#Georgia white marble

[sheilamurrey]

Georgia white marble stones similar to Newgrange

When we visited Newgrange in County Meath Ireland (twice in 2019), I was awestruck how the white stones reminded me of the house my parents built when I was a teenager. If you would rather listen instead of read, play the audio (and there’s a few minutes of BONUS info on the audio this time too!): It took five years to build our house When I was 12, my parents bought 6 acres of undeveloped…

[separatist-apologist]

The Sweetest Con

Summary: Nesta Archeron has been trapped in witness protection for the past five years, hiding a secret no one can ever learn. All she has to do is wait out the criminals back home determined to punish her and her sisters for a lie they told years before.

She can handle anything- even the new agent sent to keep her safe.

Read on AO3

Five years earlier:

She wasn’t used to Georgia’s humidity. 

Nesta never wanted to get used to it. Standing just outside the little white house that now belonged to her, Nesta wiped sweat from the back of her neck. The town was small—no more than a couple thousand people, if that. No big buildings, no major downtown, and worst of all, no Chinese food. Not unless she wanted to creep closer to Atlanta and given that Nesta’s car was a piece of rusting junk built a full decade before she was born, she doubted she’d make it.

So much for being a hot shot lawyer. 

Nesta dumped her bag just inside the white picket fence, ignoring the peeling paint and splintering wood. It was the kind of place Elain would have thrived in. With a sigh, Nesta turned her back entirely on the overgrown yard and began walking along the only road in the town to the center—aptly named Main Street. 

There was practically no one out. A few older woman walked with looped arms down the sidewalks while a harried mother pushing a stroller made her way toward the only grocery store. Nesta made her way toward the marble carved library, taking the steps one at a time despite the unrelenting sun overhead.

The air inside was ice cold and empty save of two women who were quietly talking to each other. One of them—the red head—clearly worked there given she was behind the desk. The other sat perched on the counter, a book in her lap. They had been clearly talking with some animation though now that Nesta had intruded, the pair stared with wary suspicion.

Nesta hadn’t come to make friends. Lifting her chin with all the haughtiness her mother had instilled in her, Nesta marched toward the shelves lined with fantasy and romance and began reading the jackets. 

She needed a distraction. All she could think about lately was what would happen if Rhysand ever found them. Surely he was irate…he’d be out for blood. They’d flat out lied, pointing the finger straight at the notorious mafioso and the feds, in their eagerness to put him away, had overlooked all the evidence suggesting otherwise.

But Rhysand would know.

And Nesta wanted to forget him. Mobsters lived short lives, besides—in a year, he might be dead and the whole thing over. She could keep herself busy for that long. So long as the library kept books on the shelves, Nesta could find something to do.

She brought them to the front desk where the red head and the dark haired woman waited. “Library card?” The woman’s name tag read Gwyn. 

“No,” Nesta said, fishing out her new drivers license. Agnes Smith. Sure. That sounded real. “Here.”

Gwyn eyed it for a moment. “You don’t look like an Agnes.”

“Tell that to my mom.”

Gwyn began typing on her computer, glancing at Nesta’s ID. “Emerie,” the dark skinned, dark haired woman said with a friendlier smile. “I think you look like an Agnes.” Gwyn rolled her eyes. 

“You should come by the general store,” Emerie added, glancing at the ID for Nesta’s address. “You moved into the old Brandon house.”

“Grizzly murder happened there,” Gwyn said seriously.

“Did not. He died of all old age,” Emerie said quickly. “It’s been run down for a while. I’d be happy to help you out.”

“Do you like women?” Gwyn asked suddenly and bluntly. 

Taken aback, Nesta said, “Um…not really—romantically, anyway.”

Emerie sighed. “It was worth a shot.”

Nesta almost blurted out that she’d still take friends before she thought better of it. No need to be defensive or obsessive. “Where is everyone today?”

“It’s ten am,” Gwyn said.

“They’re at church,” Emerie replied when it was clear Nesta didn’t understand. 

“But not you?” Nesta questioned.

Gwyn handed her ID back, along with a white library card bearing her pretend name. “We aren’t welcome.”

“Why?”

Emerie grimaced while Gwyn scanned Nesta’s book. “They think I’m a homewrecker…and Emerie likes women. Openly.” 

“Fuck them,” Nesta said without thinking. It was the first smile she’d seen from Gwyn—a small, half formed thing, but a smile all the same. “We should start our own religion.”

“That sounds like blasphemy,” Emerie teased.

“It sounds like witchcraft,” Gwyn added, pushing Nesta’s stack of books toward her. “I’m in.”

Which was how Nesta found herself hosting brunch that Sunday with two strangers in a house that didn’t belong to her.

PRESENT:

“Who is that?” Emerie asked, sitting on Nesta’s front porch holding a sweating glass of iced tea. 

“He’s not local at all,” Gwyn agreed, lowering her sunglasses to take a look at the tall, muscular man making his way toward Nesta’s gate. Wearing mirrored shades and a suit that was bursting at the seams, he looked like he was playing dress up as a cop.

His dark, wavy hair half pulled in a bun didn’t seem regulation, for one. But something about him seemed off somehow. 

“He one of yours?” Gwyn questioned. Nesta had long since betrayed the secrecy she’d been sworn to, telling her friends everything but the most critical piece of truth in order to protect Feyre. 

Nesta scratched her ear. No, this man was definitely not one of hers. 

“Want us to stay?” Gwyn asked, likely thinking about the shotgun mounted in the back of her pick-up truck.

“I can handle him,” Nesta assured them. Gwyn and Emerie stood, leaving behind their cups to slip from the yard. Gwyn nodded at the man once, lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. That left Nesta standing at the top of her porch steps wearing a butter yellow sundress, arms crossed over her chest.

“Ma’am,” he the man began as he approached, his expression unreadable. She waited, watching as he took off his sunglasses only for recognition to slam into her. Oh. She knew this man from pictures.  “My name is Cassian.”

Rhysands right hand man. Nesta didn’t move, unwilling to betray she knew who he was. “What can I do for you, Cassian?”

Not even a fake name? Was he that confident she’d never done one google search? He had a mugshot, had appeared in the papers just enough times for Nesta to recognize him. They called him The Lord of Bloodshed thanks to his rumored job of handling the things Rhysand didn’t want staining his hands or his conscience. 

And that man was standing at the bottom of her steps, armed just beneath his suit jacket. 

“I’m here on behalf of your case,” he said like a pretty liar. 

“Oh? Has something happened?”

“An indictment is coming. I’m to escort you back home once Rhysand has been charged.”

Liar.

Still, there was no reason to call him out on it. If Rhysand had found her, he must be still looking for her sisters. She didn’t believe for a minute he’d found Feyre—his bruiser would have pointed his gun at her by way of greeting had he. No, they were monitoring her.

And Nesta could watch them right back. 

So she smiled, hoping she seemed innocent and sweet. “What a relief,” she lied, stepping to the side so he could come up. “I was starting to think I’d be trapped here forever.”

“Can I come inside?” Cassian asked, looking around her immaculate yard with interest. “It’s hot out here.”

“Better get used to that,” Nesta said, pulling open the screen door so Cassian could get the lay of the land. “Are you staying here?”

“If you don’t mind. The hotel is…”

Roach filled, she knew. People still went, content to carry out their clandestine affairs in filth so long as no one ever found out. 

“I have a spare room,” Nesta told him. Cassian turned back for his own car—a brand new jeep  that was laughably out of place in her little neighborhood. He returned with two bags slung over his broad shoulders, eyes hidden behind his glasses. The sun hit the golden brown of his skin, making it seem as if he glowed and tragically, Nesta thought he was a good looking man.

He’d kill her if she wasn’t careful…but attractive, all the same. 

Nesta showed him to the smaller room she kept made up just in case Gwyn or Emerie wanted to stay the night, thinking the full sized bed didn’t seem big enough for this man. He had to duck beneath the doorway, putting him well over six foot three—maybe six six? He made Nesta, who stood tall at five nine, feel dainty by comparison.

“Should I call you Cassian, or…?”

“Cassian is fine,” he replied, sunglasses resting atop his head. “This is perfect, by the way. I promise you’ll barely know I exist.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Nesta said in a flirty voice as she eyed him. “I think it would be hard not to notice you.” He grinned, unaware that a real agent would have shut her down in seconds. “Well, Miss Agnes, I’ll do my best to keep out of your hair.”

Nesta offered him another smile, mind racing. If she survived tonight she assumed she’d survive as long as he wanted her to—and as long as she didn’t admit she knew what he was. That meant keeping it from Gwyn and Emerie, who wouldn’t be able to stop themselves from treating him like a criminal.

He thought she was prey, but Nesta Archeron was a survivor. A predator, just like this man. And she had lived in Georgia for five years—she had guns hidden all over the house. He didn’t need to know any of that, though. Nesta waited while he unpacked some of his things and peeked around her little house, mostly quiet as he cased her. Sitting on her sofa beneath a ceiling fan moving at top speed, Nesta heard him push open the back door and walk through the yard where she assumed he was testing the gate.

He messed with windows when he returned, pushing back curtains to peer out into the street. “You’re wide open out here,” he finally said with a frown on his pretty face. And he was pretty—sculpted and rough in a way that was hard to ignore. Nesta found herself noticing the green in his hazel eyes and the way stubble clung to his strong jaw. A slit cut through his eyebrow while faint scars littered his jaw and hands, betraying a man who knew his way around a fight. 

He was fooling no one but himself. 

“This is where you put me,” she reminded him, wondering if he understood what she was really saying. 

“Maybe we’ll keep the curtains closed,” Cassian said, as if Nesta didn’t do that anyway. The sun was unforgiving and the only way to survive swampy summers was to try and keep things shady and cool. 

