u/ArdenWestlea

Until Shakespeare wrote “The Tempest,” none of his works were based on “real events.” The Bard based his stuff on previous works (we know this: Romeo and Juliet = Pyramis and Thisbe. The latter came first, the former based on the latter.)

Enter: William Strachey, Shakespeare’s BFF. This friend was sailing to “The New World of the Americas,” and was shipwrecked in the Bermudas. Strachey wrote Shakespeare a letter recounting all the details. All crew and passengers survived.

This letter from Strachey was the springboard for Shakesy Boy to write “The Tempest.” (I went too far there. I know. I will reserve that endearment for Hawkesy and Piercey alone.)

Why was this an unprecedented story, and why is it considered Shakespeare’s masterpiece?

Because before The Tempest, 1. His plots were driven by providence or a supernatural agency. 2. His ideas were based on past literature.

My book says that the sources for plays like Pericles, Cymbeline, and The Winter’s tale “had been supplied by existing fictions. The characters had seemed real enough — human beings, who thought and felt and suffered just as we do — but their stories had been set in far off worlds, which, although certainly European, had been so remote in time has to be almost unrecognizable… but now Shakespeare could work with real life material, with a story that begins in a truth: a genuine Tempest, and an actual shipwreck.”

This time, Shakespeare took something historical—a recent happening from a personal acquaintance—and made it into a story. His first time ever doing so.

Furthermore, Shakespeare created two characters/ beings that “had never before existed” by creating/developing Ariel and Caliban from “airy nothing.”

Stay with me.

It is suggested that Prospero represents the Playwright himself, being obsessed with time and offering a grand farewell to his audience. From my book: “Time had been a constant fascination for Shakespeare throughout his entire career, in its many operations as destroyer and ravisher, healer and restorer. In Prospero, omniscient and manipulative, the play’s leading and most complex character, some readers and spectators have found the playwright himself or at least some part of him.” It’s easy to take Prospero’s epilogue as Shakespeare’s “own farewell to his life in the London theatre.”

“After The Tempest, there were no more complete plays from his pen.” He did co-write some after The Tempest.

1. Do you see any more parallels with Beth’s work and how Shakespeare approached The Tempest? What other connections can you make from this new info? (Maybe it isn’t new to you.)
2. Would you agree with Emma’s assessment that Hawkes is Ariel—the author’s original character, not based on any archetype currently in existence, but his own, new creation? Beth said somewhere she did this with Hawkes—didn’t base him on any trope.
3. If the Tempest is Shakespeare’s final masterpiece, and Emma has relegated both Pierce and Hawkes to characters in this play, is one of them to be “the final” masterpiece (aka husband) for Emma? 😏 Does Emma ever give Islington a counterpart in The Tempest?

I know there were like 5 questions hidden in those three.…

Thoughts?

ETA: I think our story with Emma begins in March 15 “in a truth: a genuine Tempest, and a [metaphorical] shipwreck.” Does Pierce entering her life bring this, perpetuate it, or metamorphosize it? (Don’t look at me like that, Dr. Johnson. Emma makes up words all the time.)

​There's this St. Crispian's Tea Society Emma event I'm attending, and they've sent out a message that there'll be a book exchange at The Dalliance. They're encouraging attendees to bring a favourite book, wrap it like so and add in flair, and include a card that describes why it's a favourite. In exchange, we get a raffle ticket and can go choose our own book at the Dalliance later.

So... if you were participating in this, what things would you like to see in your book wrappings?

Below in the comments, I'll add photos of some of my ideas. I'm going to include one of my embroidered bookmarks, and my sister is turning some of my paintings into stickers.

As an Emma M. Lion fan, what would you love to get in something like this? All ideas welcome.

We are encouraged to just bring one, but I have so many bookmarks, I'd like to provide a handful to give others an opportunity that maybe didn't have the time or ability to bring one.

EDIT:
This year’s gathering is focusing on Volumes 3 and 4, so I might search for the most inspiration from those books.

Also…as I’m stitching an Islington thing, I’m dearly hoping in 2 years, when the theme is volume 7 and 8, they bring in a man to play the cello! I wonder if they’ll start doing one volume a year since the books get bigger and bigger.

THE UNSELECTED JOURNALS OF EMMA M. LION - FAN FICTION

~Volume 9~

July the 7th

I have not thrown in my lot with the French. While I applaud Roland’s success in gifting me a book I have yet to own, I did not need another ship. 

The fate of Captain Leclerc led me to close the glittering cover of The Count of Monte Cristo in a manner befitting Brutus. My eyes refused to read on this morning. However, I kept the phrase “with that instinct which is the forerunner of evil” in my pocket just in case it proves useful against Cousin Archibald. 

It was just as well, for I heard, as I was praying near the lock of Lapis Lazuli Library, an early surprise. Banter in duplicate graced the drawing room. 

“Hello Mad Thing.” I wasn’t sure which one had spoken—Phineas or Oliver. We exchanged kisses, but the two remained standing. They looked lovely, the summer sun once again favourable upon their willing English skin.

“Your smiles are tame enough, but tell me of the mischief in your eyes. Tea?”

Phineas with his right hand, and Oliver with his left, made the same waving gesture as they said, “In and out, in and out.”

“We have come to announce our early engagement.” 

“The both of you?”

“Yes,” nodded Phineas. 

“An early retreat, as it were,” cried Oliver. 

I narrowed my eyes. “Am I to assume this is an engagement with two lovely ladies?”

One scoffed, “With the Continent, Old Chap.”

The other guffawed. “The Continent.”

I proffered an approving half-frown. “Am I to be left without a cavalry in the battle of the balls? The remainder of The Season heralds Arabella’s engagement after all.”

I was happy for them, truly—that they could escape should they like. Only, last season had been tremendously more bearable with the two sweet scoundrels at my back. 

“No more scrambling down drainpipes, I hope?”

“I make no promises,” said Phineas. 

“I tell no lies,” offered Oliver, receiving a nudge from his twin. 

I should like a trip to the Continent, thought I. I would scurry in the black of night, kidnap Pierce, and have the twins tie him up and drag him along. I smirked, knowing full well Pierce would not need to be kidnapped to do such a thing, perfect heathen that he is.

Were I to commit to shocking Maggie Revel, it would have to be an Emma M. Lion original. The sooner the better, for, as Islington’s sister had not quite made it to my enemies list, she was surely aiming in that direction.

“We have come to bid farewell.”

“And to wish you luck in all things society.”

Could the two coexist? Luck and society? Then I thought of my cousin, Goddess Divine. “Arabella has taken it all for herself, I fear.”

The two shared a look. One I very much wanted to understand. Instead of needling, I gently prodded. “Have you bid adieu to the fortunate, unfortunate Arabella?”

Smiles having returned to rogue intensity, they straightened. “We’ve been banned from Spencer House.” Oliver’s posture could only be described as proud.

“Not a single drawing room can hold our resplendence for long.” Phineas beamed. 

“Nor should it,” said I. 

With a slight falter of Oliver’s grin, he tilted his head. “You are not Arabella, Old Sport.”

“No.” I confirmed. 

Phineas added, “And you are not Damian.”

I looked down at my dress. At my shoes, then at my laced sleeves. “That appears to be true.”

“Then the luck, Emma, might all be yours.”

Before I could decide if I agreed or not, the twins sauntered towards the door. 

“Do propose to Arabella on our behalf.“ said one. 

“Preferably in front of the General,” said the other.

It took me only a moment to realise they were referring to Aunt Eugenia Spencer. Militant socialite indeed. I pinched their arms and said, “Well. If you do see Cousin Damian, tell him Arabella could use a scapegoat, front and centre.” Lips sealed shut, the beaming rascals made their goodbyes and absconded. 

Later. 

The irregular pattern of raindrops clinks on my garret window as my eyes roam over scurrying figures below. When I was younger, I would leap into every puddle I could find. It is a distant memory, but one that allows sounds and scents to linger long after they’re gone. The rain has never felt like a deterrent from life, but rather, an invitation to live it more fully. 

I’m not sure Mary would agree. 

While I ought to have devoted my afternoon to the quest for employment for one Emma M. Lion, instead I curled up in cushions and blankets and turned my thoughts to the pinboard above my bookshelf—lovely bookshelf—and admired the four butterflies pinned thereon. 

I remember catching them and releasing them as a child. Father would say, “Take heed of the message the little winged ones have for you, before letting them go.” 

“Declan,” said Mother. “Don’t fill her head with such nonsense.” 

But Father would wink and say, “’Tis magic, to see a soul passing through worlds. Keep it close to your heart, Emma.”

Agnes came to bring tea and followed my gaze to the insects on display. “Are you afraid of them, Miss?”

“Why, no, Agnes.” I said. “They were harmless before I caught them, and certainly can do no harm now.”

“My mother says it is bad luck to catch a butterfly. It brings down the fire of God.”

“Do you mean ire, Agnes?”

“No, Miss. Fire.” Her Scottish lilt emerging. 

It was, I thought, a question for St. Crispian’s favourite Vicar. 

There, a note through the wall. 

EMMA. WE HAVE A CAT. 

We do, Pierce. Isn’t Clara lovely? Feared by all, even the odious King of Rats. 

CLARA, AS IN HOFFMAN’S CLARA?

My Father would read it to me when I was a child. The version Dumas wrote, of course. Saffronia heard rumors that The Nutcracker will turn into a ballet. How lovely would that be, Pierce?

I’VE HEARD THE SAME. WHEN IT PREMIERS, I’LL TAKE YOU, IF THAT PROPOSAL IS TO YOUR LIKING. 

I accept any proposal from you, Pierce.

That is what I wrote. I lie not.

It was then that the world ended, I imagine. Hiding on my bed under the blanket, I could not be sure. Steady on, Emma. 

The utter silence lasted only a minute or two. My mortification remained for a great deal longer. 

A note slid through. I remained steadfast in the cotton trenches of humiliation. A second note slipped beside the first, and I allowed myself a peek from my less-than-comforting covers. Almost in a posture of prayer, I offered a whispered “Lord, receive my soul.” A third note followed. Assuring myself that the odds of survival were high, I crawled until I stood, and read the miniature missives. 

CLARA GIFTS ME MORE MICE IN ONE DAY THAN TYBALT EVER MANAGED.

