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

by Beth Brower

I approve of boisterous knocks.

“You’re paying attention to the wrong sort of wonder,” said another.

but for now, the thought that one of them knew my birthday and it was discussed over a drink at The Cleopatra… It leaves one feeling inside of the window, instead of outside, looking in.

I’ve stood just now and thrown an apron over Islington, A Portrait of. He was beginning to nose about, and I could feel a remonstration coming.

Having washed my face, I looked in the mirror, searching for the inch of added light I’d promised myself. It was there. Winter come and gone in my life, spring ahead.

“Would the both of you care to join us for tea?” I managed, as one should ask when the world is ending.

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

Bless Hawkes.

“You!” he pointed at Professor Fletcher. “You, you gutter-minded scoundrel. How dare you come for the robes! How dare you come for the robes!”

“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.”

He wasn’t happy, but I managed to get a stubborn smile when I handed him a key.

eep <3

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?

a greater question could not be asked

Oh, how words love Hawkes. They wrap around the unexpected inflections of his voice, eager, offering their best cadence and lilt and soul. They know him well, and he them. Almost as if words are the one thing in his life he has never had to push away. He speaks words the way they pound in my chest. And it feels like a miracle, finding such a dear part of oneself walking around in someone else’s body.

“Yes, well, sometimes having questionable friends is doing the work of the Lord.”

I will come out conqueror, but it will require stratagem.

“No.” Islington turned an accusing eye on me, as if one errant female is accountable for another. “She comes traipsing through the garden like an explorer searching for El Dorado.”

Something in my heart untwisted when he said the word home.

eep

That Reprobate of a vicar was smiling.

It was then Hawkes pulled me from the water.

an interesting baptism - im excited to ruminate on the symbolism

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.

perhaps because she didnt get a chance to throw in her second coin

All that, and I never threw my second coin in the fountain.

ah yes; but doesnt a full body dunking account for something? Saffronia did say there were a variety of iterations

“Did you ever, as a child, have a vision of what you hoped your home would be?”

“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.” My cup rang against his.

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.

And if Islington enters, then Hawkes appears.

Hawkes clearly has full diplomatic immunity to the country of Islington, with no hesitation to enter, accept sustenance from the natives, be given chocolate, and sit contentedly with a book.

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

The last thing I felt owed was an apology. All I could hear was thunder in my ears.

EEP