“Do you want to take off your jacket?”

“I want to take everything off,” he admitted, shrugging out of what she had to assume was stolen. “Even my own skin.”

“That’s how I felt when I first got here,” she told him. He’d look back on all this and remember—he’d realize she knew the moment he stepped onto her lawn. “You get used to it.”

She was going to kill him, she realized. The knowledge slammed into Nesta’s chest violently, paralyzing her for a moment. She’d never killed anyone…but at some point she’d have to kill this man before he killed her. Cassian, for his part, was unaware of the slant of her thoughts. He must have already known when he came down that he planned to kill her just as soon as he was given the order. She doubted he intended to take her home…and if he did, it would be under duress. 

That was future Nesta’s problem, though. For now, all she had to do was stay one step ahead of him. And that meant pretending like she believed every word coming out of his mouth and ignored all the obvious signs that he was a liar. 

“Hungry?” she asked. 

“Starving,” Cassian agreed. He vanished into the room she’d given him, leaving Nesta enough time to try and steady her nervous hands. By the time Cassian returned, Nesta was slicing up meat for the grill outside. There was absolutely no way she was turning on her oven.

“Can I help you with that?”

Instinct demanded she say no. She didn’t want Cassian anywhere near lighter fluid, for one. He looked so earnest and she was pretending, so Nesta nodded. “I haven’t seasoned it yet.”

“Leave it to me,” Cassian said with an easy smile. And she did, watching him from the corner of her eye while he seasoned her meat and vegetables. He vanished out the back door and when he returned, sweat glistened over his face. Nesta found herself standing there for a moment, staring as he pulled the rest of his hair off his face, biceps straining against the cuff of his t-shirts. 

Cassian was heavily tattooed with black ink that crawled over his arms and up his neck, broken only by the sweaty shirt he wore. 

“Why do people live like this?” Cassian asked, wiping his brow on his sleeve. “It’s horrible.”

“I keep saying it,” she replied honestly. “I would have preferred a colder climate.”

“Next time,” Cassian grumbled. “What are you doing now?”

“Cutting up fruit. Want some?”

Cassian picked a blueberry out of the bowl and popped it into his mouth. “How do you spend your time, anyway?”

“I’m the town lawyer,” Nesta informed him. “I work in a little office down on Main Street.”

“And when you’re not working?”

She shrugged. “I have friends…but I mostly read.”

He glanced toward her shelves of books in the living room, visible from the hall connecting the two. “Anything interesting?”

“Take a look,” was all Nesta could think to respond. Cassian didn’t take her up on her offer, turning instead to go check on the grilling meat. Had she not known who he was, Nesta might have thought the awkward environment was just because a stranger had invaded her space.

It felt almost normal. 

Almost.

Because Nesta couldn’t forget a killer was sitting across from her, his hands soaked in blood. She kept coming back to it as they ate in relative silence. Why had Rhysand sent him here? What did he want with her? Nesta needed to figure it out.

And figure it out fast.

CASSIAN:

Nesta Archeron was beautiful.

Cassian hadn’t expected it. He’d seen a picture of Feyre only once and had kind of imposed her face on all three Archerons. Walking up to her house had been a surreal experience. For one, all Cassian could see was her tits pressed against the neckline of that sundress she wore. Holy fucking Christ, but Nesta’s body was something out of his most depraved fantasies.

But her eyes were something else. Icy blue and calculated, it was no surprise Nesta had survived five years out mostly on her own. Did she even know her sisters were guarded by federal agents while she was left to fend for herself? 

It irked Cassian. Sure, he was grateful he’d been able to gain access to her life so easily, but surely someone was keeping their eyes on this woman? So the likes of him couldn’t just stroll into her home and do whatever he liked with her? 

But after two days living with Nesta, Cassian learned that no one seemed to care if she lived or died. Which was just as well—because he was starting to care. Just a little, he told himself that second night as he laid in bed staring up at the ceiling fan.

His only job was to get her back to Rhysand in one piece once he’d tracked down Feyre and married her. Nesta wouldn’t even know until it was all too late and the feds would lose their pathetic case.

And then Cassian could go back to his regular life in a place that wasn’t drenched in humidity. How did anyone sleep? Even with Nesta’s air conditioner going at full blast, Cassian found himself shucking off his shirt and kicking the sheets to the floor in a desperate attempt at sleep. 

Thinking the living room might be cooler, Cassian dragged his blanket with him to the couch where he found Nesta, half hidden in the dark with a piece of toast in her hand.

Her little night dress was enough to empty out his mind. Why was she so hot? Cassian could see every curve of her perfect body beneath the silken blue fabric and her hair was loose around her shoulders rather than braided in a crown atop her head.

He wanted to lick the salt off her skin.

He wanted to lick a lot of things, actually.

Cassian was fairly certain federal agents weren’t supposed to have sex with their charges—even if Rhysand was certain Vanserra had something going on with the middle Archeron. Cassian wasn’t anything close to a cop and fucking was his favorite thing to do. 

“I ah..” Cassian rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly hyper aware that all he wore was a pair of loose shorts. Nesta was looking only at his face with a grim determination—as if she found it very difficult to do so.

You can look at any part of me you like.

Having sex with her would certainly pass the time. 

“It’s hot,” Nesta said, flipping on a lamp on the side table. “I keep meaning to get someone out here to look at my AC, but…”

“I’ll look at it,” Cassian promised. “Before the sun comes up.”

“You’re handy?”

He was, actually. “I grew up with a single mom,” he said, flashing her a smile before making his way to the sofa. “We didn’t have a lot of money, so I learned how to do repairs.” Nesta tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Unwilling to give her a reason to banish him, Cassian made a show of fluffing the couch cushions before stretching himself out. 

“My shower doesn’t have hot water,” she finally told him.

Cassian grinned in the dark. “I can take a look at that, too.”

“I would appreciate it,” Nesta replied. 

“Why don’t you make me a list? I’ve got nothing else to do all day and I feel like a freeloader sitting on your couch.”

That was true. Cassian was used to staying busy and suddenly he had nothing but downtime. It was tempting to go to the library and find his own books to read and treat the entire thing like a vacation. This would help build trust between them, he rationalized.

And Cassian liked having something to do. He liked being useful to people. 

“I could do that,” Nesta said, still standing in his line of sight. Even in the dark, Cassian could see her nipples pointed through the fabric. He wanted to touch them.

“I’m here to help,” Cassian reminded her.

“Of course,” she said, her tone unreadable to him. 

He nearly asked if she wanted to join him. It was on the tip of his tongue, but Nesta beat him to speaking, adding, “Well. Sleep well, Cassian.”

“You too,” he said, disappointment ribboning through him. It was absurd to think a woman like Nesta Archeron was going to crawl in his dirtbag lap.

Still, Cassian could dream. And he did, waking with a throbbing erection he had to discreetly handle in the freezing cold shower. Cassian hadn’t noticed it wasn’t hot given the air was miserable and he didn’t want to take a boiling shower for once. He could hear Nesta in her room listening to music, up with dawn just like he was. 

He found tools out in her garden shed, unused and rusty. They’d likely belonged to the previous tenant, whoever they’d been. Still, they worked well enough for Cassian’s purposes. What she needed was an entirely new unit. Cassian guessed the old one was over a decade long and judging from the rattling, it was on its final legs.

He had money. A lot of money. Would she believe him if he told her the agency had decided to replace it? Nesta didn’t strike him as particularly stupid—if they’d never helped her before, she might not believe they’d help her now. He couldn’t live the way they had been, though, which was how Cassian found himself on the phone with the local repairman giving out his credit card details over the phone.

Nesta was gone by the time Cassian came back into the house, drenched in sweat and slightly sunburned on the tops of his arms. It was a relief to get into the basement and work on the water heater, and by the time Cassian finished, the service guys were there to replace Nesta’s air conditioner. It required them to turn the air off which was actual hell, though once it was back up, Cassian felt instant relief. 

Nesta returned with a scowl on her face, dressed in a pencil skirt that made Cassian’s mouth dry out. How had Archeron managed to create her? Cassian had met him—he was nothing special. An unremarkable man in every way imaginable, including his appearance.

Nesta could have modeled. Could have had her face on billboards, her body in magazines. Had he met her back home, he knew he’d have dogged her steps hoping for just a look in his direction. 

“Any news?” Nesta asked, sliding her keys and purse onto a side table. Cassian watched her kick off her heels and turn her face upwards toward the vents blowing cold air.

“Nope,” he said. What would Rhys do if he kept her here for a year? Kick his ass, likely. “Rough day?”

Holding up a cloth shopping bag, Nesta nodded her head while Cassian rose to take it from her. Inside he found an assortment of peppers, onions, and a rather nice steak he assumed she wanted to grill. Cassian had never grilled before he met her and found that he rather liked it. In fact, he liked the whole little game he was playing. Pretending to be the sort of man who had a house and a wife and a barbeque suited him.

In another life, Cassian would have thrived.

“I’m working on another divorce and her soon to be ex stopped by to tell me what he thought about me.”

“I hope it was to tell you you’re beautiful,” Cassian replied without thinking as he peeled stickers from the vegetables.

“No it wasn’t,” Nesta replied, her tone uncertain. “It was to tell me what a bitch I am.”

Cassian arched a brow. “Did you tell him to get fucked?”

Nesta chuckled. “Not this time…but I wanted to. He thinks if he digs his heels in, he can avoid this divorce but it’s happening either way.”

“This is why I’m not married,” Cassian said, reaching for a knife.

“Oh?” Nesta asked, an amused smile on her perfect face. “Is that the only reason?”