I cringed at the thought that Lapis Lazuli was prone to hosting a conclave of expertly evasive mice. I read the second.  

OF ALL THE NOTES I HAVE KEPT FROM YOU, EMMA, YOUR LAST MAY BE THE FIRST I PIN TO MY WALL.

Scoundrel. Not at all gothic. 

EMMA. WHY DO I IMAGINE YOU ARE HIDING BEHIND A CUSHION? I PROMISE TO PROPOSE NOTHING OF CONSEQUENCE TODAY SAVE A MEETING DOWNSTAIRS. I MUCH PREFER SEEING YOUR FACE UNCOVERED, AND I’VE A GIFT FOR YOU.

Only Shakespeare could bring a sense of equilibrium back from the earthquake Pierce had set in motion. Quoth I, “I can no other answer make but thanks, and thanks, and ever thanks.” Meet me in the drawing room?

THE STUDIO, IF IT SUITS.

I smudged a small blot of ink as I ran a steady slightly trembling finger along the letters of Pierce’s handwriting. I have developed a fondness for the angular lettering, block-like in style as if he carved every word into stone, which Pierce sends through the wall. It is unlike Father’s artistic strokes, but both lend the peace of familiarity. 

With as deep of a breath as one can manage with whalebone stays, I inhaled slowly before descending the stairs. The studio was in order, all of Pierce’s travel equipment set to rights. His back was turned toward me as he slid the last trunk into place. I entered, reluctantly leaving the door open. Upon the plum sofa of Pierce’s studio lay a case with camera equipment. “Hello,” said I. 

Pierce turned. A smile. A flash of the eyes, a crinkling at the corners. “Hello.”

The electrified ozone between us would not do. Open doors, and all. So I went full Scot. “I would excuse such a long absence if you had brought me bagpipes, Pierce.”

His eyes took their time reading up and down my face. “No bagpipes. I hadn’t thought to bring you– only—”

Somewhat embarrassed by my first second another forward assumption of the day, I attempted to backtrack. “It is not a required thing, Pierce. I certainly wouldn’t require it. A courtship wouldn’t require a bagpipe—a gift, that is—” I waved one hand, feigning to play an invisible bagpipe with the other as I lifted and lowered my fingers in quick succession. “Courting does not always require such a thing, Niall, and though you despise that word, it does sound rather appealing coming from your…person.” Aiming for clarity and missing the mark entirely, I covered my face with my hands. 

Then, I felt the warmth of Pierce’s hands over mine, bringing my flushed face to light. I tried to blink away my mortification. “I am glad to be home, Emma.” And then all nerves had gone, replaced by steady calm. 

Pierce placed his thumb on the dimple of my chin, brushing downward as he used his forefinger to lift my chin. Three slow pecks –one for every blunder, I imagine–and he released me. Recovery was futile. Our shared look, however, was one of joint determination to carry on as normal. Open doors, and all. 

He bent over the couch to pick up part of a camera. I had seen Pierce tinker with this particular piece once or twice before. It was the one a French Manufacturer had relinquished. Pierce’s smile was free as he explained the gift. “Hawkes refuses to take the credit, but the idea originated with him. I can set up this camera to take a photograph of all four of us, without having to step behind the curtain. Islington has offered his library on Thursday for such an event.”

I could have kissed the man. I should have kissed the man. Instead, I gave Pierce what began as an embrace and ended with him steadying me as I managed a triumphant trip. Hawkes was right. I needn’t have worried—it was to be one quiet library where Pierce would capture our alchemy—a moment when we four will ever be together. 

Fin

THE UNSELECTED JOURNALS OF EMMA M. LION - FAN FICTION

~Volume 9~

July 6th 
A clear sky at last! The blanket of fog has abated from St. Crispian’s, and the haze that had been lingering in my mind—that I hadn’t known was there until it lifted—fled as the first rays of light shone through my garret window. Now I sit in Pierce’s studio, recalling the morning as best I can. 

Pierce has returned! Just as I set out for Sunday service, Pierce exited a hansom cab, small trunk in hand. He carefully rested it on the ground as he looked in my direction. The beginnings of a beard shadowed his jaw, returning all my thoughts to the first look we shared, all lightning and shadow. Slightly surprised—pleasantly so, I hoped—he placed his hands in his pockets, looking down to hide the piratical blush I have come to anticipate when I stare scan focus on his perfect…posture. Yes, his posture. He took a few steps towards me. 

“Pierce.” A tugging in my chest tightened and loosened all at once. 

“Emma.” The earth moved, or so it seemed. 

I wanted to embrace him, but far too many curious curtains shimmied along the lane. The edges of Pierce’s eyes crinkled as he nodded politely and retrieved his equipment cases from the back of the cab. 

“Welcome home, Pierce. I am off to church. Come to tea upon my return and tell me of your travels?”

He scrubbed the beginnings of his beard again. “I have a great deal of equipment to sort, but have Agnes bring it to the studio, and I will join you.”

“A done deal.” His silver eyes were sharp, easy to appreciate in the morning light. I almost abandoned the notion of religion altogether and retreated back into the house. Alas, too much of my success relies on the providence of heaven-hewn help, and I left my photographer for piety and prayers. 

Reward was a two-edged sword, for who did I behold, sitting upright in ducal fashion? A countrified Islington, looking rather well from his sojourn.  

“Islington! The country is lingering about your edges, I see. It suits. Don’t look at me like that. It’s true.” I took my place beside him. 

The Duke narrowed his eyes, but the corners of his mouth curved upwards slightly. “Need I remind you, Lion, of the proper volume one is to adopt while sitting in church?” 

“Ah. It is nice to see you as well, Islington.”

A twitch of his mouth accompanied his side-eye.

“And how fares the wee babe?”

A shifting of the shoulders, then he raised his chin a little higher. “Little* Henry *is healthy and strong.”

“Henry!” My elated tone did not reflect my intention for Sunday reverence. “Henry?” I beamed. 

“Can you not make it through a single sermon at church without a grin, Emma?” And then he smiled wider, the corners of his mouth never managing to slant downward the rest of the service. 

I wished to inquire of Marianna, but there is only so much courage one can muster to pry into the life of a Duke. My conclusion was met with a vision of our London Hawkes behind the pulpit, vestments secured and Bible in hand. 

It was quiet for all of four seconds before apologetic shuffling introduced the Reprobates Ten–er, Nine. I record that they did not sit in the back row. Astonishing. 

Instead, the litter of profligate puppies scattered to the sides of portly matrons and wealthy widows. A game was afoot. I might have received an elbow to the ribs as I swivelled my head to follow the backstage proceedings of Sunday Service. 

The smell of cherry and vanilla caught my attention first. The faint click of a tin lid sounded, and later a whispered proposal for under-the-pew exchanges. I was witnessing the Great Biscuit Bartering of 1884. 

Hawkes had just quoted Luke, chapter six, verse thirty, when the loud whisper of Striker could be heard scolding Quality Jones. “Oy, that was the last Garibaldi!” Only to be met with, “Rules is rules, no third exchanges.”

“Bad show.” Whispered another. 

“Thrice is nice–” started one.

“Only in dice.” I recognised Nightwatchman’s bass as he finished. 

I think the starch in Islington’s suit coat stiffened. 

With slightly louder volume, Hawkes finished verse thirty two with select emphasis. “For sinners also love those that love them.”

Without any strain of the neck, I heard Mastiff complain about too many digestives as Capper reached a hand back and murmured, “Pearl for a gem, anyone?” I might have moved slightly forwards to accept the offer, wondering what I could offer in exchange. 

Islington, perhaps sensing my enthusiasm at the irreverence ensuing around the congregation, and clearly not understanding the appeal of a good, iced biscuit, shifted. I looked down to see his hat, elegant thing that it was, placed just so on my leg. A subtle warning. As quickly as he had placed it, he took it away. I hissed in an impressively quiet manner. “The gospel of Luke chapter six is lost on you, Islington.” 

Did I imagine the ducal huff of exasperation that escaped him? God as his only witness, I can only guess. 

With unparalleled patience, Hawkes continued his sermon. It was lovely, I am sure. Our Vicar seemed able to scold and forgive his Cambridge fellows all in one sweep of his gaze. When it appeared that all reprobates had found, traded, and eaten their preferred biscuits, Hawkes ended with lovely verse.  

“There lived a singer in France of old
By the tideless dolorous midland sea.
In a land of sand and ruin and gold
Here shone one woman, and none but she.” 

His eyes swept quickly over mine, then continued their unattached search of congregants. 

“Swinburne.” The Duke whispered. 

“Pardon?” I yawned, accustomed to a great deal of scripture pulling at the edges of my energy. I eyed The Boy with a modicum of jealously. In his hand were the loveliest looking biscuits covered in pink icing. He seemed to be enjoying them rather well, ignoring the longing stares from multiple reprobates and congregants alike. 

Islington frowned. “Due to your faulty education, I thought you would like to know whom Hawkes was quoting.”

He was right. And I shall never forget it. Sand and ruin and gold. How contradictory and how lovely. It made me think of—

The squeak of the old tea trolley has distracted my thoughts and brought me to the present. 
Agnes has entered Pierce’s studio with a tea tray laden with scones drizzled in chocolate. Has Young Hawkes been visiting the kitchen of Lapis Lazuli, and I fully unaware? I asked Agnes as much.

She knitted her brows together and said, “No, Miss. But my mother says: “God is more forgiving of those who eat chocolate when they do so in the month of July.”

My stomach was too hungry to question just how much forgiveness Agnes and her mother thought I needed. I sent Agnes on her way.

She was blocked, as it were, by an incoming Pierce. He was looking tall as ever. He gave Agnes a smile, then kept his eyes on mine as he entered. I matched his gaze, wishing for all of three seconds I could slip my hand into his.

And then Agnes squealed. Squealed, I say. 

My desire to save a scone for St. Crispian’s favourite Vicar was unnecessary, for in walked Hawkes, ruffled hair, looking very much a hero in a classic tale. And at his heels, an Islington, appearing completely unaffected by the rising July heat and his seventeen-year-old admirer who had stumbled at the surprise of seeing him.

Agnes, making way for Hawkes, attempted a swift exit. Instead, she caught sight of the Duke of Islington and stepped backward into the threshold. She hit the wood of the doorframe, rebounded, then stumbled, only to be caught in the arms of a Duke.

