The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion #1

by Beth Brower

This journal does not deserve to have a foul, black mark running through every incriminating thought. I will no longer censor myself! I digress.

As impressive as Lapis Lazuli is, it by no means takes itself over-seriously.

In the words of my maternal aunt, Lady Eugenia Spencer, “Lapis Lazuli is a bizarre establishment, to say the least.” And she is never content to say the least, so let it be marked.

believe my banishment has brought a great deal of joy to his life. I won’t begrudge him it. He is, after all, Cousin Archibald’s valet. Joy must not be easy for him to come by.

He’s not only thin in person, he’s thin in humour and spirit and character.

And across the bridge of my nose? A constellation of freckles. “They will fade when you are older,” Mother had said. “I hope not,” Father had called from across the room, bent over an illustration. “‘Twould be a pity for Emma to lose that bit of magic, now wouldn’t it?”

I look in this mirror and recognise myself less now than when I was a child. I suppose that happens when you’ve grown up and still don’t understand your place in the world.

There are realities we must face, an empty purse being one of them.

Arabella and I agreed upon a scheme. I would go as far as to say we concocted it, for going against Aunt Eugenia always feels like toying with a witching hour.

He seems to know just what to do with language. It hovers beside him, a fluid and mischievous thing,

On a cream card a single word was scrawled: Imperterritus. I flipped the card over, and embossed in gold was a beautiful lion. It was not docile, neither was it ferocious or violent, rather, it was undaunted. Which is what, I learned upon investigation, Imperterritus means in Latin. Undaunted. Fearless.

It is good. Very good. But my true love is the evening walk, that last hour of daylight that has its way with sunlight, shadow, and soul.

My father had a well-loved, oft-read library. He pored over his books. He wrote in them. Scribbled on any open space with his racing thoughts.

My Great Sorrow is that I cannot scribble this copy up as it isn’t mine. For most, this would not prove to be any sort of problem. For Emma M. Lion, it is. Alas.