The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 4

by Beth Brower

At what point is one allowed to feel left out?

her generalissimo energies

I have not as yet felt the need to write a last will and testament. Perhaps I should consider.

Clearly the epitaph on my future gravestone. Emma M. Lion RIP Not Half So Bad Once Dolled Up

“Am I correct in guessing you were the woman who nearly fell off the stage?” “It was deliberate!” (It wasn’t.) (He never need know.)

It was the most fiscally romantic thing I had ever heard.

It will keep me amused. Even if it is at the expense of other people. Amusements often are.

“You shall have everything. Even clothes for mourning.” “Mourning?” “Your aunt said it was in case she decided to send your cousin to an early grave.” “Arabella!” I cried.

She tapped her finger against her chin and said, “Alors commençons.” To which I replied, “Le maïs est mûr dans le champ.” She began to nod, then paused and said, “Comment?” French to English Translation by Emma M. Lion Madame Tasset: “Let us begin.” Emma M. Lion: “The corn is ripe in the field.” Madame Tasset: “What?”

I am too kind to cruel people, and perhaps a little dismissive of silly young women—a thing I might very well be myself. But honestly, if one is to wear orange, wear it with class. No need to be a spectacle.

When one’s company is distracted, the least one can do is entertain one’s self. “In very fact, Tybalt has turned bookmaker, with several pigeons placing bets on everything from Parian to the mice count in the garden. Our cat is assembling a small fortune and expects to retire with a handsome purse and a house in Piccadilly.” “Mm-hmm,” Pierce answered. Then he stilled, his eyebrows coming together as he lifted his eyes to mine. “Did you just say Tybalt was planning to retire in Piccadilly?”

I love coming home.

Perhaps I should marry Roland. He would buy me an entire library. It couldn’t be more than a year before he gifted me a book I hadn’t read.

Is it immoral to marry a man solely to gain a library? And if that man happens to be tremendously good looking, is it more or less of a sin?

IF I’M THE TOKEN AMERICAN, WHAT ARE YOU? I’ve never thought about the question. I suppose I’m either the token orphan, the token great-niece who inherited, or the token saint, for living with the less than token madman. YOU’RE THE TOKEN RABBLE-ROUSER.

“Then we will fight in the shade.” “Brave man,” I murmured. “A sky so full of arrows, they fought in the shade,” said Hawkes. Pierce made some approving sound. It was a noble response for King Leonidas to make, and I was inspired, considering everything with Cousin Archibald, and Maxwell’s burial, missing my parents down to the very bones, and the blank verse of my future—all arrows filling the sky to a tremendous amount. Yet here I was, determined to fight in the shade. I felt lifted.