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

by Beth Brower

“I’d popped into The Cleopatra to bother Gibbs—he brings in a vermouth I can’t live without—and there they were: Henry with Young Hawkes and Pierce.” I nodded as if the thought of them drinking at The Cleopatra without me didn’t make me feel somewhat forgotten. A silly and frankly childish response, however.

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

I sit at the very top of a fresh month with a choice before me. One which very well may have an impact on the whole of my existence. Which book do I read next?

There are millions of suns left! I don’t even know what he means, but how glorious.

(What is the plural noun for a collection of Catholic priests? A parcel of priests? A parliament? A commotion?)

This won me a laugh that sounded like it was caught into the air with a kite.

I sat. Wondering if he would return. Which felt antithetical to the nature of Hawkes. One does not wait for fish or foxes or most wild things to come back. He, I suppose, is no exception.

Every person has said something unfeeling or hurtful without intending. Wisdom holds that allowing the distressed some solitude to collect themselves is best. I ran after Islington.

His voice was strained when he said, “Secrets are painful things, Emma. You, of all people, know this.”

Pierce was suspect. “Should I ask if you even play on the Sabbath?” “Religiously,” Hawkes said.

“Thank you,” he said. “For the darts?” “Among other things.” He returned to watching the darts, clearing his throat. “I’m particular in my friends. I am happy to count you as one.”

“Islington?” I said quietly. “Hmm?” “Did you ever, as a child, have a vision of what you hoped your home would be?” He waited for me to continue. “In all my daydreaming at school, and in Bournemouth, I suppose, I would imagine my life here in St. Crispian’s and how I thought being home would feel. This is…” I let the sentence fade. He looked at me then. “Not what you had in mind?” “Better.” It came immediately. I tried to smile, but too fierce a feeling was in my chest. “I think about what Hawkes said those few months ago. Alchemy.” I motioned at the four of us. “It stands to reason it won’t last forever, but for now it feels like a season set apart, a foreordained— Oh, I don’t know.” Islington, relaxing into the back of the sofa, found the right phrase. “A golden age.” Now I did smile. “I’ll toast to that.” Islington reached forward for our abandoned teacups, handed me mine, then lifted his own. “To the golden age.”

Argus—the student—was watching his ghastly relation with all caution. It is the first glimmer of hope I’ve seen in his character.

was when I told of the fourth day, the last, that the muscles on the side of her mouth grew taut. It is not a pleasant thing to recount things a man may have said, or inappropriate actions he may have taken. I would argue that most women of my acquaintance are counseled to pay little mind and forgive the offences. My father had a thing or two to say about some men’s behaviour. I recall few comments—many that came with a wary look from my mother. But once he was sick, and he knew I was going to grow into a woman without him, he spoke to me candidly and honestly about behaviour unchecked and how I might protect myself from such things. He did not teach me to swing a cricket bat merely for sport. And so I gave all the facts, comments, actions, all. Mrs. Penury’s eyes narrowed; her lips, having been pinched towards the left side of her face, quirked to the right. When I spoke of my gripping the poker and giving a mighty swing, she lifted her fisted hands an inch or two, as one would when watching their favourite horse go for the unexpected victory, but not wanting to call attention to how much you wanted it to win. Her smile returned, jaded now, when I recounted my exchange with Tad regarding the exact contents of the urn. When I told her how I’d insisted on my full pay, she leaned forward and gave my knee a militant pat accompanied by a sharp nod.

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