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

by Beth Brower

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.

“We cannot always predict the outcomes of our actions, Miss Lion, however well intended.” I stood. “What else is life but a string of outcomes beyond our control?”

“It’s messier than we ever imagined it to be as children,” he said. “What?” “Life.”

It felt as if it were…what can I say? A fission? An energy? All that mounting storm he carries about his person breaking in beautiful rain. And I thought to myself, This. This sort of battle, this kind of argument, this laughter when we realise we are saying the same thing—this is what I wish from life.

Am I getting better? Is three years of grief enough payment? Does the heart not always have to wear black? Is this a sign I am moving forward in the way Arabella keeps insisting I must? Am I simply mistaking paralysis for healing?

He shrugged. It was much like his other movements, as if he’d purchased it from humanity and was its sole possessor. Ah, Niall Pierce, owning pieces of life without realising he’s even done it.