The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 7

by Beth Brower

“Sometimes we are too sad to trust in anything, even happiness,” Mrs. Morrow replied.

It held. We, the four of us, held.

Silence among friends forms a pleasant shape.

“Most of us are afraid of the shadow our destiny casts. He didn’t seem to be.”

“Steady on, Emma,” I calmed. “You’ve done much worse. Far worse. And are alive to tell the tale.”

It was sweet of Parian, really, and after Pierce nodded and walked through the opened door with nary a glance back, I gave Parian a small smile. He smiled in return. Who would have supposed a year ago that we would be in cahoots?

Even the tea tastes stale. My entire life digresses.

We mostly managed protocol one.

cautiously, eep

What does one with a limited library read when melancholy? One attempts to read a dozen chapters from Leviticus for perspective (I wouldn’t say Leviticus was particularly helpful), a passage of Whitman for hope (hope and impatience, more like), and a soliloquy or two by The Bard (What a piece of work is a man, indeed!) before circling back to Isaiah, if necessary. It was necessary.

“If there is one thing I’ve learned from my vicar,” I replied, “it’s that I do not have to explain myself to anyone.”

Father had meant to take me, but there is never time for what one plans to do, only what one does.

Truth be told, there are things one wouldn’t wish on one’s worst enemy.

“Is that not a good deal of extra work?” “What should that matter?” he said as if slamming his words against the table. “We have an opportunity to create order from chaos. One book, one year. Simple. Elegant. Certainly it’s extra work! Fine things, fine ideas, fine people, require work! This entire age is indulgent and selfish and shortsighted, complaining that easy things are not as easy as they’d like.”

He lifted a hand before him, half shake of a fist, half artistic passion. “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!” He was perspiring, his strong grip on the words just shy of a yell. I sat agog.

agog, i find myself loving this Pirate

How casually they spoke of what they would do, and when.

I stared at the wrapped book in my hands. The white feather affected me more than I was willing to let on.

As for how we’ve varied, I would take my path a thousand times over in a thousand lives, however difficult—the art, the colour, the way that light bends gold around my memories, even the unhappy ones. I have known love and lost. I was gifted so much.

“This ruse with Islington is advantageous to your not being left behind, but an actual guardian?” Hawkes shook his head. “That isn’t what you need.” “What is it you think I need?” He looked as if it were obvious. “To remain undaunted.”

why. am. i. sobbing.

“It can be a terrible task, that of learning to divide the light from dark, for we agonize beneath the weight that someone we care for might be caught in the twilight of our indecision, our ignorance, our selfishness, or our fear.” Finally, he looked at me. “But when I recall that with the light of God comes the abundance of God, I take courage. Virtus Apprime.”

I took my tentative hope with me.