The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 6

by Beth Brower

I stilled, closing my eyes and feeling the heat of my skin challenge the frosted air, deciding then and there that each new year should begin with some unpruned wildness.

CATS ARE RARELY BOUND TO ONE PLACE FOREVER. IT’S THEIR NATURE.

Foreshadowing? A lion is a cat of course.

We shared a look, one honest, bare moment of joint determination—to survive the vicissitudes mortal life affords. Namely, other people.

“My lion,” I said. Gaze flicking over the gold pendant held by my fingers, he half smiled. “It suits,” he said, looking back up at me. “Meant to find you, I should think.” “Yes. Strange to think, lost to someone else, but found for me.” Islington looked away, towards the window. “As happens in life.” I can’t say it for certain, but I thought his words sounded like a minor chord, a trace of melancholy beneath them.

“I’ve just met a very particularly pruned woman, and I am beginning to believe I want you to encourage my eccentricities when I grow old.”

But I couldn’t bring myself to exchange winter as the observer, for winter as the experienced.

We often hear people say life is not fair, and yet it always feels like stubbing one’s toe when we actually find it to be true.

“Sort out one’s duty first thing, Emma. Then you may seek out your diversions.”

I tried to motion for Hawkes to get into the carriage, but he closed the door between us, wet, and tired, and trying for all the world not to shiver. Then something strange. There was a wave of emotion on his face. Of anger, or futility, or regret. But it was not at me. It was for me. I’ve no idea what it meant.

I have no idea what it means either.

He could have been handsome, even his mustache was not too horrid—a grand concession for any female to make—but there was something self-indulgent about his manner. An unappealing shadow of having done exactly what he wished too many times.

The idea that one could live in a world where a friend would invite you to go read in another’s library feels more dream than reality. It bodes well for my life’s prospects.

When the afternoon had stretched itself out and yawned, I took my leave.

“He is a man of bloviated pomposity.”

There is no feeling quite like finishing a book that you’ve loved. I expect to feel nothing less.