Cassian couldn’t help his grin. “I’m off-putting to women, of course.”

“There it is,” she said with a pretty laugh. “Want any help?”

“Get out of my kitchen, Nes,” Cassian replied, swatting her away. “Water’s fixed, by the way.”

The whole thing was warm and domestic. Nesta thanked him before sauntering off, hips swaying with each step. The only thing to temper Cassian’s hot blood was the hotter grill outside and a reminder that Nesta was off limits to him.

He was merely a guard meant to get her back home before the feds scooped her and her sisters back up again. Collateral, he supposed, for the game Rhys was playing with Feyre. Cassian was grateful for that, at least—if Rhys called him and told him to kill her, he wasn’t certain he could do it. 

Cassian returned to find Nesta in a pair of tiny little shorts and a pink tank top. He wished she’d pull her hair down, still left in its braided crown, though in truth he could have stood at the backdoor and stared at her for an embarrassing length of time.

“What did I say about the kitchen?” he teased, setting his tray of meat and vegetables on the counter beside her.

“I wanted to make a little salad,” Nesta told him, showing him the bowl. “Do you even eat vegetables?”

“On occasion,” Cassian said with an easy grin. “I’ll eat whatever you put in front of me, though. I’m not picky.”

“Tell me about yourself, Cassian,” Nesta ordered once they were seated at her little wooden table. 

“There’s nothing interesting to tell,” he replied. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself? I’ll bet you’re a lot more interesting than I am.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Nesta murmured.

“C’mon,” Cassian cajoled. Nesta sighed, eyes narrowed with that suspicious look he was growing so fond of. Was there such a thing as love at first sight, he wondered? Cassian was starting to suspect he was under its spell. Under hers, anyway. Nesta relented, telling him little stories he figured were probably half true. 

Cassian knew the right questions to ask, at any rate. Careful not to mention her family, Cassian asked her about everything else. Nesta spoke about going to law school and living in Georgia, mentioning two friends she’d made—Gwyn the librarian and Emerie the grocer. He’d seen them on his porch when he first arrived. 

He needed to do a little digging on them, but he figured they were likely fine. 

“What about you?” Nesta asked, their meal long concluded. Cassian began gathering up dishes.

“What about me?”

“Are you from Georgia?” she questioned.

Cassian chuckled. “No, I’m not from Georgia. Just got unlucky in my assignment, I guess.”

“Why did you want to do this work?”

Cassian considered that. “I’m good at it,” he replied, drumming his fingers along the edge of the sink. “I kind of fell into it, actually. I guess I succumb easily to peer pressure because when one of my friends suggested I apply, I did it without hesitation.”

That wasn’t entirely true. There had been no application process—he and Rhys had become friends as boys and Rhys’s mother had been like a second mother to Cassian. He’d always wanted to repay them for their kindness and when Rhys asked him to join him as his right hand man, the answer had been obvious.

He couldn’t tell Nesta that, though. She didn’t poke, either, seemingly satisfied with his answer. While Cassian cleaned up, Nesta made her way to the living room, picked up a book, and curled up on the couch. Cassian watched her pull a blanket from the back of the sofa and drape it over her tanned knees.

“Cold, huh?” he joked. 

“You fixed—”

A gunshot silenced both of them. Nesta jumped clean out of her skin, book falling from her trembling hands. Cassian frowned, his own heart racing with excitement. Finally, something interesting was happening.

His own gun was in his hand before Nesta ever stood. “Don’t move,” he whispered, motioning for her to get away from the window.

“Send the bitch outside!” a man’s voice yelled, filling Cassian with cold rage. He was at the door in a moment, flinging it open so it was his large body filling the space. On the lawn, a man stumbled forward, gun pointed at the sky. He pulled the trigger again, clearly trying to intimidate Cassian.

Cassian had been tied up before, a gun pressed against his lips while his cock was threatened with a knife. Some fucking rural drunk with a gun didn’t scare him. In truth, very little scared Cassian. He’d cheated death more times than he could count and he knew, as he stepped onto the lawn in the fading daylight, that he wasn’t going to die today.

This man, on the other hand…well. Cassian supposed it would depend on what he did next.

“Lower your weapon!” Cassian barked, his voice rough and menacing. The man jerked to look at him, eyes wide and watery. “Put your gun down or I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Send out your bitch—”

Cassian didn’t shoot him, but he did hit him in the face. Hard. Maybe too hard given the way the man crumpled at his feet as blood poured from his nose. Only the alcohol kept him from passing out which was lucky for Cassian.

Crouching in the grass, Cassian grabbed the man by his thinning hair and forced his head into an unnatural angle. “What did you say?”

“I called her a bitch,” the man spluttered through the blood. 

Cassian cocked his gun with his free hand and pressed it to the man's cheek. “Try again,” he whispered, fully intending on killing this man on the front lawn. Cassian’s finger pressed against the trigger just as Nesta barked, “Cassian!”

He twisted to look at her, arms crossed over her chest. She was fury incarnate right then, marching toward the pair of them without a care in the world. 

“Get out of her, Brent,” Nesta ordered, pointing her finger toward the gate. “This is embarrassing, even for you.”

“You ruined my life—”

“You ruined your own life by cheating on your wife!” Nesta spat without remorse. “And you’re ruining it by assaulting a federal officer.”

Cassian nearly choked. Did he look like a cop right then? 

“He assaulted me,” Brent protested, shoving out of Cassian’s grip.

“If I see you near her again, you’ll find yourself six feet under before you can utter one fucking word. Do we understand each other?” Cassian asked, rising to his full height. Brent glanced from the gun in Cassian’s hand to Cassian himself before offering a sullen nod. 

“Whatever,” he muttered, clearly trying to save face. Cassian watched him stumble off, forcing himself not to pull the trigger anyway at the man’s retreating back. Nesta came to stand beside Cassian, resting her soft, small hand on his forearm.

“That’s the guy getting the divorce,” she told him, as if Cassian cared who he was. Letting someone who threatened him walk away unscathed felt wrong and Cassian longed to rectify it. Where did he live, he wondered? 

“I can see why,” Cassian muttered, turning back for the house. “I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”

“He’s not coming back—”

“He pointed a gun at you,” Cassian growled, the memory filling him with rage. 

Nesta only shrugged, proving that she was still part of the life whether she wanted to be or not. Did she know what a liar her younger sister was, he wondered? Did Nesta know it had been Feyre who killed her father? Looking at her in the warm light of the house, Cassian decided that a woman like Nesta wouldn’t allow herself to live this way if she hadn’t known. If she wasn’t protecting someone. 

Who was protecting her? 

“I’m fine,” Nesta reminded him. But Cassian knew all too well how differently things could have gone if he hadn’t been there. Cassian knew how quickly a bullet could end things. 

“I’ll feel better out here,” he said, setting his gun on the glass coffee table. “You won’t change my mind, Nes.”

She hesitated, eyes moving from him to the window. “Fine.”

Cassian had no intention of sleeping, though. He waited until he knew Nesta was asleep, slipping into her bedroom just to check. She was so lovely even in sleep and Cassian had to resist the urge to touch her face. Not tonight. Another night, perhaps—but not this night. 

The thing about small towns he found himself appreciating was how easy it was to find people. Slipping into a local bar, Cassian mentioned what had happened to the bartender, who helpfully told him where Brent lived. 

He didn’t bother to slip in quietly. If he wanted to be unnoticed, he would have called up Azriel. Cassian liked when his marks were scared, for whatever that said about him. Flexing his fingers, Cassian picked through the dirty, mostly empty house. He supposed Nesta was helping to clean him out.

Good for her.

Brent was waiting in a fraying brown chair, a bottle of Jack Daniels held loosely in one hand. “Knew you weren’t no cop,” he muttered. “You got the look of a felon.”

“Have you been talking to my third grade teacher?” Cassian asked, his tone light. “She used to say the same thing.”

“You ain’t foolin’ no one but that girl of yours,” Brent told him, eyeing the gun in Cassian’s hand. 

“She’s the only one I need to fool,” Cassain agreed, coming closer. “I swore an oath to protect her.”

“I didn’t hurt her.”

“But you scared her,��� Cassian said in that same friendly tone. “You came to her house and threatened her and I can’t stand for that.”

“Well, I don’t really care if I scared her. Sometimes women ought to be a little afraid.”

Cassian clenched his fingers. “Is that so?”

“Make your threats and get the fuck out,” Brent ordered, taking another swig of whiskey. Cassian saw his gun on a chipped side table. 

“You don’t have much going for you, do you Brent? Wife left you, took all your money…is about to take your house. You’ve got no job, no friends…anyone would lose it.”

“Yeah,” Brent mumbled, eyes glassy. “You get it.”

“If I were you, I’d probably kill myself too,” Cassian added, holding Brent’s gun in his hand. Brent’s eyes found him, big and wide with shock. 

“What did you say?”

Cassian shrugged, making his way closer to the inebriated man. “I don’t think anyone will be surprised when they find you. I’ll bet it takes them days before someone comes checking.”

“Look, you don’t have to do this. I can…I can pay you—”

“No you can’t,” Cassian said with a chuckle. “And even if you could, I wouldn’t take your money. This is about honor, of which you have none because an honorable man wouldn’t try and threaten a woman for doing her job.”

“She fucked me over—”

“You fucked yourself,” Cassian interrupted, reaching for Brent’s hair a second time. “And you made a mistake coming after her.”

“I’m sorry—”

Cassian pressed the barrel of the gun beneath Brent’s jaw.

“I know you are,” he said, holding the man’s gaze. “It’s not enough.”

And then he pulled the trigger. The relief he felt was instantaneous, his blood lust slaked. It took another few seconds to arrange the gun in Brent’s hand, letting both his arm and the weapon fall lifelessly into his lap. The bottle of Jack hit the floor with a thud, spilling over stained wood floors.

