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

by Beth Brower

He only insulted me on thirteen occasions. I reminded him seven times that he was financially dependent on my generosity, and how, as a blackguard, he should—by all that was good and holy—be cast into the gutter. He told me not to be vulgar. I told him he must choose between my vulgarity or my being wilfully cruel, which may or not include sending him to Bournemouth and Cousin Matilde.

Think of your worst qualities and be prepared to discuss what we might do with them. Your Aunt My worst qualities? She is ambitious to think we will get through them during only one afternoon tea. I should think I require three teas, at least.

“Have you been hearing his confessions again?” “I’ve limited him to ten complaints in relation to your person each visit.”

I learned a long time ago that my happiness has to be separate from the things beyond my control.”

Thinking about it after, I realised that for all our messages between walls, we’d never yet touched one another. I might be deluding myself now that there was a significance as I removed my right glove and extended my hand in return. Now I’m sounding foolish. But when we shook hands, it was…well, there was a jolt. Like touching lightning. We both started and pulled our hands away, his face registering the surprise mine must have shown.

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.

“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.”

Collectively, we are the Ten Pound Note, rather more formally known as The Reprobates Ten.” By the time he had finished said introduction, I had abandoned any other expression than absolute delight. It was impossible to not be charmed.

Hawkes the Fox

Mary, Queen of Scots

Maid Marian!”

At the door, I was picked off. I don’t quite know how they did it, but Pierce and Islington were standing near the threshold, hands in their pockets, talking about something, and one of them simply reached out and pulled me out of the centre of “the heathens with whom I’d eaten dinner”—a direct quote from Islington.

but Islington and I would also request your company.

so I somehow managed to find myself seated in the middle, Pierce and Islington on either side.