sabre rattling.

Twirling about, I was confronted with the spectre of General Braithwaite—in his night clothes—running forwards, sabre lifted above his head.

“Cheat!”

“It’s after eleven o’clock, General,” Hawkes called lightly, coming up with another fistful.

“But I get first claim! I’ve been sitting by the door, watching the clock. No one in the centre of the square until after eleven o’clock. Them’s the rules!”

“Yes, sir. However, I was not in the centre of the square.”

General Braithwaite, now standing breathless at my side, sabre brandished, sputtered a sentence of nonsense before saying, “Where were you?”

“State secrets, General. Better reconnaissance next time.”

“You upstart of a clergyman!”

Hawkes gave no response; he simply continued to fish coins from the fountain and put them in his bag.

The general looked at me. “Aiding and abetting the enemy, I see.”

“If the enemy is Hawkes? Yes,” I said. Then, “Would one of you please explain?”

Rocking back on his slippers, the general said, “Why, I suppose it’s all about first dibs.”

“First dibs?”

“Yes, I—” He scratched at his side whiskers with the hand not holding a weapon. “The organizations of St. Crispian’s are allowed to raid the fountain, don’t you see, on St. Valentine’s—between eleven and midnight. One gets quarter of an hour, is all, before the next group has a go. All proceeds go towards whatever needs are at hand. Ah, there, you see yonder? Mr. Vine from the St. Crispian’s Merchant Guild. Ha!”

“And what organization do you represent, General?”

“The Cleopatra’s Militant Venerable. A finer company you’ll never see. We, ah, drink together.”

“Ah,” I replied in my best Islington.

I could swear Hawkes, bent over the water, was nearly grinning.

Mr. Vine came to a stop beside us.

“Hawkes wins again, does he?” Vine said.

“The rat,” the general replied. “With any luck, the remaining spoils will be mine.”

My eyes went wide. “You enter the fountain yourself? In these temperatures?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve a maid at the ready.” He motioned his sabre over his shoulder, and I looked towards his house. Standing by the front door was a young woman wrapped in a shawl, as miserable as she could be.

“You are sending a maid to collect coins from a fountain for…”

“The Cleopatra’s Militant Venerable.”

“…a collection of old men who drink together…in February?”

“My staff will follow orders, or else!”

I harrumphed.

The general harrumphed in response.

Mr. Vine, looking at his pocket watch, said nothing.

“What if Hawkes collects all the coins before his quarter hour is up?” I asked.

“Nonsense, he’s not brought a second. Can’t possibly do it all himself. He only has—” The general motioned towards Mr. Vine.

“Seven minutes,” the merchant replied, tilting his pocket watch towards the moonlight.

“Seven minutes,” repeated the general. “There should be a few drinks in the fountain yet. Hurry along, Alice! Best remove your shoes now!”

Hawkes, still working away, glanced in our direction.

That was when I made my decision.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” I said, marching forward, removing Hawkes’s scarf, then my coat. It was when I sat on the edge of the fountain and began to unlace my boots that there was an uproar.

“You’re joining the scallywag!” cried the general in disbelief. “Mutiny, I say! Mutiny!”

One glance at the face of poor Alice, already shivering with cold, was enough to warrant ignoring the general. I wagered Hawkes had five more minutes, and between the two of us, we could do a credible job.

Boots removed, gloves removed, and my hat for good measure, I stood and turned to face the fountain. Hawkes had slowed in his work and was watching me with an indiscernible expression.

“Miss Lion,” he said, his tone conveying an unspoken There is no need.

“Hawkes,” I replied, my words wobbling from cold, “we will save that poor maid, even if we both die of a chill.” And then I turned to Cymbeline: “Boldness be my friend: Arm me audacity from head to foot!”

Holding up my skirts, I stepped into the fountain.

My intake of breath was so sharp, I worried I would cut my tongue on the sound. It was painfully bitter. However, recognizing we’d no time to lose, I released my skirts and began sloshing about, bending over as far as my stays would allow and reaching my hands down into the water, ice cold up the elbows.

Hawkes, poised with a handful of coins, had watched the entire effort. Murmuring something to himself as he tossed his coins in the bag, he worked his way to where I was.

The general, seeing many a free drink go into the coffers of the church, began to curse, Mr. Vine looking amused and appalled by turns.

“Work from the centre,” Hawkes murmured. “If we clear the coins from the centre, Alice may be able to reach what remains from the edge.”

I nodded, my body shaking.

My skirts were like sludge around my ankles, and my fingers were having a difficult time. Some coins were quite slippery, having been in the fountain for months. Still, I did my best, dropping what I could into the bag. We were clearing the centre, at least.

“Two minutes!” called the general.

Then I saw it. The moonlight reflected off what appeared to be a sovereign; beautiful, shining, and generous. I reached, but it lay just beyond my fingers. I took a step forward, or thought I did, and tried again. But my foot had not moved. I felt gravity have its way and began to flail my arms. Hawkes looked up just as I cried out and fell, splashing face first into the fountain.

It was not among the triumphant moments of my life.

Whatever reactions there may have been, I did not see them, for the weight of my skirts made it near impossible to shift, my hands desperately seeking purchase on the slime-lined surface of the fountain floor. I gasped, only to take in a dreadfully cold gulp of water.

My lungs squeezed in pain.

I gasped again.

It was then Hawkes pulled me from the water.

I was aware of his lifting me up, and the sting of air on my wet face, but I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t cough. I was trapped.

It was the very worst physical pain I’ve ever experienced.

Hawkes, grim-faced, was slapping my back with his open palm.

Ages passed.

My lungs shuddered.

Finally, my body remembered how to breathe.

I coughed.

I sputtered.

I managed to find my way to air.

Hawkes pulled me close and swung my body—water-soaked skirts and all—over the rim of the fountain. He was again slapping my back, kneeling beside me as I coughed water out of my lungs.

The general was shouting something. Then a blanket was thrown over my shoulders.

Hawkes was now kneeling before me, studying my face, his fingers feeling for the pulse in my wrist. It may have been the moonlight, but his lips looked terribly blue.

“Ha— Ha— Hawkes.” My voice was shaking.

“Let’s get you to Islington’s.”

“No,” I chattered, pulling the blanket tighter round. “Not. Necessary.”

“I’m afraid getting you out of your wet clothes and near a fire is rather necessary,” he replied hurriedly.

“You. Are. Just. As wet. As I. You. Hypocrite.”

Here Hawkes delighted me with a grin, water dripping from the wet hair he’d pushed away from his forehead.

The general and Mr. Vine had gathered round, casting the appropriate worried words between them. Hawkes, bless his soul, sent Alice running for something strong.

“We really must get you inside,” he insisted. The lines of worry had returned to his face.

“Home,” I managed. “Take me. Home.”

“It will take twenty minutes for anyone to call a carriage around.”

“I—”

Then, a miracle.

The rather fashionable coach belonging to Lord and Lady Trewartha gracefully entered Baron’s Square, the horses impervious to the cold.

“Brilliant,” Hawkes muttered. He lifted a hand to my cheek, frowned, then moved away just as Alice returned with a glass of whisky. I watched Hawkes flag the coach to a stop. After thirty seconds of explanation, Hawkes returned. He helped me to one burning swallow, then—asking Alice to gather my things—he wrapped one arm beneath my arms, and the other behind my knees, and simply lifted me up.

“Hawkes! This. Is. Ridiculous,” I stammered.

“Have Agnes remove your clothes and get you into something dry,” he said, his breath taxed. “Sit by the fire. Dry your hair as quickly as possible. Hot water bottle on your feet.”

I was bundled into the coach. Lady Trewartha wrapped a lap blanket around my feet, while Lord Trewartha took my effects from Alice.

I tried to motion for Hawkes to get into the carriage, but he closed the door between us, wet, and tired, and trying for all the world not to shiver. Then something strange. There was a wave of emotion on his face. Of anger, or futility, or regret. But it was not at me. It was for me.

I’ve no idea what it meant.

The coach was in motion, and my hands were claimed by Lady Trewartha, who was rubbing some warmth into them. We circled Baron’s Square back towards Sterling Street, and I watched as Hawkes gathered his discarded bag of coins, slipped on his coat, and walked—carrying his boots—towards Islington’s.

His scarf, I realised, was again wrapped around my neck.

In mere minutes I was at Lapis Lazuli, Lord Trewartha helping me up the stairs and banging on the door until Agnes answered, ushering us into the hall. Then Parian was at the ready.

Assuring my benefactors that Agnes would see to everything, I said, “I hope your coach is not too damp. What a silly business.”

“Not at all,” was Lady Trewartha’s reply. “Have Agnes send a note round tomorrow that all is well. We’ll leave you now to get settled.”

Parian had begun to set a fire, and Agnes filled a water bottle with hot water from the kettle and helped me upstairs to peel away the wet layers and sort out a warm—and dry, praise heaven—nightdress. By the time we returned to the drawing room, the fire was ready. With thick wool socks, two blankets, and the water bottle warming my toes, I felt almost cheerful.

I hope Hawkes has found comfort in equal measure.

All that, and I never threw my second coin in the fountain.