To his credit, they were not yet in the hall a corridor. Agnes hiccuped “Thank you, your Grace,” and ran out of the drawing room before Islington could utter a word.

Islington caught my delighted grin. It must be said that the Duke of Islington has a most endearing scowl when I am not at the centre of his entanglements. 

 If Agnes hadn’t already celebrated her birthday this year, she surely would have counted this day as one to surpass all. I will not be surprised if a chain of fresh summer flowers is found strung about the reluctant kitchen shrine. 

For all my efforts, I cannot recall half of what our evening entailed. What I do cling to nestled at the forefront of my memory. Let it ever remain. 

Darts were thrown, verbal jabs exchanged. Comfortable discussion mingled with plenty of chocolate scones. Above all that, a wonder. For what I write next shall go down in the history of Lapis Lazuli. It should must shall be memorialised forevermore. 

Pierce, Islington, and Hawkes had all drifted to the pile of darts. As their jolly game commenced, I remained seated on the plum sofa, admiring my handsome lot of assorted chums. I felt a sense of tranquility that, while each man was haunted by one thing or another, moments such as these dispelled all ghosts. I sent up a small prayer in gratitude: Thank you Lord, for the wonderful game of darts. 

An even tie between Pierce and Hawkes, then Islington came in with an equaling match. 

In a triumphant grunt of sorts, Hawkes goaded—yes, goaded—the other two, prophesying the unlikelihood of Pierce or Islington coming off conqueror.

Something had stilled in the room, for Pierce stood to full height, and with a voice of rolling thunder, recited: “Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be, For my unconquerable soul.”

I set down my journal, for Islington had straightened, and Hawkes lowered the hand that had been holding a poised dart. My mouth dropped as the lyrical tenor of Hawkes’s voice, dissimilar to his sermons, took up the next stanza. “In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning of chance, my head is bloody, but unbowed.”

I almost stood. But the structural baritones of Islington froze me to the spot. He joined with third verse: “Beyond this place of wrath and tears, looms but the horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years finds, and shall find, me unafraid.”

A tear had made its way down my cheek. Lightly startled, I brushed it aside as all three voices joined together. In a slow seraphic harmony, they intoned: “It matters not how strict the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.” 

It was gravity. It was atmospheric.

I was stunned. 

Was the room silent afterward? I think the men nodded to each other, dismissing the moment as something trivial or commonplace with a quick return to their game. I was not fooled.

While they three continued, Emma M. Lion sat, journal in hand, transfixed at the feeling–both grounding and heady–left lingering. It was a recital of conviction and decadence. Yes, decadence. A rich savour hovered about, the kind only poetry can summon. At one point, I think Hawkes sent a knowing look my way, a silent half-smile that acknowledged the heartbeat drumming in my ears. It is all I could remember of the night. It is all I could think of. All that remained was an overwhelming sense of tranquility that filled every crack in my spirit, a warmth that remained with me the entire visit. 

Later

All is quiet now, and the verses exposed to my person throughout the day still cling to the recesses of my soul. Here comes the wee Marauder, not fond of my lap, but rather my feet. I think I have just the name. I wonder if Pierce has seen her yet. I had forgotten to ask.

THE UNSELECTED JOURNALS OF EMMA M. LION - FAN FICTION

~Volume 9~

July the 5th

It shall not be written on my gravestone, “Emma Mirabel Lion led a boring life.” Never. A full day has left me exhausted at best, and I have been up scribbling all the night. 

After morning rehearsal at my favourite Undisclosed Location, I made my way to The Keep. Quite reluctantly, I returned a rather pulchritudinous pocket watch and a frazzled wig —the reluctance belonging wholly to returning the watch, not the wig. Exiting the shop, I heard the most beautiful refrain from a passerby. I quickened my step to follow and listen.  

The man was slightly balding, a hooked nose half buried in a bouquet of pink roses. If a guess were required, I would surmise the man was on his way to make a proposal of the marriage variety. His eager face sported nary a moustache, so I assumed the verse he repeated would seal the deal. 

I reiterated the lines as I walked home, committed to writing them down lest my own memory fail to muster in the moment. 

“Alas, that Spring should vanish with the Rose!
That Youth’s sweet-scented Manuscript should close!
The Nightingale that in the Branches sang,
Ah, whence, and whither flown again, who knows!”

Hawkes is starting a revolution, I am sure of it. Two parts poetic, one part pugilistic, for the caliber of poetry-wielding denizens of St. Crispian’s has risen in my estimation. I transformed my walk into a confident stride, more than a little fond of these London streets. I look forward to speaking with Hawkes after the Sunday service. I shall ask him if he knows the reference. 

Returning to Lapis Lazuli, I discovered two dead mice upon my doorstep and one on the steps of Lapis Lazuli Minor. Propitious? Our new Marauder will need a worthy name indeed.  

I had just enough time to change into my pocket-lined skirt and a white linen blouse before Mary arrived. Mary had a little lamb magpie at her side. Jack looked quite the academic, all wink and grins behind his plano lenses. His proclivity and proficiency for pilfering shiny objects was hidden behind a composed mask of Proper Cousin Escort. 

Mary practically clapped Jack on the shoulder as she proclaimed, “We are going to have a day of it, Emma!” An oracle if I ever saw one. 
With a somewhat accusing tone, I asked, “Why the museum? Did you not visit twice in March?” 

“Three times, Emma.” The fist two visits were quite pedestrian. The third, however, was Caderoussian. And that is what we set upon today.”

I frowned. “It doesn’t sound very legal.”

With a finger held high, Mary queried a response. “Should everything that is illegal be illegal, Emma? Are our laws not changing? Consider The Matrimonial Causes Act. Intention, Emma. We are acting today on intention.” My frown deepened, however swayed I felt. With an elbow to Jack’s side, Mary added, “Never you fear. Jack has agreed to take the fall should something go awry.” 

At this, the serpent said unto the women, “Don’t worry your pretty heads about anything. I won’t let you fall.”

Why did this phrase sound much more reassuring coming from a Duke? I pushed Islington out of my mind, a suspect worry forming that his newly-appointed guardian instincts would see him rising from a rose bush, radiating chivalry with Excalibur in hand. He would tip the scales of justice against Jack’s favor, and the jig would be up. I could not let Islington’s moral duty stifle my criminal potential. So I let the serpent beguile me, and I did follow.   

Somewhere along our stroll to the museum, Jack had acquired a newspaper and a large-brimmed hat. Our ambulatory conversation drifted from his inquiries concerning the professor to Mary evading all his attempts with unending wit of her own. All the while my thoughts turned to Pierce, wishing I could catch a glimpse of his broad figure taking photographs of chipped pottery and rosetta stones. Is there more than one rosetta stone? Shoddy education. Alas, my brooding photographer was in the North. 

Should I have asked Pierce to write? No, that is ridiculous. While his absence would be felt, the household could manage. My garret wall, however, is bound to suffer. If I gave honesty its due–a dangerous thing, that–I would conclude that the thought of multiple months of a back-and-forth Pierce has turned my thoughts dour. 

It is not that Lapis Lazuli has been quieter without Pierce, only—a sense of unwelcome vacancy has crept its way between floorboards and a particular chink in the wall. As a rule, I can tolerate the quiet–I even seek it out most days–but when it is thrust upon me in a space accustomed to genial, anticipatory conversation, the noiseless air turns to shadows. I digress.   

A street or two before the museum, Jack selected an unobtrusive bench and sat. He unfolded his newspaper and feigned interest in the titles as he read aloud, “France Gifts America Patriotic Monolith,” and “Germany takes Cameroon. Africa in Uproar.”  As Mary and I sat, Jack’s tone changed from interested world citizen to conniving instructor. 

I tried giving all my attention to Jack, I really did. My desire to reclaim the Library of Lapis Lazuli was high on my list of Required Responsibilities of an Adult. However, I glanced up at a most perilous moment. For there, just across the street, strolled my expertly-moustached banker, Mr. Penury. On his arm was a very astute Mrs. Penury. Astute, for she caught the gossamer inkling of someone watching and looked my way. Our eyes met. She scanned my company and recognised Mary. With the slightest shift of her eyes, she discerned the shaded aura that was Jack’s character.

Removing her left hand from her husband’s arm, Mrs. Penury discreetly placed one finger to the side of her nose and tapped twice. Then she conspicuously pointed in a direction opposite our bench, calling Mr. Penury’s attention to a private garden in Bloomsbury Square. I released a breath I had been holding hostage as they passed out of view. I owe that woman a week’s worth of my journal’s best kept secrets, excluding my favourite too infrequent electrifying particular moments with Pierce. 

From his pocket, Jack procured a lock and key, promptly replacing the key for a lady’s hairpin. “Easy as baking a Victoria Sponge,” said he. Jack demonstrated thrice for good measure.

I watched Jack and wondered if he had ever actually prepared a Victoria Sponge. If my baking skills were any indication of how I would fare manipulating pins and tumblers, the success of one Emma M. Lion did not bode well.

Completing the demonstration, Jack gave us a go. 

My attempt at picking the lock was abysmal at best. It is a truth, undeniably so, that what appears facile in life can humble even the most willing apprentice.

The cool metal of the heavy contraption spread my fingers wide as I adroitly deftly awkwardly held the thin pin. I poked and prodded, hearing the clinks and shuffles of the lock’s inner workings. “Exactly how is one expected to move invisible tumblers?” I grumbled. 

“The same way every time, Peach Cream.” Jack was having too much fun at my expense. I attempted to imitate his skillful maneuvering, but all I gained was an extra pin to tame this Irishman Daughter’s unruly hair. I placed it over a curl just so, signaling my acceptance of defeat.

However, it must be said that Mary, having a turn after my failure, was a quick study. Jack looked a little more than impressed. It stands to reason that Mary has successfully baked more Victoria Sponges than I.  Now if the task required burnt offerings…well.

Jack took Mary and me, arm in arm, and we walked into the museum, straight to a door blocked by two stanchions and a hefty rope connecting the two. With unsettling ease, Jack distracted the museum attendant who had been standing in front of a placard that read, “No Admittance.” Mary got us through. 

