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The clanging rang inside my heartsore chest. Like a shout after too much silence, or a song after something fearful. And I’m afraid to understand why it feels like a door, and that going through the door is necessary. Or perhaps it’s more like the edges of a wound, where further exploration will be painful, but all must be cleaned out and cared for, and then allowed to…go.
The Riot of 1877—Hawkes’s second Guy Fawkes in St. Crispian’s—still fresh on the congregants’ minds. He then gave a sermon entitled, “Blessed Are the Peacemakers.”
History reports—i.e., my father once told me—that
As for Mother, she has developed a cold, which makes her wish to do nothing except criticise the French.
“You like it when I complain, Emma. It gives you something to be righteous about.”
For a moment I thought perhaps I ought to apply the lesson to my own life, but rational thought and a good dose of assurance put an end to self-improvement.
sometimes family gets their minds stuck on what a person is, and they won’t let it go.
Over an hour later, Hawkes abruptly shut his book and stood. I looked up, expecting a thank you. Instead, he said, “You need another chair. Here, by the fireplace.” “Why is that?” Hawkes waited a moment, as if an obvious thing was before me. When I said nothing, he tilted his head ever so slightly. “Islington, Pierce, Hawkes, and Lion.” And without another word he was into the hall and out the front door.
Stop I’m gonna cry
However polite your grief is, Emma, it will be all the camera sees.”
“Your secrets are your own. But one can see burden even without knowing the cause.”
“Some things must wring out every last ounce before the end. But your mettle is proven, Miss Lion. You will be weighed and not found wanting. Memories are preserved, sacrifices are honoured, and all the moments before half-open windows are known. In the end, all is mended.”
It is a curious thing to understand, for I had certainly never liked the man, though of late I had begun to pity him, but as soon as I saw that he was dead, I burst into a flood of tears. It was the second death I had known, and the sorrow of the first was still fresh in my heart.
“Don’t jinx me!” And she threw salt over her shoulder, spun around three times, and ran into the back garden. I believe Agnes is nervous.
Though my guest took it in stride. Which was a better accounting than Islington had when he followed me into the kitchen and was struck dumb.
Audibly gasped.
Am I the only one that kinda hopes Agnes gets her wish and ends up w Islington?
“Whyever are you so upset?” “Privacy! Dignity!” Islington stated (with zeal, I say!). “Can a man not even die without a woman tracking his every move? They already outline his entire life. His mother! His sisters! And, eventually, his wife! Slow suffocation by silk and taffeta is our fate.”
Bro what😂 where is this coming from?
Islington gave an almost shy smile, and goodness, it was terribly attractive. He could get away with anything.
GAGGED.
I followed his gaze. The wall. Just above the kitchen table. Islington was staring at the portrait of himself. Pressing a hand to my face, I muttered, “Take me now, Lord.” I had forgotten the daisy chains Agnes had hung devotedly over the frame, dried but still recognisable. It looked rather like a shrine.
From the expression on Mrs. Penury’s face, she was living the life she’d always hoped for.
Mother preferred to keep our cottage a quiet, private place, and Father preferred to keep Mother delighted.
I’ve sealed the envelope and read a Shakespearean soliloquy over the letter for luck.
“What about Maxwell?” I asked, when we’d spread them out on the table. And Mother—she was so tangible I could scarcely breathe—linked her arm through mine. I noticed we were of a height. “I’ve already given one to Maxwell.” And she kissed my cheek.
Well now I’m crying.
And I think that was the moment I began to suspect that the luck Hawkes spoke of might really only be an awareness, an awareness of grace.
“It’s a fool’s game that dictates the fate of many lives, Islington.”
“Certainly.” He stood, and then turned back towards me. “What refreshment can I bring you, Emma, on my return?”
GASP.
any step Hawkes takes closer to friendship, he counters. He’s wary, for some reason.”
ITS BECAUSE HE CARES.
Mary was supposed to come this afternoon for tea. She has not yet come.
IS SHE WITH THE HOT PROFESSOR???
“You look every bit as handsome as Emma’s described.” Pierce moved his silver gaze to me. “I’m flattered.” I could think of nothing clever to extricate myself from the corner Mary’s words placed me in, so I decided to carry on with confidence. “You’ve looked in the mirror, Pierce.
Despite the biblical condemnation of sign seekers, my curiosity knew no bounds.
Same
“Happy Christmas, Emma. You look lovely.” “Happy Christmas, Pierce.” I shoved his glass at him while trying to keep my cheeks from flaming. I handed him the glass gracefully; he was overawed by my sophistication and poise.
I suppose the consequence of being a secret is that people feel safe trusting you with theirs.
“It takes a great deal to trust the future after one is acquainted with loss.”
“Faith in the abstract is more comfortable,” I said. I heard an amused sound, then, “It is. But I begin to suspect that faith made concrete is more comforting.”
that I had seen what I’d needed to see, I heard it. Clear as day. Footsteps on the stairs. There were footsteps on the stairs. And I knew they did not belong to Agnes. Nor anyone in my employ. They sounded like someone as at home as I was. And the very centre of my heart knew they belonged there.
Well. This is lovely.
And it was life, my life, and…and there were footsteps on the stairs.” “Whose?” “I don’t know. But he sounded like the other half of home.”
Ahhhhhh
living is a thing of wonder.”