February 15th

Tybalt has taken to hiding in the shadows of the second floor and pouncing at Parian each time he’s up or down. The screams of terror are almost worth what I pay the man.

Other than that small joy, nothing happened today.

Nothing.

Not even a cold for my pains after having fallen in the fountain.

Perhaps the shock was restorative.

Later

Hawkes,

I don’t recall if I thanked you last night. So, thank you. Thank you for pulling me from the fountain. What would have happened if you had not been there?

I am not feeling even the slightest threat of a sneeze.

Are you also well?

Agnes has made these cinnamon buns for you especially. I mention them so that if Toff eats them before delivery, you know to beat him soundly.

Emma

February 16th

See here! Islington’s sister’s marriage has been announced in the paper today.

It went something like,

The Lady Margaret Devereux has recently been married to Mr. Johnathan Revel, of California. The marriage was solemnized in New York, la-de-da, intimate ceremony, beautiful bride, etc. The Duke of Islington has sent a silver service in celebration of the blessed event.

Recently married.

If one counts two years of marriage following an elopement recent.

Ha!

Later

Toff has just delivered a folded piece of blue foolscap.

You would never have been in the fountain if it weren’t for me. For that, I am sorry.

Tell Agnes the cinnamon buns were very good.

I’ve not developed a cold.

It came with a peppermint.

February 17th

Islington and I sat beside one another during the sermon—an exquisitely rendered exposition on Psalms 82:6 and Wordsworth’s “Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood.”

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

The earth, and every common sight,

To me did seem

Apparelled in celestial light,

The glory and the freshness of a dream.

Hawkes looked well and—true to his word—does not have a cold.

It put me in a fine mood. Which meant teasing Islington about the notice in the paper. He did not appreciate the occasional whispers during each hymn.

“Are you going to send me a silver service for my nuptials?” I asked. Then, “Would you mind if I should inform you two years after the blessed event that I’d married? That seems to be the way of things in the Devereux family.”

“Quiet,” he mouthed.

“You may eat a slice of cake in my honour.”

“You realise my family does not want to offer up the story of my sister as fodder for the rumour mongers?” he stated quietly afterward. We sat on the pew, the flow of churchgoers having exited the doors to our back. We were waiting for Hawkes. Islington had a book to return: Luther, Heretic Heaven Bound. I had Hawkes’s scarf.

“I was discreet as the dead.”

“Hardly.”

I snorted. “A sensational elopement must be nothing to a family like yours. You must have many a worse thing kept under lock and key. What are the secrets you carry, Islington?” I teased. “Something you did? Something you failed to do? Out with it.”

Islington recoiled. It was as if I’d thrown a stone with force through a high window, leaving a jagged hole and a thousand cracks radiating from the point of impact. His face drained of colour, and an old pain showed through.

We were both taken aback at the vulnerability, I think.

Islington looked away from me, straight ahead, and it seemed a difficult thing for him to refashion his usual demeanour.

I clamped my bottom lip between my teeth. My cheeks flamed.

It was an irresponsible quip. I know this. I had not thought my words through. Meant purely in jest and based on the very English tradition that great houses have great secrets. And yet everything his aunt had subtly, and not innocently, alluded to has—I admit fully—been wandering the edges of my mind. My curiosity has wished to be sated. I am certain it muddied the water. It was not malicious, but it was careless. And I was sorry.

“Islington, I didn’t— I meant nothing by it.”

“Of course.” He was sitting ramrod straight. It was as if this buried, difficult thing could not manage the unwelcome breeze of exposure. He attempted to board over his expression when he said, “Not even worth mentioning.”

Shame burns. Mine did in that moment.

Clearing his throat, Islington glanced over the shoulder opposite me. “Hawkes appears to be trapped by Mrs. Ribbits at the door. I’ve not the time to wait today. Good day, Emma.”

He stood, book in one hand, hat in the other, and nodded in my direction without looking at my face. He walked to the doors. Passing Hawkes—who was patiently enduring Mrs. Ribbits’s chorus of grievances—Islington hastily handed him the book and left.

Hawkes watched him go, a line forming between his eyebrows.

Terrible would have been more comfortable than what I felt. I was mortified. I had snagged on a pain so difficult that even Islington—one of Rabbit Room capability—had faltered.

Every person has said something unfeeling or hurtful without intending. Wisdom holds that allowing the distressed some solitude to collect themselves is best.

I ran after Islington.

Tossing Hawkes’s scarf to him as I went past.

Islington was already out of the churchyard, through the gate, and across Traitors, heading steadily towards Sterling Street.

“Islington,” I called discreetly.

But there were knots of people still in the churchyard and on the walk, voices rising back and forth, and I’m not certain he heard mine. I’m not not certain, either.

I ran out across the road. “Islington, a moment. Please!”

He continued. Again, quite possible he’d not heard—however, I swear there was a hitch in his step.

“Henry Devereux!” I stormed.

Islington caught himself up short and turned, shoulders stiff, single eyebrow raised.

“You called, Miss Lion?”

“I did.” I put my hands on my waist, catching my breath. “And by your Christian name, so now you must wait for me to catch you. Those are the rules.”

“Whose rules?”

“I’m not certain. Possibly God’s. There’s likely a verse in Leviticus.” I closed the distance between us. “Now, will you please allow me to apologise. I am sorry. You were clearly shaken at what I’d—”

“I was not, Miss Lion, I assure you.” Said crisply.

“Rubbish.”

His other eyebrow went up.

“I made a thoughtless jest, and obviously it touched on something. Well, I did not mean to cause you pain. Not in the least. What do I know by any measure? For all I understand of the Devereux family, excepting your aunt and youngest sister, you’re all boring as mud.”

One might argue it was poorly done.

Clearly, I’d panicked. And inserted my foot firmly in my mouth.

Islington stared. “You apologise by declaring me boring as mud?”

“No!” I waved my hand. “You’re no such thing. You’re— You’re— You’re of great interest.”

“High praise,” he snapped, setting our usual argumentative tone directly between us. I’m not certain it was not self defence.

I glared. “Though you are a stick in the mud, at times.”

He barked a laugh.

“I mostly didn’t mean that,” I said, exasperated. “What I’m trying to say is I was attempting to be clever, and I hurt you. It was not intended. Please, accept my apology.”

“Of course,” he dismissed. “No need to come running up the street like a banshee.”

I clenched my jaw. “I could shake you, Islington, until your teeth fall out!”

He opened his mouth, then bit back a retort.

“Out with it,” I ordered. “Better we have it out than let it fester.”

“So now you’re a physician?”

“I’m an orphan,” I parried. “Which nearly amounts to the same thing.”

Another sharp laugh. “I’m orphaned as well, and don’t agree.”

I waved his words aside as if they were mayflies. “It doesn’t count if you’re a duke. You don’t get to be an orphan and inherit a title, and houses, and paintings, and money, and ten thousand hounds.” I clapped my hand over my own mouth. “That’s not what I meant to say.”

His mouth drew a flat line. “A theme of the day, it seems.” He let three beats pass. “But no, Miss Lion, you are quite right. Families like mine—gleeful shooting practice, to be sure—are rife with secrets and pain and disappointment. Always to be discounted because we have houses and paintings and ten thousand hounds. Forgive me, I do not feel able to jest about my own just now.”

My voice was soft when I replied, “Nor should you.”

The pain I had seen in the church returned. Islington’s eyes were bright with it. His voice was strained when he said, “Secrets are painful things, Emma. You, of all people, know this.”

My heart gave a twist.

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“I do, of course I do.” I grabbed his hand, knowing that one does not throw their arms around a duke on a public street for any reason. “And you are not boring as mud. Come with me now to Lapis Lazuli, and I’ll allow you to prove it.”

Islington closed his eyes. “I don’t deserve this today.”

This made me laugh.

Islington grimaced and looked away, but one side of his mouth betrayed him and clicked upward.

“Come along, Islington, I intend to make amends.” Linking my arm through his, I gave a small pull. He obliged. We began walking towards Whereabouts.

“Let us sort this out with a game of darts,” I proposed.

“Pardon?”

“Did you not ever throw darts?”

“Of course. At school.”

“Well, I would wager Agnes will happily prepare a luncheon while you and I flay one another in genteel sport. It feels like the right thing to do. Do you have any objections?”

“Several.”

“Come now. Pierce is usually lounging about like a heathen, reading the paper and drinking something bitter. The company will do him good. Cousin Archibald, if we’re lucky, will be taking a nap, as Agnes has been serving him luncheon early. As for Parian, he has the day off.”

“And if I tell you I’d rather go home?”

“I won’t believe you.”

In my defence, he gave no resistance.

Pierce was lounging about like a heathen, newspaper in hand, seemingly happy to see us both.

“You hear about yesterday’s race, Islington?”

Appearing like his usual self, cracks so small one could only see them if they knew to look, Islington answered, “Fever Few took it all, I believe.”

Pierce shook his head. “Who’d have guessed? Ancient and injured, she pulled off the miracle.”

I was opening the cabinet and finding the darts. “I’ve challenged Islington to a duel, Pierce. You can unseat the victor. You might wish to remove your coat, Your Grace. We’re serious about tossing darts at Lapis Lazuli House.”