Our efforts at all things dubious were nearly forgotten as Jack, Mary, and I slithered into room 18 of the British Museum. The door behind us closed, and I found my company unusually quiet, and for good reason.

It was a Parthenon. What can I say, except that I felt as if I had stepped out of London and into Greece. Marble columns rose from floor to ceiling, alabaster sentries guarding the finer arts. And finer they were. Elgin Marbles stood regal but discontented, having been removed from home and placed into a foreign land. Missing limbs and jagged edges where limbs ought to have been stood testament to their sacrifice of creed and country. 

It was then that Shakespeare slipped through the door of my mind, without really knocking –though he knows I don’t mind–and proffered a most fitting recitation.

“Not marble nor the gilded monuments 
Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
But you shall shine more bright in these contents 
Than unswept stone besmeared with sluttish time. 
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire 
shall burn the living record of your memory.”

Oddly enough, my thoughts traveled briefly to Ben Chambers. I considered the myths registered in the friezes and panels of stone. Not every work was whole, but each held a story. My admiration mingled with the acknowledgement that beauty is often borne from tragedy. The hands that worked to set stories in stone had mattered. My story, not yet set in stone, would be bound in a beautiful journal meant to last. And I was grateful to the Pirate for it. 

My attention then swivelled to a woman—she was both statue and column, for on her head sat a crown that functioned as a capital. The transition piece seemed to be holding up the entire ceiling. A heavy coronet bearing an unseen burden. I envied her not. I looked into the smooth, almost translucent eyes of the carved stone. Was it the goddess of wisdom herself? Had she any wise words to lend one Emma M. Lion? 

What had felt like an instant gazing at a room constructed out of time and place was likely an hour. For, when a clanging of keys and shuffling was heard in the corridor beyond our restricted door, Jack nodded at the face of his pocket watch and signaled the need for a swift exit. 

The door swung open, and a tall, thin man stood red-faced and sputtering as he pointed at the three of us in turns. It was a panic of the first order. Would it be my desperation for books that led one Emma M. Lion to an early grave? I could see the constable leading Mary and me to the gallows on Traitor’s Road. Hawkes would offer a lovely soliloquy. Lord George West would, with great travail, plant sweet peas next to my headstone. Pierce would photograph the ordeal, his work a warning banner hanging about the front page of the St. Crispian’s Gazette. Professor Fletcher would write an academic paper on the dangers of superfluous sacrifices of women who worshipped books overly much. Or would he? A man with seven sisters plus a spare wouldn’t entertain the thought.

As fortune would have it, our fate was not the gallows. Jack, hair expertly smoothed and false spectacles procured from a pocket, spouted authoritative words to engage and disarm the ruffled museum man. 

While I had no doubt that Jack would get us out of the trouble he got us into, my heart beat like the pipes of Pan during a wild chase. True to Jack’s style, we exited the museum through back channels and entered a quaint tea shop called Galahad’s Cup for a recuperating repast. After a nearly silent yet delightfully full spread–half of it disappearing down Jack’s gullet– the three of us made for St. Crispian’s. 

At some point along King Henry’s Road, Jack made no apology, only disappeared into the throng of shop-goers without so much as a “Good-bye, plum pudding.” I was slightly put out, for  my glorious retort hovered on the tip of my tongue. He would not, therefore, include himself in the meeting with his mutual friend of the professor’s.  

As we approached the bright blue door of Lapis Lazuli and the rising popularity of its stonework, Mary began poking a long finger around the carved acanthus leaves as if they were jellies to be prodded. “This is what the professor comes to see today, Emma.”

I led Mary into the drawing room, a grin plain on my face. “I do not think that is all he wishes to see, Mary.”

From out of her pocket, she procured her cheaters, placing them squarely on her nose, chin lifted high. “There will be no blunders today. This meeting may have been the result of an  unintended encounter, but we will make the most of it.” She eyed the round table by the window where her first meeting with Professor Fletcher began rather poorly. The corner of her eye twitched.

“I do have an insane cousin at your disposal, Mary. Though I did slip a note under the despicable man’s door with the scripture Ecclesiastes 3:7 scrawled in very legible handwriting. We shall see if he heeds my warning or swallows it whole.” In truth, I might have asked Parian to threaten the churlish old fool. If he showed his foppish façade at any point of this social gathering, I would burn–yes, burn–his morning robes. Cousin Archibald’s reaction was so loud, I could hear it from my garret: “What! What what?” from three floors down. I could feel the words hoyden and degenerate break free from his driveleing mouth. I cared not. If Mary could not have a decent tea and conversation with the professor she fancied, what was Lapis Lazuli for? 

It was then that Mary started weaving her fingers together, a champion’s wrestle of thumbs, as it were. “Emma, I have a confession.” 

“How delightful,” I answered. “Shall I have Parian retrieve the vicar?” I looked about for a piece of fabric I could use as a makeshift curtain.

She shook out her hands and stood taller. “Meant exclusively for your private ear, Emma. I trust these walls tell no secrets?”

“These walls are perfectly sound. No eavesdropping capabilities whatsoever. You could get away with anything.” I gestured around the room with one hand. “You could confess the same.”

“Right. I had forgotten Lapis Lazuli has been witness to affectionate encounters of the romantic variety.” I pinked with a small dose of pride, a large dose of caution, and a reasonable dose of longing. She held up a finger. “There will be none today, Emma. Our encounters must remain gothic. Only–”

“Best to have it out, Mary.”

“Only,” her cheeks flashed pink, “It was not the professor that initiated the–that is to say, he did not lean so much as I lifted onto my toes, and–”

“Mary Barriage!”

“Do not judge me too harshly, Emma. If your handsome photographer were here, you would rally and do the same!”

She was right. “Well done, you.” I declared. And with a little pepper in my tone, I asked, “And…are you looking to repeat the affair?”

A hint of solemnity–or was it conviction? Mary straightened her spine. “Today, tomorrow. It does not matter. However, as with any trade or skill, mastery is a result of practise.”  

“I shall ask Agnes to prepare an extra fortifying tea, then, before our visitors arrive.”
With a slight shake of the head, Mary declared, “I am determined to have my wits about me, Emma. And women cannot lead the charge in everything.”

We exchanged a look. 

“We could.” I said. 

“We could.” she agreed. 

“Although, it sounds rather wearisome. To lead everywhere one goes. What of the solitudinous hours spent in a library, or the walking of streets in early hours of the morning unnoticed? To have the eyes of scrutiny all about you, all the time…how exhausting.” I had let my thoughts tumble out first without a proper edit. 

“It would be a group effort, Emma,” Mary reassured. 

“Right you are, Mary.”

“Your vocabulary has been exceptionally…multisyllabic as of late.”

“The Pirate gifted me another half dictionary.”

“How generous.”

“Indeed. Though I have yet to memorise the proper spelling for Khinoe and Klymene.”

“Hmm,” intoned Mary. “Then I wish you fair winds and following seas for your lost section K.”

A few prayers to Poseidon would sort it out. Alas, Christianity suits the sinner, and the sinner and I are one. Do you happen to know any pagans?”

Mary would have had both answer and opinion–as Mary often does–but just then, Agnes entered. I requested a robust tea. At this, Mary sighed and settled comfortably in Hawkes’s chair. I sat in my own pink chair and tried to picture anything but a long arm strewn about the back of the green sofa. 

“Mary. Before our guests arrive, do you feel inclined to reveal who this friend of the professor’s is?” With a day already drawn-out as this one, I had almost forgotten to ask. 

“Ah.” It has happened. Mary and I have stolen the Duke of Islington’s Word. I shall inform him that he must find another. I’m sure coming from his graceful tones, any single-syllable idiolect would sound just as effective. One never knows. “It is a Mr. Hazel, I believe.” 

That is what she said. I lie not. 

It is not that I did not believe Mary, but I felt agape—that is to say, I left my mouth quite closed, but my eyes were wide as saucers as she described the very man I danced with at Lady Sheridan’s ball. 

Only minutes later, Parian guided two tall men into the parlour. One looked ready for a hunt with hounds, the other ready to sail the seas. 

Professor Fletcher must not have informed Mr. Hazel of his hostess, for he looked as startled to see me as I him. The man was sporting displaying offending all within view with a moustache. I attest to it twitching slightly as I saw it—as Mr. Hazel noticed my noticing. 

As it is late, I shall record only the most memorable pieces from the evening. 

Said I, “Mr. Hazel, come to cast harsh judgment upon my house? You will find no vipers here.” 

Said he, “This room is garish. But there is no pretense. It suits your character, Miss Lion. At least as much of it as I could gather on the dancefloor.” Well. 

Some twenty minutes into the conversation, after the Professor and the astute Mr. Hazel had studied the stonework of Lapis Lazuli House, the new kitten entered the room. Somehow she found her way past a closed door and jumped into the lap of the Professor. He and Mary were discussing The Golden Age of the Dutch Republic. The professor said something about naming his firstborn after an orange, and the cat pounced. Professor Fletcher did not flinch. Instead, he began petting the fluffy creature as if it had been in his lap the whole time. Mary took notice. 

While Lapis Lazuli did not burn to the ground, it is worthy to note that some force, be it fate or fey, is determined to try. Mr. Hazel and I were engaged in a conversation concerning his sister’s requirements of him during his London visit, when the faintest smell of smoke filled the air. 

Agnes came rushing into the room, saying nothing, eyes wide in abject horror. I stood and excused myself, following Agnes to the kitchen. Parian lay supine on the floor, bleeding from his nose, while a pile of crispy black biscuits smoked on the ground beside him. 

In an unpruned accent, Agnes pointed to an iron skillet and pointed to Parian. “I didna see him until it was too late. He shouldna come up behind me so.” 

Mary came rushing in, followed by the Professor, who assisted me in righting Parian while Mary tended to the elimination of burned biscuits. Agnes fetched supplies to help the helpless Parian. When Mary insisted she knew just how to remedy the situation, the Professor offered assistance. Situation practically in hand, I trusted Mary with the professor with sorting the finer details. 

I returned to an unperturbed Mr. Hazel who was reluctantly holding a shaking kitten. Mary returned, her mien slightly ruffled, cheeks pinked, and with a striding professor at her heels. Mary, Mary, Mary.

