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

by Beth Brower

I shifted until I was quite close to Pierce, our arms pressed against one another. I have never before considered boxing a romantic thing, but it was the most enlivened I’ve ever felt during a sporting exhibition. I digress.

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

“Oh, yes! I would have thought you’d have known their reputation, being the sort of intelligent, thinking woman you are,”— In that moment, I almost threw Pierce over, betrayed Mary, and proposed marriage myself.

“I’m tired, Hawkes. My aunt’s demands are legion.” He waited. “And last night was very fine and monied and aesthetically pleasing.” He waited. “Only,” I sighed again, “I went to Oxford for the first time on Friday and I find myself changed. Or rather, something in me that has been dormant, or limping along, is now trying to run and it has no place to go. I’ve neglected my studies all the month long. I can’t find order in my day. And therefore, am left with an unsatisfied taste on my tongue. That, I suppose, is how I feel.”

Finding I was, indeed, quite hungry, I said, “I believe he’s right, Hawkes. Allow me to scramble to my feet unobserved, if you will.” Hawkes placed a flattened hand before his eyes, which did not hide a somewhat elfin smile, and waited until I’d not only scrambled to my feet but run the length of the corridor to my tower stairs.

“Is this why we fell into such an easy friendship? I reminded you of…a beloved dog?” “No,” Islington scowled but it was conquered with a laugh. A laugh too gleeful, at that. “And there was nothing easy about falling into our friendship.” That is how Islington ended up feigning a run before striding out of the kennel, my following behind, with half a dozen dogs running along for the joy of it all. “I never said it wasn’t diverting,” he called over his shoulder. “You’re going to rot, Islington. I don’t exactly know where, but at some time, some place, you will rot!”

“The violent red was to cast a sickly pallor about your person, but now I find you the picture of health! I implore, nay, I demand you pull every drop of English blood to the surface.