#I love spring and autumn almost equally

[happyheidi]

[lovebugism]

Spoooooky request, what if the gang went to a haunted house and everyone made fun of reader for being scared, but Steve holds her hand and walks with her 👻

thanks for requesting angel! i switched it up a bit and did a sort of second part to this fic! you def don't have to read it but it'll give some context :D — you're still getting used to the world post-vecna, but it's easier with steve holding your hand

fictober (㇏(•̀ᵥᵥ•́)ノ)

The haunted house off Fifth Street looks strangely familiar. Two stories, faded cornflower paint job, boarded up windows. It looks like a dollhouse from hell. It looks like the goddamn Creel House. It’s like some kind of sick joke.

It didn’t take Hawkins very long to recover from last spring. Mostly because it was just an earthquake to everyone else. No one died, nothing was ruined beyond repair. To the rest of the town, it was just a minor natural disaster — an inconvenience more than anything.

No one knows that a thirteen-year-old girl killed the monster trying to end the world. No one knows that the local freak nearly died saving a bunch of teenagers. No one knows that one song, one heavy metal guitar, and one good memory just narrowly saved your life. 

It’s secrets all of you are gonna have to keep for the rest of your lives. It weighs you down accordingly.

“Am I crazy, or is that…?” Robin trails off, freckled chin tilted towards the velvet blue sky as she gapes at the artificially rotted house. It glows a sickly green color on the outside. The windows light up red every now and then, in time with the screams echoing from the upper story.

“Yeah,” Nancy answers, breathless and equally dumbfounded. “I think it is.”

A beat of silence falls over the group of you. It doesn’t feel so heavy with the surrounding chatter. The crowd continues to bustle around you on the street, falling over themselves with laughter and lingering fright. They have no idea the ghost story they grew up with nearly destroyed the world.

The bitter realization makes your chest ache. Steve seemingly understands this and gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. You wonder if he can feel the way you tremble.

Eddie scoffs a cynical laugh from the other side of you. A pink, sadistic grin tugs at his lips, almost as wild as his curls billowing in the autumn breeze. “It’s basically kismet then, huh?”

Steve shoots the boy a half-hearted glare, then deflates because he realizes he can’t really be mad about it. Those damn demobats might’ve taken a pound of flesh from his stomach, but it’s nowhere near the feast they made out of Munson.

“C’mon on, dude,” he murmurs quietly with a subtle nod down at you.

“What?” Eddie snorts. “If I don’t laugh bout it, I’ll start crying, so… Take your pick, man.”

Steve wants to tell him that there’s no shame in crying. That he’s done it plenty of times since the fall of ’84. He’s cried for you, for himself, for the kids who will never get to be kids again. He figures it’s better than letting it all build up until you damn near explode. 

But now’s probably not the best time for that talk. Or any time, really. He’ll get you to get all serious and sappy with Eddie about that another time, just like you did for him.

“I’m gonna, uh— I’m gonna go get the tickets,” Jonathan murmurs with his usual Byers mumblings. 

He wasn’t around for the whole Vecna ordeal — just the weird shit in California and the secret lair thing in Nevada. He feels like he can be a bit braver about the whole thing for the four of you.

Nancy brushes a kiss to the boy’s cheek before he leaves. She does that a lot now, with Jonathan and all the rest of you. She always feels like she needs to say a proper goodbye and I love you whenever someone leaves. Just in case the world decides to end again.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Steve mutters to you, gaze twinkling with sincerity but stern still. “You know that, right?”

He knows that you know, but he feels the need to say it anyway. Mostly because he knows you were already scared of most things before everything went to shit. You’ve always been delicate, tender, like an open wound. Now, you can’t step outside without shaking. You’re always shuddering with the distant fear that the curse might return and no one will be there to save you.

Steve knows this, too. That’s why he holds so ardently to your trembling hand. It’s a silent reminder that he’s there, that he won’t let anything happen to you again, that he’ll always be around to save you when you need him.

“Oh, my god,” Robin groans, eyes wide and head tilted back. “Leave her alone, Steve! She’s fine!”

You know she’s just trying to be supportive. She thinks Steve’s coddling you because you’re quiet — that he’s sticking up for you because he thinks you can’t stick up for yourself. 

He is. And you can’t. But still, she’s only trying to help.

Steve looks to his left to glare at her. They seem to communicate telepathically for a moment. His eyes soften again when he turns back to you. His deep cinnamon gaze swims with a honeyed concern, a silent “Are you fine?”

You nod. “I’m okay,” you tell him, mustering a soft smile that wavers at the edges.

He doesn’t believe you, not completely, but he doesn’t press it any further.

Jonathan returns with the ticket stubs. They’re black and blood red. You take the one he gives you with hesitant, clammy hands. He seems to notice how terrified you are without you having to say a single goddamn word.

“I’m not a huge fan of these things either,” he confesses with a thin-lipped smile. A light-hearted way of telling you that you’re not alone in the fear you keep hidden (very poorly hidden, you figure).

You smile back at him, but it doesn’t quite meet your eyes. 

Your fingers fidget with the paper stub — maybe a distraction for yourself or maybe to hide how you’re too anxious to stay still. Steve figures it’s a bit of both. ‘Cause he knows you too well and not a thing gets by him. There’s nothing about you that he doesn’t notice.

He turns to face you completely while everyone else gets their ticket. He keeps his wedged between his middle and forefinger as his hands curl around the outsides of your elbows. He’s serious, but still soft — gentle, but still firm. 

“Babe—”

“Stevie,” you interject with a similar tone. “I’m okay.”

“You heard her, Stevie. She’s fine!” Robin retorts, curling her maroon-tinted lips into a smirk. She scoffs out a laugh and gestures up to the fake haunt across the street. “This shit is basically for kids. No one’s dying here, alright?”

You know what she’s doing. She’s sticking up for you and taking the piss out of her best friend at the same time. It’s nothing new — hell, it’s her favorite hobby. She’s got your back now the same way she had it in that house last spring. 

But still, her words sting a little.

Because she’s right. This place is for kids. And you still feel a bit like you’re dying.

Steve knows this, too. He knows everything about you. Even the stuff you wish he didn’t.

His sneakers scuff against the pavement when he turns to Robin. His eyes narrow in a challenging squint as he crosses his arms over his chest. He doesn’t look quite as intimidating as usual in his fluffy, cable-knit sweater. 

“Well, you know what? I’m scared, actually. I don’t wanna do it, okay? You got me, Rob.”

The girl grins something cynical. She shakes her head all slow, like she’s just caught him in some kind of lie. “I knew it. You little baby.”

Steve lets her tease him. It’s not like he isn’t used to it by now. He just rolls his eyes and bears it, lets her laugh about it with the rest of the group as they head towards the haunted house. 

You watch with an attentive gaze while they head inside, flinching softly when you hear a thunderous boom and the sound of their screaming a second later. It leaves you secretly grateful that you hadn’t gone in behind them. 

A wavering sigh tumbles from your lips, a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Steve exhales a gentle laugh from beside you. He smooths a wide palm up your spine and down again. He leans over to press the side of his hip against yours.

You cross your arms over your chest to make yourself as small as possible while you glance over at the boy beside you. You look at him so far beneath your lashes you’re basically peering at him from the corner of your eye.

“Thank you,” is all you say. It’s all you need to say.

Steve shrugs with a plush, crooked grin. “’S okay. I know you’re too sweet to say no, so…”

“I wanted to do it,” you confess, clearing your throat when your voice breaks.

“I know.”

“I guess I’m not… as used to everything as I thought.”

“I know,” Steve repeats. His hand curls around your waist and makes a home in the very center of it. He pulls you closer with the urge to melt into you. His brows raise, eyes sparkling when his smile widens. “But that’s why I’m here, though, right? We’re gonna get better together.”

You nod up at him, smiling more sincerely now. 

Arms still crossed, your hands ball into fists to fight the urge to smooth a hand through his hair — to push back the rogue chestnut strands hanging over his forehead.

You hesitate, so he beats you to the draw. He swipes a golden hand over his head right before he leans down to kiss you. 

He smacks a sweet peck to your smile. A bright light flashes with another thunderous boom a moment later. You flinch and pull back. You swear you hear Eddie screaming, “jesus fucking christ!” from the upper story. You forget to be scared.

You didn’t think it was possible. The whole getting better thing.

Steve makes you feel like could be.

[kkongdakz]

“ I SEA YOU. ” ft. kim gyuvin

gyuvin x gn!reader, genre : fluff & comfort, warnings : mention of anxiety and overwhelming feelings, wc : 2,3k>

author's note : this is a really, very, truly personal fic, so i'm sorry if you don't recognize or identify with y/n.. but still, i hope you'll like it anyway 😙👍🏻 also, could this be my official comeback? ..who knows..

ever since you were little, you've always considered the sea your comfort zone, your escape. the sound of the waves and the feel of salt water on your skin had a way of dissipating all your worries, help you avoid drowning under pressure and stress. you've long believed that nothing else in the world could give you a similar sensation — not even the hottest summer sun, not even the most beautiful spring blossom tree, not even the tastiest winter hot chocolate, not even the reddest leaf on an autumn tree. nothing could compare to the comfort of the sea in your heart.

that's why you've continued to visit this beach, which means so much to you, every week. this little beach, almost always deserted, where the clear horizon offers you all the splendour of the sky living side by side with the ocean. the palette of blue inked in your memory is enough to soothe you on rainy evenings, but you need the sound of the ocean coming out of a giant shell to soothe your mind. and even if you have to travel miles from your student apartment to get to what makes you so happy, you'll do it without hesitation. but no longer alone.

on the long river of your quiet life, a little boat named kim gyuvin decided to follow a stream to reach the blue ocean of your heart. it was no mean feat — even if you have to admit that the sincerity of his smile made you sink delicately to the bottom of the well of love. he crossed your path by chance, and kept crossing it. again and again. until you accept him on your raft. he hadn't been that insistent, but what really wins you over is feeling that gentle warmth in your heart every time he looks at you with all the goodness in the world in the corner of his eyes, accompanied by the most beautiful smile on the planet. the same warmth you get from watching a sunset reflected on the ocean's blue expanse.

« shall we go? » you suddenly heard, in a voice as gentle as a summer breeze, bringing you out of your deepest thoughts. turning your head to the right, your absent gaze fell on gyuvin's peaceful face, you smiled tenderly, gently grabbing the hand he was holding out to you to get up and follow him out the door.

the trip to the beach didn't seem as long as it used to be, now that a warm hand was keeping yours company. you no longer had to show him the way, as he now knew the route by heart — even better than you. but today, something seemed to have changed inside your heart. maybe it was because of the way his freshly dyed black hair swept across his forehead in the same way that grains of sand move across the beach in the wind. maybe it was the way numerous shivers ran through your body every time his shoulder brushed yours, like when cold sea water touches your feet on autumn mornings. maybe it was simply the beauty of his face that easily equalled the beauty of a sunset shining on the surface of the ocean.

a ton of maybe trotted through your mind as you struggled to stay focused on the road, far too busy watching the slightest feature of gyuvin's face. even his profile was perfect. unconsciously tightening the grip of your hand around his, gyuvin turns his soft gaze on your face, his pretty brown eyes instantly locked in yours. he was surprisingly so calm — usually, he couldn't help being an overexcited puppy, and you liked that about him. he contrasted with your far too calm personality — he was like the tsunami of your life, shaking up your habits for the better, of course.

but gyuvin knew that these seaside escapades were important for you, that they were necessary for the proper functioning of your mind, they were made to soothe you. so he knew how to stand still and give you the chance to recharge your batteries in peace, even though he had to admit that having the privilege of accompanying you was the greatest accomplishment of all.

let's go back up the creek into the reverse river, to revisit the first time gyuvin's curious eyes landed on your hair floating in the ocean breeze. he must have been in his fifties, where adolescence made him want to escape far away from everything. it was an afternoon when the late summer wind kept reminding him that school was just around the corner, after running aimlessly for an hour, his footsteps led him to this hidden, deserted small beach, where only the sound of the waves crashing on the sand disturbed the tranquillity of the place. it was so beautiful, so pleasant — he felt as if he were floating, his mind carried away by the waves. and that's when he saw you, like a dream. as pretty as a mermaid, your soft face so serene.. he was so jealous of you. you were approaching the serenity he so desperately sought, and it upset him. but that didn't stop him from continuing to look at you with curious doe eyes, as if you weren't capable of feeling a insistent gaze burn your skin. he suspected you must be around his age, because of your youthful facial features glistening in the sunlight. as he watched you without saying a word, without moving an inch, his heart fluttering with lightness at the mere sight of your devastating but peaceful smile. you seemed so far out in the ocean — that intrigued him and led him to appreciate a little more the benefits of the sea. you intrigued him.

so.. to say that he approached you by pure coincidence would be a lie, because when he recognized you, wandering the halls of his high school, he wondered why he'd never noticed you before. with hindsight and a bit of imagination, it was probably because your mind was always stuck in the middle of the ocean and no boat had ever managed to reach your soul — until he decided he was going to make it, even if he had to swim for it. which he did, with flying colors.

« you're okay? » he asked, softly, in a voice that sounded like a siren call to your ears. falling for kim gyuvin was, once upon a time, something inconceivable for you. your head was too much in the clouds, your mind too much in your dreams, and your heart far too rambunctious to consider loving anyone other than the ocean. but he managed to get you to change tack — him and his beautiful sun-kissed brown eyes. shaking your head negatively with a barely visible smile that only he could see, you finally looked away to the horizon, where the entrance to the beach wasn't far off. « we're here. » you announced, tugging a little more firmly on his hand to guide his steps, despite the fact that he knew this road by heart, having travelled it with you so many times.

as you carefully descended the stairs to the beach, the fresh ocean breeze was already tickling your fragile skin. gyuvin was careful not to let go of your hand to prevent you from falling, but this impulse of benevolence caused him to miss the moment when you stopped dead in your tracks to observe the landscape in front of you, his body colliding with yours. « oh.. » was the only thing he was able to say when his chest hit your back, and the next second his gaze was unconsciously fixed on your face, which, once again, seemed so tranquil at the mere sight of waves washing up on the sand eternally. a smile tugged at his lips, his free hand slipping to your hip to hold you close, and his heart racing at the simple knowledge that you were perfectly fine right now. « it's pretty, isn't it? » you finally commented, your words mixing with the wind to reach his ears, and gyuvin nodded positively, his loving gaze lost in the ocean of your eyes.

advancing through the sand, taking care to draw him along with you, you didn't give him time to dream about whether you could be his little mermaid, the one who could save from drowning the prince he could have been. the same one you might abandon on the beach, as you did previously with the fifteen-year-old boy who first saw you a few years earlier. gyuvin liked to think your story would be so pretty to tell — he was one hundred percent sure it would be his little sisters' favorite love story, the one that would make them dream by night and hope by day. yeah, gyuvin was convinced that your love story would inspire many.

now sitting next to each other on the warm sand, gyuvin's fingers quietly played with a lock of your hair, twirling it around his finger, with his tender, benevolent gaze fixed on you. his heart seemed filled with happiness, because he knew that there, right now, right here, sitting in front of that vast blue sea, your heart was soothed, at the height of the happiness you so preciously cherished. and he was perfectly right : sitting on the sand, you held your knees to your chest, your star-filled eyes exploring the ocean you seemed to know by heart. the beauty of the light reflected on the surface of the water, the waves breaking against the shiny sand of the beach, the sound of the latter disturbing the tranquillity of the place, with only a few people strolling by, each looking happier than the next. not far away, a little girl running with her feet in the water, followed by a little boy who seemed to be laughing out loud as he tried to catch up with her. the sun seemed to embrace their skin with its warmth, under the watchful eyes of their parents who were standing not far from them, a light, benevolent smile decorating their faces.

then, as you watched them tenderly, your thoughts suddenly began to wander, taking you to the back of your mind that never stopped thinking. after careful consideration, you began to think that maybe, just maybe, you didn't have to make weekly trips to the beach. because you'd found another way to feel good and happy when the world seemed to be crashing down on you.

looking away from the blue expanse in front of you, your pupils finally meet those of gyuvin. your boyfriend offers you a pretty smile — light, but filled with all the sincerity in the world, his eyes overflowing with love. in your chest, your heart began to race, furiously, warmly, pleasantly, like the first time you fell in love with the sea. gyuvin's love was as deep as the ocean, his hands as soft as water, his eyes as radiant as the sun reflecting on the surface. he'd come into your life by chance, and had been making you want to drown in his arms ever since. he cracked the shell of your heart and slipped inside and never left. and now, he brings you the same warmth and comfort as an afternoon spent observing the ocean. it was strange, a new feeling for you — in your whole life, no one has ever been able to fill the void inside you, to calm the storm that was sometimes your mind, when, with just one little smile, gyuvin made you forget all the ills of your life, as the sea was so adept at doing it. so maybe now, kim gyuvin was the ocean's main rival in your heart.

hooking your hands around his arm, you drew him gently towards you, feeling a certain shyness rise up in you after having spent long seconds staring at him without saying anything. laying your head against his shoulder, feeling the warmth of his skin against your cheek, his hand slips against one of yours, gently caressing your fingers. « i don't think i need to come here so often anymore. » you say suddenly, attracting the attention of the boy at your side, who raises an eyebrow at you. he wasn't used to seeing you refuse a trip to the seaside, especially knowing perfectly well your love for this beach so dear to your heart. so it was only natural for him to ask you why or how you'd come to think such a thing, his little why floating in the air for a moment without any answer escaping your lips.

tightening your grip around his arm, closing your eyes as the ocean breeze hits your face, a perfectly relaxed smile, the most sincere he'd ever seen, took place on your lips. « i found someone better than the ocean. » you replied, so naturally that gyuvin felt the tips of his ears redden furiously. he wasn't stupid — he knew, he understood that silently, and in your own way, you had just confessed to him that he was like the ocean in your heart. and for him, those words were more powerful than a simple i love you.

gyuvin knew that nothing meant more to you than the sound of the waves and the beauty of the ocean's expanse, which you cherished more than anything else. so, the mere thought of him being superior to the sea in your heart could only make him fall even more in love with you than he already was. his rebellious teenage heart of a few years ago was definitely not wrong : you were the mermaid who kept him from drowning. without answering you orally, gyuvin decided to simply close his eyes in turn, resting his head against yours, enjoying your stroll by the sea which managed to open your heart to him.

