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The pony took sick, but we found another.” “There’s a pony?” He gave me an unwarranted side-eye. “For children, Lion.” I was not disappointed. I was mildly disappointed.
Women with pockets are a threat to the male sex.”
“Don’t you have a sermon to give or a widow to cheer, Vicar?” “A book to read,” Hawkes replied. As he turned to leave, he said over his shoulder, “If any of you have yet to try the crockery smash, you should give it a go.”
I find it so interesting that as the series has gone on, Hawkes (who began the series as more of a being of magic than anything) has become progressively more human and yet progressively more mysterious.
It should be noted once again that I simply adore him.
Hawkes, word-weaving, contemplative, quiet magic Hawkes, let his chin drop to his chest. Then stood. He was looking particularly worn.
Yes.
I returned my attention to Hawkes. He was loosening his shoulders, nodding along slightly as the judge reviewed the rules of the ring.
YES.
The strongman’s grin had turned into an unsettling twist. Nearly as unsettling was the fact that Hawkes looked both serious yet comfortable in the ring.
Y E S.
A pained look from Hawkes as he ended the fight with three hits to the man’s torso. One, two. Three! And a final to the jaw.
YESSSSSS
“Who the hell is Hawkes?” he asked.
a legend
Forgive yourself for having let yourself down, even while you were holding others up.
“Pati necesse est multa mortalibus mala,” said Hawkes. “Yes, well, I am certain what you’ve said is true, however, I remain unmoved.
After tempting the wrath of every god by denying Hawkes his Newton,
Things that ought to come with warnings rarely do.
There is a man.” Saffronia smiled slyly. “Do go on.” “He is on the path of your life but obscured by shadows.” “They always are.” “And he is wealthy. Very wealthy.” “They always are,” I echoed with a grin. The young woman continued to stare at Saffronia’s palm. “And you will have a long life and enjoy the interests you pursue.” She twisted Saffronia’s hand to reveal the paint smudge. “And you will paint many things.” An older woman, treble the coins and jewellery hanging about her person, entered from the rear of the tent and settled down, watching. “You will be happy wherever you go,” our
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IS IT BEN. IS IT ISLINGTON.
“Two paths now leading to a love; both true. A different shape of happiness to be found with each. Which path you take? Depends on many things. What you choose. What they choose. A thousand other decisions, or possibly very few. One you would love deeply. One you would love completely. One sharp as a knife. One a game of mirrors. One more difficult. One less free. Both inheritors to the line that refused to die when your first heart was buried.”
My theory? The lines are Hawkes and Pierce (Islington has, for all intents and purposes, been removed from the running in my eyes):
Pierce is the one she would love deeply, who is sharp as a knife and more difficult.
Hawkes is the one she would love completely, a game of mirrors. And, as we learned recently, he is less free.
“Islington,” I said, “you’ve met Miss Saffronia March? She’s an artist and—” “Yes, Miss March, I admire your work.” Islington held out his hand much in the same way he had when first meeting Pierce.
CAN IT BE ISLINGTON.
I was so glad he’d come. I wished to throw my arms around him and ask what I was supposed to feel about it all.
do. it.
“I have experienced something I can’t quite understand.” Hawkes waited, then, “A state I’ve known.” “What do you do with it?” “I wait on the shore of the mystery to see what the tide will bring.”
Hawkes tightened his expression. “My heart is hardened, I cannot repent. ” “Now we’re in for it,” muttered Islington. “What?” I asked. “He only quotes Dr. Faustus when he’s tremendously put out.”
Two paths leading to a love. Both true. A different shape of happiness to be found with each. Which path you take? Depends on many things. What you choose. What they choose. A thousand other decisions, or possibly very few. One you would love deeply. One you would love completely. One sharp as a knife. One a game of mirrors.One more difficult. One less free. Both inheritors to the line that refused to die when your first heart was buried.
Fin.
Quoth a requiem for a Monday night
expansion of his and Maggie’s business. I was hesitant. It sounded unsafe
What if I am terribly young and uninteresting in comparison? What if I become a woman who ages into an uneventful existence, minding my business in all the wrong places and not minding it near enough in the essentials? “You don’t have to—” Pierce began. “Yes! Of course,” I said. “I was only envisioning myself in twenty depressing years, with a ring of keys about my waist and sagging jowls.” A sharp look born of confusion. “Why?” “Because I’m not a sculptor.” A sigh.
This mental spiral is so real
“I think, then, it is incumbent upon me,” Pierce sighed, “to ingratiate myself to Mr. Flat. Making it appear to the neighbourhood that I’ve a stronger connection with him than I do. I’m not saying overmuch. Only, perhaps we go for a drink at The Cleopatra.” “He’s banned, from what I recall.” “Is he? Damn.”
