The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 8

by Beth Brower

Women with pockets are a threat to the male sex.”

As I’m sure you’ve read in the papers. Question: Ought I read the papers more than I do? Answer: Likely. However: Books.

Manners must prevail! When they suit one’s situation, that is.

As for Pierce, he placed the entire debacle in perspective with a few deft sentences. “Gossip and meanness have a way of making one feel beaten down, but they themselves are of small origin. They have no character. So keep yours intact and carry on.” “Hear, hear,” from Islington. I looked at Pierce, his silver eyes always sharper come night. His words held an earned gravity and, as a result, my worry moved to a smaller place.

“How is it that the moment Emma Lion becomes part of an equation—almost any equation—every ridiculous prospect becomes reality?”

“Which is why God tucked you quietly away in St. Crispian’s rather than in the line of biblical matriarchs.”

All related thoughts end with the realisation that a good deal of life is watching those we love consider the stupidest of possibilities. Why would God trust humankind if—in the end—we are all fools? It defies comprehension.

the sort of solidarity where nothing is asked but everything is given.

This sort of human tragedy—violence, cruelty—feels different from the grief of loss. Grief, as tangled as it is, can be more straightforward. You loved them, and they died. No, that isn’t quite the truth. Loss is never direct; it never finds a worn path. No matter how, or why. It throws one into the wilds with no path at all. Only… How to write this out? There are some abuses that feel tangled, sticky, every dim feeling invading the peace of one’s heart. Cruelty played out over years, and a feeling of desolation and ash in its wake. Human brutality carries its own sting.

“Only life does not play lightly with its human pieces.”

It is not that I am ignorant of the toll of friendship. I am not. Only I wish I knew better how to carry the balance.

“We will not be forgotten. The four of us. We are not so easily disbanded.” I blinked again. “And.” “As of this moment, we are friendship-bound. No matter what winds blow, the fact that this has happened is immutable. Everything in the future may change, but our present claims something stronger than change.” “What is that?” “Truth. We are a truth. You, Pierce, Islington, and myself.” “And?” Now it was a question. Was there more? “And we followed Pierce to Lockwell so that we could bring him safely home.”

friendship forged in fire. These charcters are anchored in my heart.

Her freedom would always come at the cost of someone else’s liberty. Another way to say it: Fire steals away oxygen, and Maggie Devereux Revel is an unapologetic torch.

My childhood soul has been left too long abandoned.

One should go away long enough to know the cotton-soft contentment of coming home.