THE UNSELECTED JOURNALS OF EMMA M. LION - FAN FICTION

~Volume 9~

July the 4th

Upon serious reflection, I have come to the determined conclusion that songs of the heart should remain incontestably in the heart.  I refer to the repeat event of Parian almost wailing God Save the Queen at my odious cousin’s insistence. Next year, come the fourth, I will either set fire to Cousin Archibald’s rooms, or plan my morning stroll accordingly so as to miss any half-hearted anthems to the Queen. May she ever reign Victorious. 

To prolong my morning walk, I was pleased to glance through the window of The Dalliance and see not a dour Mr. Graves, but rather Mrs. Lewis, his more than agreeable sister. I slid inside the bookshop, receiving a welcoming wink as she assisted another patron bedecked with a conspiracy of black feathers—the kind that protruded from both hat and reticule–and yet no bird nest could be found. Pity. If the nest ever becomes the height of fashion, I am more than prepared to shine. 

I walked towards the back of the shop, hoping to peruse the Abominably Treated Yet Resurrected volumes. My purse closed its eyes to any New and Slightly Used variety, as I have yet to find a stable place of employment, sans taxidermic pets. 

A beautiful cover caught my attention. It was a deep sable brown with brassy foil lettering. When I pulled it from the shelf and read the title, I, Emma M. Lion, had a Revelation. I read aloud: Locksmithing: Tumble into Tricks and Trades by Gill and Jan Stellhock. I was delighted to see that the sub-specie of published male author had included a female in his accreditation. It wasn’t until I had scanned the contents page and read the chapter heading How To Pick a Lock that the Revelation lit up my mind like a lamp in the underground room of a gambling ring.

“Hello, raspberry trifle.”

I gracefully turned whirled around and exclaimed perhaps a little too loudly, “Jack!” Uncanny. Should I tell the scoundrel he was just the man I needed? I had not decided to act upon my Revelation before the slicked-backed hair and cat-like grin drew closer. The taste of an insult hovered on the tip of my tongue, but I recalled the way Jack had washed dishes in the kitchen of Lapis Lazuli last December, and I refrained from sputtering any jab, however truthful. Instead, I settled for, “Have you an affinity for books, Cousin Jack?”

“Books? No. Dalliances?” He gestured to the backward, upside-down sign of the bookshop. “Yes.”

“Jack, you Villain. This is a Holy Place. You are casting shadows about, and the venue’s current exorcist has been replaced by his nonthreatening sister.”

His sly grin never faded. “I owe you a favor, Emma, and I don’t like to keep my debts unbalanced for long.”

I stiffened my shoulders, and leaned forward only slightly. I whispered. “Well, the scales are tipping in your favor, Hollingstell, because I need a lock picked.”

The confidence man shook his head. “I owe you more than a lock, sweet cream.” 

I glanced around to make sure plumes and persons were out of earshot. Then I briefly explained to Jack how my wretched cousin lounged about in a library that should have been mine. And I wanted a book from it. Any book, really. 

In a swift motion, Jack lifted a book and thumbed through some pages. It took only a moment to realise it was the book I had been holding. His eyes scanned the pages, but I could tell he wasn’t actually reading. 

“If you promise that you won’t pilfer the Holy Bible, I might lend my services.”

My glare was one shrewd enough to rival that of Lady Eugenia Spencer’s. “I have on my bookshelf a perfect copy of the Bible, which balances Plutarch’s apt criticism of Lucius Cornelius Sulla and Gaius Marius. Would you like to borrow it?” I clipped my words. “The Bible, that is. I wouldn’t dream of lending you the other.” Truth be told, I would never let out Mother’s Bible to anyone; I certainly wouldn’t trust any man with my personal library, except Hawkes. And maybe Islington, who had no need of my copies whatsoever. Jack’s unoffended tilt of the head did, however, convey his understanding that I was only insinuating his need for reform. 

“Tomorrow I take Mary to the British Museum to see an exclusive exhibit.” He put a hefty amount of emphasis on the word exclusive. “Join us for a Caderousse affair.”

It sounded ominous. It sounded a trifle delightful. I raised an eyebrow, feigning understanding at his last phrase. “And just what does this outing include and exclude?”

Jack tapped the book against his hand, shiny cufflinks catching a glint of sun coming through the windows of the bookshop. “Wait and hope, plum pudding.”

Just as I had opened my mouth to agree, Jack said, “Eleven o’clock,” then nodded and slipped past the bookshelves and out into the streets.

The tips of my fingers tingled slightly, and I realised they were supporting a new weight. Looking down, I saw Jack had managed to return the book into my hands. A slip of paper stuck out of the pages like a ribbon, marking page twenty-three. I opened the volume all the way and read the chapter title: “Pins and Tumblers.” An image of a lock and key sprawled out on the page with arrows and labels. 

On the slip of paper marking the chapter was written Room 18, and beside it, a sketch of a nightingale. I don’t know what to think. 

Eleventh reprobate that I am, I confess to looking forward to tomorrow. Should I, soul bereft of books, learn anything from Jack, even if it is to spite my cousin? If only the library—

Oh! Look there—my new neighbor in miniature is gesticulating with commendable animation at the nearby boxwood across the lane. Ah, but three kittens emerged, and the little one gives chase.

Later.

I had only been partially correct in assuming the gathering clouds were a portent of the day’s events. Two envelopes awaited me upon return to Lapis Lazuli. The first, a scoffing peach, lay on my writing desk. This month had been so lovely until the inevitable summons appeared. July’s promised freedom was slowly turning to ash at my fingertips. 

Emma, 

Lady Ashcombe is hosting an exclusive ball in one week. Your presence is required. You will operate under my direction at All Times. As it is The Season for Arabella to shine, I do not want to see any shine about your person. I will hear nothing of protest from Dukes. I give you permission, however, bring the Duke of Islington to compensate for your moral deficiencies. Arrive at Spencer House promptly at seven o’clock to begin the regimen of pruning your person. We can only hope it is enough time to manage all offensive flaws.

Aunt Eugenia Spencer

I considered my response. Dare I inform Aunt Eugenia that it was, in fact, Paul who speaks of pruning and grafting a wild olive tree? There was no need for a lengthy consideration. I knew stabbing must come before waltzing, even if it meant shunning familial obligations for secret rehearsals. Especially if it meant shunning familial obligations for secret rehearsals. I have yet to come up with a balancing solution. 

Barely was there time to think of how to write a response when Agnes knocked and entered the room. She handed me a soft cream envelope, then stood in the doorway wringing her hands in her apron. 

“What is it, Agnes?”

“Oh, miss, the other half of your correspondence is a parcel waiting in the parlour. It’s…moving.” Clearly, curiosity compelled me to read in a most expeditious manner.

“Moving?” I opened the missive. To my initial horror, my eyes widened upon seeing red ink. Then I smiled as the dubious writing bled into black halfway through the first sentence. 

Miss Lion, 

You’ve managed to convince Laura that dogs are no longer to her liking. The new house has come with two kittens, one meant for myself. Seeing as I do not want to take care of it, and it doesn’t respond to the name I gave it, I figured you would do jolly well naming Covey something better. Consider it another token. 

TAD Whitaker

He has signed his improved first name in all capitals, slightly larger than his surname. Should I inform Pierce that he has wealthy competition? I would investigate The Token. 

I hurriedly followed Agnes down the stairs and saw on the rug previously belonging to the Whittakers a box riddled with holes. It shook ever so slightly. I considered asking Parian to open the thing, then thought better of it. Best to keep him occupied placating Mr. Flat. 

My suspicions were confirmed when Agnes said, “Eek! Another cat!”

It was a young, chubby creature, with copper eyes and a plush blue-grey coat. A certain knowing burned in her gaze, and I winked at her for good measure. The kitten pretended not to notice. It appears that Lapis Lazuli has its own Marauder in Training. Covey did not suit—in this thing, Tad was correct. I tasked Agnes with feeding the sweet creature and resolved to think of a proper name for our newest tenant. Pierce will be doubly surprised. 

Later.

At the bottom of my list of employment options, I considered scribbling Trader in Favours. For, descending the stairs of Lapis Lazuli, I caught sight of Roland sitting upon Hawke’s chair. In his hand was a book-shaped parcel wrapped in blue paper and tied with a butter-yellow ribbon. 

“Roland!” I greeted. One could not describe this beaming Sun God before me as anything but miserably besotted. Not with me, that is. I imagine it is an unrequited endeavour sure to rival that of Demetrius and Helena. Dare I suggest Helen and Paris?

“Emma.” Roland stood, looking rather well in a crisp brown suit over a deep blue waistcoat with gold embroidery. “I have come to beg another favor.” 

“I am considering an occupation in the very thing.” I replied. 

“Begging?”

“No. Well, maybe in the park.” I waved a hand. “Favours, Roland. No, don’t look at me like that. I am only half desperate, and a turn at the Drunken–that is, no drunken chap will get a favour from me.” I exhaled rather exhaustedly. At my unrehearsed monologue, Roland offered a raised eyebrow and an unsolicited grin. I intercepted his keen curiosity with an obliging smile. “How may I assist my dear former enemy?”

He shifted on his feet, the first sign of confidence waning as he looked towards the hearth. “The old girl has, no doubt, required your attendance at the Ashcombe affair?” I nodded that he continue. “Lady Eloise Silver is to be there, and—Emma, I need an introduction.” 

“Roland, you goat. I have yet to speak with Lady Eloise myself.” I placed my hands on my hips, daring him to make sense of it all. The paper in his hands crinkled. I might have eyed it greedily.  “However, I have had a desire to speak with her at previous engagements. Only, she is rather sought after and always dancing.”

Roland pushed the item towards me, the half-scowl on his handsome face only adding to his Adonis-like allure. “If anyone can find a way to put in a good word for me with that creature, it is Emma Lion.”

I had resolved to help poor Roland even before I accepted his gift. Only, could I make it to both rehearsal and ball? He smiled knowingly as I narrowed my eyes with a smile. 

Would that all Julys were a month of gifts and luck. For now sitting on my bookshelf with complementary colours of red and gold is a lovely first edition copy of The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. 

Declaring Roland a Wonder, I kissed him on the cheek, offering thanks and praise in one fell swoop. I assured him it was my first and only copy. One would think he bet on the winning horse, his pride puffed him up so. 