“The point of cards is not to have fun, Emma.” “What is the point then, Aunt?” “If you’re a man playing with men, it is to gamble responsibly. If you are a married woman playing with married women, it is to gossip. If you are a man playing with a woman, it is to rescue your female partner from folly. Which aligns with the sole role of a young woman.” “To be rescued from folly?” “Yes, thereby spurring on a proposal.
I have taken my insignificance for granted. One’s anonymity is not a thing to give away.
My day having been the model of industry, I felt willing—nay, practically ordained—to open the door when a knock sounded. This I did.
I may have just betrayed Hawkes. In an utterly insensitive manner. A multitude of feelings rose up in my chest, all ending in the singular knowledge that I needed to protect him. And I may not have. I felt ill.
I had the uneasy feeling of having ceded some ground that Victoria had stepped right into. 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. I digress. As a result of not having attended an Evensong in ages.
The SALT damn
we must remember Stonecrop.” “I can’t, as I’ve not yet been, but I will remember the Alamo.”
“Did you just invoke the Alamo?” “I did.”
“Pierce and I spoke of it only last week at The Cleopatra. I thought perhaps he—” “Did you! So he remembers the Alamo? I’ll ask him to teach me.” A curious light in Islington’s eyes. “Lion, just what exactly do you believe the Alamo to be?” “I always assumed it was a sort of dance. Like the Allemande. I mentioned it to the dancing master Aunt Eugenia engaged the summer I was fifteen,
“What, pray,” I gritted through my teeth, “is the Alamo?” When Islington composed himself, he managed, “Pierce will explain.” Then he laughed again. Islington is an incurable elitist.
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.
This whole aside has me CRYING
A knock on the door of the drawing room and Pierce entered.
Ok so theory/thought/observation.
Pierce has a limp right? Which means he must have a fairly unique gait when he walks… right?
BUT when Emma has that “vision” of her future, and heard a man walking down the stairs, she didn’t know who it was. Which means it COULDN’T have been Pierce who she was married to in her vision. So he can’t be endgame.
Another point for Hawkes? Maybe??
undulating
I’m beginning to think that the catawampus nature of these days is due to Hawkes being so long absent.
And what of my own questions? I’ve not yet been brave enough to look too far into that strange, internal country of my heart, to see what has battered its way through the gates, and what has not. But it feels as if there is a confirmation there, of complicated, tangled courage. Hearts are intricate stretches of land. Mine is no exception.
You have a day when your world has crumbled down about you and I’ll serve you The Lion, no questions asked.
Chekhov’s gun?
Now, if you were to run off with a blacksmith, I know of a bloke or two who’d be—”
TWO? Ahahaha
I wished to hear more of the bloke (or two) who would be (insert yet undisclosed desperate emotion) if I ran off with a blacksmith.
I have loved the spaces of my friends—Islington’s library, Pierce’s studio, Saffronia’s Thrush’s Victory, Mary’s haphazard room filled with papers and strewn bits of clothing, and even the atelier of The Hound—but this room, this very small room, made me feel something I’d not experienced before. It was dear. It was to be safeguarded. I felt the desire to take off my shoes.
Every time she mentions Pierce, Islington, and Hawkes, it feels like a rendition of Goldilocks and the Three Bears…
Not to mention, what was that about a man being the other half of home?
she sent a note round implying that if I would please consider I must attend, no matter what, and that failure to support her at this juncture would result in her murdering me in my bed. Therein lies the problem. I do not wish to die at such a young age.
Professor Fletcher blinked and said, “Pardon?” And I realised he’d been watching Mary.
I cannot express how obsessed I am with this love story omg
you have always borne the same.” Islington, eyes clear, looked back to my face. He said nothing. I, therefore, provided his answer for him. “Thank you, Lion, for your philosophical consideration of my situation in life.”
Hawkes sat a moment, then he lifted his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, thereby hiding a slight line of amusement. Or would it be a line of slight amusement? No, I believe I was correct in the first. The line was slight. The amusement? Likely vast.
All this isn’t to say I don’t like the man. I find him fascinating. And appealing, in a way that isn’t altogether comforting. I believe him to be the sort of man who keeps most things in the realm of absolute privacy.
When we came to the hall, he loped his way towards the kitchen, assuming Agnes was going to give him some sort of reward for his bothering to exist.
Some things have to be let go. They weren’t made to stay.”
“Are you merely a prize, Arabella, for some degenerate man to chase after? A Helen? Is that all you are?” “Nations burned for Helen.”
