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

by Beth Brower

“Even if I wished the appropriate formality, I don’t think it likely. When I first said that would be best, we had yet to eat dinner together, rescue your ridiculous cousin, speak seriously of a neighbourhood ghost I still doubt exists—no, let me finish—nor had we yet claimed joint ownership of a cat. To say nothing of every other thing that has transpired since I moved into your bewitched house. At this juncture, it feels disingenuous calling you Miss Lion. At least in private.” “Well said. I suppose it was inevitable that any formality between us was doomed to fall victim to the law of diminishing returns.”

“Emma it is then. In private.” “Am I therefore given permission to call you Niall? In private?” “Niall, or Pierce. Whatever suits you. My friends call me either.” “Then it’s settled. I’ll use them both to great effect.” He eyed me for a long moment, then, without any warning, extended his hand. Thinking about it after, I realised that for all our messages between walls, we’d never yet touched one another. I might be ...

Now I’m sounding foolish. But when we shook hands, it was…well, there was a jolt....

“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.”

“You look quite awful, Emma. What have you been doing with yourself?” “I’ve stayed up half the night reading the book of Revelation.” “Why on earth would one ever do such a thing?”

I sighed. “Because I live with a tormented man.” “Live with?” “Live next to.” “You are a scandal, my dear Irishman’s daughter.” “Is the daughter dear or the Irishman?” “The Irishman.”

“There was a woman with the group,” I added. “Wise you are Emma, for it is the woman in white whom you should fear.” Niall Pierce rose in my estimation. I enjoy a man who can unironically speak of fearing women.

“Oh dear, Agnes. Where did you find that dragon?” Agnes, giving the racket no mind, watched the duke with—and I lie not—veiled eyes. “Only the best, Miss Lion.” I.

Lie. Not. Only the best.

“Where could you possibly have seen him?” “At the opera. When I was alone, he slipped into my box.” “But that’s against my rules,” I blurted out. Foolishly. “Ah,” he answered. Like he had caught me out. Ah. Maddening, maddening man. Looking very directly at me, he continued, “Hollingstell indicated that you were willing to play with fire on my account. That he was to leave me be. He wanted to know why.” Pause, and then, “As do I.”

“Either a friendship with you is the grandest thing in the world, Miss Lion, or you are delusional. Which is it?” An unfair question, I felt. Surely there is room for a degree of both?

“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.” The maid began helping me from my clothes and into the ball gown. “I’ve no intention of telling a man anything, Arabella,” I said.

“Nonsense. Of course you will be matched in this life. You need such a thing, I believe.” “Do I?” I challenged. “And do you recommend I use your strategy? Whatever man has the most money, the greatest number of houses, and least number of attractive features?” “Oh no,” Arabella waved. “You marry a handsome man with a pleasing face. Then we can both enjoy looking at him. Leave the money to me.”

He did not say anything. He simply stopped and considered for a full minute before continuing to walk slowly towards me. It was too sensory—if that is the right word—the sound of his footsteps, the sweet tang of an air not usually found in London, the press of the pavement against my bare feet. As he came closer, walking in a half circle around me, his eyes missing nothing, all thoughts of dancing and the twins and Arabella and Islington evaporated. In the entirety of my life, I do not believe I have ever been looked at in such a way. It was all encompassing, honest, and reverent somehow.

He smelled rather wonderful, and I moved my hand, only just, so as to touch him, as if I doubted he was flesh and blood. I’m sounding ridiculous, but it was so very strange. Then he stopped, our shoulders shy of touching. “What witchery are you up to on a night such as this?”

Lord Crane is not handsome. Roland is divine. Lady Crane did not look burdened at coming to Roland’s rescue.

“Don’t move.” “Don’t move?” An order which immediately caused me to sneeze. “Move, but don’t leave your place. I’ll be right back.” He walked over to Lapis Lazuli Minor, went inside, and after a few minutes came out with one of his large cameras flung over one shoulder, the other hand carrying some sort of equipment. Without a word, he crossed the street and began to set up the picture.

I sat watching him, amused. In the time it took for Pierce to ready himself to capture the scene, Tybalt had slipped through the open door of Lapis Lazuli Minor, leapt down the steps, moved as only a cat can across the pavement, and then was up the stairs of Lapis Lazuli House to sit beside me. Just then, Pierce, who had disappeared beneath the black fabric of the camera, lifted the flash and said, “If I catch you making a dour face, Emma…” Which thing made me smile. Then he said, “Hold it!” And took the photograph.

“And what is that section you are holding there between your fingers with such a dogged expression?” “It may or may not be the last two very trying months of my life.” He raised a ducal eyebrow. “All of that? July and August? Either your summers are far more extraordinary than mine, or you must think highly of your comings and goings.” “Islington?” “Yes?” “I have maimed lesser men.” That brought about a laugh and an unexpected slip of the formal expression he so often uses when sending a barbed comment my way. “I’m glad to know there are men out there you still deem lesser than I.”

“You have your qualities.” “That sounded painful to admit.” “It wasn’t. I know you’re in possession of a few, most found in your unique handwriting. I still wonder how you learnt such a thing.”

“All roads lead to Rome.” Honestly. “I did warn you that fate has its way with me, Islington.” “Yet I wonder if your mischief rules even fate.”

“Pierce, why are we going to the conservatory?” I whispered.

“I suspect that is where we will find the altar upon which you will be sacrificed,” he replied. Islington overheard, for he glanced at Pierce. “Is Miss Lion being sacrificed on our behalf?” “For queen and country,” drawled Pierce. “The gods might wish for a more contrite soul,” Islington added. “Then you should climb atop yourself, Islington. I’m certain the gods would be most willing to take you.” This produced an unexpected smile.

“Oh, hello!” “By Jove! A female.” “Lovely. How do you do?” “Anyone know her name?”

“You can just ask her. She’s sitting right there.” “Can’t. I lost a bet to Foxy, and now I can’t speak to any woman until the seventh of next month.”

“The Reprobates Ten?” I answered. “But there are only nine of you.” “Oh no, we’ve one more.” “Who might that be?” I asked. “Who?” Night Watchman said, “Why only the finest—” “The freshest—” “The upstanding—”

“The one and only—” And then, all in unison, “The Mighty Nigel Hawkes!”

“So why is our mystery woman sent here to be among us?” The Boy asked Hawkes. Hawkes looked like an explanation was inevitable. “Because her exploits make you gentlemen look like schoolboys.”

“Gentlemen, we are in the presence of greatness.”

And they held a moment of silence for me, heads bowed, hands extended in admiration. It felt very Egyptian Goddess, surrounded by her acolytes.

“But we’ve yet to guess her Christian name!” Quality Jones interjected. A cheer went up. Then Islington, knowing full well what he was doing, said, “Well, Emma?” The Reprobates let out a second round of groans. “You really are a killjoy, Islington,” I said.

“They are delightful in small doses. Like a litter of puppies, one would suspect.” “Don’t romanticize them,” Islington muttered.