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[ashwritesmonsters]

Hello!! Been following your work for a while, I read your stories when I’m sad lol!

Can I request giant x fem!reader with lemon?

Go wild, I just love content with giants and don’t see enough of it

Thank you ♥️♥️♥️

F!Reader x M!Giant - Lemon

Note: Okay, first I'm sorry this took so long. Motivation to write has been hard to come by recently. Like, I know I'm sorta relaxed with requests, but jeez. I think I'm finally starting to find my groove again, slowly, so hopefully I get some more requests to start building up my writing muscles again. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

Cradled in Uvor's hand, which was normally quite comfortable, you were starting to feel a little seasick. Not because you were at sea, but because his careful, deliberate steps rocked you in his palm like a ship. His pace was slow, yet his eyes darted rapidly as he looked down, at you, at his feet, at the ground below and the pine trees that equaled him in height.

"Uvor..." you groaned. The view of the nature preserve and the fresh air helped a bit as you cuddled his thumb like a pillow.

"We're almost there, little bloom," he apologized quietly, though his voice still rumbled your bones. "Sorry. I just don't want to step on anything."

"It's okay." You tried to focus on the smell of pine and cool feeling of mist on your face. "I'm sure the wildlife appreciates it."

"They do," he answered seriously. "If you look up, you might be able to see it from here. We're close."

Uvor lifted you gently, as he always was, and you could just barely see above the trees. A column of steam as wide around as a neighborhood lazily rose into the overcast sky.

"Wow..." you couldn't contain your wonder. You had never seen anything like it before, yet Uvor apparently came here every day.

"You'll feel much better once you're in the warm water. I promise." He smiled faintly, still focusing on the safe navigation of the untamed forest.

A stray raindrop struck you in the face. "Warm water sounds amazing right now," you said, wiping it away with a wool mitten.

After a little more lurching travel, you arrived at the destination Uvor promised. Once he set you down on the forest floor, just on the edge of the clearing, all you could see were multitudes of steaming pools stacked atop one another like tiers on a wedding cake.

"Uvor, this place is beautiful," you gasped, surprised this hadn't already been turned into a tourist attraction. "You come here every day?"

"Indeed," he boomed, his voice always large enough to shake the ground you stood on, "It's the reason I don't smell. I'm very grateful." He smiled and squatted next to you.

"So I guess I should, uh..." you hesitated, the cold air biting your cheeks, "undress before I get in?"

"I could keep you warm on the way back," Uvor explained, "but it would be easier if your clothes were dry."

"Got it," you answered, still not entirely ready to disrobe. Sure, Uvor was as caring and gentle of a boyfriend you could ask for, but going au naturale in front of him was a new, yet not unexpected line to cross.

Uvor sensed your hesitation. You had been standing idly in the cold rain with steamy hot springs just before you, after all. "If you want to keep your underwear on, that's okay too," he added gently.

"No, I'm not going home with soggy underwear." You found the resolve to undress, starting with your coat. Uvor and you had talked at length about boundaries and comfort and such, and a slightly bolder version of you from the past agreed that this trip to the hot springs was meant to be a romantic—and nude—one.

Uvor offered a hand to you while you shucked your bulky autumn clothing off. One by one you tossed your coat, your sweater, your shirt, your pants, and so on into his waiting hand like it was a laundry basket at home. Once the last of it was safe in his grasp, you jogged across the cold clay ground into an eagerly awaiting hot spring. The warmth was divine.

"Oh, this is perfect," you sighed contentedly, vapor from your breath joining the steam as it rose towards the sky. Just as you rested your head against the earthen lip of the pool, the ground shook. Uvor had done away with his loincloth and gently sat down in a pool that was large enough to accommodate him just next to yours.

“Isn’t it?” Uvor sounded pleased with himself. He reached over, dipping his huge hand into the water beside you, offering it. You leaned against his wrist at first before deciding just to sit in his hand again. He held you perfectly under the balmy water.

"Thank you, Uvor," you leaned back and closed your eyes. Cool mist dotted your face. "I know I was hesitant to come out here with you, but..." you blushed. The warmth and steam had distracted you from the fact that you were now completely naked and sitting in your boyfriend's hand.

"But?" Uvor's middle finger curled, gently spreading your thighs apart as it nestled between them.

"But I'm glad I did." You tentatively accepted his advances. You parted your legs just a bit more, blushing, and allowed yourself to straddle his middle finger, his index and ring fingers holding your thighs in place like warm pillows.

"Mm," he grumbled, satisfied. "Me too." His finger curled further until all your weight rested on it. You gasped. His heartbeat pulsed in between your legs... and gradually got faster.

You leaned forward and grabbed his fingertip like you were riding a rocking horse.

"You seem eager." You could hear the smirk in his voice.

"So do you." You turned back and looked at him and returned a smirk of your own. There was still a kindness in his eyes, but backlit by desire. He was trembling at how delicate and soft you felt in his hands... and something else, too.

His finger curled. You gasped at the sudden movement and how it rubbed against you. Despite being a giant who spent most of his time in nature, the skin on his hands was soft. The grooves that gave you fingerprints instead gave him lovely, supple bumps that rubbed against your tender sex.

"Uvor," you said, your breath catching a bit, "that... that feels good." The admission made your face burn hotter than the springs.

"Mm," he rumbled, almost teasing. "Would you like me to move?"

"Um, a little," you answered, eyes closed as warmth built between your legs.

"As you wish, my little bloom." He uncurled his finger. It rose slightly, pressing against your pussy gently. When you gripped his fingertip and moved your hips, a moan escaped you. Pleasure surged through you. The spring felt hotter, the steam thicker. Your breath took a moment to catch up.

"Good?" He asked, feeling you melt in his hand.

"Y-yeah." You started to pant. Your trepidation before this outing was cleared away by the hot steam. More movement with your hips. Your knuckles went white as you clung to his fingertip. The steam in front of your face spun away from you in silky swirls with each hot breath.

Back and forth. Every nerve in your body lit up when your clit found purchase on his hot, soft skin. Your eyes scrunched shut.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” Uvor rumbled. He reached across with his other hand to delicately cradle your face between his large thumb and forefinger. “Are you close?”

“Y-yeah...” you squeaked, your breath short and legs beginning to shake.

"Come for me." His heartbeat between your quaking legs was impossibly warm. "Come for me, little bloom."

Pleasure exploded within you as your clit rubbed against his tender skin. You gasped, shaking. Your knuckles went white, holding on to Uvor as you rode out your orgasm. It was hot—too hot—and after crying out to the overcast sky, you fell back and lied against his wrist. Your glassy eyes saw stars.

"Are you okay?"

You came so hard it felt like the wind was knocked out of you. Breaths came unevenly, and your voice was small. "I'm... yeah..." you tried to say, drowned out by the bubbling noises of the springs.

Immediately, as you gasped at his speed, Uvor lifted you from the water and sat up, holding you before him. He cradled you in both hands as cool air rushed around you and stray rain droplets peppered your skin. He wore an expression of concern, examining you.

"What was that for?" You asked, slightly put off by the cold that shocked you out of your post-orgasmic stupor.

"I was worried," his eyebrows softened, and he let out a breath he seemed to be holding. "I thought I... hurt you, or the springs gave you heat stroke, or..."

"I'm fine," you reassured him, standing in his palms and reaching out to touch his stubbly cheek. The moment your hand met his skin even more tension left his face and shoulders.

"I'm sorry for ruining the moment," he rumbled, his eyes no longer on you, downcast.

"You didn't ruin anything. I just..." you had cooled down, but heat returned to your cheeks as you prepared the words, "I just came really hard, thanks to you, big guy."

You could feel heat rise in his cheeks too. "I... uh... I'm glad." He couldn't find the words.

"Good talk." You chuckled, patting his cheek. He chuckled with you, flashing that goofy grin of his. "Why don't you set me down in the water again? It's cold up here."

"Of course, my little bloom."

[augment-techs]

Color Theory discussions: BillySkull and maybe the addition of Matt. Because I’m curious now.

Okay, now follow along with me here: it would be a very rare universe where both of these boys would be able to be Powered up at the same time, because it is feeling more in more like, in direct relevance to canon, Orange is only allowed on screen/active, when Blue is not available for the team or in the moment. In the world of the Coinless, Skull only took on all the roles associated with Orange when he had to go undercover in the guise of a Red when Billy was shot through the chest. Fern, in Cosmic Fury, was only brought into the fray because Ollie went evil and the team needed someone to pick up the slack. The Orange Empyreal only came into being because Kiya literally murdered the Blue Emissary and their shadow came to life.

Orange is basically the blood that coagulates in the wound left by a Blue being missing. But they are not the same and it really shows in how they operate.

Blue can't work with what isn't there, but Orange can not only work around such a deficiency, but actively works to bring about change despite the lack of materials and spirit.

Blue is the memory of the Morphin Grid. If we take that into consideration for this pairing, Billy retains all the knowledge and memory of every relationship he's ever had. Which, whole awesome in the long term, is not great for short term because he gets caught up in the good, the bad, the awkward, the misunderstandings, the accidents, the hurt, and the love all at the same time. Being with him can be exhausting because he is a brilliant mind trapped in an flesh prison that doesn't allow him to operate both his wits and his mouth at the same time.

Skull, contrariwise, in almost every universe and timeline, never got the chance to embrace his place in the Grid for what he actually was. It was short lived and the memory was always taken away from him. And in the Coinless universe, this is a handicap, because he is in fact drawn to Morphin Energy and can act and react to what that means in the moment--and in long term, because Orange might be the doer, but that doesn't point to the WHEN he's doing anything. He can play the long game or act on the fly, because Orange is a dual Color in tune with Change. Despite what everyone wants to believe, Blue is also based in the elements of space, slowness, and loudness. Orange based in water, thinness, and quiet. Winter is still Blue's realm, where stasis is all, allowing the Ranger to observe and say "Eureka!" Autumn is Orange's, where everything is on the cusp of something else, always changing and yet also reliable in its change. They are good together in short bursts in the beginning of their relationship, and can only become more deeply entwined if Blue recognizes their little and big failings--because Orange already knows it has failings, often more aware of them than any other color, which is a big, big part of why it's so rare. The sheer amount of AWARENESS in Orange can be exhausting; as opposed to Blue, where it can go on for days to make things better, much to the detriment of the user.

That equal yet opposite thing is REALLY strong in this pair, so it's kind of no wonder that it would take FOREVER to become a true pairing.

Now adding Green into the mix, on the other hand...

Green is the hardcore survivor of the Morphin Grid. That's a given. It occupies Spring, which is a different kind of Change than Orange, often a much more violent one. It settles easily into air, brutality, bravery--which is different from courage (Orange) and sureness (Blue)--and a cunning; that on dark nights is more insidious and selfish than it should be.

Which is probably why I have a theory that Green and Orange and Purple are something of an antithesis of each other. Green could smash Purple (both a Summer and Winter type) into the ground with little effort, while Purple could--but would prefer not to--do the same to Orange. Orange, by rights, would be perfect to teach Green a lesson if the need arouse.

Now, bare with me, because this is a lot of where my subjective thoughts come into play.

Green/Blue are generally a rather harmonious duo in canon as friends and teammates, but if the bedroom came into play, we get into something a little bit awkward, because...well, for lack of a better way to put it, I think that Blue would be the dominant in this relationship, because there is just something in the Grid dynamics that makes it feel like it's...better...than Green? Like, there are no teams that exist in any meaningful capacity without Blue. Duos are a thing, but usually cased by calamity and death. A TEAM however, can't exist without Blue. So Blue is a little bit classist as well as carrying a superiority complex towards a Color that has not only been out of the loop in team dynamics for millennia, but is HALF of Blue itself taking on Yellow.

True, Billy spirited away the Green Dragon coin to Grace Sterling to cleanse it, revive it, and lobbied to give it to Matt because he saw the potential in his friend that had been there all along, but there is still something to be said about the Color influencing the Ranger. Billy has seniority in experience and would not let Matt forget that in close quarters when frustrated. Which basically means that they'd have an insanely primal sex life with Billy NEEDING to prove superiority. I think that the sex would be just a hair's breadth away from hate sex, with both of them being totally exhausted afterwards, and the both if them CONSTANTLY forgetting about things like hydrating, aftercare, and being generally kind of stupid for days afterward. With Matt flirting and flirting and flirting SOME MORE--like a peacock--and Billy just kind of...ignoring or being annoyed with him.

Green/Orange would be the ideal starter relationship, really. Because while Green was out of the loop for ten-thousand years? There is no record of Orange EVER being used in Zordon's lifetime on Earth, except for that one time, and again, that barely counts because it was for less than a day and he was a manipulative, condescending prick about it. He doesn't want to have Rangers on the team that would call him out when he's wrong, and Orange is nothing if not THAT ONE COLOR that every single person has an opinion about; it's either loved or hated and the same thing goes for the Ranger. And Green can empathize with that, given the rocky start it had with its team because of Rita.

Not to mention that now that Matt is also the only Ranger at present that had his life put under a microscope by outing himself to give Angel Grove someone to trust during the Dome Fiasco, he is probably fully willing to find some understanding and compassion from someone who has had ample opportunities to make his life harder, but just...hasn't? Orange/Skull being that very strange combination of compassionate, stable, and bluntly honest would be something incredibly appealing to Matt in the aftermath of losing all of his friends to Rangerdom, suffering the untreated trauma of abduction on the moon, Kim dating a guy that was evil for a little while there and also for a little while was incredibly aggressive about Matt getting the Dragon Coin, and now the whole Matt killing Grace thing. Say what you want, but Skull being water and Matt being air has a HUGE symbiotic thing going on there.

Also it goes without saying, Orange and Green are a kind of equal opposites. They share something that Blue does not have and in a POLY relationship this means communicating and translating things that can't be understood from just two sides. And where Blue is urged to be on top with Green, and in control with Orange, the two can find a soft middle ground that allows harmony to go on with all three at the same time. (This would kind of fuck Green and Orange ever if a breakup or going evil thing happened in earnest, because of really obvious reasons, but we are not getting into that here.)

TLDR:

If they want a real, solid, perfect relationship, they would have to be older, at least over eighteen. They would have to know themselves a little better. They would have to be honest with themselves and EACH OTHER.

Also, and this is just my opinion, Blue/Orange works in the early days as a fling, or playing around, but would never lock down until something bad happened. Since something bad is always happening, at some point, with Green and Orange, the ideal combination and timeline for this poly would be: Blue+Orange x mistakes/miscommunication= Blue | Orange << Orange+Green x years+jealousy/experience+Blue = Green/Orange/Blue going clockwise.

[rin-u-pos]

ACOTAR tag game 💕

Who's your favourite ACOTAR character?

Tamlin of course. I'm mostly in this fandom for him although I love Nesta and Lucien too.

Who's your least favourite character?

Rhysand. I found him icky in ACOTAR but didn't mind him. I started hating him when sjm tried to jam into my head how great he is. I don't like people telling me what to do or how to feel. I would've liked him more if the narrative let him be and didn't absolved him of his crimes while making him an obvious foil to Tamlin.

Say something nice about your least favourite character.

Mind manipulation is a cool power and it makes him op. I wish the narrative didn't conveniently give him morals when mind reading would solve everything. Let him actually be morally gray without it being justified by the text.

Who's your favourite High Lord? (If you picked one for your fav character, then who's your second fav!)

Beron. He's a dick and I'm excited for the day Eris finally kills him, but I have a lot of fun when he's on the page. The HL meeting made me unironically like him.

Favourite MINOR character?

I have multiple and can't decide who I like more. Eris, Gwyn, Emerie, Vassa, Jurian and Andras. Do the first 3 count as minor characters?

Favourite ship? (Crackships included!)

Neris, Tamcien, Elucien, Tamsand and the bat boys are gay agenda.

Favourite court and why?

Spring Court. My favorite seasons are spring and Autumn. I love the spooky season but I'm not down to live with the misogyny. I have no allergies but I'm scared of bugs. Now I have a legit reason to cling onto Tamlin.

Make up a brand new court RIGHT NOW, NO PREP JUST VIBES.

A secret court of witches. After the war 500 years ago they went into hiding and have kept their magical practices alive through their possession of ancient grimoires. Both humans and fae coexist in this court.

What relationship would you have wanted to see more of in the books?

Tamlin, Lucien and Andras. For the guy who started it all, Andras has almost no presence in the book.

What's your unpopular opinion?

I don't like briar x tamlin. I don't hate it and I understand the theory, but I don't care for it. I'm not really interested in a romantic arc for Tamlin. I just want to see him build a better life for himself and fix his friendship with Lucien. A relationship with a human while beautiful is very tragic for an immortal. I would want him to experience an easier romance.

And I don't want a fiery love interest who will kick his ass. I prefer a gentler love for Tamlin. Someone who will listen to him, strive to understand him and treat him with compassion. Being gentle with someone doesn't automatically equal an enabler. A SLOW burn friends to lovers is what I want for him.

What's your favorite headcanon/fan canon?

Azriel is a failure but not like in a malicious way. He tries so hard but he's not good at spying. The girl he likes doesn't like him back and it's so pathetic it's funny.

If you were swept away to Prythian, what's ONE thing you would want to do?

I would go and try to talk with Tamlin. I'm really awkward and not a hugger irl so I would ask if he wants to be friends but deep inside I want to hug him too.

If you could have ONE faerie ability seen in the books, which would it be?

