#French Market Baskets

[thedanesuk]

Authentic French Market Baskets – Timeless Style and Practicality

Discover our collection of authentic French market baskets, handcrafted with natural materials. Perfect for shopping, beach trips, or adding rustic charm to your style. Shop now for eco-friendly elegance!

[postcard-from-the-past]

Pile of empty baskets in the Central Market Halls of Paris

French vintage postcard

[uzumaki-rebellion]

"I've got a Big Chief, Big Chief, Big Chief of the Nation

The wild, wild creation

He won't bow down

Down on the ground

Oh how I love to hear him call Indian Red"

Voices of a Nation – "Indian Red"

The Backstreet Bar used to be the spot Celeste's parents went to when they were young and lively in the nineties and before they started pumping out kids left and right. Near the French Market off Esplanade in the sixth ward, it became a shrine and the iconic hub for rhythm and blues.

All things Black and New Orleans culture-wise sprang from that bar in their neighborhood. When the owner Etienne King passed away, his widow Lesli King took over. The levees broke in 2005 and nearly washed away the people and history that gave the city its culture and flavor. But the people persevered until Lesli passed during Mardi Gras of 2010. Celeste remembered 2010 well because it was the first year she started sewing with her granddaddy Big Chief Harris Profitt of the Wild Treme Mardi Gras Indians.

Thirteen and full of spitfire energy and overzealous gumption, Celeste spent all year beading and sewing using her granddaddy's jeweler's loupe magnifier over her right eye. The intricate beadwork and patches she sewed and assembled to make her first Indian suit was a proud moment, not only for Celeste, but for that side of her family who ran up and down the streets hunting down other tribes to battle in verbal dexterity and showing off how pretty they looked in their Mardi Gras finery.

Her suit was a patchwork of dark purple, lavender, and white micro beads, feathers, and sequins. She showed the fuck out among her kin and her relatives started calling her by the nickname Duchess because she strutted so high and mighty in front of granddaddy's house while the neighbors waited for their Big Chief to come outside on a fine Mardi Gras morning to represent their downtown neighborhood in his fabulous three-dimensional African-inspired suit. No one in Treme ever called her grandfather by his first name. It was always "Big Chief", "Chief", or "Chief Profitt".

Proud to be a Wild Treme Indian, Celeste sewed a new suit every year as was custom. It was expensive, time-consuming, and a true labor of love. Her grandmother had worked as a seamstress for a dress shop and her grandfather was a welder like his father before him, and she absorbed those technical skills of sewing and shaping metal under their tutelage to transform Black Mardi Gras Indian regalia into wearable art. Sadly, she lost interest in making suits by the time she hit twenty-four and began designing the fancy second line parasols, fans, and baskets for several social aid and pleasure clubs instead. That extra source of income helped carry her for over four years. Sometimes on annual Super Sundays she'd re-purpose some old suits to play in with other Mardi Gras Indian tribes that came from all over the city to commune and show off in A.L. Davis Park. It made Big Chief happy to see her on those occasions, although he wanted his youngest grandchild to sew new suits again.

The test of a true Indian was to pour your passion and creativity into needle and thread to kill 'em dead with a new suit annually. Tribes frowned on recycling an old suit and considered it lazy work to don a suit people already witnessed you in. People came out looking for craftsmanship, originality, and style—lagniappe—a little something extra each year. She poured her creative flair into the overly decorated accessories for other people and made a nice coin doing it.

After Lesli died, Grand-mère, along with a cadre of old-timers, lamented that the history of their hood would crumble if the Backstreet Bar died. Grand-mère had been one of dozens of foster-children Lesli looked after over the years, giving some jobs working at the neighborhood bar. Eventually, Grand-mère and Big Chief took over the property instead of retiring when Celeste turned eighteen. It was the bar Celeste headed toward for Mardi Gras Indian practice with her family and tribe.

She didn't want to drive through downtown, but she became the designated driver for three of her besties. Lyfts and Ubers raised their prices during the holiday season and no one wanted to pay outlandish fees when they could look cute in her brand new muscle car. Cruising through the Garden District, she picked up two of her friends and headed down to the French Quarter. They didn't have to stop for food because Grand-mère provided free red beans and rice, fried chicken, and sometimes boiled crawfish and red rice at the bar. She hoped they had a nice spread tonight because her stomach growled and she needed heavy food to soak up the liquor she planned to consume.

Her ex boyfriend committed a flagrant foul that weekend by jumping the gun and telling everyone they had broken up before she was ready. She suspected he wanted to bring out his new woman openly so no one would beat his behind once she blabbed that he'd been running around on her. Truth be told, she was tired of his boring ass anyway, but the general principal of the matter was she wanted to be the first to bail and get her lick back during carnival. Now if she turnt up and shook ass extra hard, people would say she was overcompensating for getting dumped.

"Duchess, turn right…slow down…there's a spot about to open up."

"Where?" Celeste said to her friend Mercy, who sat shotgun.

Mercy pointed to the flashing hazard lights of a taxi. Celeste zipped into the tight spot and breathed a sigh of relief. There was nothing worse than searching for parking anywhere near the Quarter or within a one-mile radius in any direction during the carnival season. Mercy checked her smartphone.

"She's on her way out," Mercy said.

Celeste checked her face in the mirror. Although it was only a practice at the bar, she still wanted to look cute. Her giant Medusa locs were pulled back with a leather hair tie high on her head, and her eyeliner and ruby lip stick gave enough sexy unbothered vibes that made her feel confident. She had her girls, a stellar whip that she worked hard for, and time with her tribe to look forward to. Lately, it seemed like carnival festivities were the only way her family got together en mass. Carnival or funerals.

Their friend Joyce hustled out of a popular bakery in the Quarter carrying a box of the popular King Cake, a ring-shaped, hand-braided cinnamon infused dessert. The plastic covering on top showed off the tri-colored icing of gold, purple, and green.

"Hey, girl!" Celeste said as Joyce climbed in the back of the Charger. She gave air kisses to Nae Nae in the back.

"Whew! It's been crazy in there! Some people were mad they ran out of King Cakes that weren't pre-ordered. I am ready to cut up!" Joyce enthused.

Celeste checked her driver's side mirror and pulled out, heading around the narrow block. Clogged streets packed in the tourists, locals, and plenty of cops. She parked four blocks away from the Backstreet Bar and they all climbed out feeling giddy. Normally, Big Chief didn't allow outsiders or non-tribal members to attend Indian practice. But he made an exception that year to help her get over feelings about her ex. Freddie made being in Nawlins central intolerable. He knew everyone in her extended family because he was a police officer who had connections to a political family with high ambitions for him down the road. After their unceremonious break up, she moved into a cute little over-priced cottage far from him, and took an extra part-time job at a chicken processing plant with a goal of saving enough money to head out to California for an extended visit. Celeste had relatives in L.A. and could stay with them for a vacation. Getting away from the Big Easy would help build up a new positive lease on life. Or maybe she'd take a five-day cruise to Mexico. Anywhere was good, just as long as she could escape Freddie and go to a new world for a minute.

That man had wasted her time and love. She wanted to buy a large home and get married. Start a family. Months ago, she gave him an ultimatum that their relationship needed forward momentum and her finger needed a ring by New Year's Day. Cheating was his way of humbling her, and ironically, it brought her great relief. He made life feel stagnant and dull, proving unequivocally that he wasn't The One. She just didn't have the guts to leave first before having something lined up on the horizon.

A crowd of patrons gathered outside a corner in front of the Backstreet Bar, catching the pitiful breeze that attempted to blow through the escalating muggy heat while listening to the thumping music from inside. Celeste glanced at the exterior of the bar painted with colorful images of their tribe, Creole food, and two giant beer mugs clinking together. The name of the bar was graffiti painted above the front door that stood wide open. A "Closed Until 9 P.M." sign taped to the wall kept non-tribal members out for the time being, and a blank-faced bouncer, David, stood vigil on a metal stool.

"Hey David!" Celeste said.

"Duchess!"

David hopped off the stool and gave Celeste a big belly hug because his stomach lopped over his belt.

"I brought my friends to watch with Big Chief's permission. They won't be no trouble," she said.

David looked over the women, his beady eyes taking a liking to Joyce's plump frame.

"Alright now, go get y'all a plate before the good eatin' is all gone," David said to the group. His eyes stayed on Joyce the entire time.

Inside, the raucous shouts of men showered them with the energy of the packed bar and sucked them right into the fold. Family and tribal members were already cutting up, clapping and smacking tambourines in time to an internal beat that swelled throughout the room.

On a small stage across from the bar, a second line brass band made up of young men in their twenties carried the foundational rhythm the others followed. The musical frenzy, sweaty faces, and rocking bodies enveloped Celeste in the comforts of culture. Trumpets, a trombone, and a good faith tuba blasted the familiar jazzy sounds that New Orleans was famous for. Celeste rocked her shoulders, shuffled her feet with slick footwork, and sang the old-time Indian songs.

Joyce placed the King Cake on an open table near Grand-mère who stood regally watching the action. She hugged each one of them. Celeste eyed her father drumming on stage and glanced toward her mother, who mixed drinks at the bar.

It was good to be in the Treme.

She greeted familiar faces and asked "Who dat?" about folks she didn't recognize. Inundated with love and affection, Celeste settled in, bringing a playful zeal to her dancing. Her mother handed her a tambourine at the bar, and she hopped onto the dance floor behind her grandfather and tapped a churchy beat on her left palm. Onlookers who were guests ogled the rare treat of seeing a real deal Indian practice. Their tribe's Spy Boy, Darryl, waved a white handkerchief around, yelped in his warbled tone and pretended to see another tribe's approach. A play uncle named Man-Man started strutting as their Flag Boy and the boisterous sound of voices rose, singing louder than the percussive drum beats onstage. Celeste stayed close to her grandfather, listening for his calls to change the tempo at the drop of a dime.

The Big Chief's salt and a little less pepper hair sweated out into tight curls. His dark hickory brown face stayed bathed in a sheen of earned sweat. Eyes closed and listening for the spirit to arrive, Big Chief struck his tambourine once and hooted, his cries flying overhead and joined by a tribal call-and-response that bolstered his bringing down of the ancestors.

Celeste copied his tambourine strikes to aid in catching the spirit. In four days, the tribe would take to the streets, preening and daring another tribe to outshine them. Thankful for choosing to wear a white t-shirt tied at the waist and comfy jean shorts, Celeste danced, sang, shook her hips and felt the weight of the world lift from her shoulders.

Three hours rocked by with chants, foot stomping, and plenty of drinking.

Twirling to her left to show off for her friends, she took some time to eat and gulp down a rum and coke standing in front of the stage. She caught the eye of a man lingering near her right side. Despite the many faces in the bar that blended into a chaotic blur during practice, the stranger's eyes latched onto hers and she couldn't shake them away. He was one of them pretty boys with captivating light eyes and possibly good hair that most people thought Creoles were supposed to have. Celeste's family was bone-Black Creole, the darker kind that still spoke southern, creolized French.

The man stood near some of her male cousins, and God forbid, a childhood friend named Travis X who was a five-percenter and a member of the Nation of Islam. It was impossible to miss Travis's short, high and tight fade and big shiny teeth. Still lurking in the shadows next to Travis, peeping at her moves, Mr. Light Eyes boldly stared right back at her like she was supposed to be sucked up on a plate of hot crawfish and dirty rice Grand-mère served.

Big Chief nudged Celeste to join in on the closing song. Lifting her contralto voice to support her energetic grandfather, she belted out the first opening cry of "Indian Red"

"Madi cu defio, en dans dey, end dans day…"

Their tribe repeated the words like a field holler with a tinge of the blues until everyone was on one accord. They belted out the song that represented the core of their tradition.

"We are the Indians, Indians, Indians of the nation

The wild, wild creation

We won't bow down

Down on the ground

Oh, how I love to hear them call Indian Red

I've got a Big Chief, Big Chief, Big Chief of the Nation

The wild, wild creation

He won't bow down

Down on the ground…"

Tears welled up in Celeste's eyes while singing with her grandfather. The power of the words enveloped her like a cozy patchwork quilt. Big Chief was getting to the age where he would have to pass the torch onto his oldest son. It was quite possibly his last time leading the tribe. His age was catching up to what his body couldn't carry as well anymore. The heavy tribal suits could weigh over eighty pounds or more. She wanted to dance in the streets with him one more time before a shift took place. She heard the trembling in his voice…they all did. Everyone in that packed bar knew they were witnessing the closure of an era under his leadership. Her uncle Alston would be a capable chief, but Big Chief Harris Proffit was the only chief she had known representing her people since she was a baby. He was eighty-two. Time to hand down the baton.

The last note hung in the air and Celeste broke away, grabbed her smokes from her purse, and headed outside to clear her head. Big Chief didn't need to witness her sadness. He wasn't dying, just nearing retirement. But it felt like a passing on anyway.

Back on the corner and away from David, who allowed regular patrons to come inside since practice was over, Celeste opened up a pack of Newports and tried lighting a cigarette. She flicked her lighter. It flashed and petered out. She huffed, and the cigarette dangled from her lips. A sign from God to quit, probably. A spark of another lighter glowed under her bottom lip.

Travis had followed her outside. So did the stranger and a few other men from Travis's Hotep crew.

"Sister Celeste, you know you should give up the devil's ways with this smoking," Travis said.

Celeste puffed to catch the flame, and Travis removed the lighter.

"Then why help me out?" she said.

She took a long drag and blew out away from his face and noticed a dark tattoo on the stranger's muscular right arm. An eight-pointed star floating above a crescent moon. Shit. Another Muslim. Last thing she wanted was to be lectured and recruited to be the next Betty Shabazz to a Malcolm X wanna-be. At least Travis wasn't slanging his bean pies or the Final Call at the bar. A real vibe killer. One thing the Nation had right by her was how they cleaned up Black men and turned them into fine specimens of manhood. She glanced at the tall, pretty boy with the hypnotic eyes. His plush lips looked so succulent for long, lusty kisses.

As-Salaam Alaikum, she muttered in her mind.

Her stomach fluttered at the grin on his face. Like he heard her thoughts. He turned to look at a few patrons entering the bar, and she glimpsed more ink on his left arm. A marine tattoo with black USMC lettering. An eagle sat on top of a globe underneath it, and Celeste looked away when he rested his gaze on her face again. Her cheeks warmed up like she was in a hot bath, and she parted her lips to take in more air. Feeling breathless, she jabbed her cigarette against the wall and tossed it in a garbage bin near the entrance.

"You ready, Duchess? They playing the down home blues in there and the old folks are taking over the dance floor," Nae Nae said with an annoyed stank face, joining Celeste outside with Joyce and Mercy.

Joyce handed her a paper plate with a piece of King Cake on it. Grateful for the distraction, Celeste took the plate and broke off a piece of the pastry. Stuffing it in her mouth, she chewed and Mr. Light Eyes pierced her soul with another drawn-out stare. She stuck two fingers in her mouth and pulled out a tiny brown plastic baby.

"Oop, you know what that means!" Joyce said.

Mr. Light Eyes seemed to float away with Travis and their male entourage down the street.

"I gotta bring the King Cake next year," Celeste said softly, holding the plastic baby in front of her lips, eyes still tracking the round, firm ass of the stranger in his jeans

The marine glanced back at her and smiled. She dropped her head forward, feeling lightheaded.

"You okay?" Joyce asked.

Celeste pocketed the plastic baby and linked arms with her friends.

"I'll go change inside and we'll be on our way! Let's get to clubbing!" Celeste said.

Chapter 3 HERE.

Masterlist.

Author's Note:

Hey y'all, the rest will drop on Halloween as promised! I had to set up my masterlist post now to make it easier when I upload the rest of the parts. Please share/reblog so we can get another Black fandom growing!

Tag List:

@planetblaque

@kindofaintrovert

@thedondada05

@blackburnbook

@avoidthings

@slutsareteacherstoo

@nayaesworld

@notapradagurl17

@4pfsukuna

@yamst3rdamctrl

@sweettea-and-honeybutter

@comfortzonequeen

@theereina

@brattyfics

@prettyisasprettydoes1306

@megane96

@honeytoffee

@taurusqueen83

@mightbeher

@melaninpov

@carlakeks

@woahthatshitfat

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes

[blackmistral]

Bound by Love - Alcina Dimitrescu x Reader/OC

Omg first of all - HI! so no one knows me here (😞) but if any of you ever wrote a fanfic about Alcina, i most probably read it bc i'm literally in love with her! I began writing this a long time ago for myself and decided to finish it to publish it here! My first language isn't english and I originally wrote it in french so I hope the translation isn't too bad! Please feedback for any mistakes! (it's so goddamn short ngl)

The path to the village was by no means hard to access. The only real dangers were the traps and the lycans - who nevertheless kept a relatively safe distance from the young woman. But on this day, there was no such danger.

   Laura made her own way to the village to go to the night market, claiming she didn't mind the task. Alcina Dimitrescu's three daughters, Bela, Cassandra and Daniela, had all offered to accompany her, but she had told them she'd be quicker on her own. So, she dressed warmly, given Romania's capricious October weather, and went out with nothing more than a sorrel basket and a small purse. She hadn't gone to notify Alcina of her departure, since she was still working in her office and wish not to be disturbed unless it was an emergency.

   So, she headed down towards the village, keeping an eye on her surroundings. The trees around her looked threatening, as if they were warning her off. As she went deeper into the forest and looked back for a moment, she noticed that she could no longer see the castle in the fog. Clenching her fists for courage, she started walking faster. Each step seemed to lead her back towards an uncertain danger; and she widened her eyes when she spotted a large shadow behind her. It must have been there for some time, but the bad weather had prevented the young woman from seeing properly. A hand came to rest on her right shoulder, and she jumped. Thinking at first of a lycan, she was, for a moment, calmed by the realization that the figure behind her was not a monster but a man. But when she looked at his dirt-covered face, she was astonished to discover that there was nothing human about his gaze. He was glaring at her bitterly, as if she wasn't really to his liking. A wry smile appeared after a few seconds, however, and she suddenly remembered that she was alone - and defenseless - against this stranger.

   “Did you get lost, pretty girl?”

   His voice sounded to her like a low growl, meant to be threatening. Laura tried to step aside and answer, but the hand on her shoulder moved abruptly to her throat and grabbed her neck. It was hard to breathe now, and the realization hit her once again. Not only was she alone, but she wasn't expected back at the castle for at least another hour. Alcina, she thought. She imagined her face until the grip around her neck tightened and the man pushed her to the ground. She tried to catch her breath, but her assailant came dangerously close, giving her no respite.

   She wondered how this had happened. Alcina had told her, warned her, that she shouldn't go out alone. Laura had found her reasons somewhat foolish before, until now.