The scene was practically a work of art. Textbook suicide—no one would look twice at him or Nesta. That didn’t stop him from wiping his prints on the way out, just in case. He found himself back on the couch, face washed of blood, before two am. 

Cassian had been right about one thing: it took them three days to find Brent.

“Suicide,” Nesta said crisply when she learned, eyes focused on Cassian’s face.

He only smiled. 

[hometoursandotherstuff]

This 1907 Victorian in Atlanta, Georgia is utterly sensational. $2.225M

That porte coche. 

The home is magnificent on the outside, but lets go inside.

The entrance is stunning. Look at the fireplace, the architectural details, and the way it just shines.

Incredible windows. The fireplace is so gorgeous and the floors look original.

What a perfect powder room.

I think that this is supposed to be a ballroom, b/c it’s not a dining room. 

The kitchen is fairly small, but it must be the original layout. 

The breakfast room has some beautiful view.

The sitting room connects to the kitchen, that center room, and the bar.

This must be a ballroom b/c it’s between the sitting room, kitchen, and bar.

This bar is amazing. What an entertaining space.

The elevated marble platform that the fireplace and cabinets are one is a beautiful feature.

Here’s the dining room. Look at the built-in china cabinets.

A music room. Sometimes in Victorian homes, selected features painted white really do stand out. 

Look at the pool table on the landing. 

This is so lovely- the hall to the 5 bds. & 4 baths.

The main bd., closet and bath. Wow. The bath is modern, but I like the choice of tile- it ties in.

Isn’t this pretty? That closet.

Each bd. is special.

Beautifully restored vintage bath.

How lovely.

Look at the linen closet and French stove.

And this amazing blue bath.

Can you imagine living here? 

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/192-Hurt-St-NE-Atlanta-GA-30307/35843239_zpid/

[phoenix-joy]

Author & Timestamp: Margaret Talbot October 22, 2018 (almost 6 years old as of May 2, 2024)

Polychromy refers to "decoration in many colours, esp in architecture or sculpture". - Collins Dictionary. Extract of a much longer article (please note: I have shortened some sentences where possible and broken up some paragraphs by added spacing. I did this to try to make it a little easier for other neurodivergent people to read):

Researchers demonstrate the process of applying color to the Treu Head, from a Roman sculpture of a goddess, made in the second century A.D. Ancient sculptures were often painted with vibrant hair colors and skin tones. - Photograph by Mark Peckmezian for The New Yorker

For Abbe, [...] a professor of ancient art at the University of Georgia, the idea that the ancients disdained bright color “is the most common misconception about Western aesthetics in the history of Western art.” It is, he said, “a lie we all hold dear.”

[...]

[...] Marco Leona, who runs the scientific-research department at the Metropolitan Museum of Art [...] said, of polychromy, “It’s like the best-kept secret that’s not even a secret.”

Jan Stubbe Østergaard, a former curator at the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek museum, in Copenhagen, and the founder of an international research network on polychromy, told me, “Saying you’ve seen these sculptures when you’ve seen only the white marble is comparable to somebody coming from the beach and saying they’ve seen a whale because there was a skeleton on the beach.”

[...]

[...] debate about ancient sculpture has taken on an unexpected moral and political urgency. [In 2017], a University of Iowa classics professor, Sarah Bond, published two essays [...] arguing that it was time we all accepted that ancient sculpture was not pure white—and neither were the people of the ancient world. One false notion, she said, had reinforced the other.

For classical scholars, it is a given that the Roman Empire—which, at its height, stretched from North Africa to Scotland—was ethnically diverse. In the Forbes essay, Bond notes, “Although Romans generally differentiated people on their cultural and ethnic background rather than the color of their skin, ancient sources do occasionally mention skin tone and artists tried to convey the color of their flesh.”

Depictions of darker skin can be seen on ancient vases, in small terra-cotta figures, and in the Fayum portraits, a remarkable trove of naturalistic paintings from the imperial Roman province of Egypt, which are among the few paintings on wood that survive from that period. These near-life-size portraits, which were painted on funerary objects, present their subjects with an array of skin tones, from olive green to deep brown, testifying to a complex intermingling of Greek, Roman, and local Egyptian populations. (The Fayum portraits have been widely dispersed among museums.)

Bond [had] been moved to write her essays when a racist group, Identity Evropa, started putting up posters on college campuses, including Iowa’s, that presented classical white marble statues as emblems of white nationalism. After the publication of her essays, she received a stream of hate messages online. She is not the only classicist who has been targeted by the so-called alt-right. Some white supremacists have been drawn to classical studies out of a desire to affirm what they imagine to be an unblemished lineage of white Western culture extending back to ancient Greece. When they are told that their understanding of classical history is flawed, they often get testy.

[In early 2018], the BBC and Netflix broadcast “Troy: Fall of a City,” a miniseries in which the Homeric hero Achilles is played by a British actor of Ghanaian descent. The casting decision elicited a backlash in right-wing publications. Online commenters insisted that the “real” Achilles was blond-haired and blue-eyed, and that someone with skin as dark as the actor’s surely would have been a slave.

It’s true that Homer describes the hair of Achilles as xanthos, a word often used to characterize objects that we would call yellow, but Achilles is [mythological], so imaginative license in casting seems perfectly acceptable. Moreover, several scholars explained online that, though ancient Greeks and Romans certainly noticed skin color, they did not practice systematic racism. They owned slaves, but this population was drawn from a wide range of conquered peoples, including Gauls and Germans.

Nor did the Greeks conceive of race the way we do. [...] Rebecca Futo Kennedy, a classicist at Denison University, who writes on race and ethnicity, told me, “Cold weather made you stupid but also courageous, so that was what people from the Far North were supposed to be like. And the people they called Ethiopians were thought of as very smart but cowardly. It comes out of the medical tradition [of the Hippocratic humours]. In the North, you have plenty of thick blood. Whereas, in the South, you’re being desiccated by the sun, and you have to think about how to conserve your blood.”

Pale skin on a woman was considered a sign of beauty and refinement, because it showed that she was privileged enough not to have to work outdoors. But a man with pale skin was considered unmasculine: bronzed skin was associated with the heroes who fought on battlefields and competed as athletes, naked, in amphitheatres.

[...] Tim Whitmarsh, a professor of Greek culture at the University of Cambridge, writes that the Greeks “would have been staggered” by the suggestion that they were “white.” Not only do our modern notions of race clash with the thinking of the ancient past; so do our terms for colors, as is clear to anyone who has tried to conceive what a “wine-dark sea” actually looked like.

[...]

On the website Pharos, which was founded [...] in part to counter white-supremacist interpretations of the ancient world, a recent essay notes, “Although there is a persistent, racist preference for lighter skin over darker skin in the contemporary world, the ancient Greeks considered darker skin” for men to be “more beautiful and a sign of physical and moral superiority.”

[In 2017], high-school students participating in a summer program at the RISD Museum, in Providence, were so fascinated to learn about polychromy in classical statuary that they made a coloring book allowing gallery visitors to create brightly hued versions of the objects on display.

Christina Alderman, who runs the program, told me, “The moment they found out that the statues were originally painted, I just lost them to that idea. They were, like, ‘Wait, are you serious? I’ve played video games set in ancient times, and all I see are white sculptures. I watch movies and that’s all I see.’ It was a real human response—they kind of felt they’d been lied to.”

A marble head of a deity wearing a Dionysiac fillet, from the first century A.D. Traces of red pigment remain on the lips, eyes, and fillet. Marco Leona, who runs the scientific-research department at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, said the fact that ancient statues were once painted is “like the best-kept secret that’s not even a secret.” - Courtesy Metropolitan Museum of Art

A bust of a young African boy, sculpted in the first century B.C. Ancient sculptures of African people were often made of basalt and painted with reddish-brown layers to create a lifelike effect. Mahogany-colored paint is still visible on the boy’s face. - Courtesy Museum für Kunst und Gewerbe Hamburg

/endofextract

[I edited this blog post to provide a definition of polychromy and fix a couple of typos. - May 3, 2024]

[runawaymarbles]

Share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people.

I was tagged by @displayheartcode

Tagging: @monstrous-femme @lindstrom2020 @thegeminisage @bomberqueen17 @dingdongyouarewrong @eeddis and anyone who wants to do it say I tagged you

1. The restaurant has two exits. One grand entrance on the street, complete with plaster carvings painted to look like marble, and one fire door out the back, with no decoration whatsoever. 

2. The first sense to come back is sound.

3. WH #40. Macon, Georgia. 2/3/91. Dean Winchester: banned after failing to pay bills despite repeated warnings, coming back in various “disguises”, and using a younger boy as a distraction during an attempted dine and ditch.

4. It’s happened before. Sam, bloody. Neck twisted, face white, raspy gasps twice a minute. Looking no more like himself than an angel looks like its vessel.

5. Marka is nine years old, and she knows what death looks like: stillness where there was movement. Silence where there was noise. A lifetime of memories turned into an object on a pyre, in need of safe disposal. The whole Pod dressed in the green of mourning, singing the Funeral Song in the Mother-Tongue of the Young God, their tongues tripping over unfamiliar syllables:  Ay-nd ss-he’s bee-u-why-ing ay suh-tay-ire w-ay-why to he-ay-v-ee-n.  

6. I will love you when we stand tall in the moonlight and I will love you when feathers sprout from our skin, when my heart shrinks and beats between hollow bones because it is yours no matter the size.

7.  “I can’t keep doing this.” God says it like this as though it is is He, not Death, who is bound by the nature’s laws. He says it as though the world is not what He wants it to be.  