He hesitated, as if the act were too personal a thing. Then, with an imperceptible nod, he shrugged himself from his coat, laid it over the arm of the plum sofa, and removed his cufflinks before rolling up his sleeves.

Tossing my hat to the side, I then laid my own coat beside Islington’s.

“I’m not even going to change into something more comfortable, to allow you a sporting chance,” I said, wishing to prod things into our usual back and forth.

He lifted the darts from where I’d set them on Pierce’s table. “Bold of you, to use the word sporting.”

I grinned.

He answered with an expression that wasn’t quite a smile, “Ladies first?”

We played and talked of nothing important.

Islington nearly beat me.

Agnes had heard us return and brought a tea tray with light refreshment.

When the knocker sounded against the door, Agnes answered, and I was not surprised when she ushered in Hawkes.

“Hawkes! Just in time. Islington and I have just finished a very civilized game. Would you dare challenge Pierce?”

He looked at Islington first; then, apparently seeing what he’d been looking for, replied to my question, “Yes.”

Pierce was suspect. “Should I ask if you even play on the Sabbath?”

“Religiously,” Hawkes said.

I laughed.

“So you don’t have an invalid to visit?” Pierce said, eyeing Hawkes with distrust and handing him half the darts. Hawkes, clear across the room from the target, lifted his arm and threw. Like a bullet, the dart hit the centre. Pierce gave his head a tilt. “Enough said, Vicar.”

While they played several games, Islington and I sat on the sofa, he glancing through the newspaper, settled comfortably, while I sat angled in the corner, my elbow on the back of the sofa, my head on my hand, watching Pierce and Hawkes battle. They’d begun carrying their own conversation between the two of them—something about backgammon?—when Islington folded the paper and set it on the low table before us. He looked towards me. “Thank you,” he said.

“For the darts?”

“Among other things.” He returned to watching the darts, clearing his throat. “I’m particular in my friends. I am happy to count you as one.”

In that moment Pierce made a triumphant noise.

“Sets us at even,” said Hawkes.

“Not for long, Vicar. I can feel the Fates at my back.”

Hawkes answered nothing, but his eyes held an unholy gleam.

“Islington?” I said quietly.

“Hmm?”

“Did you ever, as a child, have a vision of what you hoped your home would be?”

He waited for me to continue.

“In all my daydreaming at school, and in Bournemouth, I suppose, I would imagine my life here in St. Crispian’s and how I thought being home would feel. This is…” I let the sentence fade.

He looked at me then. “Not what you had in mind?”

“Better.” It came immediately. I tried to smile, but too fierce a feeling was in my chest. “I think about what Hawkes said those few months ago. Alchemy.” I motioned at the four of us. “It stands to reason it won’t last forever, but for now it feels like a season set apart, a foreordained— Oh, I don’t know.”

Islington, relaxing into the back of the sofa, found the right phrase. “A golden age.”

Now I did smile. “I’ll toast to that.”

Islington reached forward for our abandoned teacups, handed me mine, then lifted his own. “To the golden age.”

My cup rang against his.

He looked at Hawkes, then Pierce, and then opened his mouth to say something just as Cousin Archibald could be heard raging down the stairs, complaining that he’d nothing proper to wear and how I was a tyrant, nay worse, a female.

Closing my eyes, I let out a long breath.

“Nearly perfect,” Islington said.

My laugh was inelegant.

February 18th

I was half asleep when I remembered that today was Monday, and I was again marching into battle. Never was a more unpleasant realisation to be had.

Eating a stout meal in the breakfast room, I gave Agnes instructions to keep Cousin Archibald away from…well…everything, and then left. The walk was cold, too cold. An apt companion for my feelings. However, there was only one thing to do: square one’s shoulders and get on with the job.

Thus I arrived determined.

First thing I did was to walk around the desk, and, taking a sharp pair of scissors in hand, I snipped all strings the degenerate Argus had attached to random items. The dog Valentine, I noticed, was back on his pedestal, his coat a little worse for wear.

Argus watched silently. After which I did a thorough inspection of the room.

I found a hidden jar of honey.

It was disposed of.

Mrs. Whitaker arrived, we were prompt in seeing to our tasks, and she left me to my work.

When luncheon was brought—only for Argus and myself, as Mrs. Whitaker had an Appointment Out—I poured. Lifting my teacup to my mouth and seeing him lean forward a touch, I said, “Oh, but this one is for you.”

I handed him the cup of tea. He hesitated; then, straightening his shoulders, took a sip. He tried to keep his face straight, but something twisted it sour.

“Bravo for trying,” I replied.

I smiled.

He frowned.

We returned to our respective desks.

All was in hand. My tasks were almost finished. I would return home intact.

Less than a minute after smugly having this thought, a jovial voice could be heard in the hall. A man’s voice. Moments later, said man came through the doors. He could have been handsome, even his mustache was not too horrid—a grand concession for any female to make—but there was something self-indulgent about his manner. An unappealing shadow of having done exactly what he wished too many times.

Argus and I both looked at him in silence.

“Hello, hello,” his dark eyes took in my person. “And what do we have here?”

What, indeed?

I gave no response as his tone did not merit one.

“Are you some sort of governess for my naughty nephew? Needs a strap more than he needs a pretty face. But what a delicious pheasant he’s been handed.”

It takes a great deal to shock Emma M. Lion.

A great deal.

But his tone, the slight movement of his square fingers, the too perfect mustache.

I was shocked.

I was indignant.

Instinctively I reached a hand up to my collar.

This amused him.

“Pretty bird like you,” he said, winking. “We could manage to go somewhere nice.”

“If you will excuse me, sir, I’ve work to finish,” I clipped.

“There’s a voice I wasn’t expecting. Smoky. Now I’m doubly intrigued. You’re an alluring piece, aren’t you now?” He placed his hands on the front edge of the desk and leaned down towards me. “I’ve been known to show the pheasants a pleasant time.”

He winked again.

I thought to myself as I picked up the shears that if Pierce, Islington, or even Hawkes had been present, this man would no longer be standing. No, I gather he’d have been thrown out the front door.

I lifted the shears dangerously close to his mustache and snipped.

He jerked back, eyes going wide. Lifting a hand to his mustache, he ascertained that it was still intact. His surprise turned to a gleeful challenge. “Who hoo hoo!” he said. “She plays games.”

“That, I do not,” I stated. “Now, if you will please—”

“Argus!” We were interrupted by Mrs. Whitaker waltzing into the room, having returned from her appointment. “How splendidly handsome you are today!”

“Laura,” he turned and greeted, kissing his sister on the cheek. “I’ve just been meeting your…”

“My personal secretary in training, Miss Lion.”

“Miss Lion,” he repeated.

I have never before disliked the sound of my own name.

It made me feel abased.

“Miss Lion, this is my younger brother, Mr. Argus Fard.”

Argus Fard.

Even writing the name feels a contamination.

I’m secretly very pleased this was the name his parents chose to hang about his neck.

“It’s late, and I’m tired. Why don’t we all have a spot of tea? Do join us, Argus?”

“Of course, pet.”

Pet.

I snipped the scissors again, rather loudly.

Argus—the student—was watching his ghastly relation with all caution.

It is the first glimmer of hope I’ve seen in his character.

A few moments later, we were all sitting before the fire for tea. I in one chair, Argus Junior across from me, the dreaded uncle beside Mrs. Whitaker on the settee.

I made my dislike known to my scoundrel in training by lifting a subtle eyebrow and rolling my eyes.

He gave me a look of commiseration.

Mr. Argus Fard did most all the talking.

He went to great lengths to convince us he was the most impressive creation in existence.

Mrs. Whitaker believed him.

Poor young Argus and I did not.

I featured in the conversation once.

Which was too often.

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Whitaker said, “Miss Lion is here on a trial basis. Every Monday.”

“Every Monday,” Mr. Fard replied, taking note. “Splendid.”

No, Mr. Fard, not splendid.

After tea, Mrs. Whitaker said she was sorry but would deny us the pleasure of her brother’s company, as she wished to show him the scheme for her billiards room.

“You need a man’s opinion on such things,” he agreed.

“Which is why I’ve been waiting for you, Argus.”

The door closed behind them.

I went back to my desk.

The pitiable namesake went back to his.

I tapped my fingers seven times on the desk, then walked back over to my young charge, claiming a nearby chair and placing it before his desk.

I sat.

He ignored me.

“Well, it’s no wonder you’ve been sent down from school,” I said. “I’m surprised you’ve not been hanged for murder, having been named after a man like that. Too grievous to be borne.”

He looked up at me, against his will.

“Do the boys at school give you trouble for your name?”

Argus stared at me, then one succinct nod.

“Even your friends, I daresay?”

No response here, but I knew.

“Well, this is no good at all. Why aren’t you named after your father?”

It was a fight for him to trust the white flag I was extending—but validation, it seems, triumphs over adolescent stubbornness.

“Mother insisted,” he muttered. “And Father was gone when I was born, on an expedition. He’s always gone.”

“Hmmm. What is your father’s name?”

“Douglas. Douglas George Whitaker.”

“A much better name,” I replied. “Pity. Although, I don’t really think of you as a Douglas, or Doug. No.” I slapped my hand on his desk, “Let us pick you a new one, why don’t we?”