   He threw himself at her, a terrifying smile plastered on his face. She began to cry now, her tears falling into the mud. The man grabbed her jacket and blouse and yanked them off, tossing the clothes aside. She was now in her underwear and bra, her face twisted in fear, trying in vain to scream for help. She felt naked, humiliated. He moved his fingers towards her chest, ignoring her pleas and cries, forcing one of his hands over her mouth to silence her. It was when he touched her breast that a ferocious growl was heard, stopping the man in his doing. He frowned.

   “What the hell?”

   Behind him, a shadow nearly ten foot tall made him break out into a cold sweat. He turned around slowly, and Laura recognized her. She'd recognized her by the rumble in her voice. Alcina. She now approached at full speed, growling again, and sank her outstretched claws into the mortal's throat. Blood splattered onto her white dress, but she paid it no mind, her gaze fixed on the one she was about to kill.

   “My wife. My partner. You dare lay your hands on her? Prostule!” she exclaimed almost breathlessly, the rage consuming her.

   He choked as he tried to answer, but she dug her claws into his chest, and he stopped breathing. Laura watched the scene before her, torn between relief and fear. Alcina dropped the lifeless body to the ground, seeming to regain awareness of what she had done. She rushed over - still with the same elegance that fascinated Laura - and knelt beside her, taking her in her arms.

   “My darling,” she murmured.

   Laura noticed that Alcina was trembling too and put her arms around her neck.

   “Alcina... Alcina,” she sobbed.

   “I'm here, comoara mea.”

   The vampire ran her gloved hand through the young woman's hair and embraced her, rising to her original height. Laura wrapped her legs as best she could around her broad torso and rested her head on her breasts. She was still sobbing, shocked by the events that had taken place in such a short space of time. Alcina stayed silent and walked carefully to the castle.

***  

   Inside, the oil lamps were still burning brightly. Laura's skin was pale, slightly bluish at the tips, and her teeth were chattering. Alcina went straight across the central courtyard and into the building where their apartments and luxurious bathroom were located. A bathtub, with gigantic dimensions to match the vampire's supernatural size, was set in a corner of the room, near a window overlooking the forest below. Alcina placed Laura gently on the cabinet and sat her down, then tried to pull away; unsuccessfully, in view of the small, trembling hand that held her by the sleeve of her dress.

   “I'll just run some hot water, darling. I'll only be a moment.”

   When the young woman nodded softly and let go of the cloth, Alcina moved to the bathtub and turned on the hot water tap. She added one of her wife's favorite foaming soaps, then returned to her. Laura had never looked so fragile. True, she was a “tiny” woman, but this was one of the only times she'd seen her so terrified.

   It was a sight she never wanted to see again.

   She approached again and slowly ran her hands over the marks on Laura's neck.

    “My beloved... Forgive me for not having been here before. As soon as I knew you were in danger...”

   The vampire lowered her face to her wife's throat and planted her canines delicately in the mark she had given her at their wedding. Laura stroked Alcina's hair as she kissed the bruises. The brunette took Alcina's face in her hands and gave her a tired but sincere smile.

   “I'm fine now. You saved me, as you always have.”

   Yet, despite her reassuring words, Laura was still trembling. Alcina stepped aside, undressed and removed Laura's remaining clothes with ease, then led the young woman to the bath. She placed her at the front of the tub and settled herself behind her before pulling her back against her chest. Warm and tender kisses were placed on the nape of her neck and Laura sighed.

   “For a moment, I thought... it was too late,” she whispered.

   The big arms around her instinctively tightened and Alcina nestled her nose in his neck.

   “I'll always be there to protect you. From anyone and anything. I sensed you were in danger the moment you came across that... horrible lucru stupid de om.”

   Alcina growled softly, then tenderly kissed the back of the young woman's neck.

   “When I sensed your fear, your anguish... the first thing I did was look for you all over the castle. The girls came to see me and told me you'd left... Why didn't you warn me? You know the risks of leaving my lands alone, my angel.”

   “I didn't want to bother you,” Laura admitted. “You're so stressed with the investors these days…”

   “Those stupid incompetents - and my wine - are not my priority. You are my priority,” Alcina whispered, turning the brunette's head to rub her cheek against hers. “I apologize if I let you think otherwise.”

   Hearing these words, Laura turned in her wife's embrace to face her.

   “I didn't mean it that way. Even though I often find it hard to believe, I know you love me,” she said, smiling sheepishly, her cheeks flushed. “And I'm enormously grateful. Without you and our daughters... I'd be nothing.”

   Alcina ran a hand through her companion's sleek hair and smiled back.

   “Just like us, darling.”

***

   When the water turned cold and Laura had fallen asleep, Alcina decided it was time for them to go to bed. Their daughters had probably gone hunting, and it was late in the night by now.

   Once settled comfortably in their bed and dressed in a light nightgown belonging to Alcina, Laura looked peaceful, the vampire thought. She lay down beside her and wrapped her arms around her again. Alcina was by no means an insecure woman. She was afraid of nothing and nobody. But in the presence of such a fragile being... She couldn't help wondering if she would ever be too late.    She frowned. “No one's going to take you away from me. I love you too much for that to happen.”

[seat-safety-switch]

Stock market, baby! It's never been more acceptable to put all your money in one basket. When everyone's an investor, everyone is going to get rich! There's absolutely no way that this infinite growth train of non-stop roulette wins could turn out badly for us long- or even medium-term.

When I was still a respectable stockbroker, before the Lobster Incident – I'm sorry, my biographer has now legally forbidden me from publicly talking about it as part of an elaborate NDA – I made some good money. Sure, I made most of it for my employer, a soulless investment bank that controls all aspects of human existence, but all of those air-cooled vintage Porsches and mansions stuffed to the gills with speedboat parts didn't fall out of the sky.

Life's funny, huh? Now we're sitting here on the side of the road, heating up a single expired cocktail weenie over a can of lantern fuel. For me, it turns out that my award-winning trading strategy of "lose a whole bunch of money in the morning, only to make that money back by the end of the day" actually sometimes just lost a whole bunch of money. Pension funds figured it out at around the same time I told them that their accounts were empty, but we're all hurting around here – I can't afford a fourth speedboat on the shitty bonus they paid me.

What really made things bad for me was not the enormous trading losses, or the aforementioned Incident, but the fact that I was rude to a guy dressed as the janitor. You guessed it: genie in disguise. I was cursed for a thousand years for my bad manners. Tale as old as time. Wall Street is full of those fae, you know. Even Bay Street is, but they smell more like maple syrup and speak French, so it's easier to avoid them.

[yourpicasso25]

I will tell you a secret...

It's an easy but important one. So, question: Put 2 (or more) French people at a table. What are they going to talk about?

Fashion? It would depress most of us, especially not rake thin women 40s or older (and swimming costumes are NEVER to be mentionned, it's bordering on hanging offense)

Politics? first, we're irritable and sorta cranky by nature... but we're not crazy (mostly. Sorta)

Any ideas? (no peeking, and tell me what you guessed in the comments)

Done?

So let me tell you: Put 2 or more French people around a table, and what they will talk about is:

What they are eating right this minute, what they ate (any day any time from yesterday to 25 years ago), what they will eat in the more or less distant future.

Food (and drinks because they are related... no seriously) is a very VERY important business in France.

And one key element of that are the markets

Most small towns have permanent markets, mostly build in the 19th century in glass and iron structure like the Pavillons Baltard in Paris

There are permanent foodstall, jams and delicacy homemade cakes ans speciality local produces (and fish, of course!)

Then there are Market days. Twice a week.

And those are IMPORTANT days, people.

Because it's the place where you find the best produce, the tomatoes that graw up 2 miles away and the local honey that you can be pretty sure is actual bee vomit and not artifially colored glucose sirup (I was sooo angry when I learned that one)

So I'm giving you TWO markets. The everyday, business as usual one AND the market day one when everyone goes there with a couple of baskets to refuel both stomachs and conversation topics.

Next is this place, a big old town building

It has a shop downstair shop and a local on the first floor (I'm thinfing Yoga), a NPS lodging, an a big duplex appartment... with terrace, if you please.

The owners are well traveled, and settled in Voegel because they couldn't even dream to have that kind of flat in Paris (more like a broom closet)

There is an office, a VERY teenage girl bedroom with all sort of pop idols posters (mom despair... what happened to her little girl? Puberty, m'am), the aging (NOOOOO!) couple bedroom and a smallish but aquequate bathroom.

And a somewhat messy kitchen.

I'm getting vibes of a couple of 50 ish, Bobo Parisien, quite artistically inclined and maybe a bit snobbis, with limited artistic success so dad works as local newspaper photograph and mom mans the shop and gives yoga classes on the side.

Their daughter litterally CAN'T WAIT to leave that backmater island do go to University on the continent.

Isn't it funny how history can repeat itself sometimes?

[adore-laur]

BEAUTY

— harry & nadine’s meet-cute 🕊️

——

SIX YEARS AGO

Grey skies loomed over Loire Valley with the promise of an April rainstorm. The slow-moving river snaked through the scenic countryside and stretched beyond what the human eye could see. Trees rustled in a favorable breeze, stirring up aromas from nearby fruit orchids. Firecrests and turtledoves chirped in the distance, signaling the start of spring.

Nadine savored it all while crossing the bridge on her Beaumont bicycle. In the front wicker basket was her canvas tote bag containing her Kodak camera protectively wrapped in a pillowcase, a serving of fresh tapioca pudding she had impulsively purchased from the local farmer's market, and an unknown flower she had found under the oak tree in her backyard. Her yellow raincoat crinkled as she pedaled vigorously to get to her destination before the clouds burst. The scrape on her knee she had gotten from falling off her bike in her gravel driveway dully ached. Maybe the rain would wash away the dried blood.

The Domaine de Chaumont-sur-Loire opened its annual International Garden Festival that morning, which Nadine wouldn't have missed for the world. It resurfaced fond childhood memories of strolling through the enriching gardens with her family and getting lost in the creative landscapes showcased by landscapers, architects, and photographers far and wide.

Nadine planned to take photos to build her modeling portfolio. As a curvy girl with distinct ethnic features, getting her foot in the door had been challenging, but the alluring backdrop of the gardens would make her stand out. The theme was Gardens of Sensations.

In the past, it had been no easy feat to photograph herself with her less-than-adequate camera and awkward self-direction. However, she prepared to make these sacrifices for a prosperous career. Loire Valley only had one modeling agency, which meant she had to start somewhere small and affordable before traveling north to Paris for more lavish opportunities.

To earn a living, Nadine provided housekeeping services for surrounding chateaus. The work was rewarding, but it did not spark any passion for her. As a young girl, she had been fascinated by the aesthetic of posing in different environments and making fashion statements after seeing magazine spreads of French models strutting down the catwalk. But she had never been able to imagine herself in their shoes—literally and figuratively. Those six-inch heels seemed killer. With her thick eyebrows, pesky cellulite, and blemished skin, she had been the complete opposite of what model scouts sought.

Once Nadine became wiser over the years, she knew her worth. Her natural beauty just needed to be highlighted by the right scenery and garments.

When she arrived at the festival, she locked her bike on a rack and slung her tote bag over her shoulder. The historical Chateau-de-Chaumont on the sprawling lawn caused her to stop and stare for a moment. It was grand and beautiful, just as she remembered. Her new-fangled perspective left her wondering what inspiration she would discover.

After purchasing an admission ticket, she walked under the arch of the chateau to reach the garden path that weaved through twenty-one hectares of artistic garden exhibits. Each display differed depending on where the landscaper originally hailed from, like Japan, South Korea, Great Britain, and countless other countries. Among the trees was a greenhouse kitchen where vegetables were grown and offered to visitors. Nadine remembered eating juicy little tomatoes there as a teenager—they were called 'the nipples of Venus.' The memory made her smile faintly.

She glanced around for a pretty scene to photograph herself in just as rain began to sprinkle. Shivering, she pulled the hood of her poncho over her head. Maybe today wasn’t the best day to embark on a modeling adventure. Maybe she should have turned around and gone home.

But further in the gardens, Nadine stumbled upon a peculiar situation. An exhibition was still being set up, nestled in an opening surrounded by greenery like a secret oasis. Landscapers worked diligently to put the finishing touches on it. Their work had been delayed by the unpredictable climate in central France. It was a blessing that the rain didn’t fall much through the canopy of trees above.

There was a rectangular vat of water with a wooden path winding through it, similar to a Candyland board. The landscapers removed leaves and branches from the water with pool skimmers. Red bamboo canes stood tall around it, hugging the scene with vibrant color. There was something simple yet entrancing about it, and she was drawn to the energy of tranquility that called to her.

Nadine slowly approached, attempting to act invisible so as not to disturb them. She would wait until they were done before taking photos. Perhaps sitting on the path and posing near the bamboo would be adequate. Yes, that would be a fantastic shot. Unique, too, which was what she strived for.

Her childlike wonder pushed her closer until her attention snagged on something else. Something a little more intriguing.

A man stood waist-deep in the water, rearranging bamboo with sedulous care, his bare back turned to her. He had the most muscular, contoured back Nadine had ever seen in her life. It was sculpted in a way that captured her gaze, but she should not have been surprised. He was some sort of landscaper, which was a labor-intensive job. His tendons were surely robust. Sacré bleu, why was she thinking about his tendons?

She snapped out of her man-induced hypnosis. She had a job to get done. Her future was at stake! With that thought, she unwrapped her camera from its cocoon just as a couple of landscapers brushed past her with metal buckets, paying no mind to her lingering presence. She must have looked like a mere tourist.

Nadine delicately cleared her throat in an attempt to catch the attention of the man with the beautiful back. He was the only one still tending to the exhibit and did not seem to hear her.

"Excusez-moi?" she said, removing her hood to appear more approachable.

The man's large hands, which were also gorgeously sculpted, halted around the lithe bamboo sticks. His face turned before his body did, and goodness gracious! Oh wow. He was pleasing—to look at, she meant. His foreign face was a masterpiece of symmetry. While he did not look French, remnants of European features still adorned his face. A well-chiseled bone structure and an elegant straight nose. Pink lips that were parted. A firm chest with a ridged midsection. Disheveled, rain-soaked hair.

"Bonjour," he replied, sounding perplexed. Soulful green eyes stared intently at her.

Nadine's gaze desperately wanted to wander south again, but she remained strong. "Is this exhibit open to visitors?" she asked.

He regarded her for longer than normal—not scrutinizingly, but rather in a mystified manner. "Yes. My apologies; I was just perfecting a few details."

"I did not mean to intrude. I—" She paused and searched for the proper words. "Well, I was hoping to take pictures for my portfolio here."

"Your portfolio?" he echoed.

Nodding, Nadine nervously tucked her damp hair behind her ears. "For modeling. I want to broaden my use of compelling backdrops, and this festival has plenty of them." She waved a hand, the flourishing nature around them not needing further explanation. "Anyway, this particular exhibit caught my eye. Would it be possible for me to take some pictures?"

The man glanced behind her, his brows furrowing. "Where’s your photographer?"

"I do not have one," she said shyly. "I just place my camera on a flat surface and set the timer."

It was far too expensive to hire an entire crew for a photoshoot. She would have rather saved money by gaining hands-free experience herself. Besides, people in the modeling industry admired humble beginnings. She was building her career from the ground up.

"Would you like some assistance?" he asked, raindrops gently falling from his chin. Nadine detected a lilted British accent.

"Oh, I do not want to be a nuisance," she said. "I’m sure you’re busy."

He walked to the edge closest to her and shook his head, a handsome smile pulling at his lips. "No, not anymore."

Feeling thrilled, Nadine's heartbeat pounded like a stampede of wild animals. "All right, then."

It was an unexpected turn of events. As far as she was concerned, she had not expected to meet someone as generous as this man. She hadn't expected much of anything out of today since the weather put a damper on her mood, and her dreams often felt unattainable.

"What's your name?"

Handing over her camera, she answered, "Nadine."

"I'm Harry," he said. "I'm a landscape architect, which might not help your situation, but I did get a passing grade in a college-level photography class. Is that good enough?"

"I don't know," she countered playfully. "I might interpret a passing grade differently from you."

He laughed, his nose scrunching. "B-minus."

She pretended to mull it over before saying, "I will accept that."

"Merci." He sat on the wooden path. "So, do you have any specific ideas in mind for the photoshoot?"

"I know I want to be a part of nature. Close-up shots are preferred. And..." Nadine looked at the exhibit, pondering. "Am I allowed to go in the water?"

"I don't see why not."

"Will I get into trouble? I couldn't stand being banned from this place."

While fidgeting with her camera, Harry said, "This is my exhibit."

This had been designed by him? It was highly impressive, and it made her feel better knowing a person with a meticulous brain and a keen eye for design was helping her. It was also attractive knowing he had constructed it with his bare hands. Did his fingers have calluses? Were there blood, sweat, and tears involved? No, don’t think about him sweating!

"You're letting a stranger interfere with your creation?" she asked, willing away the heat rushing up her neck.

As Harry raised the camera to his eye and pointed it at random things, seemingly testing its functionality, he murmured, "You would be adding beauty to it."

In the middle of removing her sandals and poncho, Nadine’s breath hitched. It was quite bold of him to make such a statement. She had to tread carefully around this male enigma. She was there for business and business only.

"Hop in," Harry said. "The water is heated."

She felt vulnerable in her white camisole and brown silk maxi skirt. Her curves were accentuated by the spring breeze blowing through the fabric. Her feet sank into the dirt. To remain true to the theme of nature and its rawness, she had opted not to wear any makeup.

Shimmying down her skirt and letting it pool on the ground, she was left wearing beige underwear. Without a single word spoken, the mood turned intimate.

While she dipped one leg into the water, Harry's gentlemanly gaze remained fixed on her face. He was right—it was a glorious temperature, like sinking into a lukewarm bath after a long day. She was submerged up to her rib cage.

"Are you new to Loire Valley?" Nadine asked, curious about how this beautiful man showed up in her hometown.

"I live in England. I was invited to this festival to create a United Kingdom exhibit."

"Ah, oui. It must be such an honor. Do you like it here so far?"

Harry nodded. "It's gorgeous. The architecture is brilliant."

"I hope the sheer number of chateaus we have is not overwhelming,” Nadine said, slicking her hair back with wet palms.

He chuckled and stood up. "Shall we get started?"

Nadine leaned against the edge of the vat, swaying trees and clusters of red bamboo behind her. She settled her expression into her "model face," which was basically just her looking slightly pissed off at something, but in a sexy way. With her chin tilted up, she showed off her sharp jaw and neck muscles.

Harry knelt on the wooden path and held the camera steadily. Leaning forward, he zoomed in at a low angle. There was a look of concentration on his face, and she felt elated that he was so serious about assisting her.

The shutter clicked a few times. By moving her face just a smidge, she subtly posed. It was all natural to her once she was in the moment—like breathing. She loved immersing herself in working the camera to her advantage. She made it her best friend.

"Regardez-moi," Harry murmured, sending a delightful shiver down Nadine’s spine. She looked at him with her lips pursed attractively, and he snapped more photos. "Parfaite."

"You speak very good French."

Still adorably focused on his task, he hummed in acknowledgment. "I studied architecture at Versailles and took French classes. It's a romantic language."