Perhaps I would not have to needle my way into Mr. Flat’s library if I kept Roland for decent company. His request will, however romantic, prove to be a challenge. 

Without hesitation, my deep-rooted truth surfaced: even if I proved an apt student of the thief that is Jack Hollingstell, I won’t be able to scribble in the margins of any prize I purloin from the library. 

Oh dear. I think any skill I acquire from Jack will benefit only when my cousin has gone to the grave. I will consult Mary. And perhaps Young Hawkes.

Look, there! Walking up Whereabouts Lane is Victoria Braithwaite not clad in black mourning armour. Instead, she wore a light lavender ensemble, not quite up to current fashion standards. At her side, a nondescript woman dressed very much like my fake Agnes Dowd, kept pace. I wondered at the sudden change. Had she decided, or was the General eager to send her into the wild of polite society?  As the two rounded the crook in the street, Victoria, whose nose tilted upward, chanced a glance at Lapis Lazuli.

No. Lapis Lazuli Minor. I imagined the warmth rising on my face was turning my cheeks red, though were I to face my mirror, I’d likely see green.

It is not that I–it is only–if I didn’t–well. Pierce has fallen on his sword for Victoria. And as much as I would prefer to never see the two in the same room again, I do admire Pierce for not discriminating when he offers his kindness. Then, unbidden but ever welcome, the voice of Father offered wisdom to my mind. “Castles weren’t built in a day, Emma. Easy and slow goes far.” I wished to offer rebuttal, suggesting that the sedate pace of the last four years had not been easy. 

My reflection of personal history was stilted as a gust of summer air from the open window shuffled the curtains, casting a dancing shadow on Saffronia’s sketch of Hawkes. Then, a curtain was drawn in my mind, separating worry and vision, turning my focus to the latter. 

In my mind’s eye, I saw a castle beginning to take shape in my centre, odd angles quickly smoothed over in short time. Just beyond the blooming hawthorn, the first construction had, in fact, been the battlements: an uncomfortable, necessary construction, made of earth and air, the stubborn mortar that forces hope and struggle to share space. The series of crenelations connected directly to the armoury, a more recent addition, subtly reflecting flecks of gold. 

I understood. In the liminal space between wishing and knowing, delicate rays of sunlight shone through the clouds. My last year could have proven much more difficult. And while Pierce may have fallen on his sword for Victoria, with me he had placed himself at the smithy, forging my arsenal. My garrison consisted of a Duke, a Photographer, and a Vicar, backed by a Jane, a silent banker’s wife, and a petite Scottish maid. Others, faceless, rallied behind. Now I’m growing maudlin. 

A muggy breeze lifted me out of the scene, and I blinked my garret back into focus. I hugged my knees to my chest, having abandoned my corset hours earlier. My castle was not finished, I knew, and I would not rush its course. It was plain that--

Oh! A rodent? No, the furry scuttle across my Turkish rug was the new tenant, come to approve–or disapprove–of the colourful cushions. But there, she’s off through Tybalt’s door. I think she has found home.  

Rehearsal this evening was…lively.

THE UNSELECTED JOURNALS OF EMMA M. LION - FAN FICTION
~Volume 9~

July the 3rd 

A new arrangement for my morning studies is in order. New being the operative word. The top of Primrose Hill would make an ideal spot, or perhaps the bench at Jacob’s Well. If only the weather would cooperate. The promises of rain are in the lingering tufts of grey. Be it a sprinkling, or a deluge, the afternoon will sort it out. 

Opening Dr. Johnson’s Dictionary, Letters A-J, I found the needed word: Importunate. The need for me to acquire a new place of study is importunate indeed. Why? My shadow of a cousin manages the most unbearable racket when he returns from his clue hunting empty-handed. Avoidance is paramount. 

This morning he shouted about a Mr. Allan Pinkerton, saying, “With one of their detectives gone from the world, a greater chance of discovery should be left for the rest of us!” The end of his sentence turned from a shout to a sob*,* and then he slammed his door famously. Did the man recall  who had secured him a ticket last year? Perhaps the injury to his leg erased all memory of my good deeds. Would it be too forward to ask Hawkes if Cousin Archibald ever confesses my righteous sins? I concede the man likely never attributed last year’s success to my efforts. 

“Whatever does Mr. Flat mean?” I asked Parian, who was unabashedly hiding in the kitchen. “I don’t know Miss.” Then he asked if any errands needed doing outside of Lapis Lazuli. I promised both Parian and Agnes a half-day to come.  

All is quiet now, and the only sounds I wish to hear in Lapis Lazuli have left country. I sit at an open  half-window, welcoming the muggy air. There is a sense of necessary repose left over from my visit to Islington’s country seat and I miss the liberty-laced layers of heather from an almost-perfect June. 

Goodness me!

One glance towards the street, and a tumble of rose petals fell into view. They swirled about the front door of Lapis Lazuli before being whisked away to another unsuspecting house. Auspicious.

Perhaps, weeping sky permitting, I will afford myself an extra hour in the morning remembering Stonecrop. At least until Caesar has been dutifully stabbed and Mr. Flat returns to a somewhat sedate state.  

Later. 

Having both memorised a favourite line from Latin Phrases for the Unrepentant and committed to memory a quarter of my lines for the upcoming production, I decided to reward myself with a celebratory tea at Everett’s.

The walk proved quite entertaining. Many residents on the street were mastering the Art of Appearing Disinterested. I could see in their scanning glances the fervor of A Clue Close at Hand. 

Finding my preferred window seat, I wondered how Father tolerated a search with Cousin Archibald for multiple years. It would not be an event I would repeat, no matter how pathetic and passionate about Caesar the man professes to be. I did not inherit Father’s patience. I did, unfortunately, inherit his inconvenient inclination to extend grace where it is not due. 

As I was imagining Cousin Archibald sitting in the audience watching me deliver perfectly- articulated lines, a starched, lint-free jacket slid into the seat across from me.

In a very ducal tone, Islington asked, “Is there a reason, Lion, why my newly acquired ward was —however charmingly— gesticulating wildly outside the window of this fine establishment?”

It was then I realised I had been moving my hands about as I recited my lines for the night’s practice. “Wildly is hardly the correct adjective, Islington.”

After a familiar nod to the serving girl, who quickly returned with an abundance of tea things, he replied, “Only you would focus on the word wildly instead of charming in that sentence, Lion.”

I blinked. 

He continued. “I would credit a month at Stonecrop for that glint in your eyes, but I suspect it is because you are plotting something. It gives you a certain…ah, look.” He had his own look, a glint of something gleeful blooming in the edges of his normally genteel glare. 

I lifted my chin. “Plotting? Only a murder of the treasonous, imperial sort.” I stabbed my cake with my fork. “More importantly, I have been exceedingly studious, Islington, and sought to reward my efforts with a congratulatory tea. And besides, everything is lovely today.” I thought to give him an example, but with Pierce away, Cousin Archibald acting like a child, and the rain insisting it splash into every cranny of St. Crispian’s nooks, I was at a loss for words. 

“Lovely, perhaps, but certainly not temperate.” He glanced out the window, absently tapping his fingers on the table. He looked from my eyes to the butter knife in my hand and asked, “Have you been reading Shakespeare this morning?”

If I hadn’t been thoroughly trained  harangued harassed by Mrs. Wade at Fortitude, a Preparatory School for Girls, my mouth would have dropped open. Instead, I narrowed my eyes. 

“All of St. Crispian’s quotes Shakespeare during the first part of July.” 

“Ah.” Islington gave a look of either annoyance or amusement, often indistinguishable when given by a duke. “And will your cousin be consuming his ticket this year in replicate spite?”
I grinned. “Come to Lapis Lazuli on July fifteenth for a birthday tea and see for yourself.”

Islington stilled. I stilled. It was then I realised I had not yet confessed that I knew when his birthday was. That I knew he shared it with a twin, and that I had seen him speaking with her hidden headstone just days past. 

Careful to not offend as I had before, I did what any respectable Christian might, and I blamed the Vicar. “Ah, Islington. You see, Hawkes—well, Hawkes. He says Agnes is a dear. And she would be over the moon if she could arrange a celebratory tea, special event or no. Will you come?”  

“I thank you for the invitation, Lion, but a prior obligation will take me away from London for a time.” More tapping. Another look out the window. 

“Not you too.” My frown was a foil to his smile. “Pierce has left for Scotland. Perhaps he informed you, as you two go galavanting about St. Crispian’s like Valentine and Proteus?”
“Valentine and—“ he tore his eyes from the window and crossed his arms in a very ducal way. He looked very debonaire doing so. “Devereuxs don’t galavant.”

I kept my lips tightly sealed, using my eyes to convey my memories of Islington galavanting quite jovially in the country last month. 

An upward tick of the corner of his mouth, and my Duke returned his focus. “Yes, Pierce and I spoke of his commission with the World’s Fair.” His gaze returned to the window, and his smile widened. 

Thought I: Has St. Crispian’s favourite Duke taken a holiday from irreproachable conversational etiquette? He hadn’t even looked at the cake. I sought to remedy the situation. Splendid sparring is, after all, known to work up an appalling appetite. And so I said, “While I wouldn’t call you charming to your face, Islington, I would say that the happy look about your eyes is, in fact, charming.”

One ducal eyebrow raised, cake left untouched. 

“Is there some maid from yonder mountain height you long to see, Your Grace?”

At this, his brows furrowed as a slight grin appeared. “Tennyson has nothing to do with my upcoming obligations.”

“Then why do you tap your fingers so? Is the window of Everett’s so fascinating? Is my company so bad, or does the fault lie with your manners?”

The Duke inclined his head and offered an apology. I lie not. “My apologies, Lion. Only—“ And then he said something truly charming. “Not even your attacks on my character could ruin this day.”

“Oh, I am sure I could think of something.” I offered a smile and waited pointedly for an explanation. 

With an almost challenging expression—one worthy of bringing out the foils—he said, “You could pilfer my slice of cake, could read my current journal, and it would not bring me down.” Well. 

Perhaps I allowed too much enthusiasm float off my tongue as I asked, “Could I?”

“Have my cake?” He noiselessly slid his plate in my direction, but paused when I shook my head. 

Attempting to lessen the mock in my tone, I said “Ah, yes, Islington. That is the offer to which I was referring.”