“A new father?”

I laughed. “Certainly not. A new name. Do you have any that you like?”

Argus looked at me blankly.

Which is adolescent boy for No.

“If we select a family name, your mother can’t argue too strenuously. Oh, don’t look like that. You are perfectly within your rights as a human to not be named after…that particular specimen. Against your will, I might add. What are your grandfather’s Christian names?”

Argus shrugged, but his eyes wandered towards a shelf over my shoulder.

There was a family Bible.

I fetched it and opened to the front page.

He kept a suspicious gaze on me.

“Alfred. And Aloysius.” I winced. “What of your great-grandfathers? Dear me. Another Alfred. Ah, here we are. You have a Theodore. Your father’s grandfather. That’s a splendid name. There’s much we can do with it. Now,”—I looked up at Argus—“Theo? Tad? Yes, Tad. Tad Whitaker. There you are. A good solid name. Ready for a rollick, respectable amongst troublemakers and golden boys alike.” I stood. “I expect you to live up to this new name I’ve given you. Dear me, don’t scowl like that. It’s as Argus an expression as I’ve ever seen. Are you worried the new moniker won’t stick? I’ll tell you how to sort that readily enough. Take some of those silly publications I see you reading behind your schoolbooks, paste them onto cards. Send a card to three of your friends, no more, no less. Think of something clever to say, a trifle irreverent if you must, and sign the card Tad Whitaker. Then send one card to your classics professor—unsigned. That should start the ball rolling quite nicely down the hill, mark my words. All you’ll have to do upon your return to school is to introduce yourself as Tad, sign anything as Tad—even school papers—and mention you’re called after a grandfather. It won’t take more than half a term to sort it all out, and you’ll be a new man.”

And I returned to my desk.

I wisely avoided eye contact, showing as little interest in him as possible.

At four o’clock, I stood up, gathered my few things, and left.

If that young man does not take advantage of this tremendous gift, nothing can help him.

February 19th

I went to the Reed and Rite this afternoon. First order of business was to slip down into The Keep to see if anything from Lapis Lazuli had gone astray. I found Agnes’s favourite kitchen knife—“It’s special, Miss, and I’ve marked the handle with an A.”—as well as a morning robe I swear is Cousin Archibald’s. If it is not his, it will be returned (in disbelief). I then left the coffee and tea shop—resisting the siren scent of cinnamon buns—and went upstairs to purchase a ball of twine and some envelopes, and to peruse the journals, as mine is almost spent. Nothing they carried quite suits, however.

I’m uncertain where to look next.

I’d wager ten pounds The Hound has something more than suitable.

Leaving with my parcels, I encountered Mr. Lacey.

“Mr. Lacey! An auspicious meeting. Have you had opportunity to review the forms from Lapis Lazuli House?”

With what he believed to be a benign smile, he said, “To be reviewed,” and attempted to sidestep around me.

I sidestepped into his way.

He looked startled.

I said, a dose of syrup in my voice, “Mr. Lacey, I have boards nailed across the front door of Lapis Lazuli Minor, which has existed almost ten years without a squabble from anyone in the neighbourhood. I’ve played your game and followed the rules, as has Mr. Pierce. Now, I don’t wish to be unpleasant, but if these shenanigans are not corrected by the end of the month, I will use any weapon at my disposal, not excluding the incendiary, unpleasant Mr. Flat. Do we understand one another?”

Mr. Lacey, accustomed to disgruntled denizens, looked patronizing for the length of my speech until the mention of Cousin Archibald. Then, his Whereabouts Lane Committee confidence revealed weakness. He did not want Archibald Flat let loose on the neighbourhood any more than I wanted to do it.

“It will be our first order of business,” he swallowed.

“Delightful.”

When I came home and pushed open the door, it was to a welcomed calm. The afternoon left a glow in the hall, and someone—Agnes, I presume—had placed a small bouquet of snowdrops in a milk jug on the sideboard. All was quiet except the murmur of pleasant conversation.

Leaving the morning robe over the banister, I walked down the hall and paused. Bending slightly, I could see down into the kitchen. Agnes was kneading some bread and chatting happily, while Pierce sat on the other side of the table, a line of steam rising from a fresh cup of coffee, a folded newspaper in his hand.

She said something I didn’t quite catch.

Pierce grinned and said, “I can’t say that has ever happened to me.”

“My mother said all sorts of things happen before you know which way is up,” she replied, wiping the back of her hand across her cheek and leaving a dash of flour.

“Truer words…”

He went back to his reading, brushing a few loose strands of dark hair away from his face, and while I wouldn’t see Pierce on the street and think him a soul at peace—not in the least—some of the trouble seemed to be missing. Dare I say, a small contentment had crept in? He was too tall for the chair in which he sat, accentuating his height. Jacket removed, only a dark grey waistcoat over his white shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms. He is quite the specimen.

Not wishing to be caught in such contemplations, I straightened and began down the stairs.

“Hello,” I said.

Pierce looked up with an easy glance. “Afternoon.”

“Oh, Miss Lion, did you know Mr. Pierce has been to Africa!” Agnes was clearly impressed.

“Yes, I gathered that he had from some of the labels on his boxes of photographs,” I answered, placing the twine, envelopes, and knife on the table. Removing my gloves, I pulled out the chair near Pierce and sat. “But I’ve yet to hear any of your stories from the place. There is your knife, Agnes,” I added as an aside.

“Tell her, Mr. Pierce, how you seen a real lion.”

“How you’ve seen, Agnes.”

“But Miss, I haven’t.”

Pierce smiled and lifted his cup, taking a sip.

I placed my hands on my lap and looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

“It was big,” Pierce answered, silver gaze bouncing down to his newspaper, then back up to me.

My reply was more than a little dry. “Believe it or not, that is the one fact that every glorious hunting story manages to convey.”

“I never claimed to be an original.”

“No,” I said. “But I’m afraid you can’t help that, Pierce.”

Tipping my head at his answering smile, I stood, gathered my gloves and envelopes, and went upstairs to change my dress.

February 20th

So they show their relations to me and I accept them,

They bring me tokens of myself, they evince them plainly in their possession.

I wonder where they get those tokens.

Did I pass that way huge times ago and negligently drop them?

~ Walt Whitman

I am sitting in the window seat of the garret, Tybalt curled over my feet, hand covering my heart as if trying to keep my soul from forcing its way out the window.

Later

I’ve just received an unexpected call. Parian found me in the west garret and handed me a card.

I glanced at the name.

It was from Mrs. Ribbits.

“Ah,” I said aloud. “What could she possibly want?”

As soon as I’d sorted my hair from a Wholly Inappropriate state to a Still Tragic But At Least It Has Been Pinned state, I went down and entered the drawing room.

Mrs. Ribbits was sitting on the green sofa, cane at her side, toes of her shoes just skimming the floor. She is not old. Neither is she young. Nor middle age. I suppose she falls somewhere in the depressing crack between the first and the last.

“Good morning, Mrs. Ribbits. How might I be of service?”

When she blinked her rather round eyes, it was with the same froglike quality as her name.

“Your eyes are green,” she said.

“They are.”

“But not like mine.” She peered at my face. “Like sea glass.”

“Yes,” I replied. “And yours are a lovely, mossy hue. Must be lucky. How may I help you, Mrs. Ribbits?”

“Young Hawkes.”

“Hawkes?”

“I need Young Hawkes.”

“As do we all. Would you mind being more…specific?”

Mrs. Ribbits smacked her wide mouth in consternation. “He’s not come to visit this week, and I feel my rheumatism is acting out a bad part. I can’t find him.”

“He is prone to disappearing.”

“I need you to get him for me.”

“I?”

“You.”

“But why?”

“You’re an impertinent little thing, aren’t you?”

I opened my mouth, closed it, blinked, and then replied, “I claim to be the right measure of pertinence in most situations.”

She harrumphed, gathered herself, and stood, her hand on her cane. Then she waddled out of the room and left.

I reminded myself that this is the sort of askew St. Crispian’s charm I find endearing.

Twice.

Later

After tea, I escaped the house for Primrose Hill, to move, feel space around me, and wander.

An hour later—refreshed and pertinent, and having cut through Baron’s Square and saluted the weeping Medusa—I was walking down Sterling towards the Diagonal when I saw Hawkes walking towards me.

“Hawkes! There you are! I’ve been charged with a message for you.”

But Hawkes did not slow his step. He walked past me—a measure of mischief in his eye, I swear it—and, with a book under his arm, managed to take a butterscotch from his pocket and turn so he was walking half backward, tossing it to me.

I caught the butterscotch.

He turned back and continued up Sterling.

“Well done,” he said over his shoulder.

“But Mrs. Ribbits!”

As if he’d not heard me, Young Hawkes was up the street and gone.

February 21st

Where have you always wished to go, but have never been?

GREECE

You’ve never been to Greece?

HAVE YOU?

Well…no. But I’ve never been anywhere.

AND I’VE NEVER BEEN TO GREECE.

I saw your name in the paper this morning. There was a mention of your work in the society pages. Which I never read as a rule. Which give amusement when one’s mood is snide. You were praised.

WAS I?

You’re becoming shockingly popular. Or on your way to becoming so.