"I agree." She switched her pose by spreading her arms in the water and trying to smize, as invented by Tyra Banks. The camera’s shutter sounded dozens of times.

To get the best angles, Harry contorted his body in semi-ridiculous ways. He then got in the water and stood near her. Nadine’s heart rate spiked since he was even more ethereal up close. There was a gentleness to his presence, and she was undeniably attracted to it.

"What do you call an angry French aunt?" Harry asked, setting up a joke.

"Oh, boy. What?"

"A crossaunt."

Nadine let a giggle escape. Slowly lowering the camera, Harry stared at her in awe. His smile was stuck in place, as if making her laugh stopped time.

"Fossetes," he whispered. Dimples.

A powerful blush expanded across her face and spread to her chest. Suddenly, her smile turned shy. She had never experienced such attention from a man before. The feeling was both daunting and exhilarating.

Water sluiced down Nadine's body when she stood at her full height. "Thank you for doing this," she said, her voice weak.

"It was my pleasure,” Harry replied. “You made my job easy."

She was going to burst into flames if she kept blushing. "Can I repay the favor in any way?"

His lips quirked to the side as he hummed thoughtfully. "What are your plans for next weekend?" he asked.

"I will most likely be back here again."

"As will I."

"So...” Nadine chewed on the inside of her cheek. “I will see you then?"

"Absolutely." He cleared his throat and held her gaze. "I was wondering if you would fancy doing something with me afterward. We could visit all the farmer's markets. Perhaps stroll along the river at sunset. You could show me your favorite spots and tell me why you love them."

Nadine inhaled a little gasp. If he wanted to spend an evening together, he had surely felt the connection too. It was palpable, hanging thickly in the air like a storm cloud. She could feel the electrical charge with just a single glance. It was definitely worth exploring.

"Unless you're taken,” Harry added uncertainly, combing a hand through his hair. "Sorry, I should have asked first. I just find you so pretty, and you have a lovely laugh." He paused briefly, glimpsing at her lips. "I'd love to hear more of it."

She walked toward him, her pulse going haywire. Her palms rested against his chest as she softly kissed his clean-shaven cheek and said, "I’m available.”

"Oui?"

"Oui."

Harry's eyes crinkled when he smiled. "Splendid. I'm looking forward to it, dove."

Gleeful flutters took flight in Nadine's stomach. She had been yearning for a serendipitous moment for ages. The prospect of being wanted always felt unreachable to her. No boy had ever decided she was worth a chance. Now, there was a glimmer of hope.

When Nadine arrived home later that evening, she perused through the pictures on her camera—there were at least a hundred. Each one captured her in a certain light that had been unknown to her. Through the eyes of someone else, she found herself desirable.

All thanks to the man with the beautiful back.

——

[love-in-the-time]

i need to see the following:

The doctor and donna on a country lane with bags and a basket, coming from the farmer's market in the little french town where they live, on a sunny day and donna has a hat and a pretty dress and she's managed to convince the doctor to wear jeans.

The doctor and donna at the farmer's market inspecting produce and laughing with each other.

donna dancing around the kitchen as she cooks, while the doctor watches, sure that he's never going to leave this little french outpost of his as long as she's there.

he experiments with a beard. donna is pleased. "makes you look even more bloke-y," she says. "like a regular guy." he shaves it off the next week.

patisserie for all! she comes back from town with a literal box of french pastries and they eat them for dinner in the garden like two kids.

i wish i could draw. there are so many possibilities!

[kiwisa]

floriography ✩ ln04

Lando Norris x Fem! Parisian! Reader

fluff • 2,800 words

IN WHICH... you met lando during his two-week stay in paris. through streets, places, and dates, you rediscovered your city and perhaps fell in love ⏤ all to the scent of flowers.

A delicious smell emanated from the Queen Elizabeth II flower market: a colourful spectrum in the monochrome place that Paris could sometimes be. Every week, you would go there to buy a different bouquet. Your flat wasn't really yours without a touch of life to brighten it up.

Some would see it as an unnecessary expense; you saw it as a necessity. Your flowers always sat in the middle of the living room, reminding you of the fragility of life and – above all – the need to enjoy the moment: a discreet but omnipresent Carpe Diem.

You could spend hours every Tuesday morning at the opening, wandering aimlessly between these stalls which always managed to make you feel light, carefree – a parenthesis of softness and calm, necessary in the intensity of your daily life.

With your wicker basket in your left hand and your steps punctuated by the chirping of the many birds for sale, you would stop at times in front of a particularly pretty bouquet and then go on your way, empty-handed. You only made your choice at the very end, even putting it off until the last minute to enjoy the bucolic setting a little more.

However, a hint of red suddenly caught your attention. You approached and hastened to read the little slate stuck between two plants: amaryllis, “the desire to woo”. Floriography – the language of flowers, for they could speak better than humans – had always intrigued you. In the corner of your head, you filed this information away.

As you read it, you found yourself thinking of Lando, with whom August had passed so quickly. A simple meeting in the heart of the French capital had led to afternoons filled with the smell of love and the melody of a British accent.

September was already upon you and, as you resumed your walk, the names of flowers seemed to be calling you. Some of them even took you back to those sunny summer days, spent in the company of the one who was becoming more and more present in your life.

WISTERIA ! “tenderness” ✩ Paris, rue Saint-Maur

The Atelier des Lumières was casting Monet's impressionist works on its walls, and, in the middle of these thousands of lights, your face had become that of his muse.

Lando had never been in this building and its peculiar industrial façade. The French capital itself was unknown to him, actually. You had been the one to first tell him about it during your first meeting at a café on the rue de la Convention ⏤ just after almost crashing in each other ⏤, telling him how the exhibition on Van Gogh and his Starry Night had transported you.

“There's something magical about wandering through mythical works of art,” you had told him that day, a dreamy smile on your lips. You were probably thinking of how amazing you had felt in the middle of that blue and yellow sky.

It was only later that you told Lando about the new exhibition, this time devoted to Monet, and expressed your desire to see it.

“I tried to go with my friends, but they don't care much about art.”

The night of your conversation, he had rushed to buy two tickets, even though he didn't particularly love the French painter, even though lighting effects sometimes made him nauseous, even though he didn't want to be in the middle of people who might recognize him. The mere prospect of making you smile motivated him.

When he kissed your cheek in front of the museum, smelling your flowery perfume, he found you shy but cheerful. No doubt you remembered this conversation and were touched to see how far his little attentions could go. His joy increased tenfold as you both moved through the exhibition.

More fascinated by the woman in front of him than by the indistinct lilies, Lando kept his gaze fixed on you, smiling when you finally decided to speak: “I've always wanted to visit the British Museum. If I come to London to see you, will you take me there?”

“Of course.”

The subtle promise of seeing each other again.

“Oh, look! Impression, Sunrise!”

He let himself be pulled towards the animation, a smile on his lips.

CAMELLIA ! “admiration” ✩ Paris, rue de la Légion d'Honneur

With his cap screwed on his head, Lando was desperately trying to follow you through the Musée d'Orsay while avoiding the passers-by, who were far too numerous for his taste.

The great upward path, overlooked by numerous sculptures, including the majestic Porte de l'Enfer, was invaded by art lovers. Among them, you and your look of wonder, who almost pulled him by the arm, eager to show him your favourite works.

He refrained from telling you that he knew the exhibition well, having visited it every time he would come to Paris. He didn't want to tarnish the glow in your eyes.

“The room with all the Bouguereau is my favourite. Come on.”

You led him into Room 2. Immediately, Cabanel's Birth of Venus greeted you. Exposed on the right wall of this recess, he let his eyes wander over her perfectly defined contours, her sensual curves accentuated, her languid position.

“She's beautiful,” you said beside him.

He refrained from nodding, walking towards Room 3, where he saw Bouguereau's version, proud as it was, standing in the middle of this watery painting, like an ancient statue.

“I don't know which one I prefer. They're both beautiful,” you said, your pout showing your indecision. “It's interesting to see the same subject can lead to completely different interpretations.”

“I think I prefer Bouguereau's. She appears less as an object of desire and more as a goddess. She has this aura to her.”

“I mean… They still look at her with desire,” you retorted in reference to the other characters on the painting. “I wish people would look at me like that sometimes,” she went on. “With as much admiration as they do,” you pointed to the two nymphs to the right of the Goddess.

You quickly turned your attention to Dante and Virgil, a darker but equally beautiful painting. Lando followed behind, hands in his pockets, looking thoughtful, but not without taking one last look at the painting.

All were in darkness except Venus, illuminated by a light coming from her right and emanating from the shell, which reigned in the centre of the vision. He looked at you, in the centre of the room, illuminated by one of the projectors. He smiled.

Of all the paintings, between academism and impressionism, your portrait was by far the most magnificent.

DAHLIA ! “generosity” ✩ Paris, rue St-Honoré

Lando and you quickly passed the forest green door of the Delamain bookshop, in desperate need for a refuge to escape rain. This unexpected storm had caught both of you by surprise, spoiling their initial plan to stroll through the Parisian streets.

Laughter – because your mascara had run, because Lando's jacket was soaked – echoed for a moment in the room's foyer but faded when your eyes finally took in the scenery. The central stalls jumped out for the visitors’ eyes, welcoming them and already urging them to buy. So numerous were the titles. One wondered how they didn't fall off. The latest Goncourt prize was sitting in the middle of it all, its garish red label attracting all eyes. Buy me, it screamed.

On the wall, when you could see them, mostly hidden by big oak bookcases, a few frames here and there represented the bookshop at different periods of its existence: 1790, 1850, 1970, 2010…

“How about we each choose a book and give it to each other?” Lando's voice drew you out of your state of admiration.

“Oh yes! That's a brilliant idea!”

You didn't see him smile – amused to see your vocabulary change for British English – as you walked by, already turned towards the back of the shop. You immediately began scanning the shelves for the perfect title. The Pleiades shelf on the left almost called to you, but the obvious language barrier between Lando and you came to mind, and, thus, you resigned yourself to looking elsewhere.

Reluctantly, you headed for the “Literature in English” section, disappointed that you could not share with him the beauty of French literature.

Several times you passed each other, exchanging a brief smile before resuming your search. It seemed endless. You spent the afternoon like this: in front of the stacks, reading the summaries of books, putting them down again. Nothing seemed good enough to be given as a present for the Other.

“What do you give to someone who has already read everything?”

“He'll think your classics are rubbish,” you cringed.

Finally, as six o'clock rang, the two of you stood outside the shop, each with a bag in hand, the rain already forgotten. You immediately handed your brown bag to Lando, who hurriedly took out the wrapped work. You both walked to escape from the street’s noise, while he struggled to remove the wrapping paper. The cover of A Room with a View by E. M. Forster was soon in his hands.

“I hope you like it. I chose it because it has a happy ending since you don’t like to be sad when you read,” you referred to one of your many debates.

Lando laughed, as you looked on in panic and immediately regretted your choice. Maybe he didn't like it? Had he already read it?

“Open yours.”

You complied, eyebrows furrowed, and pulled out The Song of Achilles by Madeleine Miller, which you had never read, despite the waves of enthusiasm on social media surrounding it.

“I got it for you because you love novels with bad endings.”

At his explanation, a giggle fell from your mouth. Your thought processes were not so different from each other after all… Smiling, you thanked Lando with a kiss on the jaw, which he returned.

You both returned to the bookstore several times during Lando’s trip, sometimes alone, but each time with a book in hand for the other.

CROCUS ! “joy” ✩ Paris, Jardin des Plantes

With a smile on your faces and your fingers intertwined, Lando and you strolled between the rectangular flowerbeds of the Jardin des Plantes, stopping at times to smell the sweetness of a bud that had or would soon become a flower. Time seemed to stand still in the middle of these flowers and shrubs. One could almost have seen the coquettes, dandies, grand ladies, and boisterous children who had walked these paths centuries before.

In the distance, the streets of the capital had never been so beautiful, an urban reflection of these hundreds of colourful touches: the yellow of the streetlamps, the orange of the cars’ indicators, the red of the shop signs. The Sun, comfortably seated on its highest point, dazzled your cheerful faces as it watched over you, smiling at this budding love.

Joy was such a pure feeling. One could see its aura, powerful and brilliant: a protective halo from the worst vices of the World. It sparkled around the two of you. Those heartbeats in unison, those candid laughs, all these little touches reinforced the beauty of the idyllic picture that was painted before the Sun’s eyes.

“Look!” you exclaimed.

One hand was holding your straw hat so it wouldn't fly off while the other was pointing to a colourful bird perched on a tree branch, its leaves coloured a resplendent green. The smell of freshly cut grass intoxicated passers-by, plunging them into a euphoria that only the end of spring could bring.

The feeling of being invincible was indescribable, reinforced by the Sun's rays, whose reflections chased away the shadows and, with them, the bad memories. All these trees formed an enchanting globe above the garden, pierced by these beams of light. The soft, pale pink flowers lowered and rose with the rhythm of the quiet wind.

This smooth transition between Summer and Autumn, these few precious days, was without a doubt your favourite time of year, synonymous with holidays, sunshine, tranquillity. You saw the joy of existence as well as rebirth with each yellowing leaf.

Happy to be able to enjoy this beautiful weather, small laughs escaped from your lips without realising it, hypnotised by this pastoral picture.

The characteristic sound of a camera caught your attention. Turning your head, your eyes obstructed for a few seconds by strands of hair, your gaze finally landed on the man a few metres away from. You hadn't even noticed that he had moved away, letting go of your hand as he did so.

You suddenly found it cruelly empty.

Lando was smiling at his screen. Curious, you hopped over to him, your white and light pink dress billowing in the wind. When you reached him, you leaned over his shoulder and stood on tiptoe to see what seemed to hypnotize him. With a grimace on your face, you quickly put a hand on the screen to try and hide the picture.

“Delete that! I'm ugly!”

“Don't bullshit me, you're always beautiful.”

You kissed his cheek, leaving it red from your lips.

BEGONIA ! “faith in the future” ✩ Paris, rue de Palestro

“Can you pass me the jam, please?” you asked, your tongue between your lips, concentrating on digging hearts into the dough with the end of a tablespoon.

An arm passed in front of your eyes, nearly turning the heart into a triangle. Lando easily grabbed the jam jar and continued scraping the bottom of the bowl.

“Stop eating the dough, you'll get sick.”

“Are you my mother? I don't think so.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled at his smug look. He shoved a teaspoonful of the mixture into his mouth to taunt you.

You chose not to say anything.

In just two weeks, and dozens of dates in addition to the many texts you exchanged, your relationship had evolved for the better: more spontaneous, less restrained. You were no longer trying to impress each other, although a few ambiguous little remarks continued to be exchanged, and were now fully enjoying this new comfort.

Neither really friends, nor really lovers, Lando reminded himself.

You hadn't even kissed yet, satisfied – for the moment – with the softness of a kiss on the cheek. Things were moving at your own pace: slowly, but surely. Lando could see that this was all new to you, who had confided in him about your lack of experience in relationships.

He was more than happy with this new pace. His previous relationships had all been formed on the fly, sometimes within two weeks, others within a month. If some had lasted a long time, a few years, all had been ruined by the desire to go too fast without consideration for the other. He had sometimes shared his bed with women he had loved deeply, without ever really getting to know them.

He did not want to fall into that pattern again. You were a breath of fresh air, an escape from this involuntary toxicity.

“I hope you're aware that I'm going to be intransigent on taste.”

“What are you, Gordon fucking Ramsay? You're going to eat the biscuits and shut your mouth. This isn't Come Dine With Me.”

“Shit, there goes my plan.”

The two of you laughed as you carefully filled the holes you had formed with raspberry jam. Without a word, Lando began to help you. Concentrating on your task, you did not notice him. It was only when you lifted your head to brush aside a lock of hair, which was in the way, that you realized his actions.

“You suck at this, get out!”

“Ouch!” You hit him with a tea towel. “Fuck, stop acting like my mother. You're hurting me!”

He fled from the kitchen under your attacks and laughter, finding refuge in the living room where he dropped onto the sofa. With a smile on his face, he traced each of the mouldings on the ceiling before straightening up and quietly watching you, who was humming some song in the kitchen.

He thought he recognised the tune, but didn't pay it any more attention than that, busy gazing at Her.

You looked ethereal, like a touch of heaven in the mundane.

Lando pondered over your future afternoons ⏤ in London, perhaps ⏤ and if, yes or no, they would all be this wonderful.

[leclercsredhelmet]

Daylight 𖤓 Mick Schumacher

A/N: Hello gain! This is a blurb I just finished writing inspired by Daylight, which is one of my favorite Taylor songs and always reminds me of Mick. I hope you enjoy reading it!

“ I don’t want to look at anything else now that I saw you”

Early morning light filtered through the windows, casting a soft glow around the room. Cold air hit your exposed skin and you turned seeking warmth as you pulled the covers tighter to your body. The spot next to you always occupied by your longtime boyfriend was empty, with a small frown you sat up and scanned the room. The dog beds were empty, you assumed Mick had taken Angie and Aero on a run with him but there was no handwritten note left.

Suddenly the smell of breakfast hit you and you grinned, faintly you could listen to Mick telling your dogs to be quiet. Suppressing a laugh you covered your mouth and decided to brush your teeth before heading out of the room. “Did someone cook? It smells great!” you exclaimed and Mick turned around with a smile. “I was supposed to bring this to you,” he said with a small frown and you couldn’t help but laugh at how cute he was.

“Amor, you are so wholesome,” you said as you kissed him sweetly, “How about I go back to bed, you can have a do-over,” you said and he grinned. Laughing you went back to bed and buried yourself under the covers. A few minutes later you felt the bed dip and someone was peeking under the heap of blankets. Ocean blue eyes met your yours, giggling you tapped his nose and sat up. Your back rested against the headboard and a tray with food was placed on your side.

“Good morning Chef Schumacher,” you said and Mick laughed. You kissed him sweetly, “What do we have here?” you asked. “French toast with fresh berries from the market,” he said proudly. “I woke up early and went to the market to pick out the best berries,” he added. “God you’re perfect, this is perfect. I love you so much” you said looking at him adoringly. “I love you the most” he replied and you giggled.

Sitting side by side you ate the food and talked about your plans for today, “Mick can we stay in?” you asked looking at him. Kissing the top of your head he nodded, “Of course, do you want to bake something? We can read, do puzzles, watch movies, make friendship bracelets!” he exclaimed and you laughed.

Mornings like these with Mick were your favorite, you liked to go out on hikes, spend a day at the market, go out at night, and things like that but you loved to stay in with him and put on a good playlist while having a slow day in your pajamas. Kissing you on the cheek he left to wash the dishes and you decided to take a quick shower and change into your daytime pajamas, which was just what you called one of his sweaters and a pair of shorts. Emerging out of the bathroom you found Mick in bed, he turned on his side to look at you before reaching out and pulling you into the bed by your hips, and you giggled. “Mick that tickles!” you exclaimed and he took the opportunity to keep tickling you.