As someone who is afraid of driving and gets easily stressed by traveling, I would say winnowing.

Look @mathiwrites I actually finished it! Took me way too long and I forgot who else tagged me. Thank you moots who tagged me! I'm not tagging anyone because everyone I know has already done it. If you see this post and want to do this, I just tagged you!

[lalazeewrites]

RETURN OF TAG GAMES

i know i have been gone for what in fandom time is 'forever', so thank you a million for tagging me @celestialmickey @heymrspatel @tanktopgallavich @vintagelacerosette @energievie @stocious @metalheadmickey @gallagher-milkovich

name: lala/larisa

age: 35 but i’m permanently stuck at 25 in my head, i always forget

where in the world are you? 📍 an hour north of chicago, near the wisconsin border

the meaning behind your URL: very self explanatory, i’m not creative with names hehe. but lalazee is my nickname and zee is because my last name is a z name. again, not creative lol

your second favorite color: pink!

any pets? one cat with the personality of a soft bunny & another cat with the personality of a surly dragon

favorite season: autumn!

last thing you read: ‘the only good indians’ by stephen graham jones

last song you listened to: ‘so much (for) stardust’ by fob is playing as i type! i am a true blue lifelong feral fan from ‘take this to your grave (2003) album fan onwards. i’ve already listened to this album so much that my almost ten year old knows most of the words to most of the songs lol

what are you wearing right now? grinning skeleton holding up a coffee cup w a smiley face on it that says ‘STAYIN’ ALIVE’ & pink shorts

a hobby of yours: writing! singing! hiking! camping! cooking! all things horror!

your comfort show or movie: i feel like your comfort movies & shows might not be your all time favs, but more like movies & shows that are easy on your brain to absorb when you’re skull is feeling soupy. as a true 90’s kid, i gravitate for comfort toward those big box office action or disaster films like jurassic park, twister, independence day, the mummy (and 2), men in black, jumanji, matrix, anaconda, etc. . . i have a thing for big monsters & big battles, so also count pacific rim as one of my favorite movies ever too haha

and finally, what are you up to today? it’s spring break! but my spinal surgery blah blah is still healing so i’m relaxing at home while my mom takes my kid to the arcade and candy shop! they’ve been gone four hours, so i can only assume they’ve had a good time lol

FANDOM EDITION

your first fandom(s): First fandom on the INTERNET would have been Star Trek XI. First media that i was unhinged about: X-Files, X-Men, Xena, Sailor Moon (apparently I couldn’t find another X related interest LOL)

your current fandom(s): My Hero Academia, Shameless, Stranger Things, Attack on Titan. . .I actively read for about 5 other fandoms other than those (Supernatural, Witcher, FMA, LOTR, Star Trek), but I’m currently actively writing in these.

how did you first get into fandom? Back when I was living in Glasgow, Scotland, it was my 21st birthday, and my friends and I were going to see a horror movie. Turned out, the tickets were sold out, so we decided to see Star Trek XI. I’d NEVER watched Trek in my life, didn’t know a thing about it, and when I walked out of that theater I was a totally changed human and now I am a Trek Encyclopedia LOL

how long have you been engaging with fandom spaces? Since 2009, so like 14 years.

how often do you read fanfics? Every day, if my brain is healthy enough that day! I sometimes take breaks of a couple months and only read published books though, I feel I get a different experience from both that I can equally appreciate.

top 3 characters from your current fandom(s): Mickey Milkovich, Bakugou Katsuki, Billy Hargrove. Angry disaster babies, I guess.

have you ever written a fic for a fandom? I’ve written 167 fics, not including those on my Patreon. So, over 170 fics, at least.

have you ever drawn fanart for a fandom? No! Funny that I got accepted on scholarship to NIU for Theater & Art, partially on my art portfolio, but I never create any art for anything!

share a personal headcanon that you feel very strongly about: Ian loves his mom more than he feels comfortable saying, because he feels like it's a family and even personal betrayal. I think it’s impossible to accurately describe how to feels to grow up with an abusive parent who vacillates wildly between adoring and abusive, but there’s no feeling quite like loving and hating your parent, desperately wishing you could be what they wanted so they’d stay, and hoping you never see them again. I know we’ve seen Ian follow Monica more than any other kids, but I think that any time he curses her out to his siblings or whoever else, each bad word is also like a self-cut.

you’re trying to convince a friend to get into your current fandom(s) If for My Hero Academia, I would have them watch the Heroes Rising movie, for Shameless I don’t even KNOW where I’d begin tbh LOL

and finally, what does fandom mean to you? Fandom is family! I’ve been in fandom for fourteen years, and I have so so so many real life friends who have been with me through literally the hardest parts of my life. My divorce, my ex husband going to prison, the birth of my child, me being a single parent, moving back to America, my coma, my kidney transplant. My fandom friends from across the world have uplifted me and been my support system through every single high and low. I don’t know how I’d be here without them, quite literally.

[free-for-all-fics]

Part 6/7 💜📸📝

“Hello, Mrs. Skeffington. I’m Dr. David Jaquith. I’m not sure if you remember me, your husband was the one who sought out my services, so we only met briefly in person once, but I was your daughter’s doctor when she was a girl. I got to know her very well while she was at Cascade.”

That Jaquith should come to her help in the difficult was the last thing she had expected. True, Fanny had written him, but there was a part of her that believed he wouldn’t or couldn’t come on such short notice.

“Of course I remember you, Doctor. Come in, come in. Do you still keep in contact with my daughter?”

“The occasional letter here and there. Other than that, Christmas cards and such.”

“Oh…and uh, did she…did she ever mention me in any of those letters and cards?”

Such a simple yes or no question on the surface. But, to Dr. Jaquith, its utterance brought with it memories of one of the more recent and lengthier letters you wrote to him, and the equally lengthy letter he wrote and sent you in response. There was so much you wanted to say, you could never hope to fit it all onto sheets of paper, no matter how many you filled with your writing. The doctor himself faced the same problem, and he wondered if maybe a phone call would’ve been better suited. But there again came the problem of time and always seeming to be short on it, on both your end and his.

November 1939

Dear Dr. Jaquith,

Spring, summer, now autumn again. I won’t say time flies, but it doesn’t crawl as it used to. I’ve been enjoying my time abroad. There’s a man here who’s been nice to me, a man I’ve known and traveled with for almost four years now. A man I can confidently call my best friend. In fact, he’s proposed to me. “Let us settle down,” he said, “For you own a part of my soul as I own a part of yours. That was settled the moment we met, the transfer happening by the hand of fate. I love you. I can live without you, yet every day there would be that pain of a piece missing, the piece I gave to you. It is a loss of part of the self, yet the greatest victory there can be. We won this spiritual lottery. We are free and bound. That is the way real love is. The bond forms and then we learn how to treat one another well, to bring happiness and health, to nurture and be strong in all weathers, protective and kind.” After hearing a proposal so moving, there are no arguments I can think of why I shouldn’t marry him. His name is Jim Masters. He may not have much in way of name, status, or wealth, but he is a fine man. He had a previous wife and has four grown daughters that he’s estranged from. It’s a long and complicated story, but I ask you to trust my judgment of his character. I know what I’m doing. By the time I receive your letter, I will no longer be Miss Skeffington. I will officially and legally be Mrs. Masters. Jim will be my husband, and I will be his wife. We’ve moved. More than once. For work stuff, for money stuff...you know how it goes. Don’t worry, we are still living together and everything is going well! I have a lot of friends here with me. They’re all real nice, and they’re always willing and trying to help.

I don’t know why I tell you this except I tell you almost everything. That’s why I feel I can confide in you about what’s been troubling me as of late. It’s about my family. More specifically, my mother. I wasn’t ready or willing to talk about it before, but I am now. It’s a long story, but with all stories, it’s probably best to start from where we last left off: When I left Cascade and went to Europe at the age of eleven, going on twelve…Mom and Dad…they did it for years…day…after day…after day. All lies… I have nothing against lies. I grew up around lies. Jim is a professional journalist now, more specifically, a travel writer. Making up lies to fit the facts… It’s what he does. It’s what all journalists do, to varying degrees. But now it’s time for the truth to come out, finally… And to do that, I want to tell you a story.

There was an invisible girl. Like everyone, she just wanted to run on the grass, ride a bike, swim in the lake in the summer. But her mother… Oh, her mother had other plans for her. What a beautiful shadow of her mother she had become, in her dark world made of silence and prayer. There shone only two stars: her…wonderful sister, Fanny, and her darling father, Job. Heavenly creatures who told her what a free and strong woman she would become one day. And they were both right. She was like that: Free and strong. At the time, the other kids and even the teachers didn’t understand her dyslexia…she didn’t understand what retard or kike meant…that’s what the other kids called her at school. Her sister, Fanny, wanted to protect her. But she couldn’t. She could hear her cry at night, could hear the bed creak from her father trying to hush and console her sister through whispered words of encouragement.

~

“Is there anything I could say to make it better?”

���No.” You sat up and your father sat next to you on the bed. You looked at your sister. You didn’t want her to see you like this. “Oh, just go. I mean it, go!”

“Perhaps you should go, darling.”

Fanny, though hesitant, left.

You flopped back on the bed with a new bout of tears. “Oh, Daddy.”

Your father leaned over you and covered your hands with his own as you sobbed. “You are being tested. And do you know what they say, my darling? Being tested only makes you stronger. It’s not theory on my part. I’ve been through it. I know everything you’re feeling. Every pain. But be fair to yourself.”

You squeezed his hands as hard as you could as you sniffled. “I don’t think it’s working with me.”

“Give yourself time. You’ll come through it.”

“Just as…just as you came through, Daddy?”

“Yes, darling. Just as I came through.”

“Here’s hoping I’m made of the same stuff you are.”

~

She and her sister used to worry about their looks too...when they were thirteen and all arms and legs. Her sister used to hate that brace she had on her teeth. She hated the acne on her face. But their father would always comfort them. “A woman is beautiful only when she's loved,” he’d say. One day, the invisible girl grew into a woman, a beautiful, luminous creature. And she met someone. A human being that saw her, for real. The beauty he saw in her was the beauty she forgot to see in herself. And what a beautiful reminder, that love was what would see them all through. Yes. And her sister, Fanny, instead became the invisible witness of what happened. A love, simply a love…nothing more…nothing less. But that love was too much and it would be punished. Who paid for that love? They did. We did. Dr. Jaquith— I mean, David, (Can I call you David? It feels so odd to address you by your first name but, since I haven’t been your patient for over ten years, it feels right.) I beseech you for your insight, your guidance. You know my history, you understand me, but I’m asking for your help and your opinion not just as my doctor, but as my friend. We’re still friends, aren’t we? I would hope that we’re close friends now. I know you’re a very busy man, but if you could find it in your schedule to hear me out and write back to me, it would be greatly appreciated. I’m once again at a fork in the road and I’m confused. I need you to show me which path to take.

Your friend,

Miss Skeffington (soon to be Mrs. Masters!) ooo

By the time he responded to your letter and mailed it out, Dr. Jaquith received a card with your wedding announcement. He could only assume you sent the same exact card to your sister and her husband.

December 1939

To our dearest friends and family,

Because your love and friendship have made us who we are, we are very happy to share the news with love in our hearts. We exchanged marriage vows in a private ceremony in Switzerland. While Switzerland wasn’t a complete bust the last time we were there, it was disappointing due to the unexpected storms. But now, getting married in the same country where we first met feels right, like everything has come full circle. As we have given and pledged our troth, each to the other, and have declared the same by giving and receiving a ring and by joining hands, the officiant pronounced that we are man and wife in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. Afterwards, we held a small “reception” for ourselves at the inn. It was just us and dinner with cake and champagne. It felt too quiet, so Jim thought up a song and played it on the piano for me. I forget how it went but it was pretty. I am lucky to have him for a husband. Although we decided to celebrate our love only in the company of each other and you were not there in person, please know that you were there in our thoughts and forever will be in our hearts. We hope you’ll be there to celebrate with us when we renew our vows in the States at a later date.

With love,

Mr. and Mrs. Masters

December 1939

Dear Mrs. Masters (née Miss Skeffington),

I write on what I imagine must be a joyous occasion. Per your last letter, am I right to assume that you are newly married to a wonderful man and have taken his name? I have had more than a little time during my long days and nights at Cascade to consider your past and your family. Since you left for Europe with your father and sister, my thoughts have often lingered on your development and welfare in the ten or so years since we last met. Your marriage gives me much reassurance in this regard. I wish you and your new husband many happy years together. You are always welcome here at Cascade or to visit me and Charlotte in our home in Vermont, though I will understand of course if you cannot accept this open invitation. Now, to address what you spoke to me about in your last letter…

Now, I could tell you that perhaps restlessness has a genetic component. If so, emigrants would be expected to establish populations with more wanderlust in their DNA than those back at home. Scientists have identified one particular allele, called 7R, of our DRD4 gene that may fit this description; it has been linked to attention deficit disorder and attraction to novelty, earning its nickname: the risk gene. Research has documented that people with the 7R allele take 25 percent more financial risk than those without it. Tellingly, the allele tends to be more concentrated in recently established populations (in terms of historic human expansion): Most people in the Americas have it, a few in Europe do, and it is rare in parts of Asia. People with this “wanderlust gene” may be literally hardwired to seek new experiences. I could tell you that maybe you’re one of those very unique individuals. But I won’t bore you with textbook theories.

Sometimes the world around us and everyone and everything in it can move so fast, it feels impossible to keep up. It gives us whiplash. Our senses are overloaded and our brains can’t decide what to focus on. You can’t read a map, but you’re not lost. Consulting maps can diminish the wanderlust that they awaken, as the act of looking at them can replace the act of travel. But looking at maps is much more than an act of aesthetic replacement. Anyone who opens an atlas wants everything at once, without limits—the whole world. This longing will always be great, far greater than any satisfaction to be had by attaining what is desired. You’d rather be given an atlas over a guidebook any day. You’re pulled in all kinds of directions, always eager for the next discovery, the next adventure, the next landmark, that your brain and your body can’t agree on where to go next. But you’re intuitive, and you know that you must go. Somewhere. You often can’t describe the place you’re thinking of, because it’s intangible, but when you get to where you want to be, you’ll just know. But no sooner than that. You were born with full potential to become a great person of integrity. I know this as a psychiatrist. What any of your relations are, or were, means nothing about who you can be. We are built of our choices, tiny decisions in tiny moments. So wherever you are now is only the beginning.

Your mother would’ve accepted any plan that would’ve relieved her of the child who had always been a thorn in her flesh, though the lady would strongly protest if she heard me say so. And your father’s attitude was sympathetic and protective, possibly too protective for your good. Result? Resentment felt by your mother. Your absence from the home became desirable for all concerned. I was highly recommended to your father by a friend of his, so your father placed you in my care and I brought you to Cascade after one too many incidents of violent, emotional outbursts. At the time of your arrival, you had been isolated for sometime. You couldn’t see friends, nor reach out to your family for help as once you could have. If I’m honest, you had so many panic attacks at first, yet, over time, they grew further apart and disappeared. In isolation it was lonely, yet there was an art to surviving it in the best shape possible. Anger from your eyes showed the scared child within, the girl who was taught to fight and starved of the love she craved. I could see the pain beneath it and your soul drowning in this persona you’d carved to fit a world of indifference. But I couldn’t help someone like that, not unless the tears came and you realized what was really going on. And I couldn’t fight it. I wouldn’t. It would’ve taken such a toll on both you and me to do so. The best I could offer you was a void, to let you sulk, brood, meditate, or sleep in your shadow box until you craved the sunlight. When you weren’t picking at your plate, you were picking a fight. Your temper was the knife, a sword you’d fashioned in that wild childhood a part of you had never escaped. Your parents, peers, teachers, and nurses all said you had a temper, but not a soul ever asked why it had developed or what it protected you from. You were so sick of getting stabbed. You were sorry for becoming part of that sick cycle, for stepping into shoes you should have rejected. You could count on one hand the people that you’d lay down your arms for because they were worth it, worth trusting: Your sister, your Uncle George, your father, myself, and, now, Jim.

But eventually, you left your shadow box and came into the light. You found a new joy in nature, in the little things, reveling in bird song and the simple pleasure of warm sunlight upon the skin. It was so very challenging, yet you grew strong. You found that if you could be conscious of your choices and emotions, you could start to ask yourself to make more healthy choices for yourself and those you love. You could choose to dance to music instead of simply sit, or do some exercise instead of simply sleep. You found that if you baked bread rather than just bought it, it felt as if there was more love in your house - that you had a new hobby and the house had the aroma of a bookshop, so homey. Childhood ambitions are the rocket fuel for the rest of our lives when they come from our own curiosity and drive. They are the seeds of a passion that creates a life well-lived. The weird and novel weavings of childhood ambitions and interests, especially when they are a mismatch of glorious nonsense, are the very seeds of genius and invention. They are how our species specializes and discovers entirely new pathways. They are a needed part of a healthy brain. With it comes a healthy self that can make healthy relationships within a community that will come to need the skills they develop, even if they cannot see how at the time. It is these childhood ambitions that are our guide to the path that is ours to explore. Every lifetime comes with an adventure that is our lifeline, and our compass is built of curiosity and love. It is when the unknown becomes alluring and work becomes play. It is how a challenge becomes welcome and the resolve to achieve it arrives as if it were a prompt and well-scheduled train. So when we learn to trust these childhood ambitions and see them as the seeds of greatness, we grow and change.

Yet in all of that, in the seeking of positivity, it was equally important to acknowledge the lonely feelings you experienced, to walk the line between seeing them, feeling them, letting them flood in when necessary, yet then returning to affirmative actions. By learning how to do this, you became a blessing to others and you felt more mature, more self-confident. It was challenging though, very challenging. But by overcoming those challenges, you have reaped many rewards. It is challenging in the darkness to shine a light of your own, yet you have such a light. Your father told me you were born with it, and I’ve seen it for myself many times over since the day you first came to me.

