Portrait of a Scotsman (A League of Extraordinary Women, #3)

by Evie Dunmore

the things one had learned early often felt instinctual, as unquestionable as the act of breathing, and the familiarity of them mattered rather than whether they were good or harmful.

A creative mind had the ability to spiral deep into dark places, and sometimes she had tried to picture the moment when a great catastrophe befell her. What it would be like when she first knew her world had been upended. She had never envisioned that it would be a deathly silence, powerful enough to suffocate a whole gallery.

Mr. Blackstone bared his chipped tooth in what she supposed was a smile. “Courage,” he said. “We’ve ten minutes—you may find something to please you yet.”

Forgot about the chipped tooth - reordered his image to me

“What is your given name?” Apparently, it wasn’t so simple—he had stiffened infinitesimally at the question, and for a moment, his gaze went straight through her as though he were not seeing her at all. “My name is Lucian,” he finally said. Lucian. The name meant light. His mother must have had a penchant for irony. Or remarkable foresight . . . Lucian—Lucifer— Beelzebub.

Dreamy sigh

she couldn’t help but think that this was how Persephone would be dragged into the underworld in 1880s London: not screaming, not twisting wildly, but painfully composed while Hades wore a velvet jacket.

Or bump into them in Blackwell’s or the Bodleian.

Blackwells a british institution? Nice

“So I suggest we don’t consummate this marriage until you come to me,” he said. “And you’ll make it so clear that you are willing, even the kind of brute you take me for could not mistake it.”

“Don’t bother my wife.” “Ah, matters of the heart, oui?” The Frenchman gave a knowing little laugh. “Mes condoléances, monsieur—les rousses viennent de l’enfer.”

lmfao ok true

Now she knew why girls were not allowed to feel anger—there was a reckless hope in it, and power. She would not loathe the compliant woman she had been this morning, oh no; she would direct this precious anger outward, and her gaze forward. Les rousses viennent de l’enfer—redheaded women are from hell. Lovely was dead. Enter the witch.

It seems that labor, once it crosses the door into a home, is magically transformed into a priceless act of love or female duty—meanwhile, women’s hands are raw from very real chores.”

“I should like to photograph you,” she said. His mouth pulled into an ironic smile. “A study of a white knight, eh?” “No,” she said, absently. “A portrait of a Scotsman.”