Combined laughter filled the room, Angie and Aero came running in and hopped on the bed settling at your feet. “I love that it’s you, me, and our dogs for the next months,” Mick said softly as he ran his hands through your hair. Humming in agreement you looked at him with a smile, “Yeah, our little family unit” you replied. His lips placed another one of those gentle kisses on your forehead.

Hours had passed, and still, in your pajamas, you both stood in the kitchen. “Are we baking too much?” Mick asked concerned. “No, I think we’re fine!” you replied. “Liebchen, I think we went a little overboard,” he said with a laugh. Both ovens were full, one was full with four loaves of sourdough, and the second oven had three different types of muffins. “Well, yeah maybe we did make too much,” you said with a laugh. “But hey, it’s fine!” you said rolling up the sleeves of his grey sweater. “We can just make a basket and bring some to your parents,” you said with a smile. Mick grinned and hugged you, swaying you from side to side, “Yeah, we can go by tonight,” he said. “Or we could invite them over for dinner?” you asked. “I will call them later, they’d love to come over” he replied smiling.

Sunlight streamed through the open living room windows and patio door illuminating the space with natural light. Mick was sitting Indian-style across from you, boxes of various beads of shapes colors, and sizes sat between you along with other necessary supplies needed to make friendship bracelets. Mimicking his position you were looking for a new set of colors to make a bracelet while Mick was finishing one. “Give me your arm, please,” he said and you stuck your arm, he measured the elastic carefully holding the unfished bracelet as he added some more beads before getting ready to tie it. Deciding to just observe him you smiled at how his focus was trained on evenly holding the strings together, comparing the length before making the knot.

With great care he knotted the bracelet, making sure it was tight before cutting the excess string and putting it away from the dogs’s reach. “I made you this,” he said showing you the bracelet, `looking at it you kissed him, he had made a bracelet with both of your favorite colors and your initials. Extending your arm out he slid the bracelet on and kissed your hand. Your day was spent, sharing kisses, singing along to Taylor Swift, and making bracelets. By mid-afternoon, you had started to cook dinner and watched as the light danced around making his blue eyes and blonde hair brighter. Despite having spent three years dating you were still amazed at how the sunlight always made his features stand out.

Laughter filled the table and you felt that summer breeze you loved so much as you ate dessert out on the patio table where you’d had the meal. Setting your glass down you looked at Mick before resting your head on his shoulder, his arm was around you as you talked with Corinna about the recipe you’d followed for the apricot pie. Warmth was felt today and you realized that these days were the most precious because loved ones were around, memories were created, bonds were strengthened and you had your favorite person next to you. This took you back to when you believed love was meant to be black and white but after loving Mick you realized it was golden like daylight.

(all photo credits belong to their owners)

[cleopatronising]

someone please stop me from ordering the Maggie Beer French Market Basket

[wistful-giselle]

foods to heal the soul & body 🦪 ~~

all fruit & berries — raspberries, blueberries, blackberries….. freshly picked, ideally, in a little wicker basket…. pair with live yogurt or kefir and nuts and seeds to eat like a fairy or bird-like creature……

organic vegetables of all colours — kale, squash, mushrooms, carrots, edamame, potato, beetroot, chard, (baby) cucumber, sweetcorn, peppers — for beautiful salads with chickpea hummus and oils and tofu and olives and feta cheese….

seasonal treats for winter : bûche de noël and marzipan fruit and crystallised petals and hot milk with honey like a child before bedtime and pink heart biscuits for valentine’s day….

for autumn : toffee apples and mulled wine and syrupy coffee and oat porridge with banana in the morning and hearty seasonal soup with hot soft bread to break and share… .

for spring : hot cross buns with (homemade) cherry jam and simmel cake and chocolate rabbits with gold foil and eggs to paint….

for summer : lychees and watermelon and white peaches and figs off trees and ice cream by the seaside and freshly caught fish stewed with cherry tomato and herbs and onion and lentils…

little garnishes — edible flowers, parsley, pomegranate seeds, pistachio, rosemary and thyme, lavender lemongrass….

and above all, whatever brings joy alongside sustenance — dates stuffed with almond butter, italian fettuccine in antique bowls, birthday cake and non-birthday cake, oysters, melon cut out to look like stars, sushi and sashimi, jellies in fanciful moulds, crepes from french markets and stroopwafles from dutch markets…. etc.

˚✧₊⁎⁺˳✧༚

[jimi-rawlings]

Top 10 most expensive African cities to live in 2024 | Business Insider Africa

Douala, Cameroon's main city and commercial hub, is a thriving metropolis recognized for its port, industry, and dynamic commerce. As the commercial hub, Douala sees a large influx of individuals looking for better economic prospects. As a result, the city boasts a high cost of living. It ranks 63rd on Mercer's index.

METHODOLOGY

Mercer's 2024 rating methodology included 226 cities from five continents. It compared the expenses of more than 200 products in each area, including accommodation, transportation, food, clothes, home goods, and entertainment. To guarantee consistency in city-ranking comparisons, New York City was used as a baseline, and currency fluctuations were assessed against the US dollar.

The numbers included in Mercer's cost comparisons are from a study done in March 2024 that included over 400 cities. Calculations and baselines were based on exchange rates at the time as well as data from Mercer's worldwide basket of goods and services (used in its Cost of Living Survey).

Black Russians (French: Russes noirs) is an unofficial name given to a group of pro–government militias in the Central African Republic, recruited mostly from former Anti-Balaka and UPC fighters by Wagner Group. The militias have been accused of multiple war crimes and crimes against humanity.[1]

S & M GOALS TEAMPLATE

Stretch Goals: Central African Republic Ranks Top 8 in FIFA World Rankings for Men's and Top 5 for Futsal

Micro Goals: All Time Laureus World Sports Awards Winner for Africans, Laureus Team Award, All Time African Footballer of the Year, AFCON Host Nation Champion*, African Transfer Record*,  Insead and WSJ Conferences*, Jeune Afrique Cover*, Verified LinkedIn Member*, and Agriculture Startup Reality TV

CAPÔI HABITANT CURRENCY MODEL

Pigou Effect, Corporate Tax Havens, Capital Gains Tax Havens, Private-Public Sectors, Joint Venture Plantations, Market Extension Mergers, with Business Incubators, and Enterprise Foundation, Holding Company, Subsidiaries, and Horizontal Integration for Monopoly.

A currency union (also known as monetary union) is an intergovernmental agreement that involves two or more states sharing the same currency. These states may not necessarily have any further integration (such as an economic and monetary union, which would have, in addition, a customs union and a single market). [Pigou Effect Currency (Short FX), Currency Board Currency (Retirement Fixed Exchange Rate), Market Currency (FX Long Currency)]

Gross national product (GNP) GNP is related to another important economic measure called gross domestic product (GDP), which takes into account all output produced within a country's borders regardless of who owns the means of production. GNP starts with GDP, adds residents' investment income from overseas investments, and subtracts foreign residents' investment income earned within a country. Whilst GDP measures the total value of goods and services produced within a country's borders, GNP focuses on the income generated by its residents, regardless of their location.

Gross National Income (GNI) is the total amount of money earned by a nation's people and businesses. It is used to measure and track a nation's wealth from year to year. The number includes the nation's gross domestic product (GDP) plus the income it receives from overseas sources.

Agriculture Central Hedge Fund, Mining Unions: Peninsula Agronomique Engineering, Commodities Options Exchange (Credit Spread Options, Farm REITs, Crop Production; Fertelizers and Seeds; Equipment; Distribution and Processing Stocks, Ag ETFs and ETNs, Ag Mutual Funds), Tableau Économiques, Investments Farms REITs, Art Financing Mardi Gras

Index Franc: Tobacco-Tobacco Soil Index/Franc Tabac Currency Pair (TBS/TAF)

The overlapping generations (OLG) model; consumption-based capital asset pricing model (CCAPM); Endogenous growth theory; Material balance planning; Leontief paradox; Malinvestment; Helicopter money; Modern monetary theory

Mercantilism Spectrum of CDF/CFA

CDF Raw Materials and CFA Products. (Prices); CDF Holding Company and CFA Conglomerate Company. (Equity and Dividend Yield); CDF is Gold Standard and CFA is Helicopter Money. (FX Rate/Hedging); CDF Helicopter Money [Supplier Currency] and CFA as Purchasing Power [Consumer Currency] (Currency Union & Currency Board and Negative Interest Rates); CDF is Congolese Franc and CFA is Central African Franc

RUSSE NOIR (À MA SAUCE) FOOTBALL

À ma sauce Literally: To my sauce, True meaning: Suit my style

VEDETTE: 3-4-1-2 has 4 Pivot Formations so 5 Total: Transition to a 4-4-2 Diamond, Transition to a 4-4-2, Transition to a 4-2-3-1, Transition to a 3-3-1-3

Positional Game is Diamonds Tic-Tac-Toe with Enforcer and Avoider. Striker [Enforcer](Inverted Winger and Centre Forward), Deep Lying Playmaker [Avoider] (Holding Midfielder and Inverted Winger), and Sweeper Wingback Deep Lying Playmaker [Avoider] (Centre Back). Use Playing Styles, Manipulated Positions, and Combinational Games for Positional Play as Johan Cruyff students.

Cameroon 4-4-2 Diamond Variant: 1-3-4-2 (1) À ma sauce (Sweeper Deep-lying Playmaker Wingback) (4) Diamant (À ma sauce: Counterpressing Pivot Pressing Triggers, Sweeper-Winger Pivots, Overlapping Runs, W; I; M; V; Box Keeping Formation with 3 Centre-Backs) [Key Stats: Front Foot, Pressing Triggers, Clearance, Aerial Duel, Interceptions, Blocked Shots, Tackles, Final Ball, Key Dribbles, Overlapping Runs, Set Piece Taker] Spacing, Possession, Pass Completion, and Counter Pressing with Pursuit and Ambush Predation One Team Box Touches and Capture the Flag with Analytics-Geometry Total Football Trixie Bet on CNS Drugs (Xanax and Modafinil); 1-1-2-1 Diamond Rover Futsal Pivot Formation

Define a run in one of two ways: (i) as a set of consecutive goals scored by one team, without the other team scoring a goal; (ii) as a set of consecutive scoring events by one team, each event being either a goal or one or more Set Piece. Play aggressive and with counter pressing and run it up on the score board in the first half and after halftime play defense. You get a break at half and it's easier to win when someone plays defense and looks for opportunities instead of Attacking.

Posterior Chain Super Compensation and Speed-Endurance (Elastic-Connective Tissue) Force-Velocity Curve; Crescent Moon Horizontal Plane Vertical Force Sprinting Mechanics.

Set Piece Stylistic Biomechanics: Shooting Knee at Wall for Curve and Placement Knee for Corner. Follow through with Shot with proper Body Alignment

Knee to Feet or Shoulder to Feet Cradling for Touch/Entertainment

UEFA Front Office Curriculum

Museum d'histoire: Broken down into three major section — “A Lineage of Coaches Players and Places,” “Proving Grounds” and “Cultures of Basketball” — City/Game documents how basketball first found its origins in the neighborhoods of NYC and then went on to produce a roster of local legends who played everywhere from Rucker Park and the Cage on West 4th Street to Christ the King High School and St. John’s University.

Agility Ladder Eyes Pocket: Eyes Between Defenders Feet and Ball, Numbered Footwork V-Step (Shifting Defenders with Momentum) et L-Step (Explosive First Step), All moves should form a Triangle or an Incomplete Triangle (Coup de Pied)

*Push-Pull Sprint/Shooting Cycle: Pull Glutes et Hamstring; Push Calf et Quads for Sprints.

Sprint Size Up: A series of feint Karaoké dribble moves with Eye Tricks (Fake Pass) but Sprint Position Finish

Triangle Philosophy: All Dribbling Moves should form a Triangle or an Incomplete Triangle while using V-Step (Shifting Defenders with Momentum) et L-Step (Explosive First Step).

Thé Crescent: In Close Dribbling; Crescent Footwork with L Shapes (Paul Pogba)

On the Run Dribbling Moves: Letters and Shapes; Still Play 1 on 1: Numbered Footwork

Piedi Felici Courts: Drills Side/Box Play with 1 Net; Design Vaporwave Action Painting Angels; Knee for Direction and Sole Drags for Dribbling Touch and Crescent Moon Sprint Mechanics

Gambling Games: 5 Roll (Captain, Ship, Crew); Live-Pool Betting Monopoly

Stylistic Biomechanics: Dribbling Foot To Ball Contact (Balls of Feet and Arch of Feet); Knee for Direction; Foot Drags; & Hip Angle, Crescent Moon Running Mechanics, and Laces Kick.

Diamond Football (15 mins)

Set Up

-Lay out two overlapping sets of 4 flat markers in the positions shown above.

-Ask the players to stand on a flat marker for their teams colour (Red on Red, Yellow on Yellow).

Instruction

-Whenever the ball goes out for a kick in or for the defenders ball, the players must stand on their markers before play begins.

-As soon as the ball has been played in, players are free to move.

-Reset everytime the ball goes out.

Coaching Points, Progressions Ect.

-Ask players to shout out what each position on the park is to devlop understanding of their roles.

-If you decide to go to a normal game , leave the markers out for a visual aid for the players.

-If more than 8 players, Add in Goalkeepers who would then play the ball out to the DF,LM,RM.

-Rotate Positions, Ask Players to stand on a marker they haven't been on before

RUSSE NOIR ACCENT

Lingua Franca of Renaissance Latin (Vocabulary) and Atlantic–Congo Fon (Grammar).

Volta–Congo is a major branch of the Atlantic–Congo family. Fon (fɔ̀ngbè, pronounced [fɔ̃̀ɡ͡bē][2]) also known as Dahomean is the language of the Fon people. It belongs to the Gbe group within the larger Atlantic–Congo family.

In linguistic typology, subject–verb–object (SVO) is a sentence structure where the subject comes first, the verb second, and the object third.

Haitian Creole (/ˈheɪʃən ˈkriːoʊl/; Haitian Creole: kreyòl ayisyen, [kɣejɔl ajisjɛ̃];[6][7] French: créole haïtien, [kʁe.ɔl a.i.sjɛ̃]), or simply Creole (Haitian Creole: kreyòl), is a French-based creole language spoken by 10 to 12 million people worldwide, and is one of the two official languages of Haiti (the other being French), where it is the native language of the vast majority of the population. The language emerged from contact between French settlers and enslaved Africans during the Atlantic slave trade in the French colony of Saint-Domingue (now Haiti) in the 17th and 18th centuries. Although its vocabulary largely derives from 18th-century French, its grammar is that of a West African Volta-Congo language branch, particularly the Fongbe and Igbo languages.

Prose Accent Congo and Modern Accent Congo.

Full Lips Endings with Vertical Narrow Mouth and Soft Rs.

A noun phrase – or NP or nominal (phrase) – is a phrase that usually has a noun or pronoun as its head, and has the same grammatical functions as a noun.

BELMÔNT'S SIN INDEX FUND PORTFOLIO 

Sin stock sectors usually include alcohol, tobacco, gambling, sex-related industries (Cabaret and Burlesque), and weapons manufacturers.

Diageo 

Phillip Morris

Sports Betting Investment Trust

Pharmaceuticals

Business Clusters with Scrum Management and Accelerators to produce Festivals.

Example: Create a Index Fund Portfolio of 15-20 Stocks and using Supply Side Economics to create Decentralized Gambling Economy.

BELMÔNT'S DECENTRALIZED GAMBLING ECONOMY

Corporate-Capital Gains Tax Haven

High Stakes Minimum Buy In

Card Gambling (Signal and President): Top 2 highest bids fight for the Coup d'état and the other two are lesser men, the lesser men are subordinates that aid in playing cards for the warlord, the winning team splits the money, the warlords switches based on the 13 cards dealt and bets placed, the first team to shed all of their cards win.

Domestic Gambling: Boxing

Retirement Gambling: Boat Racing

Residency Program for Tax Benefits

BELMÔNT'S TURF ACCOUNTING MODEL

+EV

Python Programming Gaussian Distribution

Exotic Options Trading Live Betting

Parlays Minimum for Round Robins

Daily Fantasy Sports Rakes

RUSSE NOIR PALACE

Definitions of ballroom. noun. large room used mainly for dancing. synonyms: dance hall, dance palace**. types: disco, discotheque.

Go Go Music Influenced, Eurphoric Trance Chord Progression Melody, Progressive House and Drum n' Bass Percussion-808 Call and Response Staccato Polyrhythm or Layered Kick and Punch 808.

In his 1972 study of French lute music, scholar Wallace Rave compiled a list of features he believed to be characteristic of style brisé. Rave's list included the following: the avoidance of textural pattern and regularity in part writing; arpeggiated chord textures with irregular distribution of individual notes of the chord; ambiguous melodic lines; rhythmic displacement of notes within a melodic line; octave changes within melodic line; irregular phrase lengths.

Have the Snare and Kick say, "Hi, How are you?" And the 808 say, "I am good thanks for asking.”

Use progressive House to push the Drums Conversation to either Fast and Punchy for Happy or Slow and Deep for Sad.

In technical terms, "go-go's essential beat is characterized by a five through four syncopated rhythm that is underscored prominently by the bass drum and snare drum, and the hi-hat... [and] is ornamented by the other percussion instruments, especially by the conga drums, rototoms, and hand-held cowbells."[5]

Polyrhythm: In music, a cross-beat or cross-rhythm is a specific form of polyrhythm. The term cross rhythm was introduced in 1934 by the musicologist Arthur Morris Jones (1889–1980). It refers to a situation where the rhythmic conflict found in polyrhythms is the basis of an entire musical piece.[1]

Four-on-the-floor (or four-to-the-floor) is a rhythm used primarily in dance genres such as disco and electronic dance music. It is a steady, uniformly accented beat in 4. 4 time in which the bass drum is hit on every beat (1, 2, 3, 4).[1] This was popularized in the disco music of the 1970s[2] and the term four-on-the-floor was widely used in that era, since the beat was played with the pedal-operated, drum-kit bass drum.[3][4] (Punch 808-Kick)

Polyrhythm 4 on the Floor examples 2:4 or 5:4

Hard trance is often characterized by strong, hard (or even downpitch) kicks, fully resonant basses and an increased amount of reverberation applied to the main beat. Melodies vary from 140 to 180 BPMs and it can feature plain instrumental sound in early compositions, with the latter ones tending to implement side-chaining techniques of progressive on digital synthesizers.

Singles Only Email Raves Blogger then Multi Market Distribution Deal: A distribution deal is a contract to release the music to platforms, but not own the publishing or exclusively lock the artist in. Record Artist Producer Label: Have Polyrhythm Artist earn Streaming Percentage under a Recording Artist Deal. Label has Distribution Above Me and I have Manufacturing over Polyrhythm Artist. Have a end of the Year Album for New Year's Raves!