I have grown quite fond of the Islington Glare of Disapproval. It has metamorphosized —is that a word?—into more of a cautionary frown.  

“It was not a genuine offer, Lion. My personal writing is under strict protection of an aforementioned white feather.”

“How disingenuous of you, Devereux.” I would not divulge my newly-acquired distrust in the feather practice. “Far be it from me to inquire into your personal matters, Islington, but—“ At this I was given a side eye—“If it is not a rural maid that keeps you glancing out the window, is it the hounds? Are you to return to Stonecrop?” 

A genuine grin on the Duke of Islington! A grin. Glorious, to be sure. It could be said that a few unmarried women in Everett’s swooned at the sight of it, but I can neither confirm nor deny such a thing. 

“Mirrenthorpe.”

I set down my fork. 

“Marianna has had the baby.”

I clapped my hands together. “Oh, the babe has come! And you’re off to see her?”

“Him.”

“A boy! No wonder your eyes look so uncharacteristically gleeful, Islington! And you are sitting here eating —or not eating, rather—cake with me?”

“I leave on the morrow, only I wished to get the wee thing a gift before I left.”

I pushed the plate of cake back towards him and misquoted, “You do love nothing in the world so well as cake.”

He tucked in quite impressively, as if he had to let out the news before he could enjoy his tea. Without hesitation, he reached for a second slice. 

I pointed with my fork and said, quite piously, “Vitia carissima aegre deponuntur.” It took only a moment for the Duke to catch my judging eyes, then he threw his head back and laughed. I now confirm there was, indeed, swooning in a corner of Everett’s. 

The sound dispelled all the rain from my thoughts, and a vision of Pierce laughing so unreservedly just a day ago flashed through my memory. I would take myself to task trying to get Hawkes to do the same. A happy alchemy indeed. 

Crumbs ritually being smashed on the back of his fork, the Duke signaled the end of his unexpected but welcome visit. I thought to ask one more question as he dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. 

“Islington, do you always get to hold the little ones so close to the day of their birth?”

A far-away look appeared, and he quoted, “Closer to heaven will no man stand, than just beside the cradle.”

And though I opened my mouth, I could not speak. There flickered in his eye the light of a summer campfire, the hope of a grassy field beneath a night sky of second-glanced stars, and I could only think that in that moment, the Islington of Stonecrop had appeared fully in the visage of Islington of London. My heart pinched. 

I did not want it disturbed, felt I had to protect it at all costs. And so I said lightly, “Have you been spending too much time with Hawkes?”

“Is there such a thing?”

“No, there is not.” 

I was so enraptured by the exclusive peek into The Mind of Islington that I forgot to ask him if he would return in time for Julius Caesar. It stands to reason that our Thursday dinners are in abeyance. 

Later 

Rehearsal this evening was a bloody show. If only Pierce were here to appreciate my puns. 

THE UNSELECTED JOURNALS OF EMMA M. LION - FAN FICTION
~Volume 9~

July the 2nd

My morning studies began with my fingers drumming the cover of Plutarch’s Lives. Uncharacteristically, Cicero and Demosthenes had little to say about the pianoforte recital I inflicted on their biographies. My studies ended abruptly when a morning thunder sounded above the rooftops of Whereabouts Lane. 

Startled, I moved to my window seat to take in the summer storm. The weather transformed the quiet, creamy yellow morning into a rushing, sloshing, movement of umbrellas. Gravity pulled at the clouds until a multitude of grey streaks marked the sky like slanted brushstrokes on a willing canvas. 

I looked towards the blue and purple paisley fabric, a once-magical door meant for royal felines. Tybalt had, on occasion, chosen my garret during select storms. Sometimes he would choose my lap, bringing with him the smell of smoke and clean linen. Other times, he would rush to the colourful cushions of the armchair, circling just enough to establish his throne of dear repose. My storms from a year ago are not the same; Tybalt’s offering to steal me awhile from mine own company I leave for Helena alone. I do the same to her plight of unrequited sentiments of the heart. 

My ink bottle is suspiciously low. My purse unsuspiciously so. Just as I thought to make a new list of employment options, a sound of paper through wood sounded at the chink in the wall. 

I’M OFF TO THE NORTH FOR A FEW DAYS. 

Again so soon? What lucky client has gained precedence over your delightful friend at the museum?

I could hear the man scratching on his desk.  

I’VE A NEW COMMISSION AT DONALDSON’S COLLEGE. A FORESTRY EXHIBITION. I’LL BE BACK AND FORTH FROM THE MUSEUM TO EDINBURGH THE NEXT FEW MONTHS. 

Between your commissions and my aunt calling me to the battlefield that is Matron Matchmaking for the Maritally-Inclined, I dare say that we will miss much of each other. 

I considered my last sentiment quite forward and presumptuous. Therefore, to prevent Pierce from interpreting my words the way I intended them, and to encourage a more literal reading for propriety’s sake, I sought to remedy my blunder. 

That is to say, not that we will miss each other, but that we will be seeing less of each other. As happens, when two people are not near one other. For a length of time. Indeterminate being the worst sort. 

The moments when it is possible to tame my hinge of a tongue, my fingers are apt to betray me. 

More scratching. 

The third note slid through more slowly. I lifted my hand to grab it, and watched as the piece began sliding backward. With a furious latch, I caught the note and pulled. In a miniature tug-of-war, Pierce finally released the paper. Aloud, I claimed, “Victory! Thy name is Emma!”

I could hear Pierce laughing on the other side of the wall. 

I’M LOATH TO LEAVE. DAYS SPENT WITHOUT YOU ARE DISMAL AT BEST.

I could not answer, for my hands were occupied fanning my flushed cheeks. Flushed from the July heat, that is.

When I heard Pierce pacing, I managed to jot out my only recollection of Dryden. Something Father quoted often when he would say, “Courage, Emma. You’ll never plough a field by turning it over in your mind.” I wrote:

“Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense,
But good men starve for want of impudence.”

This time Pierce waited. I explained. 

A courting man shouldn’t starve, Niall. Especially in a garret.

ARE YOU ASKING ME TO BE THE KNAVE, EMMA?

Hypocrite that I am, I sent the hopeful paper through the wall, watching the corner catch and bend slightly. If you say what you mean, Pierce, you might receive a note in kind. 

I SHALL MISS YOU, EMMA. 

My heart delivered a pugilist’s beating to my ribs. I would have to hide Whitman for a few days behind Mother's Bible while Pierce is in Scotland. I pretended to be the unaffected recipient I clearly was not.

Parting is such sweet sorrow. When do you leave?

TOMORROW MORNING. 

Will I see you for dinner this evening?

YES. 

I wonder if Pierce, in attempting to settle in London, wishes his profession did not require him to leave home so often. 

Later. 

A note came round from Mary. 

Emma, 
My wisdom is in short supply. I have no illusions that you can assist, only—I need a Currer Bell at my side. Tea this afternoon? 
Mary, Troubled Twice Over. 

While it wasn’t reasonable to assume Jack was  at the root of Mary’s troubles, it wasn’t unreasonable either. My hope took the shape of a  broad-shouldered Professor. For if it were Jack, I would require a second. But who to ask? Does St. Crispian’s resident Duke wield a pistol as well as his younger sister? I assume at least nine out of ten reprobates would volunteer. I cheered at the thought, and responded to Mary. 

Mary, Doubly Troubled, 
Tea it is. I am free before four o’clock. Any moment past then, and I risk being stabbed erroneously. Everetts?
Emma, At the Ready. 

I walked down the stairs to check the state of my umbrella, wondering if I should bring two. If Mary Barriage had any more notions of hiding in a bush during the rain, I would bring a spare.

A knock at the door sounded just as Agnes appeared in the hallway with two apple tartlets. 

“Oh, Miss Lion. I was only—well, should I answer it Miss?” Agnes glanced at the door, then down at the pastries in her hand, and then at me, cheeks pinked.

I reached for the door, and Agnes took a step forward. “No, Agnes. I can manage.” With a wonderful swing, I welcomed the smell of rain on pavement. “Hello, Toff.” 

He held out a small note, clearly from Mary. I noticed his eyes were fixed behind me. I took the missive, but kept the door open as I looked from maid to messenger. 

“Toff, would you like a pastry?” Before I could say more, Agnes thrust the plate to the boy and said, “Better to take two.”

With a nod and a “Thank you, Miss,” he took both pastries then disappeared down Whereabouts Lane. 

When I had shut the door, I raised an eyebrow at Agnes. She responded with “Too thin, that one. Perhaps if you received more correspondence, Miss, we could fill him out a wee bit more.” Well. 

Later.

Tea with Mary did not take place at Everett’s. Mary’s last note explained that Mrs. Lamb had caught Mary laughing at a group of children singing, “Mary had a Mrs. Lamb, her hair was white as snow.” To smooth any ruffled hair feathers, Mary suggested we take tea in her rooms, offering a display of contrary contrite humility. Before entering the boarding house, I put on my most pious expression, lest Mrs. Lamb grow suspicious. 

We settled in a corner of Mary’s room, a typewriter at Mary’s elbow, a flat cushion under mine. With unwavering conviction, Mary claimed her thoughts were best sorted with a typewriter within reach. It sat proudly, open, paperless, and at the ready. Tea went like so:

Mary, pacing around her room: “Emma, it is worse than you can imagine.”

Emma: “Has someone’s left eye been compromised in a duel?”

Mary launched one finger onto her typewriter, pressing the N with a quick tap. “Almost as worse as you can imagine.” The selected type bar met only with air. 

Emma: “Did your unaffectionate brother decide he has, indeed, developed an affection for his younger sister, and requested you move in as governess to his children?”

Mary held up a slender finger and grinned. “Emma. I have forgotten that a Currer Bell’s gothic imagination is often unparalleled. No. It is more of a lamppost affair, and I fear I must not spare any detail.” 

At this, I picked up my teacup and sipped. 

“You see, Jack—”

“Jack!” My eyes narrowed, but Mary held up a hand. 

“Listen to the whole, Emma. I do blame Jack, but never fear. ‘I am no bird; and no net ensnares me.’ Mary’s fingers hovered over her machine, and in an almost thoughtless manner, she hit F, then L, then E. 