IT WON’T LAST.

Perhaps we should take financial advantage of your temporary celebrity.

PERHAPS NOT.

SPEAKING OF FINANCIAL ADVANTAGE, HOW ARE YOU ENJOYING YOUR WORK?

Aside from the expected recompense, I will either gain the patience of Job or commit some bold act of violence.

VERY OLD TESTAMENT OF YOU.

February 22nd  

Every unfortunate soul must encounter a day when there is a significant amount of mending to be done.

I take up my cross.

Later

This afternoon there came a knock at the door.

I sat on the drawing room sofa, attempting to restore the hem on my bottle-green afternoon dress and thinking distant thoughts (i.e., How long exactly does it take to travel to Damascus?). Thus occupied, I waited for Parian to answer the door. The pitter-patter of Parian’s feet, however, was not to be heard. Putting the distraught hem aside, I went to one of the drawing room windows and tried to peek at whoever was pestering Lapis Lazuli when the second knock came.

Pressing my face closer to the glass, I thought I saw a flash of blue.

Ah!

Unlocking the windows, I pushed them open and leaned out.

My assertions were correct.

Hawkes.

Standing against the stone on the far side of the door, facing my direction. He did not look surprised to see me.

“Are you going to run away from me again?” I called from the window.

“Hello,” he replied from his leaning state. “It’s a pleasant day.”

“Sunshine for our February pains,” I answered.

A nod was Hawkes’s reply.

“Shall I let you in?”

“I’m up to Islington’s,” he answered, mussing his hair with his hand, “for a bit of a read. Care to come along?”

“Only give me a moment to gather my things,” I replied. Smiling, I closed the window with an accidental bang.

The idea that one could live in a world where a friend would invite you to go read in another’s library feels more dream than reality. It bodes well for my life’s prospects.

As we were walking up towards Baron’s Square—Latin Phrases for the Unrepentant and “Song of Myself” in hand—Hawkes produced two peppermints. One for me, one for himself.

“I’m beginning to think your ministry is sponsored by a confectioner, Hawkes.”

His smile went lopsided for the peppermint in his mouth. He gave no answer.

“Mrs. Ribbits—”

“No Ribbits discussion of any kind. Not today,” he cut me off.

“All right then.”

“Hawkes?” I said a moment later. “How long does it take to travel to Damascus?”

He narrowed one eye while the opposite eyebrow lifted. “By train from Paris, I would imagine two days? I could be wrong.”

“Hmm.”

“Why do your thoughts wander towards Damascus?”

“I was mending, you see. One’s thoughts must land somewhere.”

Hawkes smiled again. “True.”

Once we’d turned off the Diagonal onto Sterling, I asked, “Is this assault on Islington’s fortress unannounced?”

No immediate answer. Then, “Does it signify?”

“Most would argue, yes.”

“I come to Lapis Lazuli unannounced.”

“And I’m happy you do,” I answered. “It’s delightful.”

“Ergo.”

“Ergo, I argue it is entirely different arriving unannounced at Islington’s. Lapis Lazuli occupies a sovereign space between worlds, you see. The houses of Baron’s Square, however, bow to Proper Behaviour. To say nothing of Rabbit Rooms, where one’s demise could occur at any moment. The wealthy are a feudal set, you see.”

I received no response.

However, I did receive a second peppermint.

Islington’s butler opened the door.

“Afternoon, Crosby,” said Hawkes.

Crosby gave a single and respectful nod. “Young Hawkes.”

“I thought some reading in the library?”

“Certainly. I shall ask Cook to send a spot of tea.”

“As you will. We’ll see ourselves back.”

Hawkes clearly has full Butlerian Approbation in Islington’s household. I was uncertain about myself, however, and was more than a little surprised when Crosby lightly cleared his throat as I passed.

“Begging your pardon, Miss Lion, for speaking out of turn, but I thought you would be pleased to know that your Agnes is doing very well with the Senior Servants.”

“Glad to hear it,” I replied. “Do convince her to make you a plate of jam dodgers.”

He nodded. “As you say, Miss.”

Following Hawkes down the hall towards the library, the door opened to a cosy fire in the grate and curtains pulled back to the late winter garden. Hawkes sat not on a sofa near the fire, but instead in one of three chairs placed around a short-legged table near the French doors leading outside. He sat, opened the book he’d been carrying under his arm, and began to read.

I wished to ask Hawkes what he was reading.

I refrained.

Sitting in the chair with the best view of the garden, I thumbed my own books, turning first to Whitman.

Tea arrived.

And what a tea! Islington’s kitchen has put us all to shame. For not only was there a pile—a pile, I say—of beautiful scones, but it was accompanied by lemon custard, clotted cream, and strawberry jam. To crown it all? A pot of melted chocolate. Accompanied, of course, with bread, apricot jam tarts, and cinnamon pear tartlets.

“This is nothing short of a miracle,” I said to Hawkes as we both helped ourselves to rather smothered scones. His closed lip was one of agreement.

We settled in quite nicely.

Quarter of an hour later, ducal footfalls were heard in the corridor outside the door.

“I thought the walls had been breached,” Islington said as he sauntered… No, Islington does not saunter. He walks, certainly. Possibly strides in appropriate circumstances. But one doesn’t stride into the library. He— I don’t know what to call it.

I suppose Islington enters.

And if Islington enters, then Hawkes appears.

That, Emma M. Lion declares, is the way of things.

When Islington entered, Hawkes did not stand, and so neither did I. (When in Rome.) Islington didn’t appear to mind; he simply sat down in an unoccupied chair, nodded at Hawkes, and looked at me. I felt a flash of worry that even though everything had been sorted on Sunday—better than sorted—there might be the slightest hesitation on Islington’s part, a sliver of an expression, a remaining crack on which to snag.

I need not have been worried.

Islington was—how would the boys at Stoicism say it?—fighting fit.

“How is being an adult treating you today, Lion? Have you been managing to act like one?”

“I’ve fashioned a few mature qualities that I carry about, yes. Unfortunately, I’ve left them home this afternoon so as to come down to your level. Snobbery loves company.”

“No bickering,” Hawkes said, turning a page. “This is a reading tea.”

Islington looked as if he was ready to say something, but instead, “I see the kitchen gave our tea a very Hawkes treatment. He likes chocolate drizzled on everything.”

Hawkes did not look up.

“You’ll join us?” I asked Islington.

“If you don’t mind my seeing to other obligations as well.”

And so we read.

Islington spent half an hour managing business at his desk, then returned with a book of his own—Far from the Madding Crowd.

I’ve never read any Thomas Hardy and said so.

“Borrow mine, if you like.” He glanced up. “Now that you’re a bona fide adult. Oh, I forget. You don’t borrow books. You maim them.”

I made a face. “If you’re not polite, I’ll set The Reprobates on you, all adoration and irresponsibility.”

I could swear something beneath his calm demeanour was worried I actually might.

“A more tedious collection of young men I’ve never seen.”

“They are wonderful,” I stated. “On my birthday, they sang a song outside my window.”

“Ah. The yowling of feral cats.”

“They’re not feral,” Hawkes muttered.

“Yet,” came Islington’s reply.

“They idolize you, you realise,” I said.

“Sounds like a matter of the blind leading the blind,” Islington stated.

“Hardly a compliment to oneself.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

It was here that I had the sense of some door in Islington’s mind being opened, then shut again. Not hastily, but with care. He returned his attention to his book.

Curious.

I recognise that I hold a sort of passport into The World That Is Islington—that was made clear on Sunday—but am yet uncertain what rights that grants me. Hawkes clearly has full diplomatic immunity to the country of Islington, with no hesitation to enter, accept sustenance from the natives, be given chocolate, and sit contentedly with a book.

When the afternoon had stretched itself out and yawned, I took my leave.

Islington and Hawkes were both deep in their respective books, and each gave a nod—Islington standing—when I left.

I’d just stepped into the hall and was closing the door behind me when I felt my bootlace snap. Library door still ajar, I bent down and set about repairing it well enough to make the return journey to Lapis Lazuli House. They both thought me gone, for as I was fussing with the lace, I heard Hawkes say to Islington, “It’s good for you to be in Emma’s company.”

I drew in my breath and tried not to let it out, feeling I was making a tremendous racket. Finally came Islington’s answer. “What do you mean?”

“You enjoy the sparring. You smile more. Like when you would—”

“I know,” Islington interrupted.

“Though she’s very different from—”

“She is.”

I straightened as quietly as I could, certain they’d heard me. Then, just as I began to take a slow step, holding my skirts to keep quiet, Hawkes gave an amused sigh. “They would have gotten on famously.”

Islington’s answering laugh was almost a bark. “It would have been the death of me.”

Then silence.

But one that sounded as if it meant something.

February 23rd  

I have been thinking about Islington. And Hawkes.

And the conversation I wasn’t supposed to overhear.

Who was it they were speaking of? And where is that person now? What relation did they hold to Islington? How does (did?) Hawkes know them?

Drat.

I’m feeling the rather tedious stomachache of one with too many questions.

Later

Mary came for tea.

“How was your week at the telephone office?” I asked.

“The shine of my being a Model Employee was scuffed slightly, but I suppose my supervisor will recover.”