BELMÔNT'S SYSTEM: CAPÔI RETAINER AGREEMENT WITH ASSET PROTECTION TRUST

Capo: Describes a ranking made member of a family who leads a crew of soldiers. A capo is similar to a military captain who commands soldiers. Soldier: Also known as a “made man,” soldiers are the lowest members of the crime family but still command respect in the organization.

A capo is a "made member" of an Italian crime family who heads a regime or "crew" of soldiers and has major status and influence in the organization.

Consigliere: Defense and Corporate Lawyers

Head Boss: Ministry of Medicine

Underboss: Pharmaceutical Industry

Capo: CAPÔI RETAINER AGREEMENT

Soliders: Artisans

Commercialism is the application of both manufacturing and consumption towards personal usage, or the practices, methods, aims, and distribution of products in a free market geared toward generating a profit.

Commercial art is art created for advertising or marketing purposes. Commercial artists are hired by clients to create images and logos that sell products. Unlike works of fine art that convey an artist's personal expression, commercial art must address the client's goals.

The word 'Commercial' is defined as follows: Concerned with or engaged in commerce. Commerce is the exchange of goods or services among two or more parties.

Craftsmen are committed to the medium, not to self-expression. Artists are committed to their self-expression, not the medium.

A medium of exchange is an intermediary instrument and system used to facilitate the purchase and sale of goods and services between parties.

Stretch and Micro Goals

Music Medium System: Distribution and Retailers Contract Theory (System) for Music (Instrument)

Football Medium System: Analytics and Geometry for Free Role (System) Trixies (Instrument)

Age 16-19

Bond Funds

Farmland REITS

CFDS

Real Estate Brokerage Trust Account

Age 20-30

Farmland Recession Proof Stocks (Cosmetics, AgTech, Ag ETFS, AgETN)

Incubator and Startup Accelerators

Real Estate Joint Ventures

Age 30-40

Farmland Blue Chip Indexes w/ Credit Spread Options

CURRENCY, OIL, & GOLD COMMODITIES CANDLESTICK CHARTS

Swing Trading: Use mt4/mt5 With Heiken Ashi Charts, Setting at 14 or 21 Momentum Indicator above 0 as Divergence Oscillator and Volume Spread Analysis as Reversal Oscillator and Trade when bullish candlesticks above 200 exponential moving average and/or 20 exponential moving average (EMA) on H1 (Hourly) Time Frame; use H4 (4 Hours) and D1 (1 Day) as reference.

TUNNEL STRATEGY (OFFSHORE BANKING)

Purpose: Permanent Residency Card

$250k Deposit

$125k: 60/40 portfolio, 60% Fixed Income & REITs and 40% Blue Chip Stocks

$50k: Guaranteed Investment Certificates (GICs) and term deposits are secured investments. This means that you get back the amount you invest at the end of your term. The key difference between a GIC and a term deposit is the length of the term. Term deposits generally have shorter terms than GICs.

$75k: Spending Cash

SIN STOCKS PORTFOLIO

Sin stock sectors usually include alcohol, tobacco, gambling, sex-related industries, and weapons manufacturers.

Sports Betting Investment Trust

Pharmaceuticals

Example: Create a Index Fund Portfolio of 15-20 Stocks and using Supply Side Economics to create Decentralized Gambling Economy.

FESTIVALS DEAL

Singles Only Email Raves Blogger then Multi Market Distribution Deal: A distribution deal is a contract to release the music to platforms, but not own the publishing or exclusively lock the artist in. Record Artist Producer Label: Have Polyrhythm Artist earn Streaming Percentage under a Recording Artist Deal. Label has Distribution Above Me and I have Manufacturing over Polyrhythm Artist. Have a end of the Year Album for New Year's Raves!

NEUROPLASTICITY DRUG-CRIME NEXUS BASED ON TRAFFICKING

CPP, CNS Depressants, et FENTALOGS: Cul-de-sac

Defensive Penalty Capture The Flag Raiding Warfare

Grey-Decentralized Markets

Bastilles: Cul-de-sac Artist Résidences Penthouse Complexes

Polyrhythm Raves

Acid House Art Gallery

International Film Festival

Hôtel Chefs

Seigneurial System/Tableau Economique Raw Material Économics Production Spot

Surautomatism

Discount Networking Acid House Party

Opium Dens and Fragrance Festivals

Pill Pressers

CNS depressants

Upper-tier County System

Defense Lawyers are Traplords (Trafficking P4P and Malicious Prosecution)

Cash Conversion Cycle (CCC)

Brain Receptor Dealing

Neuroplasticity Drug-Crime Nexus

Religious Ecstasy

Entheogens are psychedelic drugs—and sometimes certain other psychoactive substances—used for engendering spiritual development or otherwise in sacred contexts

Live-Pool Betting Monopoly Board Game

Summary Sentencing

Urban Level: Street Culture Art Gallery (Street culture may refer to: Urban culture, the culture of towns and cities, Street market, Children's street culture, Street carnival, Block party, Street identity, Street food, Café culture, Several youth subculture or counterculture topics pertaining to outdoors of urban centers. These can include: Street art, Street photography, Street racing, Street wear, Hip-hop culture, Urban fiction, Street sports, Streetball, Flatland BMX, Freestyling), Art Pedagogy, Artist Residency, Art Schools, and Art Plugs

Art Pedagogy: Arts-based pedagogy is a teaching methodology in which an art form is integrated with another subject matter to impact student learning. 28-30. Arts-based pedagogy results in arts-based learning (ABL),11 which is when a student learns about a subject through arts processes including creating, responding or performing. Aesthetic Teaching: Seeking a Balance between Teaching Arts and Teaching through the Arts. In aesthetic education, learning must be developed especially with the inclusion of sensations and with the help of feelings. Sensations and feelings should lead to movement, representation, and expression. Aesthetic learning often entails learning to distinguish certain qualities or objects aesthetically in different ways depending on the situation and the purpose. Certain things can be experienced in negative ways in one activity and in positive ways in another.

A designer drug is a structural or functional analog of a controlled substance that has been designed to mimic the pharmacological effects of the original drug, while avoiding classification as illegal and/or detection in standard drug tests

Patchwork tattoos are a collection of tattoos collaged together to create an overall design. Each individual 'patch' of the tattoo can be a different design, symbol or element with a little space in between. Patchwork tattoos are a collection of tattoos collaged together to create an overall design. In short, the gun-toting angel was a multifaceted metaphor. “It undoubtedly also reflected the Catholic Counter-Reformation militaristic rhetoric,” wrote Donahue-Wallace, “which promoted the church as an army and heavenly beings as its soldiers.”

DECADENCE AESTHETICS THEORIES

Slogan

J'Cartier, Je cours après les vœux de champagne,

Subjective

Based on or influenced by personal feelings, tastes, or opinions

Gastronomy

Precarious Balance

Precariously: If something is happening or positioned precariously, it's in danger. A glass could be precariously balanced on the edge of a table. If something is on the verge of danger, then the word precariously fits.

Grey & Decentralized Markets

Tableau Économique

Semblance

Semblance is generally used to suggest a contrast between outward appearance and inner reality.

High Socioeconomic Status & Tattoos

Phantasmagorical

Having a fantastic or deceptive appearance

adjective. having a fantastic or deceptive appearance, as something in a dream or created by the imagination. having the appearance of an optical illusion, especially one produced by a magic lantern.

Socioeconomic Status Development Immigration Multilingual Sensory Play

Law of Polarity in Relationships

In any successful relationship that has an intimate connection and sexual attraction, there is polarity. What does this mean exactly? Polarity in relationships is the spark that occurs between two opposing energies: masculine and feminine. Gender does not affect whether you have masculine or feminine energy.

Second Reflection

Burden Aesthetics with Intentions

The Second Reflection lays hold of the Technical Procedures

Tattoos

SOCIO-PSYCHOLOGY

Keystone Theory Habits

Game Theory

Behavioral Finance

Self-actualization is the complete realization of one's potential, and the full development of one's abilities and appreciation for life. This concept is at the top of the Maslow hierarchy of needs, so not every human being reaches it.

Potential Psychology: Psychological potential is a very broad concept. It may include one's capacity to conform, change, re-invent oneself, bounce back from adversity, etc.

SOCIO-FORMAL SCIENCE

+EV Optimal Game Theory Poker

Civil, Agriculure, Solvent Levelling Effect Chemical Reaction, and Biomechanical Engineering

SOCIO-PHILOSOPHY

Ontology

IMPERIALISM, THE HIGHEST STAGE OF CAPITALISM

Imperialism, the Highest Stage of Capitalism,[1] originally published as Imperialism, the Newest Stage of Capitalism,[2][3] is a book written by Vladimir Lenin in 1916 and published in 1917. It describes the formation of oligopoly, by the interlacing of bank and industrial capital, in order to create a financial oligarchy, and explains the function of financial capital in generating profits from the exploitation colonialism inherent to imperialism, as the final stage of capitalism. The essay synthesises Lenin's developments of Karl Marx's theories of political economy in Das Kapital (1867).[4]

Tax Mergers Law; Market-extension merger: Two companies that sell the same products in different markets. 4.2.2 Corporate Taxation At the corporate level, the tax treatment of a merger or acquisition depends on whether the acquiring firm elects to treat the acquired firm as being absorbed into the parent with its tax attributes intact, or first being liquidated and then received in the form of its component assets.

SOCIOCULTURAL THEORY OF DEVELOPMENT

Seconds Liberal Arts are often viewed as pre-professional since, while conceived of as fundamental to citizenship, they address the whole person in recognition that our moral and spiritual identities develop best through participation in a society that perpetually renews the rights and responsibilities of membership.

Executive management master's degree programs often result in an Executive Master of Business Administration, or EMBA. They are primarily designed to act as accelerated graduate programs for working professionals who already hold management or executive positions.

Engineering college means a school, college, university, department of a university or other educational institution, reputable and in good standing in accordance with rules prescribed by the Department, and which grants baccalaureate degrees in engineering.

Monopoly Family Boarding Schools: The socio-historical context refers to the societal and historical conditions and circumstances that influence events or individuals. It involves elements like the cultural, economic, and political circumstances during a certain time period.

Agriculturism is an ideology promoting rural life, a traditional way of life. It is characterized by the valorization of traditional values (the family, the French language, the Catholic religion) and an opposition to the industrial world.

CAPÔI CLASS STRUCTURE

Demonym Examples: CAR Congolese, Gabon Congolese, Afrikaans Congolese, and Congolese

Monopoly Family (Apartheid)

Chief Executive of State (Apartheid)

Political Class (RUSSE NOIR)

Upper Class (RUSSE NOIR)

Working Class (RUSSE NOIR)

JEAN-CLAUDE TRAORÉ BUSINESS ADVICE

Blue Ocean Strategy; Solvent Levelling Effect Chemical Reaction Engineering and Economic Science.

TENNIS AGRICULTURE

A clay-court specialist is a tennis player who excels on clay courts, more than on any other surface.

Due in part to advances in racquet technology, current clay-court specialists are known for employing long, winding groundstrokes that generate heavy topspin; such strokes are less effective on faster surfaces on which the balls do not bounce as high. Clay-court specialists tend to slide more effectively on clay than other players. Many of them are also very adept at hitting the drop shot, which can be effective because rallies on clay courts often leave players pushed far beyond the baseline. Additionally, the slow, long rallies require a great degree of mental focus and physical stamina.

MATERIALISM-ILLUSION TRADWAVE CATHOLICISM THEOLOGY ECUMENISM

Salesian Order and Council of Trent Economic Materialism Culture with Distorted Sensory Overload Vice Artisan Mural Crown (Craftsmanship, Commercialism, Commerce, Medium of Exchange)

The original sense of apotheosis relates to religion and is the subject of many works of art. Figuratively "apotheosis" may be used in almost any context for "the deification, glorification, or exaltation of a principle, practice, etc.", so normally attached to an abstraction of some sort.[1] In religion, apotheosis was a feature of many religions in the ancient world, and some that are active today. It requires a belief that there is a possibility of newly-created gods, so a polytheistic belief system. The major modern religions of Christianity, Islam, and Judaism do not allow for this, though many recognise minor sacred categories such as saints (created by a process called canonization). A mural crown (Latin: corona muralis) is a crown or headpiece representing city walls, towers, or fortresses. In classical antiquity, it was an emblem of tutelary deities who watched over a city, and among the Romans a military decoration. Later the mural crown developed into a symbol of European heraldry, mostly for cities and towns, and in the 19th and 20th centuries was used in some republican heraldry.

The body of light, sometimes called the 'astral body'[a] or the 'subtle body,'[b] is a "quasi material"[1] aspect of the human body, being neither solely physical nor solely spiritual, posited by a number of philosophers, and elaborated on according to various esoteric, occult, and mystical teachings. Other terms used for this body include body of glory,[2] spirit-body, luciform body, augoeides ('radiant body'), astroeides ('starry or sidereal body'), and celestial body.[3] The concept derives from the philosophy of Plato: the word 'astral' means 'of the stars'; thus the astral plane consists of the Seven Heavens of the classical planets. The idea is rooted in common worldwide religious accounts of the afterlife[4] in which the soul's journey or "ascent" is described in such terms as "an ecstatic, mystical or out-of body experience, wherein the spiritual traveller leaves the physical body and travels in their body of light into 'higher' realms."[5]

The canon law of the Catholic Church (from Latin ius canonicum[1]) is "how the Church organizes and governs herself".[2] It is the system of laws and ecclesiastical legal principles made and enforced by the hierarchical authorities of the Catholic Church to regulate its external organization and government and to order and direct the activities of Catholics toward the mission of the Church.

An institute of consecrated life is an association of faithful in the Catholic Church canonically erected by competent church authorities to enable men or women who publicly profess the evangelical counsels by religious vows or other sacred bonds "through the charity to which these counsels lead to be joined to the Church and its mystery in a special way".[1] They are defined in the 1983 Code of Canon Law under canons 573–730. The Congregation for Institutes of Consecrated Life and Societies of Apostolic Life has ecclesial oversight of institutes of consecrated life.[2]

In Christianity, the three evangelical counsels, or counsels of perfection, are chastity (FUCK THIS), poverty (or perfect charity)*, and obedience (Reckless Abandonment)*.[1] As stated by Jesus in the canonical gospels,[2] they are counsels for those who desire to become "perfect" (τελειος, teleios).[3][4] The Catholic Church interprets this to mean that they are not binding upon all, and hence not necessary conditions to attain eternal life (heaven), but that they are "acts of supererogation", "over and above" the minimum stipulated in the biblical commandments.[5][6]

Catholics who have made a public profession to order their lives by the evangelical counsels, and confirmed this by public vows before their competent church authority (the act of religious commitment known as a profession), are recognised as members of the consecrated life.

Tradwave is a Catholic artistic style using synthwave and vaporwave art to promote traditional catholicism. Tradwave usually uses traditional catholic paintings, sculptures, or photographs of saints, given with vaporwave effects, often with a bible verse or quote about catholicism. The art usually tries to convey a resurrection of catholic spirituality in the modern atheist world. Figures often depicted in Tradwave art include Jesus Christ, the Virgin Mary, Ven. Fulton Sheen, Cardinal Robert Sarah, and Mother Angelica.

Tradwave music often takes the form of two main styles. One of them is catholic hymns with vaporwave effects and traditional Vaporwave/Lo-Fi music. It can also have quotes from modern prolific Catholic figures, such as Ven. The other theme is Fulton Sheen and Cardinal Robert Sarah.

The term political religion is based on the observation that sometimes political ideologies or political systems display features more commonly associated with religion.

Religious nationalism can be understood in a number of ways, such as nationalism as a religion itself, a position articulated by Carlton Hayes in his text Nationalism: A Religion, or as the relationship of nationalism to a particular religious belief, dogma, ideology, or affiliation. This relationship can be broken down into two aspects: the politicisation of religion and the influence of religion on politics.

Dioceses ruled by an archbishop are commonly referred to as archdioceses; most are metropolitan sees, being placed at the head of an ecclesiastical province. In the Catholic Church, some are suffragans of a metropolitan see or are directly subject to the Holy See.

Heavenly Virtue: Another phrase to describe this obedience to the voice is “reckless abandon.” It simply means that we let God do what God wants to do through us. It means if He tells us to do something or say something—we do it.

The Dionysian Mysteries were a ritual of ancient Greece and Rome which sometimes used intoxicants and other trance-inducing techniques (like dance and music) to remove inhibitions and social constraints, liberating the individual to return to a natural state.

Catholic School Girls Moon Evangelical Prophets: Consecrated life is "placed in a privileged position in the line of evangelical prophecy," whereby its “charismatic nature” and communal discernment of the Spirit "makes it capable of inventiveness and originality.”

Men Mars Angelology Conversion System: Church Enterprises (Planetary Intelligence Church District Real Estate; Liberal Arts Catholic Immersion Schools; Gold; Athletics; Cooking);

Church Gatherings (School Nights Virgil, Weekend Noon Mass then Weekend Sports League) Francis de Sales and Don St. Bosco Influence

Angelology Patchwork Tattoos: Biblical Crowns, Praying Hands, Gun Toting Angels, Dirty Dancing Angels, Drug Using Angels, Heavenly Choir, Summa Theologica Sherman, Saints and Pastors, Hebrew Tetragram, Council of Trent

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RUSSE NOIR

[holybatgirlz]

Portrait Gallery Visits

read on Ao3

Summary: 

Sophie and Benedict take a little trip together to the Royal Academy. 

Word Count: 10k+

Notes: a little first date Benophie fic.

---

"I have the day off?"

Mrs. Wilson nodded. "Lady Violet gives all the staff a day off each month, and with all the hard work you've been doing recently, I thought it best to make sure you used your day."

Sophie frowned. Staring at the older woman in confusion, she tried to think of an occasion, any occasion, where she recalled another staff member she worked with saying they'd been given individual days off. She had never had one since becoming a maid, certainly not with Araminta, and minus her periods of unemployment since leaving Penwood House, time off was unheard of in her life. 

She studied the older housekeeper skeptically. Was Mrs. Wilson lying to her?

"I really do not need it," Sophie told her. "I already promised Miss Hyacinth I'd help her with her French work. And I'm helping Miss Francesca with preparing for tonight's ball. Not to mention all the work needed for Lady Bridgerton's ball later this week. I'm far too busy to be taking the day off work." 

Somehow, Mrs. Wilson was able to force the kind smile on her face to stay and not let it turn into one of alarm and surprise as she watched the young woman continue to ramble on about all the tasks she had to attend to, what it was she had already done and what currently needed to be completed. She listed the different chores that she’d planned to complete that day, ones Mrs. Wilson had not realized were lacking and had been overlooked. And it was her job to manage Number 5. 

Getting the young Miss Sophie out of the house would be more challenging than she thought. 

"I've already promised Lady Bridgerton you'd be notified, and with only a few days left in the month, it's best you use it now or lose it," she told her, shooing the girl towards the servant's door. She'd at least already been able to get a cloak around Sophie's far too-thin shoulders and a basket of food in her arms, so she had something to eat later.

