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

by Beth Brower

“Admit you’ve grown fond of certain aspects,” Hawkes said quietly. We three looked at him. Hawkes, still considering Pierce, tilted his head. Pierce began to move his gaze in my direction but managed to stop himself. “Don’t you have a sermon to give or a widow to cheer, Vicar?”

ARE WE IN A STANDOFF FELLAS???? Omg

Hawkes then removed his waistcoat, loosened his tie, removed his collar (not a religious collar, simply one a young man would wear), and rolled up his sleeves.

Why am I SWEATING

Bother. I determined to ignore the fortune. I then proceeded to reread it seven times more.

“We are all sent trials in this life, Emma. I’ve yet to understand why God placed so many of mine in your singular person.”

Question: Ought I read the papers more than I do? Answer: Likely. However: Books.

If Hawkes—Our Hawkes, My Hawkes—had mentioned the fact that he held an occasional Evensong, I might be much further along the path of virtue. I lay my lack of Higher Road sentiment at the feet of my vicar entirely.

Our Hawkes, truly

And despite the look of slight alarm from every face that was not my own, I ushered him to sit smack dab in the middle of Pierce and Victoria Braithwaite. Three uncomfortable peas in a pod.

I love her so much

What, exactly, is the Alamo? I HAVE A BOOK ON THE TOPIC I’LL LET YOU BORROW. So it is not a dance. I can hear Pierce laughing through the wall.

When I went into the breakfast room this morning, there was a book with a snip of black ribbon marking a chapter about the Mexican-American War. The Alamo is not a dance.

It was almost unbearable, Pierce quoting Shakespeare. The joyful tang of an unexpected pairing. My new aim in life is to do everything possible to ensure it happens again.

Now, if you were to run off with a blacksmith, I know of a bloke or two who’d be—” But then Gibbs was interrupted by a rowdy set crashing through the door,

GIBBS!!!!!!!

Mary: “The man was just back from a game of cricket, faculty versus students.” Emma: Envisions Professor Fletcher in his office, the starched shirt tucked into white trousers, somewhat scuffed from play. “Don’t tell me he wore the small collar turned down?” Mary: “Bowtie untied, Emma. As for the collar, the top button was—” Emma: “Mary, don’t say it.” Mary: “—undone.”

And so we held mocks, practicing every situation we could imagine wherein Professor Fletcher might engage Mary in conversation. “Might I please pretend he is wearing his horrible spectacles?” “No, Mary,” I firmly replied. “We prepare only for the most debilitating of circumstances.”

IT WILL BE STRANGE, YOU BEING GONE.

While pierce isn’t my pick he has great moments 🥹

I blinked. “Stonecrop Islington is shockingly at ease in his world. What have you done with London Islington? Is he locked in a closet somewhere?” To which Hawkes murmured, “A corridor.”

“Hawkes,” Pierce greeted evenly. Hawkes, having surmounted the stairs, wordlessly offered me my hat while tucking his books beneath his arm and lifting his now free hand to shake Pierce’s. I noticed a five-pound note pass between them, from Hawkes to Pierce. A wager to which I was not privy. They both kept a straight face, thinking the exchange unnoticed.

A full comprehension for us both: that we’d been more than a little homesick for one another’s company.