When society functions well our own light is warmed by the lights of others, we are a happy flicker that is part of a communal flame. When society is broken that search for another spark of love isn’t easy at all. If your emotions feel as if they are a roller coaster, the best thing you can do is hang out with someone truly boring who loves you very deeply. In time your brain and body will correlate to their calmness and you will have the cure to your emotional pain. You will become stable, able to reach for emotional highs when you want to, yet in truth, happier because you can access the normal kind of “happy” that humans evolved for. So, love, in these times burns not brightly yet soft and mellow. You told me that you occasionally struggled with intense feelings, or that your once-burning flame of wanderlust was beginning to die down to a flicker. And when adventure begins to lose its appeal, it starts to feel more like adversity. So try to sit back. Wait for someone who shows you real love, the kind that is dependable, endurable, sustainable and - above all - kind. Then you can let your spark burn brighter, because they are truly supporting you, because they bring their own inner fire with which to love you.

Rather than add gasoline to a world in flames, let us together be in the water for a few moments. Imagine a pathway of light glitters out across the waves, from the boat’s prow to the red-orange sun, as it sinks below the world’s edge. The clouds are coral-pink in a darkening sky. Water ripples gently, and that is the only sound. You are taking this bath in life, as you see, floating in infinity, and you are at peace. Let’s just float in the water and look up at the sky above us. In our sessions, you often told me of your fears and anxieties. You expressed concern for how you were living your life, afraid you were somehow doing it wrong. “I don’t know. I think maybe I’ve been wasting my time, just doing nothing. My life is nothing but a repetition of waking up with nothing to live for. Not even a false hope to look forward to this time,” you said. And do you remember what I told you in response? I told you, “I don’t think so. When you find your quest, the reason for your birth - when the song of creation that calls directly to your heart and soul - your journey becomes your source of happiness rather than any destination. That’s the place to get to—nowhere.” One wants to wander away from the world’s somewheres, into our own nowhere. A certain kind of wanderlust can only be assuaged by the acts of the body itself in motion, not the motion of the car, boat, train, or plane. While you were in transit, being unattached was exhilarating, but the moment you stopped, so did the high. You started to feel the withdrawals right then and there. You’d replaced wanderlust with a human. You’d thought that was a terrible mistake. But it’s important to stand still sometimes. Think of it as a little rest in the long journey of your life. This is your harbor, and your boat is just dropping anchor here for a little while. After you’re well-rested, you can set sail again and go onwards feeling refreshed.

Don’t think of standing still as being grounded. Think of it as finding the perfect compromise between standing still and flying. There’s no shame in just taking the time to breathe, to rest, to float. The emotions ebb and flow, thus when they rush in we feel motivated and inspired. The opposite occurs when they recede, as they naturally will. So learn how to sit upon your own beach and watch that emotional tide from a little distance. Close your eyes, breathe deep, focus on what you hear, what you smell. It is a contentment that will come to you simply in the observance of nature, a song, or the chance to dance. You can hear so much more. Things that are great distances away and things that are very, very small, like a mouse’s heartbeat or the wings of a moth, the woosh of passing cars, or the trickle of a stream. Yes, it can be quite overwhelming at first, I must admit. All those sounds are coming at you from everywhere, but that’s perfectly fine. You will get used to that over time. It can be just what you need to keep yourself from going stir-crazy. Be okay with calmness and observing the mayhem others engage in. For in that slight perspective shift exists the ability for true endurance, still feeling your emotions yet knowing what they are and that your reality remains the same.

There is a compromise between passion and directed studying that gets easier as one ages. You were, and still are, largely driven by your own creative passions and curiosities. However, there can be things you need to have a solid comprehension of that fall outside of your “passion drive”. This is when self-control becomes more important. There are times that doing the right thing is the harder thing to do. You needed to be able to sit yourself down and learn a subject even though it felt more like work than play. This was all part of growing up, sure. Yet it was also part of becoming a master at what you do - building in supporting knowledge that is more peripheral to your central aim. So, while it is negative to let directed study suppress your innate passions and creativity - it is also a negative to let your creativity rule the roost and not inform it with study. Balance is key, as ever.

I can now say you’re so much more psychologically mature, that those brutal times built you into who you are today. You can reject hate. You can reject fear. You can accept chances to create loving bonds. You can learn how to see things from the perspectives of others, even those who are very different to yourself. In this, you can become a person of peace and begin to create the kind of world you deserved yet did not inherit. I know it hardly feels that can be true when you’re curled up on the bathroom floor with your heart beating a million miles per hour, but with time, with inner reflection, with the art of emptying the thoughts, even if for just a few moments at a time - a new self emerges. In isolation you will feel at times as if you caught on fire, yet after this, regardless of how broken you feel, I promise you that the phoenix stage will shine from inside your headlamps. So keep on driving. Tina once said to me that she used to take off her glasses while her father would drive on a highway and all the lights would go soft and smudged, a trail of amber behind her like a quiet afterthought. Imagine that, and keep being the best version of you for yourself. I hope you know that you are not alone, and in those hours when you feel that you are, just know there are other people out there - singing the same melodies of wanderlust, climbing over mountains in the dark, and waking in the night to stare at the moon, thinking of this large world and dreaming - just like you.

I hope that these words encourage you to find the best version of yourself and to have the courage to reject the shrill and tempestuous voices of a broken world. The world needs good people. People like you. I hope that in these words, dear one, that you find the encouragement you need, the kind that builds great mountains from pebbles over a lifespan. I hope these words encourage you in a way that is realistic, that helps you towards a sustainable emotional life and protects you from those who lost their spark and would seek to extinguish yours for little more than a toxic ego trip. Protect your flame, keep your inner light safe. If there’s anything else I can say or do to help you, please let me know. If anything urgent comes up and the post is too slow or you need to reach me as soon as possible, I’m just a phone call away.

Your friend,

David

“Yes, but we’ll get to that later. Shall we sit down and get started right away? I hope you don’t mind me saying so, Mrs. Skeffington, but you don’t look very good right now.”

“It’s because I haven’t slept all night,” she hastily explained, trying to hide that she minded.

What she didn’t say, was that she ended up being jostled awake in the middle of the night by you. You had a strange expression on your face, and were wearing a backpack over your shoulders. You were pushing your childhood stuffed toy into her hands, and speaking to her...but of course, Fanny couldn’t hear you. You must have realized that, though. Because you looked like you laughed a little to yourself, and then handed her a slip of paper that said: ‘I promise to write.’ Then you got up, walked out, and closed the door to her room.

“You see how important quiet nights are for women of your age,” he said.

“And for everybody, I imagine,” said Fanny haughtily.

“That is, if you don’t want to be an eyesore.”

An eyesore? Was he suggesting that she was an eyesore? She, Fanny Skeffington, for years almost the most beautiful person everywhere, and for about thirty or so glorious years quite the most beautiful person anywhere? She? When the faces of the very strangers she passed in the street lit up when they saw her coming? She, noble, lovely little Fanny, as poor Jim Conderley used to say, gazing at her fondly—quoting, she supposed; and nobody quoted things like that to eyesores. True, Jim had quoted a good while ago; and it was also true, now that she came to think of it—let her be honest—that people passing in the street had seemed to look at her lately with surprise rather than admiration.

“Will you have a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you. I had coffee on my way here.”

“Well, you see, Doctor—”

“One moment please.” Dr. Jaquith got up to open a nearby window.

“What is the meaning of that?”

“I have sensitive sinuses, and your perfume is a bit heavy for me, that’s all.”

Although she was sure Dr. Jaquith meant nothing by it, Fanny felt slighted. She was reminded of when she paid a visit to Dr. Byles. That odious doctor. His consulting room was fragrant—he called it reeking,—with over-perfumed women. “Oh, my God,” he would mutter under his breath, when a specially scented one came in. Because of the creatures, though, he was growing very rich, and it was worth putting up with their scents and their silliness to be well on the way to the top of his profession at thirty-eight. And every day, when his work was over, he would fling the window open to purge his consulting room of scent, and exclaim: “God, these women!”

“Get your head out of your ass, Mother. You already reek of hypocrisy, so why add notes to the fragrance? I think there’s a word for people like you, a hypocrissist: A narcissist who has their head so far up their ass they can’t hear the hypocrisy coming out of their mouth,” you interjected.

Of course, you weren’t really there. Just a hallucination. But a vivid one. Almost corporeal. If Fanny hadn’t known any better, she would’ve believed you were really there, in the flesh. In the beginning, for Dr. Jaquith to fully comprehend her predicament, she felt she had to tell him all about her illness, and Job, and her visit to Byles, and her fears for the future. She was as natural as it was possible to be with somebody whom one still, when one looked at him, didn’t seem to know very well. But this could’ve been circumvented by not looking at him; she could’ve been altogether natural when she simply listened to his kind voice. And he felt almost exactly the same about her, the difference being that when she looked at him she was sorry, and when he looked at her he was shocked.

“When you wrote to me, you said you’ve been having trouble sleeping, but you went further to explain that your case is not the usual insomnia, nightmares, or sleep paralysis. You believe there’s something else going on.” As Dr. Jaquith pointed out, “significant dreams are the ones you can’t forget—the ones you remember in great detail even after years pass. But beyond that, it really goes back to what you believe and feel is significant. This is one of those ways dreamwork often shows up in therapy: A client has a dream that leaves them feeling distress or confusion in such a way they need help unpacking the feeling. We can find out whether a dream is significant or not when we are deciphering meaning by exploring and unpacking our feelings around the event or image. So, even if at the end of the day, you decide the dream means nothing, you’re still processing the feelings that surround it. But ultimately, I believe that dreams are about what we make of them, the meaning we assign to them, and the attendant feelings that arise along with that meaning. It’s no secret that of the many dreams you may have throughout the night, you’ll typically only remember one or two, if any. Have you ever wondered why you keep dreaming about your daughter, someone you haven’t spoken to for nearly four years? Usually the context of the dream will give you more clues.” Dr. Jaquith took out a notepad and pen. “So, Mrs. Skeffington, can you describe to me the dreams you’ve been having?”

“Yes, Doctor. The beginning is sometimes different, but they usually end the same way. Just last night, my dream began with my daughters in their bedroom. I was just about to send for them, when I overheard their conversation…”

~

“I see why they gave you a scholarship.”

“Yeah, it’s a real tragedy, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it is. You can be cold to Mother, that’s fine. But I didn’t do anything to you.”

“Won’t you admit that you did something?”

“I admit, according to you, I did something, sure.”

“You dimed me out.”

“I did not dime you out. When the sheriffs asked where you got the car, I said I didn’t know. I didn’t even know it was stolen. You’re blaming that on me?”

“You could have covered for me, huh?”

“You get caught stealing, it’s my fault. You’re resisting arrest, and it’s the cop’s fault.”

“He took a swing at me.”

“Get suspended from school, it’s the principal’s fault. Mother kicks you out of the house, it’s her fault. You can’t keep a job for two weeks, it’s every manager’s fault.”

“I’m surrounded by idiots.”

“So why did you come back? To piss Mother off?”

“Don’t you get it? You’re the good twin. I’m the evil one.”

“Grow up. You are so afraid to take things seriously. And suppose they telephone Mother?”

“Uncle George promised he’ll cover for me.”

“I feel quite nervous and I’m not even going. We must choose the clothes carefully, so you can take them on and off without any help.”

“Well, I’ll have his help.”

“Honestly, sister. You’d better hope I never write my memoirs.”

“There is one thing I’ve got to ask you, Fanny. I’m really sorry, but I must.”

“Go on.”

“I have to be sure there aren’t any...consequences.”

“What sort of consequences?”

“Well, you know.”

“No, I don’t… Oh. Oh, my God. I mean, I beg your pardon, sister.”

“But you see, I can’t just go into a shop and buy something. What if I were recognized?”

“But I wouldn’t know what to buy.”

“I’ve thought of that. I have a copy of Marie Stopes’ book. It tells you everything.”

“Well, won’t he take care of it?”

“I don’t think one should rely on a man in that department, do you?”

“But suppose I’m recognized?”

“But you won’t be. And even if you are, you’re married, with a living husband. Why shouldn’t you buy one?”

The scene did not change but fast forwarded, as if time had passed around Fanny in a blurry whirl while she stood still, unheard and unseen.

“I think I’ve put everything in. Your packet’s here, sister.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t think there’s anything too difficult to fasten.”

“Jim can always help.”

“For the last time, are you certain you know what you’re doing?”

“I believe so. Fanny, the way things are going, life will be lived in much closer quarters in future. Our parents lived in vast rooms, surrounded by staff. If they disagreed, they’d hardly have known it. But it won’t be like that for Jim and I. I must be sure I’m right to want this man, as my companion, as my friend, as my lover.”

“But not your husband?”

“No. The point is I don’t want to marry, because I absolutely don’t want to divorce. I witnessed - and so did you - so many things a child shouldn’t when our parents were married and when they divorced. They only stayed together as long as they had for our sakes, but I don’t want the same for myself.”

“Well, I think it’s a big risk.”

“Please. I can’t be lectured this evening.”

“Well, I wish you luck, sister.”

The scene changed. Fanny was putting on her glove, headed outside to the car waiting for the chauffeur to take her to a lunch date or something equally innocuous when she spied you and your sister talking in hushed tones in the garden out of the corner of her eye. Instead of getting in the car, she approached, but only far enough to eavesdrop without being noticed by either of her daughters…

“Well?”

“I couldn’t. There’s no point in freaking him out right now.”

“As opposed to when you find out you are pregnant?”

“Fanny, I’m not sure, okay?”

“I think you should have a conversation with him.”

“He’s been looking forward to this trip for months. I don't want to ruin it by starting a fight.”

“Darling, he’s not going to marry you. Mother won’t let him.”

“Who says I want to get married? Besides, I’ve been late before. When I know for sure, I promise to talk to him, okay?”

~

“It sounds to me like you’re afraid she and Jim are sexually active. That she’ll become pregnant and he’ll abandon her the same way he did his wife and daughters. Am I correct in thinking that?”

“Yes. I’m deathly afraid that’ll be what befalls her sooner or later.”

“It could be that your dreams are manifesting your fears as imaginary conversations between your daughters because they feel safe and comfortable enough to confide in one another. They trust and respect each other, and you want to be treated with that same level of trust and respect. But trust and respect aren’t things freely given between a child and their parent. They’re built. You’re her mother, yes, but if you wanted your daughter to trust and respect you, you had to put in the work, the time, and the effort, just like anybody else. Fanny put the work in to get her sister to trust her. Her father and I did the same. It wasn’t easy. It was a long process that often felt monotonous at times. Sometimes it felt as if every time we took one step forward, she took two steps back. But, although we couldn’t always see it or feel it, we were making progress. Good progress. So we kept at it. We worked and we worked hard to get her to trust us, and she worked hard to get us to trust her. We never gave up on her, even when she wanted to give up on herself. You? You never put that work in. Instead you were impatient, entitled. Instead of asking her any of the millions of questions swimming around in your mind, instead of opening up a discourse with her or inviting her to a civil conversation where you could be open and honest with each other, instead of letting her come to you in her own time, you went behind her back and read her diary. You suddenly decided you wanted to try to act as her mother after she was an independent adult already past her twentieth year. In doing so, You violated her privacy and betrayed her trust. If she had any in you to begin with, it’s completely broken now.”

One should trust more, Fanny thought to herself. One shouldn’t, as she had been doing lately, be in such a hurry to despair. But astonished as she was at the ways of providence, she was very nearly as much astonished at the ways of Dr. Jaquith. Who would have thought, she asked herself, that he could doubt her decency to the point of being in what he called a blue funk?

“You see, trust and respect have to go both ways or else there’s no stable foundation in the relationship and the entire thing falls apart. She had to be careful of you. You were the one person in her life who let ‘do as I say, not as I do’ seep into your character and, as she predicted, correctly, that you would, you almost certainly corrupted the trust she granted you. When was the last time your daughter came to you and said, ‘I need you’? When she threw her arms around you, wiping her tears on the shoulder of your blouse, and gave you a sincere ‘thank you’ through her sobs? Or perhaps a better question to ask is: When was the first time?”

“Doctor, I know what you must be thinking, but I did try to talk to her! Many times I tried to have a conversation with her, but she was never receptive to my efforts. She never had anything to say that wasn’t insults. I tried to get her to listen, to understand what I was feeling, especially when she said those hurtful things, but she was so angry and so stubborn that she wouldn’t listen. She shut herself off from me at every turn and wouldn’t let me in. No matter how much I approached her, no matter how I tried to get her to budge, she stood like a brick wall. Firm, unwavering, unrelenting.”

“She wouldn’t let you in, Fanny, because you never let her in. She’s seen that you are of those she can’t love because you don’t respect her and, in return, she doesn’t respect you. If you wanted your daughters to confide in you, to come to you whenever they were nervous, afraid, unsure, or otherwise needed help, you had to be transparent. You were always hiding behind layers and layers of makeup and a mirror. Maybe a part of you wanted to be involved, but you were held back by something or someone at the time. It could’ve been any number of things that acted as obstacles and barriers between you and your daughters. Your reputation, your beauty, your friends, your lovers and admirers, your neighbors, propriety, your upbringing, your beliefs, expectations made by others or yourself… that’s why you’re always the eavesdropper, the uninvited guest, kept at a distance and separated from your daughters, kept out of the loop of what’s going on in their lives. And now, when they seemingly no longer need you because they’ve outgrown you, you suddenly say you need them now more than ever!”

“What more could I have done?”

“I’m not entirely sure yet. I’ll tell you once I know more. For now, Let’s move on. Can you describe to me anything else from your dreams? Spare no detail. Anything you remember, even if it seems irrelevant and insignificant, could be important.”

