The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 3

by Beth Brower

One might ask the very valid question of how he has managed to fit an entire silk morning robe in his trousers? Well. It seems he cut the bottom half of the morning robe clean off, so as to provide “the comfort of one’s bedroom in the street.” Or so he told me. He calls it his Out and About Reminder.

“My mother might say he was troubled and in need of divine intervention, Miss Lion. But I don’t like to speak ill of the living.”

“That is usually reserved for the dead. What of them?” “Oh, I don’t think they mind a few snippy words now and again.”

I humour he who gave me such an order, not because he holds any authority, but because I expect him to fail spectacularly at what he has set out to do alone and the less genteel part of my nature wants for amusement.

“No, Cousin Archibald. I will go. You will remain. As a proper man should,” insisted I, with a smile.

he straightened his black silk morning robe. (Morning robe or mourning robe? How is one to know?)

I suppose when one has a peg leg and an eyepatch, one might scowl. Justifiably so. However, his auburn hair made it difficult to take such an expression with any degree of seriousness. Be a pirate, if you must, but do not try to do so as a ginger.

Archibald wiped his hand across his face in defeat. “I expect you to come up with something before you go,” stated he. “You are, as always, an utter disappointment.”

He's the worst!

I was allowed to keep my face—thankfully, for I wonder just what her alternative would be?—also,

Cousin Archibald dislikes children on principle.

He, having rolled up the sleeve of his coat—instead of removing it as someone who was really a person would—occupied

A lesser mortal might have hoped he would have passed quietly in the night. I, however, would have settled for him passing rather loudly.

“Pity. I was rather impressed with your swashbuckling potential.” “Well, I never said I lacked swashbuckling potential.” I think most of the events of my life have pointed towards piracy of some sort.

You do not deserve to live!”

I find him unredeemably awful.

It must be said that I do not need Mr. Pierce to come to my rescue—aside from what he pays by renting Lapis Lazuli Minor and the studio, that I need desperately—and

“What else is life but a string of outcomes beyond our control?”

home isn’t just a place, but also people.

How else would one remain so incredibly stupid? Forgive me. I mean— Well, actually, that is exactly what I mean.

Embarrassing and delightful. My life, in other words.

“Are you laughing at me?” “No,” he said in a matter-of-fact manner as he turned a page and kept reading. “Yes. But in a delighted way.”

Agnes had made too many scones. As if there is such a thing. There may be such a thing, but I doubt anyone has ever seen it.

“I wondered if he’d done you in, Miss! But I could’na think of where he’d have put your body!” I believe my face showed mild disappointment. “Agnes. Really! Anyone knows the river is as good a place as any.”

I first approached the drawing room by means of stealth—an alternative way to say I hunched down and peered through the keyhole. Emma M. Lion, adult extraordinaire.

“Your mother thinks my hair too wild,” I said. “I think it lovely, Emma,” Arabella sighed. “It will tell any man what he’s in for.”

One would think I’m cursed. Unfair, as I’ve not disturbed a single Egyptian tomb…that I know of.

“Perhaps you are to be offered on the altar of St. Crispian’s. The virgin sacrifice to ensure good crops and Roman ghosts.” “Ha!” And then I felt the nagging worry he may be right.