Sophie's little confused frown deepened. "But…what do I even do?"

Oh, this sweet summer child was going to need more help than Mrs. Wilson realized.

"Well, you can go for a walk. Get some air. It will be good for you. And I made sure you have some of your pay with you," she motioned towards the basket, held in the crook of Sophie's arm. "I put it in the basket. Consider it a little gift. The markets should also be open if you want to get something small. There is a chocolatier near Piccadilly who sells quite wonderful treats for a good price. Maybe you could go there?" 

"Um…alright, then," Sophie told her, still looking completely lost at the concept of not working for the day. Making it all the more apparent to the old housekeeper that something was truly off with her. 

It wasn't normal for a girl of her age to be so adamant about working. Not that Mrs. Wilson wasn't grateful for her; Sophie was good at what she did. And she did it quickly, too, without question. Everything was done perfectly, but Mrs. Wilson noticed how Sophie tended to overstep, taking on tasks she should not have been doing as a maid. While some of the older staff had been happy about having less work to do when they woke up and found Sophie had already done it, the younger staff were the opposite. 

Some of the younger, more gossip-minded maids weren't entirely happy about how close Sophie was getting with the three Bridgerton sisters. Their employers. It couldn't be ignored how Sophie was one of the only servants to repeatedly sit for tea with the three sisters and their mother, not that it was by her own choice, and Mrs. Wilson couldn't ignore how Benedict had suddenly begun showing up more. The same Bridgerton son who got her the job.

And the poor girl was going to work herself to death if she didn't slow down. She needed at least a day to breathe and relax. 

"I'll see you this afternoon," Mrs. Wilson remarked, gently pushing Sophie closer to the door and outside. "See you later, Sophie. Have fun."

She then promptly shut the door in Sophie's face before she even had the chance to change her mind and return inside. Waving her off from the window, Mrs. Wilson waited until Sophie made it most of the way down the servant's alley, rather slowly as she kept looking back at the kitchen door, wondering if she should really leave and looking terribly lost in her thoughts, before finally disappearing around the corner, to which Mrs. let out the breath she'd been holding, her body sagging with relief.

"Is Lady Bridgerton planning to implement this day off for all staff? Or just the new little maids with blonde curls and big green eyes?" Bessie, the cook who'd worked for the Bridgertons for years, inquired knowingly as she continued stirring the morning porridge. 

Bessie knew well enough what it was her old colleague was doing, seeing as Mrs. Wilson had waited till all the other staff members had gone off to attend to their duties before she caught Sophie for a private little chat. 

"Oh, hush you," Mrs. Wilson shushed. "That girl's been working herself to the bone. You saw her this morning. She looked about to collapse from exhaustion."

"And what do you plan to tell her ladyship or the young ladies when they come looking for her?" Bessie asked. 

Mrs. Wilson shrugged. "I'll just tell her she went to run some errands for me. I think we can manage one day without her." 

—

Sophie was completely lost.

Not really. She knew where she was: Regent Street, the hustle of early morning business happening around her as she wandered down the road and through the city. Horse-drawn carriages passed her on the street while Londoners of all classes did their business around her. Her worry of Araminta being in town meant she’d stuck to the back roads, the quieter streets of London.

But she barely heard any noises around her as she continued down the road, lost in thought. 

She was at a loss about what to do with herself for the day. 

She'd never had a day off before, not since Araminta had forced her into a life of servitude. Not even with the Cavanders or the brief jobs she held between leaving London and arriving in Wiltshire. She'd worked every day from sunrise to sunset, sometimes even into the evenings since her father’s death. 

Yes, she'd been a guest while staying with Benedict in the country, but she'd also done work around the home, helping the Crabtrees manage the manor and helping Benedict recover from his fever. She'd not been as busy as she'd usually been as a maid, not even now with the Bridgertons at Number 5, but she hadn't taken an entire day of just doing nothing. No matter how much Mrs. Crabtree demanded her to. 

But the thought of Wiltshire, of her time at My Cottage, brought up a bigger problem in her life. 

Benedict.

It was probably why she’d been keeping herself so busy. Without anything to do to keep her mind elsewhere, she was stuck thinking about him. His charming looks, his crooked smile, how passionate he spoke about his artworks with her, how sweet he looked whenever he attended to his nieces and nephews when they were visiting. The days she'd spent getting to know him better had shaped the fantasize she still had over him. For better or worse.

Not to mention, thinking about him always led to her thinking about the pond incident. The image of him coming out of the water all those weeks ago, completely nude, after she'd stumbled upon him during his morning swim. Her cheeks burned as she remembered that, making her shake her head as if she could rattle the thoughts out of her mind. 

She had to stop thinking about him. It was embarrassing and childish. Not to mention improper. He was nothing more than a distraction, a gnat that constantly flew around her head, annoying her. And she knew her feelings for him would only lead to further pain and heartbreak. 

"Well, isn't this a surprise? Off to do some morning shopping, are we?" the sweet sounds of Benedict's voice floated around in her skull as if he was sitting on her shoulder, guiding her through her day. 

Sophie sighed. "And now I'm hearing him," she muttered to herself sarcastically. "Wonderful."

"Sophie, I'm standing right behind you," Benedict's voice said with an amused chuckle, and this time, Sophie realized it wasn't in her head. 

She spun around quickly, shocked to find that Benedict was, in fact, standing right behind her. Where the hell had he come from? Glancing around the streets, she tried to figure out where it was he'd appeared from or if he'd been following her this entire time. Not realizing she'd walked right past him as he exited White's a few doors behind them, her head so far up in the clouds that she hadn't seen him wave her down or hear him call out after her. She certainly hadn't heard his footsteps as he moved to catch up with her as she walked on. 

Oh, she was never taking another day off again. Ever again.

"How do you do that?" she asked him, stunned.

A dark brow quirked up. "Do what?" he asked back.

"Find me," she clarified an annoyed edge in her tone this time.

But Benedict only smiled. Slowly his sly, lopsided smirk, dragged the corner of his lips upwards as he stepped towards her, towering over her. Looming over her. She mentally cursed him for being as tall as he was. Making Sophie have to tilt her head back just to look up at him. Just so she could see the mischievous glint in his pale, morning-blue eyes as he looked down at her. Tried to ignore the building desire within her that made her want to climb him.

"Like I could ever lose you. Only a fool would let you go," he told her, voice soft.

She stared at him, lips parting, hating how her heart began to start beating erratically in her chest. His voice sounded soft and loving, giving her goosebumps despite the sun shining brightly on them, keeping them warm. All she wanted to do was listen to his voice. 

"Besides, you are far too irresistible to ignore. All the more reason to keep you all to myself. I wouldn't have to worry about you disappearing," he said, more flirtatiously this time. His eyes roamed over her gown of pale green.

Or maybe not.

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. 

"Good day, Mr. Bridgerton," she told him curtly as she opened her eyes and stepped around him, making her way back down the street in the direction she'd come from

He seemed surprised by her dismissing him as if that wasn't a common occurrence for them as of late. She heard him call out behind her. "Sophie, wait!" 

"I'm not in the mood," she told him loudly as he followed her, catching up with her in only a few quick strides. Barely breaking a sweat as she huffed and puffed next to him as she tried increasing her pace. Damn those long legs of him. It was entirely unfair for him to use her short height against her. 

"What exactly are you doing?" he asked, easily keeping up with her. "Shouldn't you be working?"

"I have the day off," she told him bluntly.

He frowned. "The day off?"

"Yes, Mrs. Wilson says your mother gives all the staff a day off each month. She made me use mine today since the month is almost over," Sophie continued without even looking at him.

Benedict gave her a confused look, opening his mouth to tell her that was most certainly not true before quickly stopping himself. He slowly realized what Mrs. Wilson had done was a gift. If Sophie had the day off, then she finally had free time. No longer running after his sisters or attending to household chores at Number 5. She was free. 

Free to spend time with him. 

"And what do you plan to do? With your day off?" he inquired curiously. 

"I am not spending it with you. That's for certain," she replied back swiftly as if knowing what he would say next. "I think I'll go to the park. Or maybe just walk around the area. Or buy some chocolates."

He smiled. "You have no idea what to do, do you?"

She stopped dead in her tracks, making Benedict stop too. Her head whipping in his direction to look at him. He watched her dark emerald eyes narrowed into slits as she glared, but she'd proved him right. And even Sophie knew that as she took another deep breath.

"I do not need to explain myself to you," she told him with a huff.

"Have you never had a day off?" he asked.

"Coming from someone who has never worked a day in his life, I'm surprised you would even know what a day off is," she snapped before continuing on in her hasty walk down the street. Her cheeks turning pink.

All Benedict could do was laugh, a loud one bursting from his lips, almost sounding like a snort, as he watched her try to escape him. 

He truly adored annoying her. It always brought out that stubborn personality she kept hidden behind polite submissiveness. It had slipped out here and there while she was working for his family. He'd noticed her snarky little remarks were more likely to come out if she was chatting with Francesca about her suitors. He was pretty sure it was why Eloise had come to like Sophie; her biting remarks tended to go unnoticed by his mother, much to his and his sisters' amusement. 

He loved knowing that he was probably the only one in all of London she'd shown her true self to, her wit and intellect, her fiery passion and kind compassion.

And there was no one else whose company he'd rather keep right now than hers. She filled a hole in his heart, left there by his silver-dressed companion after she disappeared on him two years ago. 

"Come with me," he told her.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Did you not hear me? When I said I had no interest in spending my day with you?"

"I know something you can do."

"Thank you for the offer, Mr. Bridgerton, but I'm not interested."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely," she replied defiantly. 

"What a shame," he remarked with a mock pout. "I was so excited to show you my paintings."

She stopped in the tracks, again, slowly turning to look at him once more. "What paintings?"

"The ones the Royal Academy is exhibiting this weekend," he told her.

Her eyes widened in surprise. "You went through with it?" 

She'd been the only one to know about it, about him contemplating returning to the Royal Academy. He wasn't confident he would at this point. The knowledge his original acceptance had been tainted, paid for by his brother, had continued to cloud his confidence in reapplying, but the Royal Academy had a yearly summer exhibition, an event where any artist, known or unknown, could submit their works in the hopes they'd be chosen. Only three pieces were allowed to be submitted to the committee, and Benedict had to pay a fee for each one, but the stress had come from picking which works he would submit. It was why he'd been in Wiltshire to begin with, to focus on his selections. The committee could not guarantee any would be selected, but after finally impulsively entering his choices, he'd heard word the day prior that all three of his paintings had been accepted.

And Sophie had been the cause of it all. He'd told her about it in Wiltshire. About his hopes and dreams of being a famous artist. About how he'd stopped painting after discovering Anthony's role in helping him get that dream. The only reason he'd reopened his box of paints that he'd tucked away after leaving the Royal Academy had been because of the Lady of Silver, the only way he could get her out of his head was by drawing her. Painting that night over and over again. And other pieces because of it. She'd become his muse, reigniting his skills, but Sophie had become his champion, batting away his anxieties with her own confidence and support. Pushing him to submit the paintings, telling him it was better to live with a rejection than never knowing what would have happened if he hadn’t gone through with it. 

When he'd mentioned the exhibition, Sophie had immediately told him to do it, having seen his old and new works hidden around My Cottage. Peeking at his drawings and sketches while he'd slept off a fever. Her encouragement had been the final push he needed to get over himself.

He hadn't even told his family yet. He couldn't. Only after he told her first would he be able to. 

"You got in?" Sophie seemed surprised, stunned by the news. 

"All three of the works I submitted were accepted," he told her, chest puffing up with pride. 

Her stunned shock shifted to delight as she smiled at him, excitement buzzing through her. Excitement she felt on his behalf because of him. 

"Oh, Benedict, that's wonderful!" she remarked, and Benedict felt his heart swell as she used his first name instead of the formal 'Mr. Bridgerton'. 

In her giddy excitement, she threw her arms around him to hug him, and Benedict was all too willing to accept, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her body against his, lifting her off the ground, breathing in the smell of vanilla and nutmeg as he held her. For a moment, the whole world around them disappeared, and Benedict only felt utter content by having her against him. 

Then, Sophie snapped away from him, as if she'd been burned, making him quickly put her back down. As if she'd just remembered that only moments ago, she'd been annoyed with him. And that touching him was certainly not something she'd been allowing between them since they both arrived in London. 

But instead of getting angry again, she just grew embarrassed.

"Um…congratulations," she told him nervously, her cheeks turning pink. 

"Would you like to see them?" he asked, trying, and failing to ignore the emptiness that had returned within him the moment she pulled away. The moment her touch left him.

"Oh, I do not believe I will have the time to attend–" she started.

"I mean right now," he clarified quickly. 

She frowned. "How would we do that?" 

Benedict only shrugged. "Let's call it an artist's privilege. I'm allowed to check on my works before the exhibit."

"Um…I don't know…" she trailed off hesitantly, catching her lower lip between her teeth as she thought it over. 

"The Academy is just down the road," he told her, motioning towards the street ahead of them that would lead them both to it. "I'll have you in and out before you know it. It shouldn't take less than an hour. Promise."

She studied him. "You promise?"

"Absolutely," he told her, even though he planned to keep her there as long as possible.

After a moment, she nodded. "Alright. Lead the way." 

Benedict smiled, excitement flaring within him. He held out his arm for her to take, but Sophie merely shook her head and began walking, making him let out a small chuckle as he followed, directing her towards the grand gray and white stone building used by the Academy for its classes and exhibits. He still knew the back entrance Tessa had once shown him, leading Sophie towards it so no one would see them sneak in.

Technically, he hadn't lied to Sophie when he said he could see his works before the exhibit. That was true. He could come and go as needed, but waltzing through the front door with a woman who was not his wife nor known to the Academy, he was bound to get looks and questions from the others. 

But Sophie made no remark as they entered through the back, quietly following him as he brought her towards the exhibition rooms, which, mercifully, were empty. It was still early enough in the morning that the majority of students and teachers weren't roaming the halls yet. And Benedict had it on good authority that the curator would be sleeping off a rather horrid hangover this morning, given his piss poor performance at cards the night before. They had the place all to themselves for now. 

Shutting the door quietly behind him, he watched as Sophie glanced around the room, taking in the many paintings of varying sizes that decorated the walls as she walked around the statues of marble and bronze placed throughout the rooms. 

"Are these all submissions too?" she asked him. 

"Some are," he answered. "Others are donations or works that have been loaned out temporarily from private collections."

"They're quite good," she told him, studying a painting of Cupid and Psyche lounging on a chaise together, one Benedict had been told was on loan from Brussels, made by a French painter while in exile. 

"Really?" he asked her, coming up to stand next to her. 

"You don't like it?" she asked back. 

"It's not that I don't like it, it's…" Benedict paused, trying to figure out what to say next. It wasn't bad, the painting of Cupid and Psyche, it was rather well done, if not more hyper-realistic then the other paintings hanging around them. 

It was just better than his. All the paintings around them were. The one in front of them was from an already established painter, as were the other donated and loaned ones hanging around the room.

At least his works were in the next one. Not put hanging next to established and known painters. 

Maybe he should have them taken out and pull them from the exhibition. It was too good to be true for all three of his works to get picked on his first submission to the contest, but he hadn't spoken to anyone except Sophie about it. There was no way Anthony could have learned about this and involved himself in this without Benedict noticing.

This was a mistake. His heart began to hammer away in his chest. He shouldn't have taken Sophie here. His paintings shouldn't be hanging on these walls. This was wrong. The exhibition wasn't opening till next week; he could get Sophie out of there and wait till the curator arrived, make up some excuse, and get the paintings removed before–

"I doubt it's any better than yours," Sophie commented, her calm voice slicing through his thoughts, stopping his heart momentarily and dragging his attention back towards her, away from his anxious thoughts. 

"I wouldn't go that far," Benedict said sheepishly, motioning towards the painting. "This one is from a far more established painter than me." 

"I've seen your works, Benedict," Sophie told him, giving him a small smile. Nothing but genuine kindness in her eyes. "I liked them much more than this one. Then the works of other more established painters I've seen." 

"Really?" he asked, hopeful. 

She nodded. "And well, you have far more talent than that one," she pointed quickly towards the muddled painting of some kind of animal hanging nearby. "I can't tell if it's supposed to be a terrier or a chicken." 

Benedict laughed. "I think it's supposed to be a horse." 

"Oh, that just makes it worse," she replied, looking horrified, and Benedict could only laugh harder. Her smile returned as she saw him laughing, saw the tension easing away from his shoulders as he relaxed.

"The one next to it would have probably been saved if it had been skied," he told her, playing along, pointing to the portrait of an older, gruff, and angry-looking gentleman with a cane hanging next to the supposed horse painting. The background needed to be lighter and looked unfinished as a result. A window in the background or a few trees would have helped. 

Sophie cringed as she saw it. "Forgive me for not noticing, but I was rather distracted by the model's severe expression." 

An expression that made the man look rather…constipated.

He was unable to prevent the smile on his face from dropping, pointing towards another painting nearby. Seeking her opinion still.

"What about that one?"

Sophie leaned closer toward the wall, studying the painting for a moment. 

"The hound deserves better," she told him as she leaned back, making him chuckle.

He hummed. "And the one next to it?"

"I can tell you with complete confidence that a woman's chest is not supposed to look like that," Sophie replied, looking rather insulted by the female model's appearance. 

He couldn't stop smiling at this point. And when Sophie saw his, she only returned it with one of her own. 

 "You are quite the critic. You're certain you aren't an artist?" he said to her.  

"I can barely draw a flower," Sophie remarked back, giving him a look.

"How do you know so much about it then?" he asked, and Sophie frowned, looking away from him. 

"My father," she answered softly, the smile on her face dropping and Benedict stiffened. "He had quite the collection of works in his home. From different painters. Practically decorated every inch of his home. He liked art. It was the only thing we ever talked about. When he talked to me, that was."

"I didn't mean to bring him up," Benedict told her apologetically. 

She shook her head. "It's fine. I used to study the paintings growing up. Tried to imagine what the words within them were like. Got pretty good at noticing all the little details and how they differed from one another, but I never had the talent for it, though, I'm afraid. But my father would tell me more about them if I asked. He was quite good at noting the flaws and errors. Could even tell two of them had been painted over by the original artist and that one his grandfather had purchased was a fake. He was a very…critical man." 

Critical. Critical could mean cruel. 

"He never said anything to you about–?" Benedict gently started, and Sophie shook her head again, knowing where he was going with this.

"He never spoke up about it to begin with. I could never tell if he just didn't want to talk about it or didn't know how to. It was just one big elephant sitting in the room whenever we were together," Sophie told him. "And he rarely ever told me off. He left that to the servants. The housekeeper and my governess specifically. He'd left them to raise me anyway; might as well let them handle the tougher conversations or discipline."