I took another sip. 

“Yesterday, it began with chaos, and ended with a lover’s embrace.”

I almost dropped my teacup onto its saucer. “That snake of a fake cousin–”

“No, no, Emma.” She waved both hands in the air as if wafting away smoke. “Jack will never be that kind of cousin.”

I folded my hands in my lap and committed myself to fewer interruptions.

“After charming Mrs. Lamb, Cousin Jack insisted we take a stroll above the Thames, though I had not seen nor heard from Jack in some time. He had arranged a meeting with a close friend of a friend.” We shared a knowing look. “Jack claims they all share a common interest of particular masonry. He promised delightful entertainment.”

Plink. Plink plink. T, C, H. “I will skip the most boring segments with Jack.” Never, in my year of knowing Jack, had I associated him with the adjective boring. If I had to choose, flavourful would suit. I leaned forward, pouring a cup for Mary. She sat down. “To where, you ask, did we drift? The house of the old Prof.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“Mary!”

“I know”

With a slightly lower tone, I repeated, “Mary.”

“Emma. When the housekeeper answered, I about thwacked Jack with my umbrella. Only, he had managed to remove it from my hand and fold it so we could enter.  I threatened to turn out his pockets post-visit if he so much as looked at anything shiny.” After a few fortifying sips, Mary closed her eyes. “As there were five plasters among three boys—casts required to stay dry—the little changelings were kicking a ball around. Inside the house.” 

Mary’s expression waxed almost affectionate as she emphasized changelings. She tapped the outside of her cup. “A teapot was dismembered and a sugar bowl relegated to the rubbish bin. William—the oldest boy— entered the drawing room, gash on his brow, stating Johnny had the very same on his wrist. Where Jack wandered off to, I cannot say, though he materialized to escort me home in the end. Mrs. Handkerchief set about cleaning up the shattered china, Grant—er, that is, Professor Fletcher and I inspected the boys. Before I knew it, I was cleaning the wound of one, wrapping the wrist of another, and embracing the youngest as I patted his head. It was Dangerous. Setting and plot.”

“Truly dangerous territory.”

“As I said.” A few more keys typed into the air and Mary came out with it. “After the housekeeper took the boys to a quieter space, it was only Grant and me standing in the kitchen.”

“Had he a proper haircut?”

“Oh, yes, Emma.”

“Oh no.”

“Indeed.”

I held my lips tightly together as to not give away any amusement teeming on the surface. 

“The man leaned down—a drawn-out affair, as you know he is very tall.”

“Very tall.”

“And he kissed me, Emma.” A final click to the period for perfect punctuation, and Mary said, “I hadn’t even dropped the bandage I had used for Tad. On the bright side, the man has no attic.” 

I failed to see how anything Mary had told me was not on the bright side of things. But I dared not say a word. Instead, I offered upon the altar of friendship a sideways confession of my own. Wincing at the recollection of my past blunder, I  inquired, “You did not thank him for the kiss, did you Mary?”

“How absurd, Emma. Who would thank a man for a kiss?” She understood the look in my eyes, but spared me judgement. “The details are simple. I best him at his own game.  Then I promptly changed the subject. Chapter nine saved the day. And, I might have invited him and this mutual friend of Jack’s to Lapis Lazuli. Interest in stonework and all, you see.” I did see.  

The date has been set for this Saturday evening. It is the one day of the week that my co-conspirators of the fine arts hold rehearsal in the morning. Despite the stale biscuits, tea with Mary was…flavourful.

Later 

This evening, the door to Pierce’s studio was cracked but let out no light nor shadow. I stuck my head inside and found it empty. The man must be packing. 

I wandered out to the garden, shielding my eyes from the waning sun. And then I saw it—a blood-red bud, peeking out from the overgrown rose bush. A happy blossom for our hot July pains. 

Stepping back, I realised Parian had made progress in the garden. One never knows how quickly success may come when a stubborn task is relegated to another. 

I thought to give the flower a line of encouragement, and whispered something not practised in my morning studies. “The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem, for that sweet odor which doth in it live.” 

Cloud cover lessened the glare from the settling sun, and I heard a familiar limp behind me. “Pierce!” His shoulders were looking rather broad today. 

One brow lifted in tandem with the corner of his mouth, and he proclaimed, “You’ve been reading Shakespeare.”

I had been reciting with vigor in my garret. My mirror, however Greek, was appreciating the performance, I think. Had I gotten carried away in the night, disregarding all semblance of quiet? “I would suggest something ought to be done about the thin wall between us–our rooms, that is– but then I would…” I almost told Pierce that I would miss the sounds of him getting ready in the morning: the comforting echo of footfalls, however uneven, his scratching away at small notes through the wall, an occasional muffled laugh. A surreptitious fact I would never divulge. “That is to say, we would lose our chink.”  His smile deepened, and I lifted my chin. “In any case, I will attempt to dampen the volume of my midnight monologues.”

Pierce took my hand and placed a kiss on the tops of my knuckles, then said, “Any monologue from you, Emma, is a delight. Only—“

“Yes, Pierce?” I was not thinking about my hand in his. At all. Not even in the slightest. I was thinking only of my hand in his. 

“You get a certain gleam in your eye when the garret of your mind has been let to that blasted bard.”

I liked the sound of that. Though I charge not a farthing to allow Shakespeare residence in my thoughts. He has lived there, quite frankly, for years without payment. I told Pierce so. 
He laughed, and the sound spread warmth within me. With the hand still clutched to mine, he pulled me a little closer. 

“Agnes has sent me to fetch you for dinner.”

“Has she now?” I looked into the reflective silver of his eyes, then quirked the corner of my mouth. “Ought I to reduce your rent, Pierce, and use it to compensate you for a new position at Lapis Lazuli House as official errand boy?”

“No.” He scanned my face, lingering long enough for the rose bushes to take notice. Then he squeezed my hand and let go. I felt its absence immediately. London gardens do not, regrettably, provide much privacy. I second guessed my desire to have the hedges pruned at all. 

“Pity,” said I. “As correspondence is one of your strengths. I suspect we will soon need to commission you a larger basket for your letters.” 

He folded his arms, fabric pulling around edges and defining the years of strength and work in his arms. It was, to say the least, a little distracting. “There is certain correspondence I prefer over others. Much of it belongs in the rubbish bin.”

He looked as if he would say more, but I had cleared my throat in a most polite most awkward manner, and the moment was over. We entered the dining room, and I welcomed the smell of roasted vegetables and meat pies. 

The gentleness of Pierce’s touch had settled in deep corners of my being, lasting all through an unremarkable dinner.  

If I had not Caesar to keep me company, I might count the days until Pierce returns. 

Later. 

Rehearsal this afternoon was the best sort of treachery.

THE UNSELECTED JOURNALS OF EMMA M. LION - FANFICTION
~Volume 9~

July the 1st
I woke this morning from a dreamless sleep. Brutus, mid-stab, lay upon my pillow in the form of Father’s Shakespeare. I must have fallen asleep before closing the book and placing it on my bookshelf. Lovely bookshelf. 

July has come, and with it, sunshine and rain. I have not yet dressed for the day, and clouds gather in solemn assembly. 

While my morning ablutions were simple—washing and taming the shrew’s nest that was my hair— my pace was slower than usual. Again and again I have read over the bright red envelope lounging stage left upon my writing desk. 

The words Undisclosed Character floated about the corridors of my mind. Waiting for forthcoming details, especially regarding upcoming Thespian Obligations, is no simple task for one Emma M. Lion. 

To pass the time, I have begun mending a few hems. I am committing myself to some semblance of industry before the mysteries of my evening unravel.

Agnes brought my breakfast en suite this morning. Before leaving, she said, “I do hope your ankle will recover quickly, Miss Lion.”

“Agnes, what on earth are you talking about?”

“Mr. Flat said you would need breakfast taken to you every morning for the first half of July due to your swollen ankle.”

I abandoned needle and thread. “When did Mr. Flat say this?” The man has finally decided to wax violent. He must be planning my demise as he sits in his glorious library—presumably napping.

“This morning at five o’clock, Miss.” The poor girl. “He said to encourage you to stay at Lapis Lazuli and rest for at least fifteen days.”

“Did he.” Agnes must have been confused at the expression on my face—a mix of loathing and delight. The old crow wanted to keep me out of this year’s clue finding, and knew nothing of my role in the production. 

She said, “I don’t mind it, Miss Lion. My mother says climbing stairs is like catching fish. The more there are, the happier you be.”

“Perhaps. If they come with miraculously multiplying loaves.” She looked even more confused, and I sighed. “Agnes, I will take my breakfast in the garret this morning, but tomorrow, and all days after in the wonderful month of July, you will find me in the breakfast room.”

“Yes, Miss.” 

A part of me wished that my cousin would acquire a ticket, just so I could look up from my mark on stage and see his face as Emma M. Lion, proud Irishman’s Daughter, became for the first time a Heroine in the eyes of Archibald Flat.  

Later. 

Glorious. Curious. Confrontational. 

I have returned from the secret conclave where the cream of St. Crispian’s crop gathered to commence the most glorious production of Julius Caesar our denizens will ever witness.

A thought has just occurred to me: Aunt Eugenia cannot summon my person to the battlefront that is Arabella’s matchmaking. Half of my days will be spent on a quiet corner home, surrounded by rose bushes, a wrought-iron fence, and lines and lines of Shakespeare. Most rehearsals are held in the evening, and the season’s balls will have to wait, lest my wisdom be consumed in confidence. And now I have said too much. 

While I am accustomed to trusting in the Unspoken Understandings of our strange town, I cannot, in good conscience, trust in a single white feather. No. Until The Production has concluded, I refuse to scribble a jot of my clandestine endeavours. Mr. Penury would be pleased to know that I am saving on ink and nibs, no matter how minimally the savings accrue. Mrs. Penury would be pleased in my efforts to remain silent on the matter that is the July Production. 

However much I wish to add every detail of the night, I will resist. Suffice it to say: not even the rain can douse my spirits this night.

Quick question. Has there been discussion regarding Saffronia’s comment on February 14th (volume 6) —she’s about to paint a moustache on the portrait of Lord Cross (and possibly poke out an eye) and won’t cooperate with a woman!

Could Charlie Cross be related? If his father is a Lord…