8. Kathryyn Ngo@kathryyn2ys · 2h Okay you know how most of the statues on buildings in New York are all the same lady?? Well. I have found her Renaissance counterpart. Behold: whoever this guy was. He c l e a r l y got around

9. What no one tells you about a life of crime is that it’s often very, very dull.

10. It’s six weeks before she breaks down and checks her Facebook page.

[thepropertylovers]

A Small Tour of Our Little Beach Shack

It’s been a few days since we’ve been back from the beach and staying in our little Beach Shack for the first time ever. We bought this cottage last May and it looked completely different when we were handed over the keys. The walls were dark, the carpet was gross, and the bathroom was…interesting.

After working on it for a year, we would say the house is about 95% complete. We had so much fun staying there and experiencing life by the beach for two weeks, and I wanted to share with you what the cottage looks like as of today, because it’s so cute and it’s come so far. We haven’t purchased any new furniture yet for this house, everything you see in it we already had and we hauled down to the beach from our storage building. I love that because it helps us clear out our overcrowded building and saves us some money while furnishing the cottage!

These photos were taken literally as we were walking out the door to drive back home to Tennessee, so they’re not staged or even remotely professional, but I kind of like that about them. It’s very much where we’re at right now in life, and I am more than okay with that.

Dining nook/back entry

This little room is our main entrance. We have a front door in the living room, but at the risk of carrying wet sand throughout the entire house every time we enter it, we use this little light filled back entrance to get in and out of the house. It’s also the only dining area in the house, so though it’s teeny tiny, it’s so cozy and bright, and one of our favorite rooms in the house. It was previously an addition of some kind that had a sinking floor, so PJ ripped it off and had it rebuilt and voila!

Kitchen

When we got to the shack a few weeks ago, the kitchen hadn’t been painted yet. It is the only room the painter couldn’t get to in time for us to stay here, so over the course of a few days, PJ began sanding, caulking, priming and painting the kitchen.

We went back and forth on if we should keep the ceiling the original wood (we’ve painted all the ceilings white in the rest of the house, as you’ll see) to give the kitchen a little warmth, and so far we’re liking it. The mix of the dark green cabinets, white walls, and wood ceiling give me Ralph Lauren vibes and I’m here for it.

This is the room that is the least complete. We still need all the appliances and open shelving on the sink and stove wall. PJ installed the cabinet hardware he found for a steal of a deal at a random Habitat for Humanity in Georgia last year, and the bronze really pops against the hunter green. The counters are honed Carrera marble.

We survived the week on a Keurig, a mini fridge, and a microwave. Can’t wait to have actual appliances and be able to cook in this kitchen!!

Our bedroom

The bedrooms in the cottage are tiny, barely enough room for a queen sized bed and two night stands, but I kind of love it that way. With white, wooden walls and ceilings surrounded you, you kind of feel like you’re sleeping on an old ship in the 1940’s. It’s very cozy and, though the bed itself wasn’t comfortable, it was a very comfy room to sleep in.

We have plans for new lamps and to add some curtains, a rug, some art, and a very narrow dresser on the wall across from the bed, and maybe new nightstands, but other than that, this room is basically finished. There’s a full bath to the right of the bed but it isn’t finished just yet.

The living room

Ahhh the cozy and bright living room! The biggest room in the house is the one we do pretty much everything in. It’s also the room that’s undergone one of the biggest transformations. The window by the lamp didn’t exist before PJ framed it and had one installed, and the front door didn't, either. You used to enter the house through an enclosed sunporch with a side door, and there was a huge casement opening that lead into the living room. Now, it’s more traditional and has a much better flow overall. We love this little living room and it comfortably fit all five of us.

The couch and rug were Facebook Marketplace finds, as were the chair and the coffee table. The nesting tables are from TJ Max years ago, and the lamp came with the house. We had a little schoolhouse light where the ceiling fan is, but after being there a week, we realized a fan would be better for this room to help circulate air in the 100 degree weather, so PJ took down the overhead light and installed this fan we got at Lowe’s.

The curtain rods and blinds are from Home Depot and the curtains are drop cloth.

Kids’ bath

The biggest bathroom in the house, and right now, the only one that is completed (ours still needs tile on the shower walls). For such a small cottage, this is such a good sized bathroom and fits all of us perfectly. We brought this vanity down from a local store in Chattanooga and had marble tile that looks like little water droplets installed on the floor, and went with a wavy white porcelain tile (that reminds us of ocean waves) on the shower wall.

The bathroom used to be two little choppy rooms with the strangest layout, but we expanded and built on and had the contractors add new wood to the walls and ceiling to make it all match, and then just painted it all white.

In the space across from the toilet is where a stackable washer and dryer will be, so this room is pulling double duty as a bathroom and a laundry room.

So there you have it!! Next time we go down there, I will show you the kids’ room and our private bathroom. We still need a back deck and a small front porch, but for the most part, our little Beach Shack is basically finished. Well, finished enough to live in. And we love it.

[lucienballard]

Famous fans say farewell to the B-52’s:

After 46 years, the Athens originals are taking off for good later this year. David Byrne, Boy George and more pay tribute to one of the most unusual pop bands ever

Kathleen Hanna, Bikini Kill

What other band has three great lead singers? Nobody can do what Fred Schneider does. And Cindy [Wilson] and Kate [Pierson] – I remember listening to Give Me Back My Man, and the quality of their voices was so strong and so powerful. And also to be able to be so funny – their music is so joyous and interesting, and such a celebration of independent thinking.

Ricky [Wilson] passing of Aids was such a loss to the musical community that was never fully acknowledged. Ricky and Keith [Strickland] were the primary songwriters at the beginning, and just so obsessed with music. It’s really important to acknowledge [the influence of] gay men in music – the B-52’s are one of the biggest influences on every independent band that I’ve ever met. It’s not just all straight men who make music, it’s not all Bob Dylan – there are tons of different people who have made incredibly iconic, important music, who aren’t straight white guys, and I think it’s important to acknowledge that even though that’s not where their genius lies.

In Le Tigre, we opened two shows for the Pixies reunion in New York and the whole audience yelled “B-52’s” at us the whole time while we were performing, I guess because they assume all electronic music is the B-52’s. It was so funny, because they were booing us, but we were like: Oh my God, they think we sound like the B-52’s! We left the stage happy – that was really rude, but I mean, seriously, if you’re going to be booed, being called the B-52’s is like being booed with flowers.

Gerald Casale, Devo

The B-52’s and Talking Heads always felt like Devo’s kindred spirits. We were all unique and not very punk. The punks didn’t like us because we weren’t orthodox, and orthodoxy permeates rock’n’roll. We’d first become aware of the B-52’s through independent record stores when we were hawking our debut single. It was exciting because I knew where they were coming from, how they were grabbing from 1960s kitsch with the beehive hairdos and the theatricality of it all. It was like they’d come from their own planet. Who on earth sings about a Rock Lobster?

It was outsider stuff with a distinctive sound that was consciously slightly retro, coming from surf music and rockabilly, but not with rockabilly beats. They’d come up through the Athens, Georgia, scene and dance clubs and were in the realm of LGBTQ [music] before such a thing was identified. They were transgressive and polarising, but in a different way to Devo. I met Kate at the Mudd Club in New York in early 79 and immediately fell for her. She had the beehive, of course, because they were always in character, which I thought was fantastic.

David Byrne

We in Talking Heads became friends with the B-52’s early on. I remember they told us: “You have to see this other band from Athens playing at Danceteria – they’re called REM.” The Athens, Georgia bands were all very supportive of one another, it seemed to me.

I produced an album with the B-52’s which ended up as an EP [Mesopotamia]. I suspect they came to me because they wanted to experiment a little bit more. Maybe that’s why the LP got cut down to an EP – or maybe the other songs weren’t up to snuff? My favourite song from that record was Deep Sleep, which sounded like Young Marble Giants gone psychedelic. Ricky Wilson, who was such a large part of their sound, had Aids at that time, and was not around for many of the sessions. It was a pretty tough time for the band but they persevered and eventually revived. They were a tight family.

Jake Shears, Scissor Sisters

I was aged 12 when Love Shack came out [in 1989]. It was everywhere and was a game-changer for me. It was the first time I’d heard a gay man in music. Fred didn’t come out until 1992, but he didn’t need to. It was just the sound of an unabashed, unapologetically gay man at a time when it wasn’t part of the conversation. He was so interesting because he was more of an MC than a conventional singer. There wasn’t anything really sexual about the B-52’s but if you look at the lyrics to Dirty Back Road they’re obviously about butt fucking. There’s a silly sexuality to them. I just knew when I heard Fred for the first time that I had something in common with whatever I was hearing. I got the Cosmic Thing album and from that moment I was a huge fan. I’d find pictures and make collages, write letters to them and fantasise: “Maybe we could go out to lunch sometime?” I thought they were so cool, especially because it was otherwise such a lame time in pop music.

They were integral to me wanting to make music and showing me the possibilities of what a band could be and look like, free of convention. The B-52’s gave me the freedom to write stuff that was kind of stupid and dumb and funny just for the sake of being fun. What’s a Rock Lobster? You come up with something like that by free-styling and being open – basically using music as meditation. When I moved to New York aged 21 I went to their 25th anniversary show at Irving Plaza, which was unforgettable. Yoko Ono came out to sing Rock Lobster and I met Fred for the first time. Scissor Sisters went on to do a bunch of shows with them and I hope we continued the lineage. Without the B-52’s, Scissor Sisters wouldn’t have existed and I wouldn’t exist as a writer and performer.

