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

by Beth Brower

Quarter of an hour later, we left Lapis Lazuli House. He’d changed his clothes, wearing his dark brown suit with a fresh shirt, change of tie, and waistcoat. He’d also run a comb through his hair. “You’re cutting a smart figure,” I said. “I’d like to impress your mother.” “Seeing as she is deceased, I think she’d only be difficult to impress if we were to marry.” It simply flew from my mouth like a barn swallow. And I, experiencing sudden and undulating waves of terror disbelief shock mortification, lifted a hand to my face and strangled out, “I did not intend to say that.” “So I’ve guessed by the expression of blind panic on your face.” Letting my hand drop, I swivelled my gaze to Pierce. “Said panic has nothing, or at least very little to do with your person. Ah. Rather, yourself. Your person is more than— As is yourself!” Calamity. Two men were walking up the lane, and then a woman not far behind them. “Shall we cross the street to finish untangling this conversation?” I half whispered. A nod from Pierce, who seemed perfectly fine waiting for me to dig myself out of the verbal trench in which I’d so haphazardly placed myself. “I am not ready, is all,” I said quietly, as we crossed the cobbles. “We’ve only just begun courting. But when I am, I’m not assuming we— You must— But there are clearly— What I mean to say— A lady doesn’t curse in the street, does she? She doesn’t curse at all. Nor does she accidentally half propose. Perhaps I should start. The swearing, I mean. A...

Emma’s composure later grounds him ❤️