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

by Beth Brower

For I was torn open. All was tenuousness and uncertainty. “We don’t even have a portrait!” I found myself spitting out. As if it made contextual sense. “There is no quiet room in which we will be still together. Don’t you see? The four of us? Alchemy ripped asunder with no proof remaining for anyone to know what it was. Or that it even existed to begin with! Who will know that we— Drat and blast!” I sounded like a lunatic but too much had poured into the verbal river. It was rising over the banks and there was nothing for it. The fields would flood. “Most don’t believe in it anyway, the idea that other substances can be transfigured into gold. But we know!” And I swung my gaze like a scythe to where they both stood—somewhat stunned by my outburst painfully delivered exposition. A moment passed. Then two. “He returns Monday, Lion,” Islington said quietly. “Pierce returns Monday. And we four continue.” And I, chest heaving, stood there feeling like all my seams were inside out and frayed. It was difficult to look Islington in the face and take his comfort. I, who had discovered secrets he’d not shared. Who had acquired three young ghosts, knowing almost nothing about them. Who had thrown myself against the torrent of Pierce’s wrath and pulled him to shore. 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. And then there is Hawkes, whose irksome mystery now feels like a grace, locking me out of a third expend...