“Yes, Doctor. In my dreams there are lights, too many to count, dancing on an ocean too vast to envisage. Each one is brilliant, each one unique. I want to look at each one for the marvel it is, for no matter how many there are, no two colors are the same. The light that comes from within is more pure than gold, more light than air - each one a small piece of Heaven. I try to reach out to them - who wouldn’t want to touch something so pure? - but the lights recoil in fright, they don’t even know who they are. They chant that they feel ugly on the outside and worse on the inside. I can’t understand until I take a look at the water, it looks fine but smells like something I wouldn’t want to drink. But they’re swimming in it, bobbing in it like it’s a fine day at the beach. I want to tell them it’s poison but they’ll never listen. They laugh and carry on just as before, each one just as beautiful as the last but disconnected even from their inner light and beauty…”

~

As Fanny recounted to Dr. Jaquith her dreams, she swore she could feel the salt on her lips and the roughness of rope in her hand, hear the loose flapping of a sail. The sail was as a sole that had journeyed upwards to many mountain peaks, worn and dirty, yet all the more beautiful for its travels and ready to ride the brine once more. Into the storm marched the sail in its own silent way, as if by catching the prevailing wind, by being captured within its own serenity, it contained a form of eternal hope. It made such progress atop of the dancing waves, amid the gay sea foam, that every fraction of every moment was the boldest of photographs. The ocean held so many memories for Fanny. It was where she sought solace after her brother’s passing, where she found peace during the devastating years of the last war and the current one. The wind had changed, and she had to turn and head to the shore before the storm came, the nets empty. She was back on the very same boat she was on when she went sailing with Johnny Mitchell. The very same boat where she contracted diphtheria.

“Johnny and I have a date to go sailing. You know, Johnny, if we’re going sailing, we’d better get started. It'’s over an hour’s drive to the sound.”

“Do we have to go? I mean, do you think we ought to? It gets chilly in the afternoon.”

“Chilly? Why, Johnny, you talk as if you were forty... fifty years old or something. But I love sailing. Certainly, we’re going sailing.”

“Hey, Fanny! Fanny! Come on back here. You’ll get soaked up there.”

“I’m loving this.”

“But listen...you’ll catch your death of cold.”

“Don’t you worry about me, Johnny.”

“Well, I do worry about you. Well, I’m heading for home, anyway. Fanny!”

And then Johnny was gone and, in his place, Jim was the one at the wheel, steering. Instead of asking him to explain his unpardonable intrusion of her sailing trip with Johnny Mitchell, all Fanny found she could do was to falter, “J-Jim?”

But he wasn’t looking at her. To him, it was as if she wasn’t even there.

Was it possible—she caught her breath—that he didn’t know who she was? That he, of them all, hadn’t an idea? Shaken by this dreadful suspicion, she didn’t know what else to do other than meekly call out once more, “Jim?”

Finally, mercifully, he turned his head towards her and acknowledged her presence. “Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Skeffington. I didn’t think you’d come. She mentioned her old man and a sister, but she didn’t say anything about her old lady. How come she didn’t mention you? She ashamed of you?”

“Who?”

“That’s funny. I forgot her name. It must be one of your daughters.”

“I have two of them.”

“Well, um… This one, if you stretched the point, you could call cute.”

“They’re both cute.”

“They both photographers and artists?”

“Oh, you must mean...”

“Now that’s the one. Chat her up.”

“Now, Jim, you are a little late. She’s out dancing with some young man who had no trouble remembering her name.”

“There’s a dame for you. Out dancing when she could’ve been with me.“

“Come to think of it, she did mention you. She said she had a sort of a date with a sort of a person.”

“Is that all she said about me?”

“That’s all I remember.”

“Sure she didn’t go into detail?”

“One sentence was all she devoted to. How long have you been here? How long have you been waiting for her?”

“Since we set sail. Well, no harm done. The night is still young. I’ll keep sailing onward and pick me up a mermaid yet. The truth is, I’ll stay in New York until she wants to run away with me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You’re too scared to admit it, but your daughter is in love with me.”

“I don’t understand. Why are you here? Why are you on the boat?”

“Because you want me here. When we are lost in emotional seas, we all need a steady captain and a lighthouse to guide our way home. We need outstretched arms to welcome us to the safety of rock so we can bid farewell to stormy waters. You’re lost, Fanny. I’m here to help you navigate these choppy and turbulent waters and find your way back… I will calm the waters back to temperate levels and this boat will provide shelter in your most distressing times, if you’ll let it. Listen. Do you hear that? The foghorn.”

“Yes, I hear it. But what does it mean? What does any of this mean?”

“That is me, your subconscious, trying to reach out. I’m signaling for you to pay attention. Will you? Or will you turn away again?”

By the time Fanny reached the beach, the moon was hovering high in the night sky, casting swathes of silver light across all of the open water. Its reflection wavered on the surface of the beach as Jim’s keen eyes were no longer looking at Fanny. Instead they searched for something else. Or someone else. He spotted you, gliding through the water, every stroke disrupting the liquid mirror around you. The ocean appeared to envelop your form, encompassing you almost lovingly. After a silence which seemed to last forever, the voice she hadn’t heard for nearly four years answered from behind her, very slowly and gently, as though groping its way down the long hull.

“I’m here.”

He was looking at you, and once more she was invisible, a ghost, a silent observer. You were bathed in moonlight, a silver gloss draping elegantly over your skin. Tonight, you appeared to Fanny like an ethereal ghost, distant and untouchable, a curiously beautiful and captivating goddess. Like the moon delivered you to her and had come back this night to steal you away. There were a million words and they were all in Jim’s eyes, for this was a story told at a deeper level. His eyes were filled with so much love that Fanny’s stomach lurched as if she was going to be sick and hurl over the railing. But this wasn’t seasickness. No. This was something far worse. The sickness that came with knowing she was wrong. Guilt. Regret. Stricken, Fanny stood motionless, leaning against the railing, pressed for support against the boat. You swiftly jumped from rock to rock through the water, desperate to reach Jim. Fanny looked back as you hopped your way over the last pile, your heavy-booted feet sinking into a narrow stretch of sand before starting over the next rock bed. Jim grabbed your hand so you wouldn’t slip and fall back into the water as you picked your way over a tricky stretch of kelp-covered rock as you climbed aboard, not seeming to have noticed her yet.

“Sorry I’m late, darling. I took a stroll down the beach and lost track of time. I swam here as quick as I could. It was good luck you weren’t very far out. Just like a foreign watch to stop when you need it the most. Can’t you tell time by the moon? A good sailor ought to.”

“It’s the sun you tell the time by. The moon’s just an ornament. Take the wheel for a minute, sweetheart.”

As soon as your hands were on the wheel, Jim let go and walked over a few paces and lowered the anchor so you wouldn’t drift aimlessly in the water from wind or current. He wrapped a fluffy towel around your shoulders like a shawl so you wouldn’t catch your death of cold and then took your hands in his own and pulled you towards him until your chest was flush with his, then you both lowered yourselves to your knees, then to laying down, leaning against the side of the boat. “You know, seeing you this way, natural face of the time, you look pretty good. Of course, it may be the moon that’s hitting you just at the right angle.”

“No. If the moon won’t tell you the time, it certainly won’t go out of its way to make a girl look beautiful.”

“Whatever it is, you look beautiful.” For a moment, you gazed into each other’s eyes. You both seemed to be thinking about something. The same thing. Jim leaned toward you and looked down at your lips. Surprised to see his resolve waning, you waited for him to give in, but he stopped himself and pulled back. “Ah, I wish I knew another story.”

You sighed disappointedly, “Oh no. You’re not gonna change the subject on me now.”

“What’s the idea?”

“If you’ll kiss me now, we’ll save a lot of time.”

He could take no more. Jim crashed his lips onto yours, feverish and desperate. You draped your arms over his shoulders, and pressed yourself tightly to him. Perhaps the gracious moon would allow the two of you to merge, to live out the remainders of your lives as one being, one body, one soul. Your form bathed in silver moonlight, you were glorious, mesmerizing. A bright star, fallen to earth so that Jim might marvel at your beauty, your mystery, before you ascended to your place carved out in the heavens once again.

You and Jim leaned in to share another kiss, and Fanny had to turn and look away. Although the kiss itself was brief and in no way improper, although none of what was happening was real and just a manifestation of her imagination, she felt it was a private moment between lovers and she would be intruding upon it if she had watched. Fanny began to wonder how different “real” love was from her imaginary affair. In any relationship there was both reality and the perception of reality. As long as she saw the other person as smart or sexy or handsome or good and as long as she could hang onto the feeling of loving and being loved then it was real. But somehow she was able to hang onto those feelings and beliefs even when objective reality diverged. Actions didn’t necessarily alter beliefs and beliefs mattered more. Before you fall in love you begin to imagine the other person. You create your lover by extrapolating on reality and dusting him or her with gold. You embellish to the point of perfection and then fall hard for the image you’ve made. Can one live up to their own expectations? Or are we all fated for hypocrisy? With all your traveling you may have spent more time imagining than others. But a huge amount of all love takes place in the head. In the middle of any relationship we can spend more time hour for hour thinking about the other person than we spend in his presence. And after any breakup there’s no telling how long we might pine for someone. Love itself is in the mind’s eye.

“You know, as you were telling that story, you didn’t impress me one bit. In fact, I wasn’t even listening.”

“It’s true, just the same.”

“Is it? Is it really?”

“Well…maybe I did exaggerate a little. C’mon, help me pull the net up, will you?”

Together, you and Jim climbed on your hands and knees to the large fishing net.

“Boy, Mother must be worried.”

“Why? Doesn’t she know you’re out with me?”

“No.”

“Well, why didn’t you tell her?”

“Mother likes you, but not as a companion for her daughter.”

“Well, Mother knows best.”

“Not her. She doesn’t know a thing about me, let alone what’s best.”

“Who would’ve thought I could make friends with the meanest croc alive with little more than a smile and a laugh. You made me work hard for your friendship, but it was worth it in the end.”

“Did you just compare me to a mean old croc?” you asked, the thread of amusement back in your tone.

“If the tough hide fits,” he said, but not unkindly.

You nodded and gave him a considering look. “True that,” you said, “but you must be misremembering. It was you who made me work for your friendship.” You then added, “Maybe I was trying to save my sister from her own friendly nature.”

“Out four hours. One underaged fish.” Jim held the small, slimy fish in his right hand.

“Oh, he’s cute.”

“Well, at least it’ll show I put the net in the water.”

“Oh, Jim, throw him back. Please.”

“Why?”

“Well, look at him. Doesn’t he seem to be appealing to you personally?”

“He’s barking up the wrong tree.”

“Well, it’d be different if you caught thousands of them, but one poor little fish. Why you snatched him away from his family and friends.”

“All right. Go back to Papa and Mama’s, stinker.” Jim threw the small and skinny fish back into the water with a splash.

“Thanks. Jim, look at us, how we naturally set sail and seek the wind to take us onward to new and pleasant shores. Jim, why don’t we just keep sailing onwards? We can dock someplace far away from here, leave the boat, and then just go from there.”

“Really? If we could sail off today, where would we go?”

You rung out excess water from your hair as you thought about his question. Your face took on a dreamy quality, and your answer, when it came, did not surprise him. “I would go everywhere. Oh, Jim, why do we stay in New York?”

“Your mother seems to think I’m too old for you, darling.”

“That’s the silliest thing I ever heard of.”

“Good. Then you’ll run away with me tonight.”

“I think you mean it.”

“I do. What you want, and what I want, it sounds like a beautiful dream, darling. But it’s not enough to wish, dream, hope. Even children know this. We must set sail into the sea of uncertainty. We must meet fear face-to-face. We must take our dreams as maps for a greater journey. Dreams, to come true, need a good story. So let’s go live one. I will not accept that all we’re meant to be are star-crossed lovers,” Jim stated passionately, his tone filled with a steady resolve. “I cannot accept it. Aren’t we more than just crossing tides?”

You contemplated this for a moment, before leaning your forehead against his. Beneath the cool sheen of water on your skin, Jim felt the heat of your blood flowing strong through your veins. Your strength, your poise in this painful time served as an example to him. He was always put together. You let him fall apart, without judgment. Jim could feel his composure fracture at your next words.

“I think we come from the same ancient waters,” you began, your hands coming to rest on either side of his face. “In some primordial sea, we rode the same tides. Perhaps someday, we shall again. But maybe this time around, we are only meant to flow together briefly, before we part.”

“This cannot be,” Jim whispered, voice wavering and tears beginning to roll down his cheekbones, “I feel your spirit ebb and flow inside of me. You inhabit me in a way that no one else ever has.”

“The sea will carry us to one another,” you began, tears trickling down your cheeks. “Time and again. I will find you, where our tides will be one and the same. I am with you, always. My soul is woven into every fiber of your being. And yours, mine.” With your exhale, warm tears flowed from your bright eyes. “Jim, I love you, body and soul.”

Jim leaned his forehead against yours, allowing his tears to fall freely. “My heart belongs to you, always,” he breathed. “You reside in me, sheltered and safe.”

“You will always find a home in my heart.” You pressed one final kiss to his lips. Your hand lingered in his for a moment, before it slipped from his grasp.

“When I drop you off at home, you go upstairs, pack your prettiest things. I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes. Now let’s be sentimental about it. We’ll stop by our secret hideout where we made our secret promise. Where I pledged myself to you, and you to me. And then we’ll keep driving, just like you want.”

Fanny was pulled from that painful thought when you turned your gaze away from him and looked off to the side. Your eyes widened and you suddenly scrambled to sit upright, having finally noticed her lingering there. She was somewhat apprehensive, but collected herself. Once Jim realized what - or more specifically, who - you were looking at, he followed your lead as you both stood up.

“How did you find us? How did you know?”

“Never mind that. At least nothing’s happened, thank God.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing’s happened’?” Jim looked at you as you spoke, worried and confused about what Fanny was implying. “I’ve decided to marry Jim, and your coming after me won’t change that.”

That was news to Fanny, news that washed waves of vertigo and anxiety over her. They threatened to drown her, pummel her into the silt and sand until she was nothing more than a smoothed over shell, tossed about in the surf. Fanny steadied herself, taking a deep breath, using your familiar scent, your warmth as an anchor to that moment. “This isn’t the way. Of course I will hate it—”

Jim stepped up beside you confidently. “Why should you?”

“Oh, pipe down. Darling, can’t you let me get used to the idea? Take your stand and refuse to budge, but allow me time. That way you won’t have to break up the family.”

“You would never give permission.”

“You don’t need permission, you’re in your twenties. But you do need my forgiveness if you’re not to start your new life under a black shadow.”

“Don’t listen. She’s pretending to be reasonable to get you home again.”

“Even if I am, even if I think this is mad, I know it would be better to do it in broad daylight than to sneak off like a thief in the night.”

“Better for me or for you? I knew I was going to leave. You all did. No point in breaking hearts.” You held her gaze more directly now, turning back slightly to look at her full on. “I might be a tough old croc, but I’m not heartless, unlike you.”

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to.” You opened your mouth, closed it again, then took in a slow, steadying breath, letting the deep salt tang tickle the back of your throat and the tart brine of the sea fill your senses. Anything to keep her unbearably strong perfume scent from doing that instead. “I have broken rules I don’t agree with all my life. But, as a rule, I don’t do goodbyes well. I know that about myself. I also know that I have the attention span of a sand fly. A well-intentioned sand fly,” you added, trying to inject a bit of humor, and mostly failing, judging by the unwavering look in your mother’s eyes. “So, given my wanderlusting, nomadic life, I learned early on to keep things friendly and light. Easy, breezy. I’ve made friends all over the world, but none so close that—”

“That missing them causes a pang,” Jim added. “Here maybe,” he said, pointing at his own head. “But not here.” He pointed at his chest, more specifically at his heart.

This was how you were, how you’d been from the start. Finishing each other’s sentences, following each other’s train of thought, even when the exchange of words was a bare minimum. You glanced up into Jim’s steady gaze and thought of when there’d been no words at all. That was why you’d worked so well together. And also why you’d had a tough time keeping your feelings for Jim strictly professional. You’d forgotten how threatening it felt, to have someone read you so easily. Most folks never look past the surface. Fanny—hell, the entire population of Charles Street—hadn’t even blinked at surface you before barreling right on past all of your well-honed, automatically erected barriers.

“Like I said,” you went on, “I don’t do goodbyes well.” You continued walking down the boat deck then, running your hand across the railing of the boat, clinging to it as you gazed up at the distant, twinkling stars above. Crickets chirped in harmony with the nearby ribbits of hot-footed frogs, hiding stealthily amongst the scattered lily pads near the shore. You knew you were avoiding continued eye contact, but it was unnerving enough that she was there, in your personal orbit, in your world. Your home world. Wasn’t that invasive enough?

“Would a postcard or two have killed you?” your mother finally asked your retreating back. “Not for me. I never expected one.”

You didn’t glance back at that, but just as you knew her too well, she knew you the same way. You heard that little hint of disappointment, of long-held hope. Of course the very fact that she was there, on your beach, was proof enough that she’d had hopes where you were concerned. And in that moment, you thought, to hell with this, and stopped. Running halfway around the world apparently hadn’t been far enough to leave her and all of what had transpired between you behind. So why did you think you could escape it along the span of one low-tide beach? “The sea breeze feels nice, doesn’t it? If nothing matters…then all the pain and guilt you feel for making nothing of your life…it goes away. You see it all, don’t you? You can see how everything is just a random rearrangement of particles in a vibrating superposition. But you see how everything we do gets washed away in a sea of every other possibility? You’re everywhere. You’re like me.”

“Please, I don’t care about the money. I don’t care about the engagement. I only care about my daughter. Give me back my daughter and I’ll leave you alone forever.”

“Sorry! No can do.”

“Why not?”

“I am your daughter. Your daughter is me. You can’t separate us. We are two halves of the whole.”

“No.”

“I have felt everything your daughter has felt. And I know the joy and the pain of having you as my mother.”

“Then you know I would do… Only do the right thing for her, for you.”