“Oh?” I asked, curious.

“I told my supervisor that his son—a bundle of little brain, nepotism, and overblown confidence—was taking it upon himself to double check my work.”

Knowing Mary as I do, I gave no response other than, “And?”

“And that if I wanted an amphibian to leave muddy tracks across my pristine work, I might have dredged up some creature from the Thames.”

Then I settled happily back into my chair.

“His face went purple, as you can imagine. Just as he opened his mouth to fire me, I said, ‘Last week your son said that the sky was only blue for blue-eyed people, and that in Scotland a murder of crows had been seen carrying away a milking cow.’ My supervisor shut his mouth, looked balefully at the photograph of his family on his desk, and said, ‘I’ll tell him to leave you to your work, Miss Bairrage.’ And then I asked for an increase in my salary.”

I snorted. “Did he capitulate?”

“No,” Mary sighed. “But he did offer me a peppermint cream. Speaking of, how is your trial coming along?”

“The son—currently sent down from Eton—is an aimless and surly puddle. He could be much more with proper direction. Then there is an uncle named Argus Fard, a name he lives up to,” I added hastily, as Mary’s eyes widened. “I am yet undecided as to the character of Mrs. Whitaker.”

“Argus Fard?”

“He is a man of bloviated pomposity.”

Mary cringed. “I feel you’ve just committed violent crime against the English language.”

I lifted a helpless shoulder. “He left me no choice.”

“Is it a position you wish to continue?”

“Likely not. However, funds.”

“Funds,” Mary commiserated.

The conversation wound towards pleasanter topics, and then, in a natural pause, I asked Mary, “Tell me, how much time is allotted to the consideration of an overheard conversation?”

Mary crossed her arms and leaned back into Hawkes’s gold chair. “Friend or foe?”

“Friend.”

“Topic of the overheard conversation?”

“Myself, actually. In part.”

“Interesting development. Guilt you feel for eavesdropping?”

I lifted a hand. “Overruled by an abundance of curiosity, I’m afraid.”

“If you’ve no guilt over the thing, five days minimum,” Mary said, giving her head a confident nod. “With rights to wander in and out for a fortnight. After which, you could be accused of obsessing, excessive mental trespassing, or unintentional meddling.”

I frowned. “Those are very particular rules.”

“We orphans have a bespoke sense of social order.”

A statement that sounded as if it could have been written by Jack.

I tapped my finger on the arm of my chair three times. “So eavesdropping is more acceptable if one is an orphan?”

“Emma, my friend,”—Mary pointed a finger at me—“how did I subvert my brother’s plot to send me to Edinburgh as a governess for his employer’s nephew? By sitting on the third stair down and listening to my brother and sister-in-law bicker over the scheme. I packed my bags that very night, took a train to London, and wrote my brother ransom notes until he agreed to use the money our mother left to buy me a typewriter.”

I sat up straight. “You never told me all that!”

“You had only just been sentenced to three years in Bournemouth. I didn’t wish to gloat.”

“Mary,” I said reverently, “you have much to teach me.”

“I exceed even my own expectations.”

February 24th  

Hawkes preached today’s sermon with a blackened eye.

The remaining nine Reprobates sat on the back row, heads bowed, penitent and contrite.

No explanation was given.

February 25th  

Monday has returned.

How dreadful.

Later

It was cold water in the face walking into the Whitaker residence. I did not enjoy entering the red study, neither did I have much hope for Argus Tad becoming the clever young man he, by rights, could. I would like to see him restored to Eton with plenty of tricks up his sleeve. He could be a wonderful rascal with just the right guidance. For the first half of the day, he eyeing me suspiciously, I almost thought that, yes, I might even be willing to take up the noble work.

However, catastrophe altered such a fate.

Mr. Argus Fard decided to pay his sister a visit.

After an ugly amount of fuss was made over the man—so smug—he settled down in one of the chairs flanking the fireplace, the one facing my direction, and claimed that he would like nothing more than to sit, read the paper, and enjoy the silent company of his nephew.

Mrs. Whitaker left the room pleased.

Tad’s expression stonewalled.

I fell suspect to an unmistakable gloom.

The Uncle did not read the newspaper. He sat with the paper half opened, legs spread in a rather unattractive manner, and kept his eyes on my person as I attempted to tally the household accounts.

His mustache had a bright sheen.

“Do you like the theatre, Miss Lion?”

“That depends on many factors, Mr. Fard.”

Silence.

“A carriage ride, perhaps?”

I ignored the man.

“I said a carriage ride, perhaps, in the park on a fine day?”

“Mr. Fard, I have had a busy morning and wish to finish my work before the day is out. You will excuse me if I do not answer your questions.”

And thus passed the dreadful day.

It was late afternoon that the fire began to die down. Realising no servant had entered since The Uncle had, I gave him a glare, then looked to Tad. Neither of them had noticed.

And so I stood, went to the hearth, placed two appropriately sized pieces of wood on the dwindling flames, and coaxed them back to life. As I was leaning over, poker in hand, I heard the approach of feet and heard The Uncle say something not worth repeating.

He then— Well, he— That is to say—

The man placed his hand on my backside.

Instinct overrode mortification.

Gripping the poker like the handle of a cricket bat, I gave a mighty swing.

Instead, however, of soundly clocking my assailant, the poker first connected with the ancient Chinese urn. As it happens, porcelain shatters with a tremendous crash when hit full on with a heavy brass poker. There were shards flying in every direction. I followed the swing through as if I’d meant to destroy the priceless property—my father had taught me the proper form for such a thing—and then took the poker in my left hand and planted it into the carpet, blowing a stray lock of hair from my face, while looking calmly at The Uncle. It took a moment for the billowing dust to settle, but when it did, he was as pale as the ash that covered his clothes. Refusing to show how shaken I was, I said, “You were saying?”

“Nothing,” he replied, his voice more than a little strained. “Nothing at all.”

And then came a scream to wake the dead.

Mrs. Whitaker had come running. “My urn! My urn!”

That my doom lay shattered at my feet was not lost on me. I knew I would never have money sufficient to replace the antique. The Uncle had been steadily backing away, keeping his eyes on my person as if I might renew the attack. I opened my mouth to say—well, what, I really don’t know. But Mrs. Whitaker preempted.

“You are dismissed, Miss Lion,” she said through gritted teeth. “You will receive no pay packet! You will—”

I was surprised when Tad stepped forward—thereby earning his newly fashioned identity. “It was me, Mother,” he said.

“What!”

“Miss Lion only now has wrested the poker from my hand.” Then the boy smiled. “And she was brilliant! I’ve never seen a better—”

Mrs. Whitaker lifted a hand. Her lips pale and pinched, eyes fixed. She would not gainsay her son. He, however, stood spotless, while I was covered in dust, the weapon clearly in hand.

“I was practicing my cricket,” Tad continued, “and took a rather hearty swing close to the pot there—urn, I mean urn. Miss Lion wrested the poker from my hands to prevent any further damage.”

“It wasn’t quite—” I started to say.

She cut me off with one swift hand motion.

“Argus?” She turned to her brother. “Is this what you saw?”

“The boy just told you a story as good as any,” he replied, wiping his face with a handkerchief.

“I was—” I began.

“Uncle Argus only just said he would be happy to replace the urn,” Tad interrupted. “Didn’t you, Uncle?”

“I…did,” stammered The Uncle. “It is my fault it broke.”

“Well,” Mrs. Whitaker drew her mouth into a thin line. “In any case, I think we can both agree, Miss Lion, that your trial was not successful enough for a permanent position.”

At which point I’m certain I looked relieved.

Tad, however, looked disappointed.

“Gather your things,” Mrs. Whitaker ordered. “I will bring you your pay packet. Argus, I think it high time you went home.”

And with that pronouncement, she left the room, followed by The Uncle.

I gave a sigh, replaced the poker, and brushed what I could from my hands.

“A porcelain urn does not make such a spectacular explosion without there having been something inside,” I said in as practical a tone as I could manage. “I assume I am covered in the ashes of…?”

Tad grimaced but couldn’t help the underlining smile. “Our dogs, Miss Lion, Valentine excepting. Should I show you to the water closet?”

“No,” I replied with forced calm. “A wet rag will suffice.”

He returned before his mother did, and I was able to wipe my face, neck, and hands mostly clean of deceased canine.

“Miss Lion,” Tad said. Then, “Emma.”

The Emma was uttered with fervour.

“Tad Whitaker,” I said sharply, “I am covered in the ashes of several dead animals. If you are about to make any sort of affectionate declaration, I dissuade you. It is neither the time, nor an appropriate pairing. Now, I thank you for what you have done and give you my gratitude.”

And with that, I marched to my desk and filled my satchel just as Mrs. Whitaker entered the room. Without a word, she handed me an envelope. It felt a bit thin for my pains.

“I understand I am covered in the ashes of your family pets,” I stated, holding my hand out again. Mrs. Whitaker’s nose twitched. She took a second envelope from her pocket and handed it to me. I thanked her and, as nobly as I could, quit the room.

I could hear Tad following, and when I had gone out the front door and down the steps, I looked back.

He stood at the door with an expression of regret.

I winked.

He winked in return.