Boy George

My friend Jeremy Healy had Rock Lobster, which we both loved. It was so random and surreal and I loved the idea that a song can be about anything. Rock Lobster is the Beach Boys on crack. I think Jeremy might have seen them live at the Lyceum but I couldn’t go. Then I bumped into Kate in Camden outside the Electric Ballroom when she was attending some other gig. I had a green face and said hello. I think she grimaced.

Later we [Culture Club] played with them a few times and they had the most unique, hypnotic sound. It’s trashy Americana, John Waters, Divine, the Shangri-La’s, high camp and bubblegum punk. The beat is everything. Fred always reminded me of Dr Zachary Smith from Lost in Space. I never thought about whether the B-52’s had a gay angle. They were just against rules in general – taking classic American kitsch and giving it a punk, space-age irreverence, like a beautiful car crash with pop surrealism. They were very camp but very funky: always on it, melodic but effortlessly free. It’s the sort of pop music that I want to hear.

Read more here

[australieh]

The Art of Lying in Interviews

Lessons From a Desperate Backpacker

 

I have a new job! My fifth one in the last 12 months, the true backpacker experience. I am a Temp Reception/Admin girl at a big fancy engineering company, located in one of the many industrial areas of Perth. It took me a month of applying and about 35 applications on SEEK, Australia’s biggest job forum, but I finally landed an interview. A girl named Georgia called from a recruitment agency and asked if I have my own vehicle, what my working rights are and how I feel about data entry, and then booked me in for Friday at 12pm. It was to be the same day as another interview I’d gotten for a sales job that I didn’t really want, but that I figured I’d give a go just in case. It was desperate times for me after being unemployed for 6 weeks, along with big wedding bills looming. I figured I’ll take what I can get, even if I do despise the idea of schmoozing people over a cold call about solar panels over their lunch break.

 

So, when Friday morning came, I put on the carefully planned outfit I’d laid out for myself the night before: white button up shirt and black dress pants from the op shop, with a Kmart blazer borrowed from a friend. I applied the new makeup I’d bought on a spending spree two days before, not daring to touch the $82 YSL primer I’d impulse bought at the department store. I planned on exchanging it for a pair of office appropriate loafers, since the only shoes I owned were combat boots, skate shoes and beat-up sandals. The primer & its carefully folded receipt joined my air pods, a minty-fresh vitamin D mouth spray and a Velcro curler in the small pocket of my tote bag. Ready for the day.

 

The first interview was for the sales job. A 10am appointment in the city, which I triple checked from the email they sent me. Directions to the office included the words “Stop n’ Grab Convenience” and the ad title was posted as “Immediate Start – No Experience Needed,” so my hopes weren’t exactly high.

When I got off the train at 9:27am, I had enough time to grab a coffee. I spotted some A-frame signs with photos of cappuccinos on a marble staircase, so I followed them into a fancy office building. Inside, I joined a throng of corporate looking people ordering flat whites. I inspected all the women’s shoes while I waited for my coffee, trying not to feel self-conscious about my black vans. I’d chosen them over my fake leather combat boots due to the fact it was forecasted to be 33 degrees that day, but now felt like an imposter in them. Everyone can tell I don’t belong here, I thought.

 

Despite it all, I’d found myself feeling optimistic as I trudged up the sidewalk with my cappuccino. I watched the bright morning light fall between the tall buildings and glint off their windows. 9:30am tends to have that affect, especially in Australia where usually the sun is already intense enough to make you turn on your A/C and squint through your sunglasses. That sort of toxically happy vibe is contagious, even to me in an anxious, pre-interview state. As I turned the corner I thought, I could do this every day. Maybe this job wouldn’t be so bad.

About 5 minutes later, all forms of optimism had turned to incredulity. As the email said to, I looked for the Stop n’ Grab Convenience, which was easy to spot due to the number of people milling around it. They all looked how I felt, which was confused and nervous. All wore some version of sneaker, and were dressed in varying levels of office-appropriate wear. A guy in the corner stood with his cap covering almost his entire face, and a black hoodie tightly stretched over a white dress shirt. A girl nearer the door wore a grey trench coat with her hair in a tight bun, and another wore gym shorts with a hoodie and hightop converse. One guy wore a full suit with dress shoes. It was like walking into a career fair at a university and watching all the panicking graduates-to-be trying to look like adults.

 

I peaked inside to see a white poster with “CLIMASOLAR INTERVIEW WAITING ROOM” written in purple marker, tacked to the wall near a tight staircase. You had to pass by the store counter to get there, the guy behind it looking bored and unphased by the crowd forming near the sign. By 9:55am there are almost 20 people in and around the store, all looking around at each other with equally confused expressions. A guy in a red t-shirt and cargo pants asked me in broken English, “You are here for sales job?” and I nodded, mustering a smile. I realize that everyone who applied got called for an interview, and feel sheepish thinking how carefully I’d picked out my outfit.

 

My first instinct was to leave and try to maintain my dignity, but the bigger part of me wanted to see what kind of trainwreck this was going to be. Plus, I had just taken the train all the way here and spent $5 on a coffee, so, I might as well see it through. At 10am on the dot a guy in golf shorts and a polo shirt, maybe 25 years old, unlocks the door to the staircase and everyone starts filing up the stairs. I hide my smile when I see a ping pong table in the corner. The guy herds us into a small room with a 6-person table and a white board with 25-year-old boy handwriting on it. Everyone crowds along the walls, but I manage to snag a seat in the back corner, texting Conor “I can’t wait to tell you about this” with a popcorn emoji and a laughing face. The guy who let us in sits on a stool next to the white board, tells us his name is James, and starts telling us about the job in a British accent. Highlights are that the day starts at 11am, there are free beers in the fridge (just don’t drink them in the morning) and there is a ping pong table you can use any time you want. First month pay is $500 a week and then after that you can get as much as $1500 a week! Plus, did he mention the free beers?!

 

He then asks us to take turns saying our names and our experience, then again saying our hobbies, and I am suddenly launched back into a junior high classroom. We all fidget with our fingers and say things like “uhm, I like to hang out with my friends.” The ridiculousness of at all hits me and I can’t stop grinning. Then, he brings out a basket of items and tells us to guess what he wants us to do with them. “Yep”, he says, “you guessed it.” We are to pick an item from the basket and sell it to him. Everyone laughs nervously as he exits the room, and I see him sit down at a desk and pull out his phone while everyone grabs something from the basket. I’m next to last and I luck out with a small bottle of Bushman’s bug spray, which reminds me of the time Conor and I went camping with our new inflatable kayak (promptly returned the next day). We’d gotten viciously attacked by march flies the second we stepped out of our Rav4, their massive pincers biting ruthlessly and thick wings as loud as a motorcycle. It was like something out of a horror film. We’d spent an hour taking turns pumping the kayak while the other swatted flies away from the pumper’s ankles, before abandoning the kayak for a swim in the river. A kind lady had gone around the campsite that evening offering all the unprepared dummies (ie. us) Bushman’s bug spray, saving us from an evening of hiding in our tent.

 

Holding the tiny bottle of Busman’s in that crowded board room, images of John Bernthal selling Leonardo DiCaprio a pen in the Wolf of Wall Street run through my mind, and I am unable to keep the bemused smirk off my face. I can see everyone panicking about what to say, but all I can do is silently giggle. At last, James pulls his feet down from his desk and comes back in, asking for a volunteer to go first. I watch as the sneaker-clad 20-somethings take turns pitching crayons, sticky tape and rulers. One guy stands up on his seat, while another girl’s words are barely discernable. When it comes to me I keep it short n sweet: “Don’t be a dummy like me and go into the woods without Bushman’s bug spray- it has SPF, too!” I’m just here for the show. When that’s finished, he asks us again to go around the room with our names and when we can start, and we do so while he marks up the paper we all wrote our names and phone numbers on. He finishes by saying thanks for coming in, and if we don’t hear from him don’t take it personally, he does 2 or 3 of these interviews a day (a day!?!?!). Then he swiftly opens the door to dismiss us, and we file out while two other 25 year old boys dressed in shorts and t-shirts play ping pong. I’m back outside the Stop n’ Grab by 10:20am.

 

Walking back towards the train I immediately call Conor. He answers the phone, “Spill the tea” and we laugh for the next 15 minutes. “That was worth every minute and dollar spent getting here,” I tell him, and I mean it, swiping my Transperth card. I run to catch the train back out of the city, and that experience is over. As I’m finding my seat I am already filing it in my “Backpacker Experiences” box, where it joins things like hitchhiking in Panama and sleeping in 8-bed hostel dorm rooms.

 

The thing about me is that, usually, once I’ve got the interview, I’ve got the job. I interview well because I am an expert at telling people what they want to hear. I make sure to appear bubbly and enthusiastic, confident but not cocky. I smile and shake their hands, and I ask what the work culture is like and what success in this role looks like. But I’ll let you in on a secret. The real key to an interview is not to be shy about how bad you want that job. Some might think that’s a bad look, but people love feeling like they are in control; like they are in the power seat. If you do it right, they’ll be so charmed by your enthusiasm that they’ll look past the fact that you’ve hardly ever been at a job longer than 6 months. You’ll leave them smitten and excited to invite you onto their inevitably mismanaged, dysfunctional team.

 

It was with this confidence and a stomach full of coffee and scrambled eggs that I drove to my next interview that Friday. I’d ditched my vans for my boots during a quick stop at Conor’s parent’s place, where we were crashing until our room in a new sharehouse was available. After the crowd of sneakers at the sales interview I opted to just be a bit hot rather than wear sneakers. Optics, you know. When I arrived, I knew I’d made the right decision. Walking through the glass door I was greeted by two girls at the reception desk who pointed to a tablet for me to sign in to. They both wore only black, and when one of them showed me to a room with a sturdy wooden table and branded pens, I noticed her black leather heels. I filled out an application which, as they all are, was a form asking me to write out everything that is already on my resume. I handed it back to her when I was finished, and then waited to be greeted by two similarly dressed women, close to my age, who both firmly shook my hand. They had my resume printed out in front of them and a list of questions which they jotted down notes under.