“‘Right’ is a tiny box invented by people who are afraid and I know what it feels like to be trapped inside that box.”

“No, it’s not like that.”

“You don’t have to hide behind a mirror anymore. You should feel relieved. I - we - will show you the true nature of things. You’ll be free from that box, just like me.”

“No, no. I’m not like you. You’re young and your mind is always changing. I still know who I am.”

“You have no idea what you’ve done. You’re stuck like this forever.”

“No, I’m going back with my daughter, to my family, to live my life. A happy life.”

You scoffed, “Okay. Good luck with that. I was just looking for someone who could see what I see. Feel what I feel. And that someone…is you.”

Jim intervened and put his hand on your shoulder. “Sweetheart, Go. Go.”

“But—” You stared directly at your mother, then looked between her and Jim.

Fanny’s cheeks were flushed and, when she opened her eyes once again, you could tell that she had been crying, though she shed no tears in front of you. She wanted to beg you to stay, to beseech the moon above and bargain that you might grace her just a little longer with your presence. What would it take for the heavenly bodies to allow her just a few hours longer with you? Fanny wondered if this would be the last time she was ever going to see you, a thought that pierced her heart like a vicious barb. She couldn’t help but notice the pile of bags and personal items that you left in the cargo hold, like you were prepared to travel a great distance.

“Go. I’ll take over and handle this from here. You’re beautiful and everything.”

“Okay. I love you and everything.” Jim held your hand and helped you as you stood up on the railing of the boat, very much in a position that looked as if you were going to jump. “Fuck.”

“What’s wrong?” Fanny asked. If she moved towards you, you’d lose your footing and fall. If she stayed rooted to her spot, you’d purposefully jump.

“I’ve been trapped like this for so long…experiencing everything…I was hoping you would see something I didn’t…that you would convince me there was another way.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you know why I actually painted those disturbing things when I was a child? Why I appear in your dreams? It wasn’t to destroy everything. It was to destroy myself. I wanted to see if I went into an almost trance-like state, if I dissociated hard enough, could I finally escape? Like, die, in a way. But not actually die. To experience death without the commitment. The closest thing we have to that is sleep. At least this way… I don’t have to do it alone.”

Fanny watched your form grow smaller and smaller on the horizon, before it disappeared behind the cliff sides as you let yourself fall over the edge of the boat and into the water. And like that, you were gone. She was left alone with Jim once again.

“I’ll tell her.”

“About my ex-wife and daughters, you mean? Go ahead. See where it gets you. You’re confident you can bring her around, aren’t you?”

“Fairly. I’ll certainly try.” She wondered if she’d reach you in time before the moon summoned you home again. Fanny turned to leave, but paused when Jim spoke again.

“It’ll be light soon, so I’ll say goodnight. But I can promise you one thing. Tomorrow morning nothing will have changed. Not between her and me, anyway. But her relationship with you? Perhaps, somewhere, someday, our paths may cross each other but aeons of separation would have altered us so much that, we may not recognize each other but just gaze upon each other as strangers. Our next encounter may resemble two ships passing in the night, momentarily sharing the same vast expanse, yet destined for separate destinations. My words no doubt seem strange to you, but they’re true. You won’t believe it yourself come tomorrow morning, until the illusion of dream relinquishes its grasp on your mind and body, instead replacing it with the embrace of reality. It will take hold as you awaken from your slumber and come to, and as you open your eyes, it’ll set in for you once more that your daughter is gone, and it’s all your fault.” Jim climbed up on the railing of the boat and, without looking back, jumped.

When Fanny rushed over to look over the railing, she could see nothing. Just the impenetrable blackness of the waves as the boat rocked gently, held in place by the anchor Jim was considerate enough to drop earlier. You and Jim would follow each other anywhere, even if it meant your bodies became lost in the sea’s endless depths. Fanny would always wake up, gasping for air and drenched in a thin layer of sheen sweat, her heart pounding, her alarm clock ringing in her ears with the intensity matching a foghorn, and the corners of her eyes stinging with unshed tears that tasted vaguely of the sea.

~

If ever a woman was adrift, Dr. Jaquith was afraid poor Fanny was. And she had always been adrift, he now saw, refusing to have anything to do with the innumerable anchors offered her, including—and with what entreaties!—his own. Paradise was always over there, a day’s sail away. But there came a moment when an anchor was essential to a woman’s comfort; he wouldn’t say happiness, because he wasn’t sure happiness existed in that very moment, but comfort. So long as she was young, she might toss about gaily enough on the crest of her popularity. But she wasn’t young anymore and her popularity had waned to practically nothing. It’s a funny thing, escapism. We can dream throughout both the day and the night, we can go far and wide and we can keep moving on and on through places and years, but we never escape our own lives.

“I have woken up from the dream many times, my heart pounding rapidly, and my vision turned into a hazy fog devoid of guiding light. I always wake feeling wretched for my mistakes, only for the blessed relief to come that I didn’t really do those things, it was just a dream. Then, though my heart feels wretched, at least I can face the day. When the dream ends, I’m never elated, just cozy, happy to stay at home. I don’t fear the dream, but… The dream comes often and only a few details change. But the outcome is always the same. I never win and always lose. I lose my daughter.”

“You lose because instead of staying true to the ones who love you and the ones you love back, you betrayed the love and trust of someone you love more than yourself. You may plainly perceive Jim as the traitor through his mask. He is well known everywhere in his true colors; his rolling eyes and his honeyed tones impose only on those who do not know him. People are aware that this low-bred fellow, who deserves to be pilloried in your eyes, has, by the dirtiest jobs, made his way in the world; and that the splendid position he has acquired makes merit repine and virtue blush. Yet whatever dishonorable epithets may be launched against him everywhere, nobody defends his wretched honor. Call him a rogue, an infamous wretch, a confounded scoundrel if you like, all the world will say “yeah,” and no one will contradict you. But for all that, his bowing and scraping are welcome everywhere; he is received, smiled upon, and wriggles himself into all kinds of society; and, if any appointment is to be secured by intriguing, he will carry the day over a man of the greatest worth. Zounds! These are mortal stabs to him, to see vice parleyed with; and sometimes your daughter feels suddenly inclined to fly into a wilderness far from the approach of other men. Even when the dream is bad you should welcome the message it brings. There’s a reason you chose that moment, the moment you contracted diphtheria in particular, to be the setting. Let’s delve deeper into it, discuss its significance. Dreams are symbolic of the self, so if you’re dreaming about your daughter and it seems rather random, then it’s likely that she’s representing some part of you. So ask yourself: What aspects of your daughter’s personality are you currently at odds or resonating with?”

“I don’t understand. What are you asking?”

“What he means, Mother, is that you’ve been dreaming about her on a near daily basis, so there’s likely a situation going on between you two that I, your subconscious, and Dr. Jaquith are trying to help you navigate. I’m not actually here. I’m not your daughter. She’s off galavanting across the world with her husband. I’ve merely taken her form because, whether you know it or not, you want me to. I’m you, a piece of your mind. I’m a fragment of memory, a reminder of an experience you had with your daughter or even a quality she possessed.”

“Well, understood through a more traditional psychotherapy lens,” as Dr. Jaquith put it, “a dream is a conversation between your conscious and unconscious minds—an opportunity to explore fears and the forbidden. Often, this happens when there are unresolved emotions or dialogues that need to be explored. In other words, It means there is unfinished or future business with her, your daughter—”

“—Since you’ve been unable to do this when you’re awake, the dream state, that’s me, has bled into your waking reality and has been stepping in to help you express yourself, resolve conflict, or release emotional baggage. The dream’s purpose, my purpose, has been to motivate you to get closer to her. Whether she is thinking about you or not is difficult to prove, but your confidence should be in the fact that your soul sees pursuit of your daughter as nourishing, to one or both of you. So there’s a good chance that if she’s not thinking about you, she might start thinking about you, if you reach out to her. So, Mother, are we going to sit down and finally have a civil conversation? A chance to explore our fears and feelings?”

Fanny, not realizing she was speaking aloud in front of Dr. Jaquith, turned to look at you. “Oh, Darling. Oh, God, Darling. To see your face again… How could you leave me like that? How could you do this to me? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me what a bitch I was being?”

Dr. Jaquith sat quietly and watched, letting the scene play out a little longer before he intervened. She needed this.

“But I did, didn’t I, Mother? You didn’t listen. ‘I know you to be a nasty, jealous, scheming bitch! You’re a bitch! Not content with ruining your own life, you’re determined to ruin mine! Go fuck yourself, you judgmental, self-righteous bitch.’”

“Well… I’m listening now, darling. In my dreams, Jim said something about reaching out. I have reached out, many times. All of my letters went unanswered and returned to sender.”

“It was uncharacteristic of me, wasn’t it? I mean, we’ve had fights before, haven’t we?”

“Yes. I just…in the first and last letter you wrote to me after you left home, you told me you were sick of it. Sick of me.”

“And I was. I was so sick of you. And now that sickness has polluted the seawaters in your dreams. Only we can purify them.”

Dr. Jaquith’s voice brought Fanny back to the present moment and she turned to look at him as he spoke. “Am I correct to assume you were talking with your daughter just then, Mrs. Skeffington?”

“Yes. She’s just there, by the window. But you see, Doctor— I’m not crazy, it’s just that—”

“I never said you were. But in your letter, you said you’ve been having hallucinations again, that this happened once before. Before your husband came home, you had hallucinations of him. Now you’re having hallucinations of your daughter. When did these begin, Mrs. Skeffington?”

“I didn’t start to experience hallucinations of her specifically until after Fanny wrote to me, telling me of her sister’s nuptials. Since then, I’ve been most distressed about my daughter. On the same night I read Fanny’s letter, when I shut my eyes, my other daughter suddenly appeared. Then as time went on, even if I didn’t shut my eyes, she appeared. Standing beside me or in front of me, sitting around all day, staring at me...with those soulful eyes of hers. But not just staring like Job did. She’d talk to me, admonish me. She’d say the meanest, vilest things. Dr. Jaquith, I wish you’d write to my daughter and ask her to stop. I find it very disconcerting.”

Light quickly dawned on Dr. Jaquith. Mrs. Skeffington’s husband was home, they had reconciled, made amends. But she was still being haunted. She had you, her daughter on her conscience, and you were behind the new onslaught of hauntings. She couldn’t get you out of her mind because of doubts, and thoroughly well-founded ones, in his professional opinion, as to whether she hadn’t been too hard on you once upon a time. So she had been, and for entirely discreditable reasons. It wasn’t, Dr. Jaquith was sure, from any strictness of principle or wounded love that she had divorced Job, but simply because the opportunity was too good to be missed for getting rid of her little Jew. Then another opportunity came, an opportunity to marry off her vagabond daughter, but that plan backfired horrifically for her. Now she was being punished. Now her conscience, awake at last in a life grown suddenly empty, was gnawing at her. Fanny was soft. Nobody who was hard had a conscience which gnawed. Anyone could see that this woman was living a nightmare. Except that she went through her daily life wide awake, knowing that she could relive her mistakes at any moment.

“I see. You see, Mrs. Skeffington, when the dreaming brain struggles to solve the problems it needs to process it expands its ‘department’ into areas of consciousness, hence the hallucinations. Thus the most logical longterm treatment is a world of less stress, be it auditory, visual, or both. But first, we must get to the source of your stress. How is your daughter? Have you heard from her?”

“No. I mean, I don’t know. She ran away that night, I’m not sure to where. And I never saw her again. I haven’t seen her for years and I’m worried about her. I’ve written her many letters with no answer. At first, I thought maybe she couldn’t possibly have had time to write, that she’s been too busy traveling the world, that she has befriended a French captain or Spanish ambassador or Greek criminal. No doubt Jim is showing her the ways of the world. But now… She does write, as she promised she would, just not to me. If it wasn’t for her frequent correspondence with Fanny, and occasional letter or postcard to George, I would’ve assumed she was dead months ago. This time I have a bad feeling. I’m almost sure my daughter’s dying.”

“Is she sick?”

“She won’t speak to me, so I don’t know. You know that my daughter can be a bit…unpredictable.”

True, you had been home to welcome her when she came back from the rest home after recovering from her illness, and dined with her—once only, though, now that Fanny came to think of it. The first and last time you actually sat down with her at the dinner table was the very night when she told you about your engagement and dismissed Jim from the house. Since then, you always had a tray sent up to your room. And then you broke your engagement and there was that horrible display upstairs in your room as you and she had the row of the century. You left and, since then, she hadn’t once set eyes on you or heard your voice, your excuse being that she was well again and you saw no reason to delay your travels anymore. And now there was always something keeping you away from home, away from her. Art exhibitions, your Uncle Fred, teaching children to paint and draw, the war. Or—her thoughts, before Dr. Jaquith’s fixed and coldly appraising eye, hesitated—was it really all those things that were keeping you away?

“It’s the worst, isn’t it? The not knowing,” Dr. Jaquith’s voice interjected. “Now that Johnny Mitchell and Fanny are married, she has two families who support her life choices now, you know, regardless of their own wants or desires or opinions. She has Fanny and Johnny’s family, and her and Jim’s family. She’s with that husband of hers now and, no matter what anyone says, two people are enough to make up a family. She’s left your life and you’ve been left to wonder about her. Where do she and Jim live? What are they doing? Are they happy? And these kinds of dreams can be the answer to those questions because they give you a snapshot of your daughter, the person you once knew, and insight on how her life is going. The very nature of wondering about her can mean that you feel guilty or miss her… Do you miss your daughter, Fanny?”

“How can you miss someone who’s right beside you?” you said sarcastically.

“Does her leaving hurt you?”

“You hurt me so fucking bad, Mother. You reached into every single insecurity, every single wound you know I have, and poked the fuck around. Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t use such language. I’ve just grown so used to hating you lately. Those times, just before John and I broke our engagement, and our last conversation we had before I left, you were so hurtful. So hateful. You weren’t the only one left with a broken heart when I left. All of those things I said… They needed to be said. But still, saying them… Leaving the house, leaving you that way… It killed me inside.”

“And our falling out killed me too, darling. Was this all because I made a mistake? A mistake we could’ve so easily rectified?”

“Of course, the saddest thing about the mistakes of one’s youth...is that they can never be rectified. Or can they? It must all be so confusing.”

“I…I wasn’t prepared for all this. I thought I’d led a simple life. I thought this would be easy.”

“It’s never easy. Everyone has secrets. Even John. You’d think he’d be the most boring guy in existence, but he had a lot of skeletons in his closet, let me tell you.”

“And what about John?”

“I’m not here to talk to you about John. Dr. Jaquith and I are here to talk about your favorite person: Yourself.”

“It’s been a sort of a long-distance love, hasn’t it, Mrs. Skeffington? Not dissimilar to how it was during her childhood.”

“That’s not kind of you, Doctor. I never wanted my daughters to leave me. The court even said a child should stay with its mother.”

“Never mind what the court said. What did you say?”

“Well, I thought a child should. It was just that…Well, it was just that...It was just that... Well, they weren’t going to be very happy staying with me. They loved their father so much more. We knew perfectly well that if either of the girls were miserable, I would be miserable too.”

Dr. Jaquith didn’t speak for a while then, well aware that he’d added to the guilt and fear Fanny was already feeling. She supposed, if he were being brutally honest, she’d earned a bit of the guilt where it concerned not staying in touch with you or Fanny as she’d promised, but the rest… Well, it was all water under the bridge now. Or so she thought. He glanced uneasily across, not so much at her as at the chair she was sunk in. It seemed to have grown. Always big enough for two, it now seemed big enough for three. When last he saw her, muffled up in fur, he hadn’t realized how little of her there was left. Poor Fanny, he thought, unable, whenever his eyes rested on this wraith-like parody of the past, to prevent a slight shrinking away, she is like a painted ghost. Was it fair, he asked himself, while again she watched him, her head on one side,—was it fair to give anyone who looked so exactly like an invalid a shock? Hadn’t he better wait till she fattened up a bit? Or at least till she didn’t just happen to have had what she told him was a trying day? No, what he had come for couldn’t wait; what he was doing was, anyhow, so outrageous that there was nothing for it but to plunge ahead and see it through.

“Don’t play the innocent with me.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. You know exactly what I mean. Your reasonings for your actions may seem all very logical and selfless if anyone who doesn’t really know you were listening, but I know you, and I know my field of expertise. My dear lady, the entire basis of psychoanalysis is truth, so don’t lie. Not to me. You can lie to yourself, but not to me. I usually make a show of these things, but if you still insist on playing the fool, I’ll just come right out and tell you what your trouble is. You can’t stop ruining things! For your daughter, for yourself! You’d pull in the sky if you could! Anything to make you feel less frightened and alone!”

“You don’t want to understand me—”

“You all but ruined her life that day!”

“I didn’t mean t—”

“How many lives are you going to wreck just to smother your own misery?”

And then she was on her feet, standing quite close to him, rather like a little girl forced to say a difficult lesson not yet really learned, to a judge she knows will be severe. What she had done seemed to her now, alone with Dr. Jaquith, wholly unpardonable. But then, when she thought of you— Having gulped down the tea, watched by Dr. Jaquith curiously while she gulped, she went on quickly. “I refuse to listen! Is this the tone you encourage? Dr. Jaquith, my constitution simply will not stand this sort of thing.”

“You asked for it.”

“How?”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you.”

“I’ve a dreadful headache, Doctor. This isn’t what I wanted to discuss with you at all. I find all this very distasteful.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Skeffington, but your daughter and I have headaches too and I think ours precede yours by quite a few years.”

Fanny turned to look at you, as if gaging how she should respond based on your reaction to Dr. Jaquith’s words. You were leaned against the wall, not looking at her or the doctor. Your eyes didn’t even glance up from the newspaper you were “reading”. “Reading” was an understatement. You were too busy looking at the comics section like you always used to do when you lived in the house. It was the only section of the newspaper you ever bothered with. You didn’t say anything, but you made a hum that couldn’t be interpreted as anything but agreement.