It wasn’t until I was around the corner that I gripped the cast iron fence before me and very nearly retched. London was never so immense. It took ages to return home. By the time I was back in St. Crispian’s, I was nearly running up Whereabouts.

I burst through the door and yelled for Agnes. In record time I was up the stairs and into the bedroom on the fourth floor with the bath. Agnes took care to fill the bath as quickly as she could while I was tearing my clothes from my person and wrapping them in an old sheet.

“I’ve enough water for you to…”

Before Agnes could finish, I was flinging myself into the water, submerging while giving a drenched order for Agnes to take the clothes immediately to be cleaned. “I don’t care where you take them, but I’ll not have you nor I touch them until someone else has first.”

I bathed three times.

I am now sitting in the drawing room in a bit of a daze, wearing my utterly comfortable and appallingly old grey dress. Pierce came through the hall on his way out. He paused when he saw the open door and knocked on the frame. His eyes were bright in the coming dark. I swear I could smell rain.

“Very dapper,” I said, motioning towards his evening suit.

“Thank you.” He entered and sat across from me, setting his hat aside, letting his arm drape along the back of the sofa—unfair of Pierce, to be so effortlessly attractive. “Trying day of it?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You’re sitting in Hawkes’s chair, near the fire, looking like you’ve been through a war.”

I groaned and closed my eyes. “Sufficient to say, my trial has ended, and I again find myself unemployed.”

“Agnes mentioned there were canine ashes involved?”

“I seem to have a gift for desecrating the dead.”

Silence, but one that felt like a rather sharp grin.

I opened my eyes to see Pierce doing exactly that.

“My exploit was not so very amusing as that.”

“A point that could be argued.” His fingers drummed once on the back of the sofa. “What will you attempt next?”

“I shall consult my list,” I sighed. “And my banker. And my banker’s wife.”

“You realise I could help you.”

“Find employment?”

Pierce waved a hand. “Not with that, but with investment schemes.”

“Presumably, one would need to have funds to invest.”

“I thought you had accounts from your previous work set aside?”

“I do. A meager show.”

“If you’d like, only ask. It’s a gauche offer, I realise, but I know the American markets.”

I nodded as if to say, I’ll consider your offer but will not likely drain the few monies I have left from my bank to invest in a foreign country.

I said, “Where are you off to?”

“Nowhere important.”

“Important enough for you to play the gentleman,” I said. “You’re wearing your nicest evening clothes.”

“I’m to meet friends at a club.”

“Will you gamble your fortune away?”

“I’m too selfish.”

“Too careful, I suspect.”

He made a dismissive noise. “Any word on my front door?”

I looked at him blankly. “The door? Oh yes. I’ve threatened Mr. Lacey, and he assured me our request would be considered.”

“Is all this really because I refused to cut the ribbon for that damn bench?”

My answering expression confirmed the fact.

“Sorry to have caused you the trouble.” Pierce looked me directly in the eye for a moment, his gaze falling down to my lips, then away. He stood. “I hope you recover from your ordeal.”

My smile was rather full of rue.

There are two sides to Pierce’s coin. The first being stalwart friend, the one who walks the streets of London with you until he’s limping from pain, because he knows you need miles beneath the soles of your feet to clear the sorrow in your chest. The second was the man standing before me tonight. The one who gathers storm from the four corners of the earth and sends it rolling. Who can’t help but bring the feeling of wind and rain, his eyes like silver pavement. And while the crash of weather is intoxicating, I can’t help but wonder if anyone has ever drowned?

February 26th

My Dear Mrs. Penury,

Most disasters are best shared in person. My now terminated employment with Mrs. Whitaker is such a tale. I suspect, when I have recovered enough to tell the whole, you will find it highly amusing. I look forward to recounting the catastrophe.

Regarding future attempts to secure employment on my behalf: You have my permission—my express permission—to veto Mr. Penury on any situation he proposes in the future. I encourage you to consider your reservations as immutable law. You see, one can only kill so many dead dogs.

All this said with thanks to Mr. Penury for his time and consideration. I will be bringing my meager but certainly well-earned wages to the bank.

With appreciation,

Miss Emma M. Lion, Gainfully Unemployed

Miss Lion,

If you don’t mind, I would like to pick you up this afternoon for a drive around the park.

Mrs. Penury

Later

Nothing puts one’s mishaps in perspective like the comical telling. As happened this afternoon, when I rode through Regent’s Park with Mrs. Penury. She arrived this afternoon at three o’clock, in an open carriage, bundled against this not-too-cold February day. I greeted her pleasant silence with a “Hello, Mrs. Penury,” and sat opposite.

Mrs. Penury, hair styled in a fashionable yet subdued updo, has a singular way of communicating: tilts of her chin, arrangements of her hands, astute gazes with her brown eyes. I wonder what brought her and Mr. Penury together. Ten years between them, I’d guess? Fifteen? She seems contented, and clearly confident enough to act according to her own desires.

As the carriage circled through the Diagonal and down Sterling, leaving the neighbourhood by King Henry’s Road, I sat in congenial silence, stealing a glance now and then when her attention had been caught by something on the street. It was only as we neared the park, when the noise and calls of the London streets were left behind, that she gave me her full attention.

A delicate eyebrow was raised. Gloved hands were placed in a fold on her lap. She was ready to hear my account in full.

Nothing would come out right if I didn’t recount all four Mondays. I wished to be discreet. I wasn’t certain how much I should reveal about the workings of another’s household, especially as Mrs. Whitaker was a client of Penury, Penury & Jones. Thankfully, my scruples were soundly squashed by the fact that the woman before me had no interest in telling another living soul anything, and she had been part of the placement, albeit the dissenting minority.

I began with the first morning.

She listened, her demeanour earnest but veiled. But as I described the string tied to the ink pot, the red ink, and finally, Valentine lying in the puddle as I stood above him with a letter opener gripped in my hand, she whimpered. Then snorted. Then lifted one gloved fist to her mouth as she lost all control and laughed until she had tears in her eyes.

I sat mutely a full five minutes while she gasped for breath and fell prey to rounds of laughter.

“It gets much worse,” I said when she’d seemed to take hold of her emotions.

This only set her off again.

Finally, Mrs. Penury settled into some scrabbled-together state of calm, and I proceeded. I spoke of Argus Fard, his not-so-subtle advances, and my attempt to offer Mrs. Whitaker’s son a fighting chance in life. The tense expression she’d adopted at the mention of The Uncle softened when I recounted finding Tad an untainted nomenclature.

It was when I told of the fourth day, the last, that the muscles on the side of her mouth grew taut. It is not a pleasant thing to recount things a man may have said, or inappropriate actions he may have taken. I would argue that most women of my acquaintance are counseled to pay little mind and forgive the offences. My father had a thing or two to say about some men’s behaviour. I recall few comments—many that came with a wary look from my mother. But once he was sick, and he knew I was going to grow into a woman without him, he spoke to me candidly and honestly about behaviour unchecked and how I might protect myself from such things. He did not teach me to swing a cricket bat merely for sport. And so I gave all the facts, comments, actions, all. Mrs. Penury’s eyes narrowed; her lips, having been pinched towards the left side of her face, quirked to the right. When I spoke of my gripping the poker and giving a mighty swing, she lifted her fisted hands an inch or two, as one would when watching their favourite horse go for the unexpected victory, but not wanting to call attention to how much you wanted it to win. Her smile returned, jaded now, when I recounted my exchange with Tad regarding the exact contents of the urn. When I told her how I’d insisted on my full pay, she leaned forward and gave my knee a militant pat accompanied by a sharp nod.

“I nearly retched, and once home I desperately threw myself into the bath. It was ghastly, Mrs. Penury, clearly a failed experiment. I am once again looking for suitable work.”

Resting her arm on the side of the carriage, Mrs. Penury tapped her fingers and looked thoughtfully over the park. She nodded again, as if to herself, and before leaving me at Lapis Lazuli’s front door had communicated the right thing would be found.

It was comforting.

February 27th

Reports have been going around the neighbourhood that a daffodil has bloomed in Baron’s Square. Each neighbour sending the news along with the next person they meet. I was told by Mrs. Crook while coming back from the Reed and Rite, and when I had opened the drawing room window to clean the sill properly, despite a steady rain, the information was dutifully passed on to Mr. Edgar, who replied gruffly that he was not one to run after any indiscriminate daffodil, no matter how early it had sprung.

Well!

Later

A notice has just arrived. The application has been accepted and Lapis Lazuli Minor is now an official St. Crispian’s Address, with all neighbourhood rights, including postal service.

I waited in the drawing room, reading (I’ve almost finished soaking up Whitman) until Pierce’s clients had left. Giving him quarter of an hour to sort his equipment, I then knocked, was invited in, and found Pierce sitting in his leather chair reading the paper.

After sharing the good news, I said, “You can direct all of your letters to Lapis Lazuli Minor in the future.”

“That should save you a deal of trouble,” he answered, moving his knuckles along the sharp line of his jaw.

“My curiosity, however, will be left half starved,” I replied as I walked over to his bureau, opened the door, and found the darts. “I may never know the identity of the woman who spritzes everything in perfume.”

“She’s a Du Pont. Old. Close to ninety, I should imagine. We argue over the ethics of modernity.” He gave his paper a shake and turned the page. “She’s also a terrible flirt.”

