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“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.”
“I approve. I could be happy staring at such a husband. You should marry him. We can spend our shooting weekends staring at your husband while mine pays the bill.” “That is a terrible thing to say, Arabella.” “Terrible? Here I was thinking it was rather practical.”
I suppose one was bound to look happy in a photograph if you were gazing at Niall Pierce.
well. I can say with joy(and some confusion--a LOT of confusion) that I no longer QUITE imagine Niall Pierce as a worse form of Mr Hyde. That is, not entirely. He has somehow become an amalgamation of Mr. Hyde and The Very Handsome Fan Art I have seen of him online. What results is a, as previously mentioned, ridiculously confusing, gorgeously brooding Mr. Hyde, with hair to cover his ears, GREAT arms, and more muscles than Mr. Hyde (or ANY man with a limp that severe) has any right to.
I am not mad; simply perplexed by my own mind.
“LET HIM BE TO THEE FOR EVER A SORT OF BEAUTIFUL ENEMY, UNTAMABLE, DEVOUTLY REVERED, AND NOT A TRIVIAL CONVENIENCY TO BE SOON OUTGROWN AND CAST ASIDE.” “Better be a nettle in the side of your friend than his echo.”
It did not bode well. It did not even really bode. It smirked.
And stockings, of course. Silk.” Silk. My, my. The ensemble wasn’t too shocking. It felt shocking. It was and is shocking. I believe it is slightly shocking. In a joie de vivre sort of manner.
“You’re not half so bad once you get dolled up a bit, love.” Clearly the epitaph on my future gravestone. Emma M. Lion RIP Not Half So Bad Once Dolled Up
I had run directly into the Duke of Islington.
NO. OMG.
“It was deliberate!” (It wasn’t.) (He never need know.)
we saw none other than Young Hawkes walking down the other side of Whereabouts,
AHHHHHHHH THIS IS SO GREAT
Hawkes looked at me directly, then said with no discoverable humour, “I like the birds.” I took a deep breath. “Thank you!”
what a legend.
“I had my reasons,” I said through gritted teeth. Then Hawkes said—without irony, I note— “We often do.”
“But for our purposes today, we will not stay with Lord Jesus and the dancer. I trust he will sort her out and offer the needed counsel, as recorded in John chapter eight. Let us instead look at the man of influence.
GAGGED.
Young Hawkes Why does he never seem to sleep?
Wait. that's so true. I hadnt noticed...
Emma M. Lion kept her stiff upper lip appropriately firm and did not resort to a bitter episode before her banker. No, that I will reserve for a bitter night. Alone. On a bridge. Looking desperately into the water below. Wringing my hands and asking how had my life come to this? Or something similarly tragic. Not that I see throwing myself into the Thames as a viable solution to my ills. We have tea for that.
I’ve grown accustomed to my garret. More than that, I’ve grown fond. I’m fond of the communications Pierce and I continue through the chink in the wall.
“Can one curdle peas? If there was a cream sauce, certainly, but as they are simply paired with unoffending carrots?” “To be curdled is a state of the soul,” answered he.
Rain this morning. It smells of Heaven. Or how Heaven would smell, were I in charge. That doesn’t feel blasphemous, but it sounds as if it might be. Reminder to self: Enquire of Hawkes
Are you now not certain if you have a pocket watch? I CERTAINLY HAVE ONE. I’M QUESTIONING WHY YOUR ENTHUSIASM COMES IN EXCLAMATION TRIPLICATE. I’ve ALWAYS wanted one – an antique gold affair—the
watch him buy her a pocket watchhh
In that very moment the ungainly form of a tall, if not disastrously awkward, young man walked into the room. Charles Goddard. “No, Arabella,” I groaned. “No, no, no. You promised me a frolicking riot in the country. You said nothing about flagpoles, or giraffes, nor unintended intendeds.”
I know your aunt has demanded I hold my passions at bay, but I do feel them. My passions. As one would expect. Passion comes from the Latin pati, which means suffering or endurance. I endure suffering for you, Miss Lion.
ASDFGHJKL WHAT THE FRICK. MAKE IT STOP.
So we must think on the future quietly in our hearts. Thinking of our children requires an entire afternoon. A boy, then a boy, then a girl, then a boy, then a girl, then a boy, then a girl, then a girl, then a boy.”
“He wants you to have ten children?” “It’s written in the stars, apparently.” “You’ll be exhausted.” “I didn’t say they were my stars, Roland.”
What if there are thousands walking about London having just missed the one with whom they could chatter away with, or walk with in contented silence?
I’ve seen paintings of tragic tableaux, and sometimes there stands a woman, a hand over her mouth to cover the grief of her moment.
“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 like good people. They remind me of what I used to be myself.”
We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep. Is it dreams or life? I can never remember. Must be dreams. It’s as if I can hear you clear as day, saying, “It’s dreams, Maxwell.”
welp imma bout to cry on this plane rn
The monogrammed pendant is back on the chain it came from, and in the back of my desk drawer, beneath the scatter of notes Pierce and I have written.
symbolic??
