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A year is such an odd packet of time. It seems so ordered: a dozen months, a handful of seasons. Deceptively even. Make no mistake, it will go awry every which way. Balance? Impossible. Control? Not worth mentioning the word. Some days cling and others run, many shifting just enough to incommode but give no great variety. And then out of the pedestrian blue comes an explosion which reduces all plans to smithereens. The reward for making it through? Getting to do it again. For good or ill.
“Secondly, I want to know you’re not buying cheap ink.” “The ink I choose to use is none of your business!” “I don’t wish to be kept awake at night by the sound of your journals weeping, Miss Lion.
“You haven’t cut your own hair!” I exclaimed. As any barest acquaintance would. Professor Fletcher pulled back slightly, his eyes blinking in panic question. He absently lifted a hand to the back of his head. “Is there something amiss with my hair, Miss Lion?” “Nothing,” I stated. “That’s the problem. You look quite dashing. Did a barber cut it for you?” “My sister?” He said it like a question.
“Let us part, for as much as I would like to see you again, this measure of chagrin will not likely be dealt with in this lifetime. Here’s hoping for reincarnation, where I will be reborn a mute. Good afternoon, Professor Fletcher. It truly was wonderful to see you. In a platonic way.”
He keeps comparing great men, trying to decide who is best. It may sound like a novel concept, but clearly the man never attended an afternoon tea. While academia might, and should, be impressed with such a work, I’ve listened to more expansive treatises in many a London drawing room.”
“If you want quality, you must work for it. You wake and you strive and you make decisions to sacrifice. An easy life will never bring the kind of satisfaction the soul craves. I despise people who lounge all day as if there weren’t more important ideas than comfort, complacency, and appetite. Stretch yourself! Be industrious! Do something!”
“Agnes,” I whispered, “do we have anything in the house that would render a man unconscious?” “Such as a frying pan?” “No.” I closed my eyes. “Not blunt force, rather something like laudanum or chamomile tea spiked with…well, laudanum.” Her face went pale. “My mother says…” “Agnes, there is a very ill duke upstairs. It is in his best interest to have peace and quiet. If you can think of something, anything, that will give my dear Cousin Archibald a swift and prolonged night’s sleep, you will be serving the better good of society, the peerage, and the Queen. Do you understand?” “…yes?” “Can I
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“I’ve endured a ridiculous sequence of events. It had to be recorded.” “You state that as fact, but it isn’t.”
“We both know you’ve no need to call me Jabberwocky as you already call me The Pirate.”
Now my mouth did fall open. “Did Pierce tell you that!” “Good day, Chit.” Now my eyes widened. “Is that what you call me?” But he was already limping away. I sat another fifteen minutes in silence. Chit, indeed. At least The Pirate carries a sense of romance and adventure. Bah, say I.
‘Only she blew into St. Crispian’s like a four-leaf clover, and I’ve trusted in that.’”
For now, we can only debate if it’s a tragedy or comedy?” “A tragic comedy?” she proposed. “A comic tragedy, rather.” “There should be a subset of drama called a Calamity. That would account nicely for most of your life.”