 

I went to work charming them and selling them the lie I have to tell in interviews for office jobs, which is that I am finally settling down after years of travelling. I have gotten quite good at this lie, and nearly convince myself sometimes. I tell them how nice it is to be looking for jobs where I want to stay for a while, and how I want to put down roots. I have a line about wanting to put up a shelf that people love, and these two women ate it up. When the interview was over, I waved goodbye to the girls at the reception desk, got in my car and phoned Conor: “I definitely got that one, they loved me,” I told him. As I left the parking lot, a girl who I assume is next up for the interview walked up to the reception doors; she was wearing sneakers and a white t-shirt.

 

Sure enough, when Conor and I arrive at a country pub to meet his sister 1.5 hours later, I have a missed call from the recruitment agency. She says congratulations, Raylene! They want me to start Tuesday, fill out one million induction forms and am I okay to do a medical? I say yes, no worries, of course, how exciting! Conor and I cheers our beers and my adrenaline from the interview turns into wave of relief. I’m finally employed. The grovelling and the performing is over. I’m going to have income again!

 

We order chicken burgers to celebrate, and I message a girl on Facebook Marketplace about a pair of Dr. Marten loafers. I bargain down the price and she says I can pick them up later that day.

 

 

I never hear from the sales job.

[gokitetour]

The 6 best temples in Hyderabad

Hyderabad, India, the city of pearls, seamlessly blends tradition with modernity. Its rich history is reflected in the majestic Charminar and Golconda Fort, while the bustling markets of Laad Bazaar and aromatic biryanis tantalize the senses. A burgeoning IT hub, Hyderabad embraces innovation amid its iconic landmarks and vibrant culture, making it a dynamic destination where heritage meets progress.

Here are six of the best temples in Hyderabad:

1. Birla Mandir (Venkateswara Temple):

Perched atop the Naubath Pahad, overlooking the Hussain Sagar Lake, Birla Mandir is a stunning white marble temple dedicated to Lord Venkateswara. The temple's architecture is a blend of Dravidian, Rajasthani, and Utkala styles. Also Read: Kazakhstan tour package

2. Chilkur Balaji Temple:

Popularly known as the "Visa Balaji Temple," Chilkur Balaji Temple is dedicated to Lord Balaji (Venkateswara). It is famous for granting visas to devotees who pray here before applying for visas to foreign countries. The temple is situated amidst serene surroundings near the Osman Sagar Lake. Also Read: Armenia tour package

3. Sanghi Temple:

Located on the outskirts of Hyderabad, Sanghi Temple is a mesmerizing temple complex dedicated to Lord Venkateswara. The temple's architecture is reminiscent of the famous Tirumala Temple in Andhra Pradesh. The temple's serene ambiance and panoramic views of the surroundings make it a must-visit. Also Read: Georgia package

4. Jagannath Temple:

Modeled after the famous Jagannath Temple in Puri, Odisha, the Jagannath Temple in Hyderabad is a significant pilgrimage site for devotees of Lord Jagannath, Balabhadra, and Subhadra. It is known for its annual Rath Yatra festival, during which idols of the deities are taken out in a grand procession. Also Read: Maldives tour package

5. Karmanghat Hanuman Temple:

Situated in Karmanghat, near Sagar Ring Road, Karmanghat Hanuman Temple is dedicated to Lord Hanuman. The temple is renowned for its ancient history and spiritual significance. It is believed that the idol of Lord Hanuman here is self-manifested. Also Read: Sri Lanka tour

6. Yogeshwari Temple:

Yogeshwari Temple, located in the Begumpet area, is dedicated to Goddess Yogeshwari, an incarnation of Goddess Durga. The temple is known for its unique architecture and spiritual ambiance. It attracts devotees seeking blessings for health, prosperity, and success. Also Read: Hongkong tour

Conclusion

Experience the divine allure of Hyderabad's temples, each a testament to the city's rich cultural tapestry. From the intricate carvings of Birla Mandir to the serene ambience of Chilkur Balaji Temple, every visit promises spiritual rejuvenation. Embark on your Hyderabad trip to explore these sacred marvels and immerse yourself in the city's timeless heritage.

[whitepolaris]

The Elephant Man

Born January 18, 1899, Moultrie native William F. Duggan yearned to work in the circus. At the tender age of twelve, he ran away from home to fulfill that desire and joined the Sparks Circus. His initial chore was feeding the elephants, and those animals became his favorite. In 1947, Duggan realized a lifelong dream and bought his own big top, the Hagen-Wallace Circus. Unfortunately, just three years later, he died suddenly at the age of fifty-two, in Deland, Florida, where the circus wintered. He was buried in rural Pleasant Grove Primitive Baptist Church, near Moultrie, by his family, and Duggan's grieving son soon came up with a fitting tribute to his dad. He commissioned the Georgia Marble Company in Tate to sculpt a statue of Nancy, a baby elephant and favorite of his father's.

Starting with an eighty-five-ton block of white marble, the company's chief carver, James K. Watt, and two assistants set to work. Visitors came from far and wide to watch the carving in process. In three months, the state was completed, measuring five feet six inches in height and seven feet two inches in length. Its mouth is open and its trunk is raised, as if the elephant were responding to its master's voice. By the mid-1951, the statue was erected, standing on a base of Etowah Pink Georgia marble.

Willie Withers, mayor of Moultrie for thirty-seven years, "loved that little elephant," Jim Carithers, a former chamber of commerce official, said. "It is thought to be the only elephant memorial in a cemetery anywhere in the world, and he was proud of that." You can marvel at the marble creature yourself on GA 37-Adel Road, east of Moultrie.

[kiroxkenshin]

The subject matter here is the Lincoln Memorial created in and now currently present on the National Mall in Washington D.C United States.Created in 1914-1922 and unveiled in 1922.This statue was sculpted by Daniel Chester French and carved by the Piccirilly Brothers.Whats being portrayed is the former president of the united states,the 16th president to be exact.The 170-ton statue is composed of 28 blocks of white Georgia marble and rises 30 feet from the floor, including the 19-foot  seated figure upon an 11-foot high pedestal.In the sculpture he's wearing an unbuttoned frock coat and a large United States flag is draped over the chair back and sides.The work follows in the Beaux Arts and American Renaissance style traditions.

The Lincoln Memorial is primarily analogical and literal in its representation. It is not a mere street sign or a literal depiction but carries a deeper meaning..For the literal part the Lincoln Memorial is indeed a physical structure. It is a real place that people can visit, and its existence is interactable and concrete. In this sense, its representation is somewhat literal as it physically exists as a memorial to Abraham Lincoln.For the analogical part the memorial becomes analogical when you consider its design and architectural elements. The use of columns, for example, is not a direct representation of Abraham Lincoln but rather an analogical choice. Columns traditionally symbolize strength and endurance, characteristics associated with Lincoln's leadership during a challenging period in American history

Like I mentioned in the previous paragraph,the columns represent/symbolize strength and endurance just like Licoln was during his reign as president.But there is also the American flag that sits in the sculpture.The flag itself can be interpreted in many ways but more specifically it symbolized the freedom of african americans.Licoln during his presidency fought long and hard during the Civil war to fight against slavery and succeeded at abolishing slavery.This was to me a very important “sign” in the sculpture because he was very known for this exact act.

The signifier is the physical structure itself,the columns, the statue of Abraham Lincoln, and the architectural design.The signified is the conceptual or symbolic meaning associated with the Lincoln Memorial. It encompasses the historical and cultural significance tied to Abraham Lincoln, his leadership during the Civil War, and his role in the abolition of slavery. The signified also includes broader ideas such as democracy, unity, and the enduring principles of the United States.The sign is the combination of the signifier and the signified. In the case of the Lincoln Memorial, it is the physical structure (columns, statue) representing the symbolic meaning (Lincoln's legacy, principles of democracy).

I do believe ,if people know their history, the sculpture does convey its message properly.Its not too complicated to know its representation and its past.I find its a good message as well,to fight for what's right.

[ookamiumy]

#colourThinking

In my last blog, I list some features of Ancient Roman architecture and Constructivism structure. At the end of this blog, I suppose we can make an impossible structure by breaking its usability.

In this blog, I will list another point that may be helpful to make structure fantastic - material (color). Unfortunately, in 3D modeling, there was also a terminology named material (related to texture). Nowadays, we can find that even if Ancient Roman structure or sculpture, is in the material's (Roman Concrete) color, it still can give the audience strong feelings of divinity when the audience observes those sculptures.

But did the sculptor really not give it any color? The Roman wall painting provides an indication of the totally different appearance of the sculpture.

When Mark Abbe, a professor of ancient art at the University of Georgia, explored Aphrodisias, he found that many statues had flecks of color: red pigment on lips, black pigment on coils of hair, and mirrorlike gilding on limbs. At the same time, a large number of artifacts show that the sculptures of Ancient Roman were not really as white as imagination, and that the ancients were not disdained bright colors.

This fact is hard to accept. For many people, the colors are jarring because their tones seem too gaudy or opaque. In 2008, Fabio Barry, an art historian who is now at Stanford, complained that a boldly colored re-creation of a statue of Emperor Augustus at the Vatican Museum looked “like a cross-dresser trying to hail a taxi.” Barry also said that he still found the colors unduly lurid: “The various scholars reconstructing the polychromy of statuary always seemed to resort to the most saturated hue of the color they had detected, and I suspected that they even took a sort of iconoclastic pride in this—that the traditional idea of all-whiteness was so cherished that they were going to really make their point that it was colorful.”, and, “But it’s too late for that! The challenge is for us to try and understand the ancient Greeks and Romans—not to tell them they got it wrong.”     