“From the look in your eyes, I can tell you probably want nothing more than to have the pleasure of throwing me out, but I haven’t earned my fee yet.”

“What could you possibly have to say after that?”

“Oh, he has a great deal to say, Mother. You should hear him out. He only wants to help you in the same way he helped me. It shouldn’t be too difficult for you. You should be accustomed to just sitting and listening to men say their piece by now.”

“What I have to offer you is sound advice, and you’ll be grateful for it. Did you want to consult a gentleman or a doctor?”

“You know, there’s a female in this opus who is really not entirely unlike yourself,” you remarked, pointing at the comic, though she couldn’t see it.

She needed a true friend’s advice so badly. Who could give it better than Dr. Jaquith, one of her daughter’s oldest and, certainly for the last three or four years, quite one of her dearest friends?

“All right, I’ll listen quietly. What do you want to discuss with me?”

“Well, for instance,” he said after a moment, diffidently, “this business about your poor daughter.”

You, poor? You, that expert in traversing the great world, seeing and experiencing new and exciting things every single day? Really, she couldn’t believe it. You might be relatively poor money-wise, especially compared with what you used to be, but not actually— Silence. She, trying to believe it. She, struggling with a thought which, if she did believe it, would have an instant effect on her own future. You, poor? That was hard to believe. But Dr. Jaquith wouldn’t lie. Then, that being so, it must be true that you were in a bad way. Fanny sat trying to take it in.

“Why ‘poor’?”

“I expect by now it might fairly describe her. When she first came to me, her heart was an injured thing, pain covered her like skin. She didn’t trust this world or anyone in it. She was completely turned in on herself and, like all of her hound, had to go on living in the strange limbo of an increasing detachment and isolation. I wondered if she had come to know more about herself and shrank, consequently, from association with you, her mother, the It Girl of New York. She couldn’t have been anything but lonely when she was a child. Often the stronger the maternal bond the harder the teenage years are for a daughter, but that wasn’t true for her. What you didn’t understand was, she always felt like a bird in a cage. There were times when you clipped her wings to the point where she was at a serious social and developmental disadvantage. If we were meant to stay in one place, we would have roots instead of feet. She wanted to be without roots. A person does not grow from the ground like a vine or a tree, one is not part of a plot of land. Mankind has legs so it can wander. What a funny old world you once lived in, thinking you could cage her, and make her fear her future.”

“I didn’t want to cage her or make her fearful for her future, I wanted to protect her and keep her safe from—”

“Regardless of intent, I’m afraid that’s exactly what you ended up doing. She sought to break free, to prove who she is, that she is her own person and no replica of you, her mother. And as she grew older, that separation was a trauma she hid within animosity, misread as teenage angst. She leaned toward Mr. Skeffington, the father. Separated by gender there was no danger of confusion between who is who. You may have lost her nearly four years ago, Fanny, but she lost you long before you and Job ever divorced. She rattled around this huge house, growing more and more used to being on her own, resenting your presence and that of whichever gentleman you permitted into the house on any given day more and more, even if they only came back for the weekends or while your husband was away, she felt like you and your lovers were invading her space. Under your own roof, your own nose, you became like strangers, ships that pass in the night, not able to agree on anything, not having any common ground. In time the rift should’ve healed, when she was confident, when she was truly an adult. Then she might’ve returned to you, her mother, and you would’ve become more than any two friends could ever be, the love returning to the surface for each of you. But that hasn’t happened, has it?”

“No. I thought her leaving would be temporary, that maybe if I gave her time, gave her space to blow off some steam, she’d come to her senses and come back home. But months went by, then a year, then…”

“Apparently you didn’t know her well enough. This house was never a home to her. It was a cage. A cage that gave her wings to fly, and she flew the nest the first chance she got. Now she has Jim and is surrounded by people every day, but she can’t be anything but lonely at her age, considering the circumstances of her departure, having lost her family and been barred from her childhood house all in one day. Leaving a house is easy, but leaving a home is so very, very hard.”

“Does no one want to know the truth here, Mother? The real loneliness is living among all these kind people who only ask one to pretend!”

“It must be noted that she is a sympathetic character: You, her mother, were biased and ineffective, which left her alone. She went largely ignored by you, which might be why you put so much effort in trying to impress people. After your divorce, she was forced into the company of others because her father could not leave her or her sister alone in Mexico or Europe. It was frightening, but it was liberating, because she no longer had to suffer the comparisons between your beauty and her own. She began to enjoy herself and moralized over every morning.”

“You speak with such eloquence for a psychiatrist. Maybe you should’ve been a poet instead, Doctor.”

“Don’t try to change the subject.”

“But you make an already dreadful situation sound even worse and I find it even more dreadful to listen to you. I hope you’re not going to suggest—”

“I’m going to suggest many things about your daughter, I’m afraid. My concern is not just for you, but for her as well. It’s all wrong that you should be seeing her in this way.”

“It’s dreadfully wrong, and most upsetting.”

“It shows your nerves are in a very bad state.”

“Yes, Dr. Jaquith. Just what I’ve been suspecting myself.”

“And perhaps a complete change of scene—”

“Well, I did go to Claridge’s.”

The ghost of a giggle, the faintest little sound of rather wry mirth, rose to her lips at the pictures that flashed into her mind; though indeed all this was very serious for her. Adorers had played a highly important part in her life; the most important part by far, really, giving it color, and warmth and poetry. How very arid it was without them. True, they had also caused her a good deal of distress when, after a bit, they accused her of having led them on. Each time one of them said that, and each in his turn did say it, she was freshly astonished. Led them on? It seemed to her that, far from having to be led, they came; and came impetuously, while she, for her part, simply sat still and did nothing. Apparently snug and enviable in her rosy, cozy cave, she lay thinking about those adorers, so as not to think of you.

“Fanny, you must be serious.”

“Good heavens, do you suppose I’m not? I went there to visit my cousin, Martha, and her family and I was…searching for something.”

“Searching for what?”

“I don’t…know exactly. But I found…something. I can’t make heads or tails of it.”

“Then will you listen while I tell you what I really think?”

“Oh, all right. But I can assure you, she’s had many very good reasons for being grateful,” said Fanny, more doubtfully; for to be one of a crowd of miserables, each thinking he was the very man to help her with her particular daughter, and taking up his time, didn’t seem so good. “And Doctor—” she frowned—“I’m not poor and suffering, and I’m quite well off.”

At this he paused. Beneath a lamp he paused in order to face her. “Well off, Fanny?” he inquired. “You think yourself well off? Let me tell you,” he solemnly assured her, “that you are positively poverty-stricken. All of those beautiful things, those pretty presents you gave your daughters… Material possessions could never amount to a mother’s love, which is all they ever wanted from you. But love was something which couldn’t be bought, so you didn’t know how to give it to them. Everything you ever gave them came with strings. And I don’t just mean pretty ribbons and bows.”

But even this only pleased her. How very understanding of him, she was thinking. He wasn’t, after all, completely padded inside. By poverty-stricken he meant her starving soul, and her uneasy, groping mind, and her heart that was well on the way to becoming a skeleton now that you had gone—all the parts of one that begin, evidently, to give trouble after fifty. He had guessed this. He knew it instinctively. Living sexlessly before his marriage to Charlotte, she reflected, he had probably developed feminine intuitions. Pleased, she smiled at him, the light from the lamp overhead glaring down pitilessly on her face.

“I’m so glad,” she said.

“Glad?” he repeated, surprised. “Do you in the least know what I mean?”

“Yes. That I’m a poor, drifting, more or less lost soul” —curious, he thought, how much women liked to be told their souls are poor and lost— “and so you’re going to help me. You can, you know, David. It’s my daughter. She’s worrying me to death. She badly needs something done about her.”

“Mrs. Skeffington, everything that needed to be done about your daughter has already been done at Cascade, with success. I’ve known your daughter since she was nine. I know things about her that even you don’t know. And I know things about you that you don’t know I know.”

“Like what?”

“Like how happy, how relieved you were to be free of the encumbrance of your two children and your Jewish husband. When you discovered your husband’s infidelity, you seized the excuse to divorce him, conveniently ignoring your own behavior. You were a hypocrite, Mrs. Skeffington. Hypocrisy often begins at home.”

As much as she hated hearing it, Dr. Jaquith’s words rung true. Fanny well knew that her reactions to Mr. Skeffington’s infidelities weren’t at all the proper ones, but she couldn’t help that. She was perfectly aware she ought to have gone on growing angrier and angrier, and more and more miserable; and instead, things happened this way: Obliged to forgive the first typist, such was his penitence and such his shame, the second one, though humiliating, didn’t distress her quite so acutely. Over the third she was almost calm. The fourth made her merely wonder there should be so many young persons liking him enough for that sort of thing, but she supposed it must be his money. She went out and bought some new hats. The fifth, Miss Morris, she earnestly inquired of the alarmed and shrinking creature what she saw in him. And after Miss Morris, Job left. Left, and never came back. Left, and she beheld him no more till they faced each other in the Divorce Court. Since then she hadn’t set eyes on Mr. Skeffington, except once, not long after the final kicking free, when her car—his car, really, if you looked at it dispassionately—was held up in Pall Mall at the very moment when he, walking to his club, chanced to be passing. There she sat, such a lovely thing, delicately fair in the dark frame of the car, obviously someone everybody would long to be allowed to love, the enormous hat of the early summer of 1914 perched on hair whose soft abundance he had often, in happier days, luxuriously stroked, and was so completely already uninterested in him that she hardly bothered to turn her head. Wasn’t this hard? Now, wasn’t this terribly hard? Mr. Skeffington asked himself, his whole being one impassioned protest. But Fanny, sideways through her eyelashes, did see him, saw how he hesitated and half stopped, saw how red he grew, thought: Poor Job, I believe he’s still in love with me, and idly mused, as she was driven on up St. James’s Street in the direction of her attractive house—his attractive house really, if you looked at it dispassionately—on the evident capacity of men to be in love with several women at once. For she was sure there were several women in Job’s background at the very moment he was hesitating on the pavement, and turning red for love of her. He couldn’t do, she now thoroughly well knew, without several—one in his home, and one in his office, and one God knew where else; perhaps at Brighton, whither he was so fond of going for a breath, he used to explain, of sea air.

So that when he offered her those repeated chances of honorably getting rid of him, though she began by being outraged she ended by being pleased. How angry those typists had made her, till it dawned on her that what they really were were gates to freedom. When at last she saw them in their true light, as so many bolts shot back and doors flung open, she left off being angry, and began instead—strictly speaking, she did’'t suppose she ought to have to rejoice. No, she oughtn’t to have rejoiced; but how difficult it was not to like being without Mr. Skeffington. And she asked herself, as she went into her flower-filled library—the quantity of flowers that arrived for Fanny every day at this period had to be seen to be believed—and found Jim Conderley of Upswich, an elderly (she thought him old, but he was, in fact, under fifty) and impassioned admirer, waiting to take her out to lunch—she asked herself what other woman would have been such an angel of forbearance. Or was it, really, not so much forbearance as that she didn’t care? Yes, thought Fanny, who was an honest girl, and liked to see things straight, it wasn’t being an angel; it was because, after the third lapse, she simply hadn’t cared. Being an upright girl, who believed in sticking to her marriage vows and giving as good as she got. She, too, had been very kind. Her heart, however, hadn’t been in it. At no time had she enjoyed her marriage. She was very sorry, but really she hadn’t.

A marriage, she found, with someone of a different breed is fruitful of small rubs. Among other things, he was a Jew, and she wasn’t. Not that that would have mattered, since she was without prejudices, if he hadn’t happened to look so exactly like a Jew. It wasn’t a bit necessary that he should. Lots of people she knew had married Jews, and none of them looked so exactly like one as Job (Mr. Skeffington’s name was Job, a name, everybody agreed, impossible to regard as other than unfortunate). Still, he couldn’t help that, and certainly he had been very kind. And she, who was a believer in one thing at a time, fell to considering her patience, her positively angelic patience, over his lapses. Five lapses, before she did anything about them. Why, she might have divorced him, completely justified even in her mother’s eyes, who was all for wives sticking to their husbands, after the second lapse, and started on her delicious career of independence at thirty-seven instead of forty-two. Then she would have had five whole years more of it, with everybody bent on making up for his shameful treatment of her, and for what it was imagined she must have suffered. Five years her patience had cost her; five years of happiness. But that was a long while ago. It didn’t seem long, but it was. Then she was forty-two. Now she had just turned fifty-four. A generation had passed, indeed had flashed by, since she saw Mr. Skeffington that morning on the pavement of Pall Mall, and where were they now? In the parlor where she and Dr. Jaquith sat across from each other, reappeared the flowers, perhaps, or grass that had been eaten by sheep, sheep that could be found in Scotland. Scotland, where you and Jim were. Everything, looking back, had dispersed and vanished, to reappear as something else - This new onslaught of hallucinations. though, had only happened in the last few months, and she was sure would soon, like when she was quite strong again after her illness, pass.

You threw your head back and laughed. Not a charming little ghostly giggle, but a guttural guffaw that broke her out of her concentration. “Hypocrite? Ha! Yes, of course you’re a hypocrite, but then there are two of you. There’s your conscious mind with its high ideals and your subconscious that just wants to ensure the survival of me and you. I pity those who aren’t hypocrites, because all they hear is the screaming of their conscious minds day and night, survive, eat, fear, danger. They have no range of morals to be hypocritical about.”

Fanny looked at you for a few seconds, hands in her skirts. It wasn’t the response she’d been hoping for. She wanted you to walk back your talk and instead you were set on carrying on just the same as those without your insights. One more sheep in the paddock. Or maybe you just saw too much, and how can anyone fix all that?

“You weren’t sure your daughters wouldn’t be a hindrance to you, so when they expressed a desire to live with their father who they loved so much and who were loved by him so much in return, you seized that opportunity too, to be rid of them. After all, you were still young and beautiful. You had a difficult choice to make. You couldn’t be both a beauty and a mother. And every summer, one letter, half a page dedicated to meaningless apologies for not being able - no, not being willing - to see your daughters, hollow declarations of loving and missing them, was all you committed to.”

You began to recite your mother’s letters back to her, making a show of impersonating her as if you were a vaudeville actress. “Scene: The summer of 1929. ‘My darling daughters, I’m terribly sorry that Mother will be unable to see you this summer, but...’ Scene: The summer of 1931. ‘My darling daughters…where does the time go? I thought I could surely see you this summer.’ Scene: The summer of 1933. ‘My darling daughters, it is terrifying to think...that so many years have passed and we still haven’t seen each other...but Mother misses you, and...’”

“You were more than capable of seeing them. You just didn’t want to. You had much better things to fill your days with. As soon as that letter was sealed in its envelope to be mailed, you spared no more thought to your daughters until the next year. Your daughter didn’t listen to you because no matter what you preached, your preaching became hypocrisy. If you are still unhappy now, I dare say you have only yourself to thank.”

“Unhappy? How can you be? What richness! Why, this is a palace! Oh, it’s marvelous! So roomy and so full of things! Oh, and look at the flowers. They’re lovely, absolutely lovely. I call this splendor, I really do! Mother, you ought to be the happiest creature alive!”

“Well, it just looks like a room to me, and it certainly doesn’t make me happy. Don’t be insulting. It isn’t fair.”

“‘It isn’t fair’, ‘it isn’t fair’. You say that so often, Mother. I wonder what your basis for comparison is. Three, almost four years and you still haven’t grown up? Really?”

“If anything in life isn’t fair, Mrs. Skeffington, you must put the work in to make them fair. Justice and fairness didn’t mean much to you before, but they mean a great deal to you now, don’t they? I know of only two alternatives to hypocrisy: perfection or honesty. You must envy your daughter.”

“How do you figure envy?”

“The liberty she has with her thoughts. However misshapen they may be, she has no shame in sharing them. When faced with the choice between perfection and honesty, you chose perfection every time, either because you couldn’t or wouldn’t choose the latter. Your daughter, in contrast, chose honesty every time, no matter how ugly it was. You were pedantic and conceited. You gave up on your daughters quite early on. With their father, however, it was a different story. From the day she and Fanny were born, their father doted on them, far more than he ever doted on you. He read to them, bought them books, games, but he also talked to them, listened to them, played with them, treated them like independent people capable of developing their own thoughts, instead of interchangeable decorative objects or extensions of you or himself… truth be told, you were a bit jealous of all the attention he was lathering on them. You know, Mrs. Skeffington, envy is often a sign of insecurity, yes, but so is longing to be envied.”

“Are you saying I am insecure? That I have shame?”

“How else do you explain your jealousy and need for attention?”

“Maybe I knew... I knew that Jim took an interest in her because she was just like him. But jealousy is a strong creature. It quickly devoured my mind. Soon, anger took control of me. And I just needed someone to be mad at other than myself. Even after she left, anger stayed. It devoured me whole. I envied her happiness. I envied his happiness. I envied Fanny for marrying Johnny Mitchell. I hated Jim Masters. If Manby had a lover, I would’ve despised him too.”

“And the lies you told about not being able to see your daughters when you so very easily could’ve. In nearly ten years, you never once shed a tear while your daughters were living with their father in Europe, yet you were a wet mess, nearly inconsolable and suffocating from your crying when both of your daughters left home again after only living here for a few months. Why hide that from them? Dishonesty breeds dishonesty.”

“They sit in judgment. My daughters were the only ones to say it to my face, but I know Job and George thought it, too. The Trellis wealth was a legend, but it became a myth when my father died nearly thirty years ago. He did leave a considerable estate...but, you see, Trippy insisted on managing it and, within four months of my father’s death, he ran it into a swamp. Trippy and I were stone broke. He went through our fortune and was starting in on Job’s. The house, servants… Everyone was under the same impression... Even the creditors. There was no chance of the money being returned. if I didn’t do something, Trippy would’ve been prosecuted by the DA and we would’ve lost the house and everything in it and—”

“You don’t need to defend yourself to me, Fanny. I know what you went through to keep your family ignorant in their comfort. But seeing your daughter comes out of a subconscious desire to see her. A need for her.”

