The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 2

by Beth Brower

Having never met anyone in this particular way, I was uncertain of proper through-the-wall etiquette.

“Anyone who thinks Potiphar’s wife was a good idea has proven himself to be of no sense whatsoever. They can have another attempt at Christianity next week.”

“St. George is not the only one who can slay a dragon, Emma Lion. I’ve seen you wield a sword.” It was, perhaps, the most wonderful compliment I’ve ever been paid. I intend to keep Roland.

He is still extraordinarily tall. One might have hoped the problem would have been rectified.

“I would not have thought one would be ensconced in a library during a ball for Pliny the Younger,” he answered.

“Pliny is too concerned with natural phenomena to care about my evening’s entertainments.”

His face screwed up like a used napkin. “Milton? I despise Milton.” “Philistine.” And I hit him on the head with Shakespeare’s Comedies, In Full.

“Mr. Pierce,” I said, “I have found that on occasions of high absurdity, one either discovers a great friend or someone to never speak with again. Having now experienced a disastrous evening in Lapis Lazuli House, I leave it to you to decide which you would prefer.”

Having neither seen nor spoken with Mr. Pierce since The Great Debacle, I was beginning to worry that when we promised we would be friends, it meant he would try not to commit us all to the madhouse.

“If I cannot worship in a majestic building, I have no interest in the practice,” she snipped. Which I assume is not a direct quote from the New Testament.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in a crypt somewhere, for your sins?” Islington asked in a ducal tone. “They evicted me,” I snapped. “Who?” “The dead.”

If photography ever fails him, he could consider the route of Professional Curtain Thrower.