My expression was synonymous with an eyebrow lift.

Stepping back, I threw a dart.

Then another.

“Are they removing the boards, or am I?” Pierce asked as he stood and came over, wordlessly asking for half the darts.

“We’re responsible, I believe. I’ll set Parian to the job.”

“I can do it.” Pierce threw with precision. “I’m relieved it’s sorted.”

“I imagine you are.”

“I imagine you are.”

I didn’t see how it was terribly different than usual, and I told him so.

Pierce threw a dart.

He smelled like clean linen and smoke, and the open window lifted the scent of rain on the pavement. A pleasant combination, I thought.

We played five games. I won three.

Now ensconced in the drawing room, the rain having stopped and a watercolour sun breaking through the clouds, I’ve the final five pages of Whitman before me. There is no feeling quite like finishing a book that you’ve loved. I expect to feel nothing less.

February 28th

I’ve been hiding in the pantry. A thing which, considering all circumstances, feels wise. I did go walk about the back garden until my boots were a muddy mess, to say nothing of the hem on my skirt.

Steady, Emma. Steady on. You are a grown woman. You own a home and have had work. There is no need to feel as if one is fifteen and hyperventilating swooning panicking dying a slow death one recollection at a time.

I best get on with it.

Pierce…

That is to say…

It was simply…

It wasn’t…

Stealing a fortifying biscuit from Agnes’s jar, I commit to paper the events of last evening…

Perhaps after another turn around the garden.

Later

It was not late. Neither of us was tired. Nor had we had anything to drink. No, it was the golden hour before dark, warm light at the window. I was in the drawing room pacing. I’d only just finished “Song of Myself.”

I suppose, then, I cannot claim that one of us was not intoxicated.

The words were heady. My soul was racing.

I was wrapped with a remarkable sense of self, as if it were the very first time I’d truly heard the pounding of my own heart. Ethereal yet corporeal, blood and bone and every thought that binds the two together.

Into this state came Niall Pierce. He knocked, pushed upon the door, and said, “I’ve managed to remove the boards. Figured it best to get the job done. I’m going to need to paint—” He looked at me, eyebrows knit. “You look like someone’s torched your brain.”

“I’ve finished your Whitman,” I answered, waving a hand, then placing it on my forehead, my other hand on my hip. “And read through the first twenty pages again. Torched is the right word for it all, yes. Or witchcraft, or electricity, or illumination.”

“You’re flushed.”

“Yes, well, you would be too.” I picked up the book from where it was draped over the arm of my pink chair and read,

Enough! enough! enough!

Somehow I have been stunn’d. Stand back!

Give me a little time beyond my cuff’d head, slumbers, dreams, gaping,

I discover myself on the verge of a usual mistake.

“There now.” I snapped the book shut. “What is one to do with that except feel afire?”

“I thought you and Whitman might find something to talk about.” Pierce stepped into the room, half the smile on his face caught by the light emanating from the windows, the other half in the shadows waiting for evening. He stopped halfway to where I stood, hands in his pockets, shirtsleeves rolled up his forearms, a flash glancing off his quicksilver eyes. For a moment I couldn’t tell if he was part of this world or another.

“Pierce, you devil,” I said, wrapping my hands around the book, pressing hard enough to match the pulse in my fingers with the pulse of my heart. “You didn’t warn me.”

“Let your soul stand cool and composed before a million universes,” he quoted.

“You see? Can you imagine thinking those words for the first time? It is not tame revelation he gives us. What is one to do with such language?”

“Take what you will as a talisman,” Pierce answered. “Carry it in the pocket of your soul.”

“Do you?”

He shrugged. “There’s a line I repeat to myself.”

I waited.

He took another step. “I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable.”

We neither of us said anything. We stood in the room of half light, half shadow, and looked at one another. Then Pierce nodded. A confirmation? An admission? Something in his expression shifted. His eyes narrowed. He shook his head slightly, removing his hands from his pockets.

“A long, long walk, Pierce,” I said, quieter than I’d intended. “That is how one manages Whitman. If you’ve anything else scheduled, then you’d better—”

Before my words could finish, he’d closed the space between us, placing his hands above my hips and pulling me close. He kissed me.

There.

I’ve committed it to paper.

He kissed me as if this day in February were the last day of the world.

Or so it felt at the time.

And all the electricity from each time our hands had brushed raced through, from my head down through my feet and into the floor. Struck by lightning.

He stilled. He began to pull away. But I lifted my hands to his shoulders and pulled him back.

As shocking as Whitman, to be sure.

His hands moved to the small of my back.

We heard the sound of someone in the hall. A footstep, something being dropped then picked back up. In an instant I’d pulled away, as had he. My chest rising and falling. We stood four steps apart, my heart pounding like rain on glass.

We looked at one another.

Minutes passed.

No one came into the drawing room.

The light outside the windows was obscured by coming clouds.

“I should apologise to you,” he said.

The last thing I felt owed was an apology.

All I could hear was thunder in my ears.

I took a half step forward, then rocked back on my feet.

Pierce was still as stone.

Slowly I approached him. I lifted a hand hesitantly, almost touching the side of his face, but I pulled my hand away. He closed his eyes, and I, without saying a word, left him standing in the centre of the dimmed room.

I went straightway to my garret and—courageous woman that I am—did not leave for the rest of the night.

I’ve not seen Pierce at all today. I answer Agnes’s questions quickly.

Once I jumped as if she were about to accuse me of something.

Last night as I tried to fall asleep, I swear I could feel the pressure of his hands. I dreamt of a breaking storm.

I’ve only ever kissed Maxwell, and we were young. Even right before he went away, it was only a longer-limbed childhood standing at the door of a world we knew nothing about.

But Pierce has long left innocence behind.

All of me feels shaken.

February 29th

ARE WE GOING TO DISCUSS WHAT HAPPENED?

EMMA?

I CAN HEAR YOU AT YOUR DESK.

Good morning, Niall.

IS THAT ALL?

Did you sleep well?

VERY

I’m glad.

I’VE A COMMISSION TO KEEP ME OCCUPIED ALL DAY, AND THEN WILL BE DINING AT A CLUB. I CAN FIND A PLACE TO STAY THE NIGHT, KEEP OUT OF YOUR WAY, IF YOU WOULD PREFER NOT TO SEE ME.

Why would I not want to see you?

I KISSED YOU.

If we’re being entirely honest, yes. One could say you did.

IF WE’RE BEING ENTIRELY HONEST, ONE COULD SAY YOU KISSED ME IN RETURN.

Later

Hello

EMMA

You’ve been pacing. I can hear you through the wall.

I’VE BEEN TRYING TO KEEP MYSELF OCCUPIED.

I am loathe to quote Cousin Archibald at a time like this, but ought we moot?

MOOT?

Yes. Discuss. Counsel.

IF YOU MEAN WE SHOULD HAVE A CONVERSATION REGARDING WHAT HAPPENED, AS IF WE WERE BOTH TWO ADULTS, WHICH WE ARE, THEN YES.

Tomorrow then?

TOMORROW

Niall?

YES?

I don’t yet know what to think.

Pierce?

I WOULDN’T EXPECT ANYTHING LESS.

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.)

Mixing in Society by The Right Hon. Countess of *******

Foisted by Aunt Eugenia

Dear Reader,

As incredible as it seems, here we are in 1884. It’s been an eventful journey, to say the least, and life in St. Crispian’s shows no sign of slowing down.

Beth would first like to thank you, The Reader, for wandering into the neighbourhood and deciding to stay. It is a particular life we live here, good if not ridiculous. And there is much ahead.

Thank you to Beth’s family—Kip, parents, siblings, nieces & nephews—who reside in the very centre of her heart. She loves them deeply and is forever thankful for how they cheer her on.

Thank you, Spy Cat Grey. You deserve all the treats.

Friendship is a gift Beth has received in abundance. Thank you, all. You know who you are. An especial thanks to Mary Ann, for traipsing through England, and to Angie, for wielding a sword against discouragement, and holding up a light.

Thank you, Kimberly, for always being the first to read anything. Thank you to her Mother, her Dad, Alena, Lorien, Natalie, Caitlin, Jenesse, Rob (look who finally showed up), and Lori. You have faithfully read these journals in-process and Beth cannot express her gratitude enough.

As for the Rhysdon Press team who bring these books to life, you are a marvel.

Thank you, Tyson Cantrell, for allowing your beautiful design to grace the covers.

Thank you, Jennifer Lerud, for your brilliant copy editing, talent, and kindness.

Thank you, Ashley Lloyd, for appearing out of thin air to become Beth’s trustworthy assistant.

Thank you, Ben Unguren, ever the magician, who creates time when he has none.

Thank you, Allysha Unguren, substantive editor, board member, and fellow in near-hysterical laughter. You have sacrificed so much for all of Beth’s books, and it is recorded in her heart.

Thank you, Kip. The one who is the only.

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. Their life is charming, unexpected, and never dull.

     Beth enjoys citrus scents, books, old, 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. Her characters follow her everywhere, and she doesn’t mind.

        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 about Beth and her work 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. 7 is available now.

Sincerely,

Emma