From these views, we can make a summarization that when people judge the performance of a structure, they are usually influenced by their own perception and cognition. In other words, stereotype. Generally, if we strengthen these inconsistencies based on the audience’s cognition, we can make the structure “impossible”.

I decided to make a structure in colors that were born out of a completely different time and place, such as Chinese traditional colors or Japanese traditional colors. Using a lot of these colors in different styles of structures will surely produce a wonderful effect. Of course, each color genre has its merits, but their theories are too complex to go into too much detail here.

Reference:

Ancient Roman sculpture:

Ancient Roman Polychromy:

Chinese traditional colors:

Japanese traditional colors:

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Welcome to Villa Albicini, a 1927 Italian Baroque style villa in Macon, Georgia. Love how the facade looks so old. It has 3bds, 3ba, $1.350M.

Very classy entrance hall leads to a central rotunda.

The dome has some peeling and needs some new paint- I wonder how it would look with clouds.

The Chinese wallpaper looks like a vintage painting and the fireplace is surrounded by mirrored squares which is unusual. This room combines and old and new quite seamlessly.

The dining room is a contrast of blue & white - love the chandelier. Two double doors open to a sunroom.

Details of the beautiful original marble fireplace surround.

Love a kitchen that still has a taste of the original. It's been updated, but just enough.

What a cute pantry.

Den with a marble fireplace and a quadrant of walls with built-in shelving.

Oh, wow, look at the stairs. What is that little flap in the wall? The only information I could find suggests that it's an interior mail slot.

A pretty primary bedroom has a soft pink tile with green accents.

A beautiful stained glass window in the tub.

Gold plumbing fixtures give it an extra air of luxury.

Secondary bedroom with neutral striped wallpaper.

The en-suite is original. Love the green sink and toilet. I guess there isn't a seat to fit that toilet.

Isn't this interesting? Look at the storage up here.

I think that the white ladder leads up here to the roof top where there's a great view of the garden.

Wonderful architectural features on the grounds.

This would be beautiful again with some TLC. Property measures 1.59 acres.

[nakulinternational]

Marble & Granite Marvels: Top Monuments of the World

Marble and Granite are two of the most widely used natural stones in architecture and

construction. Their beauty and durability makes them ideal for Granite Monuments, statues, and

other large-scale structures. In this article, we will explore the top 5 monuments made out

of marble and granite. From the Taj Mahal in India to the Lincoln Memorial in the United

States, these structures are renowned for their grandeur and historical significance.

Taj Mahal, India

The Taj Mahal, situated in Agra, India, is a white marble mausoleum. Its construction was

ordered by Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan in honor of his beloved wife Mumtaz Mahal and

finished in 1653 (1631 - 1653).

One can't help but marvel at the monument's stunning carvings and inlay work, not to

mention its flawless symmetry. It truly stands out as a remarkable and iconic structure on

a global scale.

The Taj Mahal was designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1983 for being "the

jewel of Muslim art in India and one of the universally admired masterpieces of the world's

heritage". It is regarded by many as the best example of Mughal architecture and a symbol

of India's rich history.

The Parthenon, Greece

The Parthenon is a temple dedicated to the goddess Athena, located on the Acropolis in

Athens, Greece. It was built in the 5th century BC using white marble from Mount

Pentelicus.

The monument's impressive size and classical architecture, including its Doric columns

and pediments depicting scenes from Greek mythology, have made it an enduring symbol

of ancient Greece.

The Parthenon is widely regarded as one of the most significant and beautiful surviving

examples of ancient Greek architecture. It was built between 447 and 432 BC during the

height of the Athenian Empire and was dedicated to the goddess Athena, the patron deity

of Athens.

The Lincoln Memorial, USA

The Lincoln Memorial is a neoclassical monument located in Washington D.C., USA. It was

built between 1914 and 1922 using white Georgia marble.

The Lincoln Memorial is a national monument located in Washington D.C., United States. It

was built to honor the 16th President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln, who played a

pivotal role in the abolition of slavery and preserving the Union during the Civil War.

The monument was designed by architect Henry Bacon in the style of a Greek temple, with

36 Doric columns representing the states of the Union at the time of Lincoln's death.

Inside the temple, there is a 19-foot-tall statue of Abraham Lincoln, sculpted by Daniel

Chester French, sitting on a throne-like chair.

The Lincoln Memorial has been the site of many important events in American history,

including Martin Luther King Jr.'s "I Have a Dream" speech during the Civil Rights

Movement in 1963. Today, it is one of the most visited monuments in the United States,

attracting millions of visitors every year who come to pay their respects to one of

America's greatest leaders.

Conclusion:

If you have a passion for art or just want a strong, sophisticated & beautiful material to work with

or choose from, then from the above monuments we learn that Marble & Granite can make it

possible.

For over 25 years, Top Granite Manufacturer in India exporter headquartered in

India, serving & delivering clients across the globe with superior quality & service.

Choosing the right material for your craft or customers is an important decision, but with our vast

collection of Excellent quality Stones @ best prices you can make an excellent dream and bring

out your visions into reality.

We deal in all kinds of natural stones like Granite, Marble, Limestone, and Sandstone exporting to

countries like the USA, Spain, China, and other countries across the globe.

To know more about us, Visit us at: https://nakulinternational.com/ (or)

​

[architekturtheorie23amr]

Enter Through The Balcony | Trailer | Documentary

After the Second World War, there was an urgent need for housing across the USSR. All citizens were entitled to housing in the Soviet socialist state. To save on design and construction costs, thousands of centrally-planned identical concrete apartment buildings were built in quick succession all across the Soviet Union. With a focus on practical living over private comfort, many apartments lacked a kitchen, while bathrooms were often shared by multiple families. The buildings were referred to as Khrushchyovka, after the new premier Nikita Khrushchev, and they came to characterise the drab Soviet style which was famous in the West.

The USSR is dead, long live the Balcony

After the fall of the USSR, many Soviet citizens became owners of their own apartments, their first foray into private ownership. Even after the collapse of the Soviet Union, renovating a balcony required official permission - something that was hard to come by. This didn’t stop citizens from making their DIY renovations to make their balcony’s suit their requirements. Many enclosed them, effectively turning them into another room to compensate for the shortage of space in prefab-Soviet housing. Most were renovated without any thought for their stability. Questions of their safety come up time and time again.

The architecture of personal expression found in these balconies reveals a compelling image of the transition from socialism to individualism in the post-Soviet era. You can read more about balconies in the book in Balcony Chic or the recent documentary Enter Through The Balcony.

Built spaces tell us the stories of the civilisations that shaped them. They’re products of their time; windows on the politics of the past. Architecture isn’t just art, it’s anthropology. Architecture Across the Ages takes travellers to some of the most important – and most often overlooked – architectural sites across Eastern Europe and Central Asia. Visit Uzbekistan’s towering turquoise mosques, see how Georgia shook off Soviet rule with cosmic-inspired superstructures, and witness the rebirth of Turkmenistan with its audacious white marble city.

https://comradekiev.com/blog/unique-balconies-of-the-ussr/

[aslanegrant]

Wincrave Project

October 13, 1863

Wincrave, Georgia

Prologue To My OC Work

“My dress.” Helena says simply, feeling childish as she grips her overskirt in her blood-stained hands.

Piper studies it, pale face tightening, her green eyes seem to glow as they reflect the moonlight, “your dress?”

“It… it smells like…” something stings her eyes but she can’t tell if it’s ash or tears, “it smells like her burning flesh.”

The taller girl freezes in her tracks, hand tightening around Helena’s ever so slightly as her heart drops to her toes in anguish. Somewhere nearby, peep frogs break the silence with their song, sending a shiver down Piper’s spine. 

“We should get you changed then.” She takes a step forward but Helena doesn’t move.

“Do you think,” she watches the tears work their way down her best friend’s dark face as she waits for her to find the words, “what if it’s her ghost? Clinging to me? Trying to stay?”

“Helena-”

“She didn’t even get a trial. Or to say goodbye. I didn’t-”

A man shouts down the road behind them, Piper can’t be certain who but it reminds her of how vulnerable they are in the road.

“We need to get home, come on, I can see the lights.” Piper tugs her hand forward.

Helena takes a few steps forward, walking ever so slightly behind her, but moving nonetheless. They listen to the peep frogs, to the sounds of their slippered feet crunching fallen leaves, and to the rustle of Helena’s skirts. The pair don’t say another word until they arrive within sight of the Grendel family estate and Piper abruptly lets go of Helena’s hand. 

“Lena, I-”

“Go. Tell your father I say hello.” She turns away from the mansion, away from the golden warm candlelight and white stone pillars, and walks down the darkened trail in the treeline leading to the slave cabins. 

Piper watches the swaying of Helena’s skirts, shrouded by her mother’s ghost, disappear into the night. She stares into the inky night until she hears the wheels of her father’s wagon approaching, then slips into the house. 

She’s climbing the stairs when he comes in, his voice jolly and booming as he calls to her, “going to bed without a hug, Pumpkin?” 

He takes the marble steps two at a time to reach her, and stops one below her so she can put her head on his large shoulder.

She hugs him, arms tight around him as she breathes in his normally comforting scent. Only tonight, his coat smells of wood smoke. And a little something else. Something burnt.

He places a kiss on her cheek and she whispers “goodnight, Daddy.”

As she turns up the stairs, she pretends she has no idea he’s the one who just burned her best friend’s mother alive.