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

by Beth Brower

“One evening, after a trying social event, Mrs. Penury informed me she had spoken for over forty-five years of her life and, having said all she wanted to say, was done with the institution altogether. She’s been silent almost a decade now, and it’s gone famously for her.”

Not long after, I was passing through the hall when I heard some rather male laughter coming from the studio. It presents a question. At what point is one allowed to feel left out?

“Sometimes Emma Lion, strange one that she is.” “Strange!” “It’s a compliment.”

“Strange is that unexpected moment that stays with you, that makes you think about it again. Strange is memorable, and compelling.”

Are you a church-going woman?” “Nearly every Sunday.” I spoke in the most holy tone I could manage. “Still waiting for it to take effect, I see.” I very nearly pinched him.

I’m going to buy your train ticket. And what’s more, I’m coming with you.” He handed me a handkerchief. “Your nose is running.” I blinked, cleared my throat, and made an inelegant noise. “You would do that for me?” “Hand you a handkerchief?” He smiled. “Of course.” “Don’t jest.” “Sorry.” “You would come with me?” “Of course I’m coming with you. Don’t be daft. My friends do not go to war alone.”

“I see why you have so many friends,” I said. “Oh?” he said in a dismissive way. “You are loyal, Pierce. True friendship, and all that.” He looked back at his letter. “If anything, it’s self-serving. I like good people. They remind me of what I used to be myself.”

But bullies do not often quiet themselves. “I have the right to say anything I like in my own house,” Lord Stuart stated. “I don’t bloody care,” Pierce answered slowly. “Do what you will. Rant, rave, make life miserable for all those around you. But if you come at Miss Lion, I will come at you.” He was so quiet, I could hear my heart pounding.

Pierce—that man kept me bound together.

He said nothing, did nothing but keep me close. I, feeling like a ghost he kept chained to earth. At some silent point, when unheeded tears still remained, he pulled me against his chest as if he could take the beating from the storm on my behalf. I slept,

he mentioned Aaron and Hur holding up the arms of Moses. They might not be of the Old Testament variety—Pierce, Islington, and Hawkes—but whatever strange confluence of events led to them holding me up was the gentlest hand of fate I’ve ever encountered. It might even be Divine.

“Finally, the Persian emissary threatened, ‘We will darken the sky with our arrows.’ “And Leonidas said—”

“Then we will fight in the shade.”