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

by Beth Brower

Archibald is spending the day having Parian sing “God Save the Queen” while he—Archibald, not Parian—curses the Colonies. He is also dressed in full mourning.

Fourth of July 😂

“I will be in church, Cousin Archibald, and then I intend to spend the remainder of the day in a solemn introspection of my own soul,” stated I. “Do not get lost in the black mire you will find there,” snarled he.

I think most of the events of my life have pointed towards piracy of some sort.

And I hadn’t realised until that moment how much I’ve missed that feeling, of someone inside your four walls watching out for you. The feeling that home isn’t just a place, but also people. I’ve forgotten it could be.

This afternoon is not fit for man, nor beast, nor Emma M. Lion in the garret.

I attempted a condensed version. “I cannot endure the borrowing of a book. I’m a deliberate reader, and I like to write notes in the margin.” “Notes in the margin?” “Novels and novels’ worth.” “You are a dangerous reader then.” “I would be. I could be—if my library consisted of more than four books. Perhaps I’ll reread Coriolanus.”

“I’m not certain I fully agree,” I was compelled to answer, “but very well read.” He smiled. I smiled. How wonderful a thing to find one’s friends.

“Mother thinks we’re splendid,” Oliver drawled. “Father, on the other hand, carries a staunch belief that it is un-English and has banned all riding until our pallor is translucent, with touches of red. He’s very patriotic, the old man. Thinks it our British duty to look sickly.”

Only my mother says that a true lady always changes, even in death.”