An uncomfortable pit began forming in his stomach. It was hard to imagine what it was like for Sophie growing up. Besides the matter of her being an illegitimate child, Benedict couldn't begin to imagine not being close with his father, who had been nothing but loving and supportive. A man who had been the complete opposite of Sophies, who supported his artistic interests. Charcoal and some paper were an easy way for his father to keep him distracted when he was little. He'd do it whenever he was watching him and Anthony while working in his office. Benedict had always been the calmer one of the two, Anthony had been more excitable and rowdier when they were little, so his father would keep Benedict quietly drawing so he could keep a closer eye on Anthony.

Even though it annoyed Benedict's mother to no end when she would come to check on them and find Benedict covered in black smears of coal.

" He's got talent , Violet ," his father would tell her with a chuckle as she huffed, wiping at Benedict's cheeks in an effort to clean him up. " I'm only trying to nurture it ." 

And his father would keep his little doodles. Little inside jokes Benedict would draw and leave on his desk for his father to find, to give the old man a good laugh. Weeks after his death, Benedict found some hidden away in his desk drawer after he'd been helping an overwhelmed Anthony locate documents. He was so surprised to see it, having never thought his father had actually kept them, that the grief he'd been struggling to control had clawed its way back up his throat, and he'd had to excuse himself so he could try (and fail) to get a hold of his emotions. 

His parents had both supported him in any endeavor he took, not just his father. His mother had wanted him to further his skills after he finished at Cambridge, offered to help send him to Paris or Florence so he could study, but he declined, not wanting to leave his family behind. His brother was now the viscount and Colin was starting at University himself, but there were still five other young Bridgertons their mother was left raising on her own, two of whom were only toddlers. Benedict couldn’t leave them behind like that. 

But he had support. He had love. 

Sophie never had any of that. 

And he hated it.

"But he's gone now, not much that can be done about it. No point lingering in the past," she added stiffly, as if trying to convince herself of that. 

There was an anger in her tone whenever Sophie spoke about her father, but now it sounded less like anger and more like disappointment. She didn't seem to hate him, though, which Benedict couldn't believe; however, he didn't think Sophie hated anyone. 

Well, maybe him. Sometimes.

She then straightened out her back, holding her head high as she glanced over at him and forced a bright smile. "But enough about me, you said you were going to show me your works." 

"There in the other rooms," he told her, still feeling guilty about inadvertently bringing up her dead father.

She nodded, making her way towards the opening leading into the next room. A room just as extensively decorated as the one they'd just been in. Benedict slowly followed her in, lingering a little ways behind and watching as she did the same as she had when they arrived. Carefully making her way around the room and looking at the works hanging around her. 

"Which ones are yours?" she asked.

"You don't know?" 

"Well, you didn't tell me which ones you submitted." 

Benedict felt a slight tug at his lips. "And here I thought you liked my works."

She stuck her tongue out at him for that.

"Guess," he told her, chuckling.

"Benedict," she whined softly, head tilting to the side . 

"I'm not telling you. You have to guess," he informed her. 

She let out an over dramatic sigh. "Fine," she told him, turning back away from him and scanning the walls. 

He watched her slowly waltz around the room, studying each and every painting. He watched how her curls swayed with every moment of her head. Her day off meant she hadn't pinned any of them up. Her ringlet curls hung loosely around her face, the tips brushing against her shoulders. Soft, perfect circular curls that looked like they were made from gold, shining whenever the sun caught them, and Benedict wanted nothing more than to run his hands through them.

She gave each portrait a moment of her time, and for a second, Benedict thought she'd walk right past them. She looked just about to, and then she stopped. 

"This one," she told him, pointing to it.

A smile tugged at his lips. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

"You're absolutely certain it's mine?"

She nodded. "I know that pond anywhere."

He came to stand next to her, glancing at the landscape painting he'd submitted. The one of the small pond behind My Cottage, with the little hill leading to it, the two large willow trees rooted by its banks, and the expansive field behind it that led towards a forest far off in the distance. 

The very pond he'd had the most awkward encounters of his life with Sophie at.

But that hadn't stopped him from painting it. He'd gone out one early morning to get it right as the sun was coming up. The sky of the landscape was a soft, dewy pink, and gentle orange, with just a few dabs and swipes of white to be clouds. He'd even added a tiny little detail. 

In the distance of the painting, right under one of the willow trees and sitting on a blanket, was a small figure resting against the trunk. Dressed in white. 

Sophie had come outside while he was painting that day. He'd already gotten most of the painting done and was focusing more on the leaves of the trees and bunches of daisies that were growing around the pond, but he couldn't help himself when he saw her relaxing under the tree, reading one of his books as she munched on an apple. His hands had moved without his brain telling them to, adding her to the painting. The angle he'd gotten her at meant most wouldn't notice her at first. One would have to look closer to find her hidden behind the tree, golden curls blowing in the breeze. 

"Is that supposed to be me?" Sophie asked, pointing to her mini-painted form. 

"Hmm, I suppose it is. How did that get there?" Benedict hummed playfully, getting a gentle tap to the arm from Sophie. 

"You didn't need to include me in it," she told him. "I would have moved if you had asked."

"And disturb the quiet respite you were enjoying at the time?" Benedict shook his head. "I'm a gentleman, Sophie."

A dark blond brow rose on her smooth face, telling Benedict she was having a hard time believing that, but she didn't push it.

"That's one," she nodded towards the painting in front of them. "You said three works were accepted, so where are the other two?"

"That's number two," Benedict told her, pointing towards the still life hanging next to the landscape. 

He'd gone with one of each; landscape, a portrait, and a still life. Frankly, Benedict was surprised his still life painting was accepted. It wasn't anything new or interesting. Some fruits on a plate with a goblet. Nothing extraordinary by any means. It was even smaller than the other two. Simple.

"I like it," Sophie remarked, once again cutting apart the anxious thoughts before they had a chance to sink their claws into him. "It shows off your skills. How good you are with light and detail. And the silver looks almost real. The blues and oranges you have from the fruit and plates makes it more eye-catching, too." 

Maybe she was right. Maybe the addition of his mother's blue china to hold the citrus fruits he'd used and the lighting work he'd done on the silver goblet to give it its metallic shine had been intriguing enough to have it hanging amongst the rest. 

"You need to stop second-guessing yourself," Sophie told him, and he looked to see she was watching him. "You are a talented artist, Benedict. People will see that when they see your work. And I'm certain your family will also be proud of you when they see them." 

He didn't doubt her. He couldn't. The certainty in her voice, the sincerity shining in her eyes was all he needed to know for a fact she meant what she said.

"You are far too kind," he told her. "Kinder than I deserve." 

She shrugged. "I meant what I said. You are a talented artist." 

He blushed and Benedict Bridgerton was not the kind of man who blushed. But he actually blushed at her words, like he was some young schoolboy seeing a pretty woman for the first time. He just couldn't help how Sophie set something off within him. Made him feel pride and confidence with a few little sentences and a soft smile. How he felt more than just happy when he was around her. He felt content, as if all the missing pieces in his life had just slid back into place. 

"Now, the third one," she glanced around. "That one in here too?"

"In the next room. They thought it went better with the paintings hanging in there," he told her. 

"Alright, then," Sophie said, heading off. 

Benedict waited before following. Needing a few moments to let his heart relax and for his cheeks to stop burning, regaining his composure and confidence before he headed in after her.

He found her already standing before his last piece, staring up at it. Frozen in place. He smiled. She found it already. 

"It's not my best portrait," he told her as he approached. "I had difficulty getting the face right. Unfortunately, the model could not sit for it, so I had to go off my memory alone."

The Lady in Silver. His muse. He thought it only fitting to have her amongst his submissions. Of the three, she was the one he hoped would be accepted if the others weren't.

He’d made it so she was standing by a stone railing, leaning against it as she looked away from the viewer. It was the only way Benedict could conceal the fact that he couldn't paint her full face without using a mask, having to do a side profile instead. He'd painted the scene like it had been that night, with the moon shining down on her. It was the only one hanging on the wall that had set at night. And that was how it should hang, contrasting sharply against its neighbors and drawing in the eye of anyone who passed it. 

It was, in all frankness, his best work. 

Hair pinned up with pearls, dressed in silver satin, Benedict had spent hours getting each pinned curl perfect, each strand of hair just right, and making the dress look like liquid silver in the moonlight. The lace detail he'd done on the sleeves and bodice had almost killed him. He'd been forced to take multiple breaks due to his hand cramping under pressure.

Sophie was silent as she stood beside him, staring at the painting with wide, surprised eyes. 

"I wanted to have her facing the viewer, but…well, it didn't look right," he explained, feeling nervous now as Sophie continued to say nothing. 

"It's good, Benedict," she told him suddenly, sounding breathless. "It's really, really good."

"You think so?" he asked, giving the portrait another look. 

Sophie's wide eyes darted towards him, a fearful glint settled in them as she watched him, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to realize how suspiciously similar she looked to the woman in the portrait before him. But the recognition never appeared on Benedict's face as he stared at his masterpiece, glancing over towards her to flash a proud smile.

"When did you–?" she started, her eyes snapping back towards the painting. 

"I've been working on this one for almost two years," he told her as he chuckled. "I didn't think I would finish, let alone in time to submit it here. It was killing me not getting her face right, but I finally did. I finally finished it." 

He still hadn't realized. She couldn't believe it. The evidence was standing right in front of him. She was standing right before a portrait of herself, and he still hadn't realized. 

That stupid, gorgeous, idiotic, wonderful fool. She wanted to scream at him.

But she couldn't. It was better he didn't realize, she reminded herself. He couldn't know who she really was. It would just make all of this worse.

"You know what I just realized?" Benedict asked.

If she hadn't already been rooted in place, frozen stiff to the point she looked like the marble statues around them, Sophie might have run. Instead, she slowly looked back towards him, waiting to hear what he had to say, praying he hadn't figured it out.

"One of my classmates. Wilkes. He submitted a piece I was told was accepted. He's a god-awful portrait painter, and if that's what he submitted, I'm sure you'll get a good laugh," he chuckled. "Come on."

Relief and disappointment filled her. It was better he didn't realize, she reminded herself again.

He reached out and grabbed her hand. The moment his fingers touched hers, she felt a shock go through her, making her snatch her hand back quickly as Benedict seemed to feel it, too.

"Sorry," he told her. 

She shook her head. "It's fine."

"Are you alright?" he asked, finally noticing her worried expression.

She nodded. "Of course." 

"Sophie, what's wrong?" he asked earnestly, his hand coming to rest on her arm. 

"Nothing. Nothing, I'm fine. Really," she said, forcing a smile. 

"You're still enjoying this, right?" he asked carefully.

"Of course. I was just…I was just a little surprised by the last one."

"In a bad way or…" Benedict gave her a concerned look.

"A good way," she clarified, chuckling. "I mean it, Benedict. I don't know why you keep making me say it, but you're good. Really good. Far better than the rest of them."

Benedict beamed. His expression was soft as he looked at her, a crinkle around his glittering eyes as he smiled. "You are a phenomenal woman, you know that?" he told her gently, and Sophie felt her cheeks begin to warm.

"Oh, I don't know about that," she replied, shaking her head as she let out a nervous laugh.

"I'm serious. I wouldn't have done any of this if it wasn't for you," he said. "I only submitted them because you pushed me to. If you hadn't strong-armed me into doing this, I would still be caught up in my own insecurities."

"I don't think I needed to strong-armed you into doing anything," Sophie said back, a little defensive. 

"Still, I owe you. A lot. For all of this," Benedict continued. He shook his head. "I haven't even told my family."

Sophie blinked at his admission, surprised, but he only continued. 

"I wanted you to know first. Need you to know before I tell the rest of them," he admitted. "I love my family, but they're not why these paintings are hanging here. You are." 

Her warm cheeks only got hotter, burning hotly now. Sophie caught her lower lip between her teeth, chewing nervously on it. There was warmth pooling below her navel, a tightness building. 

"You know," he smirked. "Nobody's around. We can do whatever we want."

Sophie closed her eyes, taking a deep breath as Benedict only chuckled softly. 

Of all the moments for him to ruin. 

She sighed, shaking her head. No matter how much she was enjoying herself right now, there was no chance in hell that she would lose herself in the desire she felt for him.

Then a hand came to rest on her hip, a gentle tug, and her feet moved without her telling them to, stepping closer to him. 

"Benedict," she warned softly, placing her hand over his. She wrapped her fingers around it, ready to pull it off–

"We're alone," he whispered, leaning in closer. 

"Benedict…" she repeated again, swallowing as his face came closer to hers. Her heart was drumming against her sternum now.

"No one will know," he assured her quietly, rotating his hand to catch hers now. 

"This can never work. You know that right?" she looked up at him with pleading eyes. "So stop it. Please."

Benedict stared at her. A small arrow appeared between his brows as he watched her, trying to understand why she kept refusing him when they both knew the desire was there. But he didn’t say anything. 

Then he sighed, leaning forward, and rested his forehead on hers. Well, more like the top of her head, with her height, his nose pressed into her curls, his lips hovering over her forehead. 

"Must you remind me?" he asked with a sad little laugh. He was joking, but his voice was still laced with disappointment. 

She only huffed a sigh, training her eyes toward his chest. "I'm trying to make this as painless as possible. For both of us." 

His hand was clutching hers tightly but not painfully. It was more desperate like he didn't want to let go of her. Sophie waited quietly, not moving. She trusted him; no matter how often he tried to push her boundaries, he always stopped when she asked, and she didn't want him to let go of her. Instead, she focused on one of the buttons on his scarlet red vest, waiting for him to pull away. 

Finally, he did. Benedict sighed, his lips gently brushed over her forehead as he gave her a soft kiss before pulling away, releasing her hand as he moved back.

"You'll be the death of me," he joked lightly, to her or himself she wasn't sure. He was smiling again, but it was a forced one this time. 

"I should go," she told him softly. The warmth had evaporated, leaving only an uncomfortable feeling of sadness behind. Disappointment of her own. 

"Sophie–" Benedict started.

She shook her head. "No, it's for the best. I should–"

"Oh!" another voice interrupted her. "I didn't realize anyone was here." 

Turning around to where the voice had come from, Sophie saw a tall, pretty brunette standing in the doorway. A woman she didn’t recognize. 

But Benedict did. 

"Tessa?" Benedict asked behind her.

The tall brunette glanced away from Sophie and towards Benedict. A smile lit up her face as she saw him.

"Benedict? Is that you?" she asked, stepping towards them–towards Benedict. "God, how long has it been?"

Benedict let out a small chuckle as he moved past Sophie and towards her, giving her a quick hug to greet her, leaving Sophie standing awkwardly behind him. 

So, they were friends. That was…okay. 

"How are you?" he asked as he pulled back.

"Well, well," Tessa replied. "Bored, though. Everything got so dreadfully boring around here after you left. No one throws a party like you did.”

Benedict chuckled.

“Not to mention, I was rather insulted that you didn't tell me you were leaving,” Tessa added. 

"Well, I um…I didn't want to be a bother," Benedict awkwardly replied. 

"You shouldn't have taken your brother's actions to heart," Tessa told him. "You had talent, Benedict. It wasn’t something to waste. But I heard you'll be in the summer showcase?"

He nodded. "Yeah. A few of my pieces were accepted." 

"I'm glad to hear," Tessa said, still smiling. 

"Enough about me. What about you? What are you doing here? Have this lot finally recognized your talents and given you a spot?" Benedict questioned.

Tessa chuckled. "I'm afraid I'm still modeling. The Academy refuses to consider women capable of using a paintbrush or a chisel, but I got one of my pieces selected for the exhibit. And something far better than the Royal Academy." 

"And what's that?" 

"A position studying in Florence. Apparently, they are a bit more accepting of women learning the arts in Italy," Tessa replied happily. 

"That's wonderful, Tessa," Benedict remarked. 

"I'll still have to work for it, but I certainly have you to thank for my male figures being more accurate. It certainly was what got me accepted in the first place," she explained.

Benedict chuckled. "You deserve it, Tessa," he told her.

Tessa's dark eyes glanced over towards Sophie, who was lingering in the shadows behind them, trying to stay out of sight. The brunette cocked her head to the side, studying her. A sly smile still ghosted over her lips.  

"Who's your friend?" she asked. 

"Oh, Tessa, this is Sophie. Sophie, this is Tessa, an old friend from when I was studying here," Benedict introduced them quickly.

Sophie nodded politely. "Nice to meet you." 

"Is she your latest? She's a pretty little thing. Wherever did you find her?" Tessa whispered loudly as she leaned towards Benedict, teasing him. 

"Tessa," Benedict warned. 

"You should get her to model here? She'd be well received," Tessa commented to Benedict. "Those looks are divine, and those curls. You must tell me how you get them like that, Sophie. Mine refuse to listen to me. Maybe you could come over to my place before I leave. I'm certain we could exchange tips and–" 

"Tessa," Benedict almost snapped, making the young woman perk up a brow at him in intrigue. 

"Ah, not the sharing sort, are you?" she said knowingly before turning back towards Sophie. "Apologies, I didn't mean any offense." 

Sophie only nodded her understanding, still unsure of what to say or do. She couldn't see any maliciousness in Tessa. The tone of her voice was playful yet kind, flirty even.

Flirty. She was flirting, Sophie realized. And that was when Sophie finally understood Tessa's remark about her male figures and Benedict. The way Tessa brushed a hand over his arm when they had greeted one another, trailing it slowly down. 

They weren't friends. They were former lovers. 

She should have realized there had been others. The charming, gorgeous Benedict Bridgerton wouldn't have much difficulty getting any woman he wanted into his bed. 

No wonder he had no issue asking her to be his mistress. He'd probably already done the same with others. Maybe even with Tessa. Sophie was just another name on a list of women he'd been with and cast aside. Another conquest for him. 

And Tessa had already assumed she was.

God, she was so stupid. Was this just an attempt at forcing her hand? She should never have agreed to come here with him. 

"I-I think it's best I go," she told them.

"Sophie, are you alright?" Benedict frowned, sensing her discomfort. 

"You're welcome to stay. The more the merrier, I always say," Tessa smiled sweetly, oblivious to the chaos occurring. "You can tell me what this one has been up to since I last saw him. I'm certain it was nothing good."

"Oh no, no. I think it's best I let him tell you," Sophie said quickly, shaking her head as she stepped away from them. "I should get going anyway. It's been a long day. Excuse me." 

"Sophie! Sophie, wait!" Benedict called out after her.

But she'd already disappeared into the next room, fleeing towards the exit, forcing Benedict to chase after her. He left a surprised Tessa behind, not even turning back to explain or say goodbye as he ran after her. He didn’t even think, he just made a split second decision when he saw her flee to follow her. And that's what he did.

And he caught up with her quickly enough. Those damn legs once again. Sophie grabbed the basket she'd left by the door, and had already slipped into the hallway and then out the side entrance when Benedict caught her in the alleyway. His hand snatched her wrist to stop her, pulling her back.

"Let me go," she ordered, shrugging him off her. 

"Let me explain," he shot back, grabbing her arm.

"Get off me!" she shouted, ripping herself away from him. "I do not wish to speak to you."

"Sophie, please–" he started to plead. 

"What?!" she snapped. "What could you possibly have to say to explain this?" 

"She didn't mean any harm. Tessa was just being herself," Benedict told her. "If she offended you, I know she didn't mean to."

Sophie scoffed. "You mean when she assumed I was your mistress, and you didn't correct her?"

Benedict frowned. "When–she didn't say anything–?"

He stopped. She had. He hadn't even noticed. Just happy to see a familiar face, he didn't notice she'd implied he and Sophie were together. And when he stopped her from propositioning Sophie, he'd only confirmed his interests.

He sighed. "Sophie–"

"I have no need to involve myself with whores," she snapped at him. 

"That's out of line, Sophie," he told her sternly as if admonishing one of his sisters for a cruel remark. "Just because you're upset with me doesn't mean you need to refer to Tessa as a whore."

Sophie stopped, blinking at him, her mouth open in stunned surprise. Staring at him as if he'd just grown another head. As if she couldn't believe what he had just said to her. 

Then, the shock changed to something else. Amusement. With a look of disbelief still on her face, she started laughing at him. Hysterically. Enough that she was left clutching her side as her chuckles descended into a fit, and Benedict found himself uncomfortable with her reaction, unsure what he'd done to cause it. 

"She was not the one I was referring to as a whore," she finally told him as the chuckles subsided, looking at him like he was a fool.

Benedict frowned at her, confused, as he slowly processed the words she'd just said. Then, like hers had, his pale eyes widened in stunned surprise. She'd been speaking of him. And the glower she now had told him it was most certainly him she'd been referring to. Sophie was focusing on keeping her breathing steady to prevent herself from yelling at him.

His frown deepened. Appalled, he asked. Just to make sure. 

"Me?"

"Yes, you!" she shot at him, louder this time. The anger began burning brightly again in her mossy eyes. 

As if struck by a bullet, Benedict stumbled back from her as the insult hit his ego. He won't deny that he'd slept around, finding himself in the company of a new woman each season these past few seasons, but that had been before Sophie. That had all stopped after he met the Lady in Silver, probably even before that, too, if he thought about it. Watching his siblings fall in love and marry, seeing them start their own families, had stirred something deep within him. He realized he was pretty lonely and wished for more than a fleeting fling.

Sophie had probably been the first woman he'd found himself falling for in two years, unable to tear his eyes from her petite form, blonde curls, and bright jeweled eyes. Every time she stepped into the room, he found himself drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She was the first woman in years he'd desired, even when his mind still harassed him about his silver-dressed companion. The one he had yet to find. 

Not to mention, he was a gentleman. His mother had raised him better. He'd been nothing but respectable to all his previous partners and to any lady of the ton he met. 

And being a gentleman meant he knew marriage was not an option when it came to Sophie, no matter how much his heart screamed at him to ignore society. To just flee to Scotland with her. 

Maybe he should. It would make everything easier. 

But, somehow, even though he knew he was not some cad, that his gender granted him only respect from his peers when they learned of his sexual exploits, being compared to that of a high-class cyprian or some light-skirted doxy was a comparison he found himself not entirely comfortable with. 

Especially when it was coming from Sophie. 

She was still glaring at him, her small chest expanding and contracting with each hasty breath she took. Her nostrils flaring. She was furious; her round cheeks had gone pink from rage, her eyes rimmed red, and why wouldn't she be upset. Intentional or not, he'd embarrassed her. 

He knew Tessa's remarks were not said in judgment but in a friendly jest, mocking him more than Sophie if he was honest, but Sophie, a young woman whose own birth had been the result of premarital affairs and who he knew, from his own teasings, was not comfortable with conversations of sex, had seen it as degrading. An insult. 

He'd stood there like an idiot while Tessa implied Sophie was his latest lover.

He sighed. He was a fool. A giant damn fool. "Sophie, I'm sorry–"

"I don't want to hear your apologies," she snapped. "I've heard enough." 

"Sophie, I don't think of you like that," Benedict told her. "You're far more important to me than some little fling. That’s all it was for Tessa too." 

“You asked me to be your mistress?” she retorted, furiously.

“You said it yourself, we cannot be together,” he shot at her, repeating her earlier statement back.

“And yet you continue to try. To try and ruin me just so you can have me all to yourself,” she angrily remarked.

“Sophie, I love you,” he replied quickly.

He’d said before, but even then Sophie hadn’t believed him. Even though he knew she felt the same towards him, she wouldn’t say it back and she wouldn’t believe him when he said it to her. 

And she didn’t this time either. Sophie only scoffed at him as she shook her head. She turned to leave, moving away from him, but Benedict wouldn't let her get away. Reaching out and grabbing her again, he pulled her back. 

"I said let go of me–" Sophie started, fighting against him as he pushed to turn around. 

And then his lips were on hers. 

She should have pushed him away, told him no, and been done with it. He would have let her leave.

But the moment his lips were touching hers, any capability she had at being rational evaporated. 

Because she did love him, she did, and kissing Benedict was like being set alight. Not in the painful, burning way, but the exhilarating, being sent over the edge and back that felt like every one of Sophie's nerves had just ignited, all buzzing with desire and excitement. Even furious with him, her anger only shifted to passion. The tightness below her belly returned as she felt herself get warm. 

Benedict let go of her shoulders to catch her waist again, snaking around her to come and rest on her back. A spin of the feet and Sophie was against the brick wall. His grip on her waist pulled her hips closer to him, his fingers digging into muscle. She tilted her head back, letting him kiss her harder, her hands clutching at his shirt, then his neck, nails scratching lightly over skin before pushing up into his hair, making him groan against her. The smell of citrus and sandalwood filling her nose. 

His hands were pulling at the fabric of her dress, dragging the skirts up her legs until it was brushing at the back of her calves, then going higher, but Sophie was too caught up in the desperate passion she was more focused on pulling him closer to realize what he was getting close to. 

And she couldn't help it. A small moan left her lips when his fingers lightly skimmed over the skin of her thigh, almost tickling. Slipping from her lips like a desperate gasp as she got a moment to breathe. To pull air back into her lungs.

Reality followed close behind.

Her reaction was instant. Like a bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped on her, dosing the fire racing through her veins, Sophie jumped away from Benedict, pushing him back.

"Stop it," she ordered.

"Sophie–" he stepped towards her.

"No, just stop!" she almost screamed at him.

He stopped, hands up in surrender. He looked guilt-ridden. Unsure what to say. A desperate, lonely look in his eyes. 

Good, she thought, he should be. 

"I'm… I'm sorry, Sophie. Just let me at least walk you back to Number 5," he offered sincerely. "Please, Sophie." 

She shook her head, jaw clenched, as she turned away from him.

"I think it's best if I return alone . Good day, Mr. Bridgerton." 

Then she slipped away from him without another word, not bothering to glance back as she left him standing there in the thin alleyway. Alone. Despair and regret lingered in the air.

But the feeling of his lips on hers, the ghost of their kiss, burned the entire walk back.

[anoutlandishfanfic]

Chapter Thirty: Dhà

Hellooooo!!! Thank you so much for your patience as you’ve waited for this update. Life has been... an adventure, but its been really fun to come back to this. I may be a bit rusty, but I cannot wait to show you the rest of the (continuing) story.

You can find previous chapters HERE on Tumblr.

Or HERE on AO3.

{Dhà means two in Scots Gaelic... a second child... a second start at this fic. I thought it would be fitting.}

February 22nd, 1744. Claire.

The door slammed open with a mighty gust of wind, making me flinch and waking Brian from a sound sleep. He whimpered, then let out a full throated protest at the intrusion. Jamie’s face lit up as we heard the sound of a woman’s voice over his cries.

“Over here!” he leaned away from me, craning his neck to see the doorway without leaving my side. “This way!!”

My heart soared as she cheerily answered in French, “Hello! Yes, we hear you!!”

Jamie turned back to me and draped my arisaid a bit more modestly over my chest as I tried to soothe Brian.

The irony of my husband’s ministrations was not lost on me as this stranger was going to see a good deal more than my bare breasts if she was going to be helpful… but its welcome warmth had me sinking deeper into its folds, settling the baby and loosening the knot of tension around my heart.

The stranger appeared at the edge of our nest a moment later, followed closely by a second woman, and with Murtagh hot on their heels.

My gaze flew back to Jamie as he shifted, hesitantly positioning himself in front of me — even as we both knew just how much we needed her presence and guiding hand.

Let her be a help and not a hindrance, my soul whispered as a chill ran up my spine.

The woman’s face was weathered, her frame slight underneath her billowing, dripping cloak. She quickly assessed all three of us in a glance as she set her overflowing basket down and rid herself of her outer garments, rolling up her sleeves as she introduced herself.

“My name is Camille, my dear,” her gaze softened and my guard began to slip a bit. “Your father found my daughter and I in the market… May I see how we can be of help?”

“Please.”

The word tumbled from my lips in desperation before I could stem it and I felt Jamie tense against me as the woman took a step closer, kneeling about an arm’s length from my feet.

“Your baby sounds healthy and strong,” she nodded to Brian, her smile growing. “Shall I examine him?”

My words stuck in the back of my throat as the pull of another contraction began and I looked helplessly to Jamie, my mouth gone completely dry.

“He is well, but his brother is on his way,” Jamie’s hoarse voice betrayed his own emotions as he simply and swiftly explained the situation.

Understanding dawned at once and she inched closer as she began to ask a series of rapid questions –  none of which I heard.

The blood roared in my ears and the room began to spin around me as I fought to keep my head above the rising tide... to make out what the woman was saying.

I turned my head towards Jamie, my mouth opening and shutting again as the words stuck in my throat.

Help. me.

Great, black spots swam into my vision as hands suddenly reached out and tried to tear Brian from my arms.

“No!” I cried out as I clutched him even tighter against my chest, curling inwards as I tried to shield him.

My entire body began to shake… trembling from head to toe out of a panic that was quickly turning into a blind rage.

Get your fucking hands off my baby.

“Stop!” I tried again, gasping, and tried to find my husband in the chaos around me.

“Jamie!”

But it was Murtagh’s face that suddenly appeared before me and his warm, steady hand on my arm as he coaxed, “Much, a nighean… much.”

Blinking hard, I could finally make out Jamie just behind him. His face had gone completely white and he raked his good hand through his hair, standing it on end.

“Here,” Murtagh’s hand lifted and cupped the back of Brian’s tiny head, nearly swallowing him whole. 

“Give him to me, aye? He’ll come to nae harm… I give ye my word.”

I reluctantly nodded and loosened my grip on Brian as I shifted him against me. Murtagh opened his arms, eyes bright with unshed tears as he gently took him from me. Jamie murmured something in Gaelic to them both as he settled our son more securely in his godfather’s arms and sent them off into the shadows with a nod.

I began to tremble again as I lost sight of them, feeling completely unmoored and tossed about in a raging sea of pain without him in my arms. A mighty sob welling up deep within me and gained strength as it ran up my spine, bursting from my lips before I could stem it.

“Jamie.”

He surged forward and grabbed hold of my hand in an instant.

“I’m here, mo ghraidh,” he murmured low, squeezing my hand gently.

“Show me wha’ ye need.”

I tugged him towards me and he eagerly moved closer, slipping carefully into place behind me.

I turned my face towards his as he brushed away the curls that clung to the hot tears streaming down my cheeks and tried to gain a footing against him as wave after wave threatened to tear me in two.

He kissed me, then, long and hard. His spirit lifted mine, soothing and strengthening as slowly, ever so slowly, the tide that bound me began to recede. He kept his face close as I fought to both catch my breath and regain my bearings.

Jesus H Roosevelt Christ, I mentally spat as everything came crashing back into focus.

The absolute stranger at my feet… another perched on a crate at the edge of my view… Brian’s small noises from somewhere in the shadows… and the realization that this was happening a hell of a lot faster the second time around.

I slid my eyes shut with a hiccuping sigh and gripped Jamie’s hand even tighter.

“Aye, tha’s the way,” the rumble of his voice against my back and his reassuring words compelled the writhing mass of doubt within me to cease.

But it would not.

He registered this and let go of my hand, shifting me in his arms until he could see my face. Concern lined his face as studied me for a moment and his thumb stroked my cheek before he lowered his lips once more to mine, pulling all of the remaining tension from within me with his kiss.

I tried to settle against him and groaned in frustration as another contraction began, right on the heels of the last. I shifted listlessly in his arms, struggling to find a position that eased the pain in any amount.

“Here,” the woman’s hand rested on my knee as she moved closer, guiding me and helping me turn so that I could lean more squarely against Jamie.

I kept hold of her hand as my breath hitched and my eyes widened in surprise at the sudden strength of this new contraction.

Her face softened as she gave my hand a gentle squeeze before letting go and moving closer to me, settling herself into a better position to help.

My jaw clenched as I dug my feet into the mattress beneath me.

Bloody. fucking. hell.

… ...

Jamie.

Claire sagged against me, completely spent as her pain finally eased for a moment. They were coming one right after another now, without time for her to rest before the next one hit.

“He’s sure in a hurry,” she grumbled, echoing my own thoughts.

The midwife lifted her head and I repeated the sentiment in French. She chuckled softly, nodding reassuringly as she patted Claire’s thigh.

“He’ll be in your arms soon, mo chridhe,” I reassured her, praying it would be true.

She nodded, a shuddering moan leaving her lips as she was plunged into battle once more.

“Tha’s the way, Sorcha,” I encouraged as she began to push.

The midwife ducked her head to peer beneath the hem of Claire’s shift for a moment and helped my wife settle more fully into her task. They worked together, coaxing and crooning until they finally broke through to the other side.

“Fuck,” Claire moaned, sliding her eyes shut in exhaustion. “Damn you, James Fraser.”

My gut clenched at this and my heart dropped to the floor.

Watching you pay for the cost of my love is hell enough, my own.

“Oh, aye,” I hoarsely agreed and brushed a kiss across her temple, then more earnestly as she shifted against me and lifted her face towards mine.

“Take what ye need of me, mo ghraidh,” I hovered close. “I’ve got ye… I’m here.”

I tried to recall what had helped her before… my mind racing to remember what I’d said or done to give her comfort the first time. I could see her face better then, as she’d faced me, but there was something about supporting her in this way — holding her close as she gave everything within her to bring our second child into the world – that made it all entirely new.

I felt her stiffen in my arms and I laced my fingers through hers as she dove in, head first back into the storm… but she had a new spirit, a strength that had been all but gone not a moment before.

“Good!” the midwife exclaimed, beaming. “Here he comes!”

Her head disappeared completely from sight as she tucked Claire’s shift up around her hips and out of the way as she readied herself to guide my son into the world.

Claire’s nails bit into the tops of my thighs as the midwife guided her through the pain until she suddenly collapsed against me, a choking, strangled cry exploding from her lips.

“Well done, my dear!!” she cheered.

“A dhia, no chridhe,” I murmured, placing a kiss atop her head. “How verra braw ye are.

But my pride quickly turned to panic as the next pain started and I felt something change within Claire… the heels of her hands pushed against the tops of my thighs as her voice rose, twisting and clawing at the ceiling.

The midwife turned away from my wife for the first time since she’d arrived and beckoned wildly to the other woman in the shadows. Her assistant was at her side in an instant and she addressed me — not Claire — as urgency contorted her face.

“We need to move her,” she instructed. “She needs to lay back.”

I nodded and quickly moved to do her bidding, supporting Claire’s shoulders as I helped her lay against the make-shift pillows behind her.

Claire cried out again as they drew her knees up towards her chest, the knife edge of her scream flaying me wide open as I hovered above her. Her gaze grew distant, her face contorting as she writhed in pain.

“Sorcha.”

My hand trembled as much as my voice as I tried to reach her in her agony. 

“Sorcha, look at me,” I begged, my hands cradling her face.

“Please.”

Her eyes were wide, staring right past me as she screamed again.

Turn… Shoulder…

I could only catch fragments of the women’s words, but the next made my blood run cold.

Stuck.

I slipped my hand beneath Claire’s head and I leaned forward, bringing her lips to mine in a desperate attempt to keep her at my side.

Mary, Michael, and Bride — help her!

She trembled in my arms as I pulled away, but her gaze finally found mine for a moment as I hovered above her.

“Stay wi’ me, Sorcha,” I begged.

Claire jerked suddenly and let out a bloodcurdling shout, going completely limp in my arms. I frantically looked over my shoulder, but my plea for help stopped short at the sight of a bairn squirming in the midwife’s hands.

She looked up and beamed at me, announcing, “You have another son.”

My heart soared and the tears flowed freely down my cheeks as I turned back to Claire.

“He’s here, mo ghraidh,” I murmured as I felt her hand stir on my arm, her eyes closed.

I brushed a kiss across her brow and she lifted her hand to my neck. Her eyelids flickered and she blinked up at me.

Wee noises began to sound from behind me and I watched as the chiseled lines of pain immediately left her face and she was transformed with a curious, eager joy. She turned her head, trying to see around me, and I moved out of her way.

The bairn’s wee squawking turned into a loud, hearty cry and Claire reached out  for him. The midwife eagerly obliged and gently placed him within reach beside her.

She sighed heavily as her fingers brushed against the top of his head, skimming down each limb and finding him whole.

“Ye’ve done it, mo chridhe,” I swallowed hard, my voice breaking as a slow, weary smile lit her face.

“They’re both here.”

I could hear the midwife moving behind me, her hands flitting into view as she readied to cut the bairn’s cord.

The next moment she lifted him, easing him off the mattress and settled him on Claire’s chest.

I heard Claire’s breath catch, then release in a contented sigh as she held him close for the first time. Her hand trembled as her fingers traced the curve of his brow.

“He’s perfect,” she murmured in awe.

I couldn’t help but agree, nodding slowly as I added, “An’ sae wee.”

Her face changed, worry creeping into her eyes as she looked up and scanned the shadows just beyond us.

“Murtagh?” Her voice broke as she called out to him.

I could make out his dark shape as he moved at once, answering back “Aye, a leannan… I’m here.”

He quickly crossed the room and knelt beside us, his eyes bright and cheeks wet.

“Thank you,” I swallowed hard as I lifted Brian back into my arms. “Thank you for holding him close, ghoistidh.”

One corner of his lips lifted in acknowledgement, but he didn’t reply. His hand lingered on the bairn for a moment as I settled Brian more securely in my arms, then moved out of the way as I turned back to Claire.

I shifted beside her, moving Brian until his head was near his brother’s.

My heart soared as I saw them side by side for the first time. Claire’s hand moved to rest on Brian, looking from one to the other as she studied their faces.

“Wha’ will ye name him, then?”

Murtagh’s voice was so low that I almost didn’t hear him.

I looked up to find him beaming down at the miracle before him… the biggest smile I’d ever seen stretching across his face.

“Henry,” I whispered hoarsely. “Henry an’ Brian.”