It was she this time who interrupted abruptly, stung too badly to remember discretion. “And how, pray,” she inquired, flushing and lifting her chin— a gesture which instantly fixed his cold eye on those parts which Henri had said could be enormously helped, “how, pray, do you know? How do you know I’m not relieved to be free of her at this very moment?” For after all, you would come flying to New York any moment, husband or no husband, if she simply lifted a finger. Or—once more her thoughts faltered before that steady eye—wouldn’t you? “What you say is ridiculous. I have no desire to see my daughter. And I’m sure she has no desire to see me.”

“Oh, my poor lady,” was all Dr. Jaquith said to that. He looked as if he wanted to say more, but he stopped himself short and waited.

Then there was silence, while they stared at each other, he with his clean-shaven lips sardonic, and his fingertips neatly fitted together, she too badly stung to speak. Outraged, she stared at this dreadful Jaquith who was daring to pity her, but even while she stared her doubts were beginning to grow more insistent, and crept, like the cold fog outside, into her heart. Suppose now, just let her for a moment suppose, she said to herself, trying to face things sensibly—that the man was right, and she was indeed simply a poor lady deluding herself. Suppose everything that had made life so warm and happy was soon going to be over for her, was perhaps already over; what then? What did a woman do then?

“Well, Dr. Jaquith?” pressed Fanny. “What were you going to say?”

“That you should go off and travel for six months.”

“What? Be put to flight by my daughter? Never.”

“It seems to me she has put you to flight already. Ousted you from your home.”

“Claridge’s isn’t flight. I can go back at any minute.”

“The world is full of travelers. Once in a year go to someplace you have never been before. You will meet confused seekers, hopeful wanderers, enthusiastic storytellers, happy families. Look into their eyes and stuff your own eyes with wonder, live as if you’d drop dead any moment. Look at the world. It’s more beautiful than any dream you’d have ever seen. Make the most beautiful travel diary and open it up for your daughters someday, so you will all understand each other in ways you’ve failed to in the past. If you dislike that idea, I’m rather inclined to agree with—”

“Not with Byles? Don’t tell me you agree with Byles? That man, that Byles man, whose every word was like a slap in the face?” she exclaimed, standing still and facing him.

“If your daughter is behaving like a ghost, she should be laid,” Dr. Jaquith said with decision.

“Laid?” she repeated. “But that’s what Byles said, about Job.”

“Well, he wasn’t far out, I think, when he suggested it,” said Dr. Jaquith, his voice chilling because she was facing him, and he had to look at her. Really she shouldn’t, he thought; really she should not paint so much. “Nevertheless, what I say is true. Talk to her. Ask her to come over for the wedding.”

“No, I can’t. She’s in California, in the countryside somewhere. That’s a six-day train trip. She’d say I was imposing.”

“Ask her to come back, even if it’s just for the day. You can size her up, and she can size you up. It’s obvious you know nothing about your daughter at all. Talking is the foundation for every relationship. If you don’t talk, you drift apart. There’s so much to say when you don’t have a lot of time to say it. So talk to her. It’s your only hope.”

“But, David—” she protested. And staring at him, and at his dark eyebrows, and changed sunken face, she asked herself what right he had to give her advice; any advice; and especially fantastically silly advice. Byles. George. Job. Jim, and now David. The pack of them were being idiotic about you, that castaway daughter of hers. Still, when Fanny thought of what she had done, and where you were at that moment, tact and prudence seemed poor things compared with courage, and out kept coming those damned beads on her forehead. She certainly seemed to be perspiring a good deal. She had positively perspired with fear lest she should fail you. “What ought I to do? Things like that are simply not done,” she said.

“My dear, after a certain age everything is done. There’s no ought about what you should do,” he answered.

“Yes, I forgot. I keep on forgetting how old I am. How old Job and I both are.”

She thought how very disturbing it was if being older, besides its many other drawbacks, included freedom to do what one used to be protected from by the proprieties. For Fanny one thing was true: The heat of summer was not nearly as stifling as the formality of her life. With every passing day the feeling grew stronger. At Dr. Jaquith’s provocations, she was coming closer to the end of something and moving towards the beginning of something new. Change was in the air. It was only a question of when. If what Dr. Jaquith was saying held any shred of truth, she could, then, if she liked, go off alone now with anybody who wanted her to, to Paris or the other places one went off to, just as you had done, and nobody would say a word.

“I keep forgetting she’s gone. I see things in the paper that would make her laugh. I come inside to tell her that her favorite flower is in bloom and then, suddenly...” Fanny had to stop, in order to swallow. Her throat felt all dry and choky. She could hear the clanging of the teacups as she stretched across the table, seized the teapot, and poured herself out some more tea.

Why, what a cold, naked world, with no fences left. How miserable everything was. It had been bad enough for your figment to pervade her life, upsetting her nerves almost into fits, but what was a figment compared to an actual body? The decent impulse she had had of repentance, of asking for forgiveness, went curdled within her. Dr. Jaquith wanted her to make it a warm thing. To make it a kind thing. To talk it over with you. According to him, she had to see you herself, in the flesh. But how could she?

“Say that to your daughter. Please.”

“She doesn’t want to hear it from me.”

“If you don’t, you're a coward, Mrs. Skeffington. Like all bullies, you’re a coward. Knowing the truth is so minuscule compared to having the nerve to say it…and even more to live it. I’m sorry to have to be so uncharacteristically blunt, Mrs. Skeffington. Really, I hate to do it. But I must. You’re most seriously ill, Mrs. Skeffington.”

“Do you hear that? The doctor says you’re sick, Mother. What with? A bad case of Sitzenlust. Chronic. The opposite of wanderlust. Wanderlust is like itchy feet. It’s when you can’t settle down. But Wanderlove is much deeper than that. it’s a compulsion. It’s the difference between lust and love. It’s a diagnosis often shared between at least two people.”

“And she is most seriously distraught.”

“My daughter is?”

“Thanks to you.”

“Did you say—”

“My dear Mrs. Skeffington, if you had deliberately and maliciously planned to destroy your daughter’s life, you couldn’t have done it more completely.”

“How? By exercising a mother’s rights?”

“A mother’s rights? Twaddle. A child has rights. A person has rights to discover her own mistakes, to make her own way, to grow and blossom in her own particular soil.”

“Are we getting into botany, doctor? Are we flowers?”

“No. But if we were, you would be the rose, and your daughter would be the thorn in your flesh. And vice versa, if I were to ask your daughter how she feels towards you.”

“I am the rose and you the thorn, so I bear these scratches and you smell of perfume. After all, we grew together of the same roots, part of the same blessed garden. Yet as the seasons shift and I grow taller and blossom, we both heal, you and I,” you said as you picked at your fingernails and sucked on your thumb, as if soothing the sting of getting pricked.

“If you’re only here to reprimand me about my daughter, please stop. I’ve already torn myself into strips.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I don’t know. She was so… I never meant to—”

“Yes, you did. Who do you think you’re talking to? One of your suitors? Your maid?”

“How was I to know she w—? Anyway, I’m sorry now.”

“You should be.”

“With her, I just say things and then they can’t be unsaid.”

“She believed you were unhappy. That’s why you lashed out as you did. As much as you’d like to believe otherwise, she’s not the only one who inherited remnants of Trippy’s temperament.”

“Look, if this is about Jim Masters, you should be clear he hasn’t much to offer. Sir John Talbot was a loss, but not Jim. He isn’t well-born, and there’s little money and no position. He grew up in the city in Sacramento.”

“He shoots.”

“Yes, he shoots. Like every social-climbing banker shoots.”

“Well, let’s leave his credentials to one side for a moment and concentrate on what’s important.”

“Which is?”

“She says that he is in love with her, and that she is in love with him.”

“Do you believe her?”

“Do you deny it?”

“Oh, for you of all people to talk as if Jim’s qualifications don’t matter. I don't mean to sound snobbish, but I didn’t want my daughter to marry down.”

“That doesn’t sound stiff or grand at all,” Dr. Jaquith remarked sarcastically.

“I didn’t want my daughter to be grander than her husband. Or richer. If you’re really here to help me, you’d agree with me.“

“It may surprise you, but I agree it’s important to be balanced, that one should not be far stronger than the other. I just don’t think it has much to do with money or position. Was it serious? Was Sir John so very special in that way?”

“He was the owner to Talbot Castle and the surrounding acres of land, and a prominent and well-loved member of his community, he was attractive and nice, and—”

“What I’m hearing is that Sir John Talbot had all that you could wish - birth, money, looks - but he didn’t suit her.”

“No.”

“No, he wasn’t clever enough. He wasn’t strong enough. Jim Masters is both. You see, Mrs. Skeffington, there is no such thing as ‘marrying down’. When you love someone, really love someone, you see them as ‘the one,’ the greatest person you ever met, a divine blessing, a person to cherish for always. Thus, any sense of superiority is a poison to the relationship and there should be no marriage in such cases…because that isn’t love, that’s vanity, ego, pride…that’s vice. I’m not saying everything will be easy for them, but who has a life where everything is easy? Not us. And God knows not her. We simply can’t abandon ship every time we encounter a storm in our marriage. Real love is about weathering the storms of life together. After all, what’s love without a few tribulations?”

As he spoke, her eyes focused on his hands and, for the first time since he’d arrived, she saw the ring that adorned his left hand. Of course, she knew that he was married. She knew it when he first came to the house all those years ago. But it wasn’t until that very moment that she really saw it, and not just with her eyes. Upon his finger was a simple wedding band, an elegant platinum thing. Dr. Jaquith’s wedding ring was the perfect blend of elegance and craftsmanship. But Fanny thought to herself that he probably would be a marvelous lover and husband, and Mrs. Jaquith, whoever she was, was very lucky in love to have him. So his advice wasn’t just coming from textbooks. He was speaking from his heart, from his own personal experiences as a married man.

“Is that how she feels about Jim?”

“To you, she has everything and he has nothing. She’s the great lady, and he’s the man without a home, the man who drove the cars. Even if you never said so before, you immediately thought Jim and your daughter wouldn’t have a lot to talk about, wouldn’t have a lot in common. But that isn’t true for them. She obtained nothing higher because she didn’t think she could do better than Jim. She’s content to be the wife of a former chauffeur and nomad, and to be considered a star in the society of the wayfaring strangers. And that’s what matters. Listen, Mrs. Skeffington, isn’t it about time we started talking a little sense? What is it exactly that’s bothering you?”

“All right, it’s not his poverty. It’s not even his past.”

“Then ask yourself: What’s the issue? Is there some sort of disagreement between you two? If that’s the case, well then, ask yourself: Is there something you’re angry about in regards to your daughter or your relationship with her?”

“You hid your deepest feelings so well you forgot where you placed them. And again, It’s time to wake up, Mother...”

Oh, so boring; oh, so senseless. Should she go in for good works? Or attend lectures? Or learn languages? Or interest herself in the European situation? Bleak, bleak. But wasn’t the alternative even more bleak, indeed grisly, to dribble idly into old age by slow stages of increasing depression and discontent, punctuated—what fun!—by things like rheumatism and being deaf? And she pictured herself turning gradually into her own caricature, an unkind caricature—more than unkind, a highly malicious parody of what she used to be—still going to parties because she couldn’t bear to be alone, and when she got to them hardly able to keep her eyes open, still snatching at invitations and ordering new frocks; an old woman who would be explained to the indifferent young ones as somebody who once was much more beautiful than they could ever hope to be.

“Difficult as it is to imagine,” she could hear the explainer saying, “that old lady over there in the corner, Lady Frances Skeffington—yes, the old lady with the stick, whose head won’t keep still—used to be a celebrated beauty.”

Beauty; beauty. What was the good of beauty, once it was over? It left nothing behind it but acid regrets, and no heart at all to start fresh.

“I couldn’t be alone. I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. I’d always hoped Job would give me a divorce. But then when it happened… After my illness, all my suitors, all my friends, people who I thought loved me left me without so much as a phone call or goodbye note. People that I surrounded myself with for years, who I thought were loyal to me… They all just dropped out of my life and moved on as if I were nothing. They were never my friends. They only loved what I looked like, never me at all. But you know what I say? It’s called unlovable bitches like me…make the world go ‘round.”

“That’s not true. You’re not unlovable.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There is always something to love.”

“I feel nothing. I…I feel…I feel…”

Doctor Melton had assured George that Fanny was unconscious of the change in her face, that women never did know when their beauty left them, that it was a great pity, and that someone ought to tell her about it; and he had believed him, and taken comfort in the belief that his darling cousin was at least spared what must, to any woman once so beautiful, be a torment. Now, to Dr. Jaquith, it appeared that she hadn’t been spared, and that she was perfectly aware of what had happened to her. Pity washed away the last traces of his anger. She knew all about her darling face. Then Fanny was really angry. She’d been seeing some of the others, some of the ones who used to think they loved her agonizingly too. It should’ve been nice to get all her old friends together at the party that night, for them all to come back after almost twenty years and carry on just like the good old days. But none of them could figure out why she got them together. And when they saw her standing on the stairs…they one and all recoiled. Every man-jack of them. Had she changed much? That is, very much? Her past paramours, they all played dumb and tried to dodge answering the question. But they knew perfectly well in what way, knew perfectly well what she meant. So she pushed for them to answer, claiming that it was so difficult to see oneself as others saw one. Still, they danced around the question, stalled for as long as they could so they could come up with something to say that wouldn’t hurt her too much or put them in the wrong.

“Well, Fanny, you mustn’t forget you were still almost a girl when we were friends. And, of course, since then you’ve grown up,” they said. So they thought she changed. But she knew that already. So she expressed her wish for them to tell her what they really thought. But when they did, all they said was, “You always were and always will be...enshrined in my memory...as the nearest thing to perfect loveliness that I have ever known.”

As if it came from a poet’s pen, it sounded pretty, but very hollow. It was pure vanity. A desire in these waning days of hers to feel the assurance of beauty again. But she found one should never look for admirers...while at the same time one was falling to bits. Her friends were as vapid as the winter snow was cold. An unpleasant nest of nasty, materialistic and aggressive people, careless of the rights of others, imperfectly democratic at home though quick to see the minor slaveries of others, and greedy without end. Their love extended only as far as a telegram, stopping abruptly at the front door of the house. “She used to be so beautiful,” “Simple case of wrong diet,” they said behind her back when they thought she was out of earshot. Their smiles of yellow teeth matched their little yellow faces, and they stopped coming whenever her world fell apart, which was often. From their announcements, their lives were one constant party, wine and meals in fancy establishments. Every newspaper article fed her loneliness, hacked at the tenuous emotional connections she nursed. She remembered a version of herself untrammeled by expectation, unimpeded by ego. She had suffered in the many years since then, seeking to return to that original self, if, in fact, it ever existed. And yet, she was helpless but to regard that unmistakable fear that gripped her in her dream as a sign that her unevenness lent her now to utter incongruity with this specter of past. She used to only feel the cruel bite of isolation in crowds, now it followed her home, an ever present reminder that she was a failure on every front. She had enough of recoilers. She wasn’t going to add you, her poor daughter, to them. After all, you deserved a little extra consideration. That was the only reason she wouldn’t see you— Simply because, if she saw you, you would at the same time see her. And despise her.

“Job was gone and I was afraid that if she left, Fanny would follow suit and I’d lose both of my daughters. Then I’d have no one. I’d have no one. I’d have nothing. I’d have nothing.”

“So you were still afraid Fanny would want to start acting like her, just as you feared when they were nine. Does she know this?”

“I was afraid to tell her. I’m still afraid. If I tell her now, then she’d feel she should give it up, but I don’t want that. She’d resent me.”

And now, Dr. Jaquith realized, they came down to the root of Fanny’s dreams. She dreamed of a boat, of sailing, not just because it was the setting of where she lost her beauty, but because she envisioned her worst fears: You on the rocks, and she with power to rescue you, but you refusing so much as a handout from the likes of her, even if it was a life preserver. She wanted to be kind, and warm, and personal with you, her poor shipwrecked daughter, and she couldn’t, she couldn’t, because it was unbearable to her that you, who had so abjectly despised her, much like the men who once worshipped her beauty, and the women who envied it, should see her as she was now. She was afraid because you hadn’t seen her face for nearly four years. But that didn’t matter.

“You are the only woman I know who likes to think herself cold, and selfish and grand when most of us spend our lives trying to hide it.”

“Oh, please don’t lecture me anymore on sentimental virtues. I don’t think I can stomach another pretty speech, winding up with a bow.”

“I’m sorry if all of that hurt and confused you. But it needed to be said, for your sake as well as your daughter’s. In order for you to get better, Fanny, I must do whatever it takes to make it so. I didn’t say all of that just to make you feel bad.”

“I know,” she said. “But I do, all the same.” She shifted in her seat so she was angled more toward him. “Oh, Dr. Jaquith, I didn’t mind really. Whatever happens between us, I’d like it if— Do you think she’d still want to hear from me?”

He nodded immediately. “She's got a huge heart, as you know, and she misses you greatly. She may not be over the moon, but she’d be hesitantly optimistic. And don’t worry, don’t worry, I believe in rules, and traditions and playing our part. Well, there is something else.”

“And what is that?”

“I believe in love. I mean, brilliant careers, rich lives, are seldom lived without just an element of love.”

“Oh, David, you do surprise me.”

“Oh, I am glad. So my trip wasn’t wasted? I’ve come to address a most pressing matter, but our time is running short so I’ll speak as plainly as I can, foreswearing accustomed frills that decorate my speech. You know where you went wrong, Fanny. We needn’t dwell on that here and now. But even so, you’ve been given a chance of redemption.”

“My daughter would consider…forgiveness?”

“She would consider what she considers to be forgiveness. The repentance of a hypocrite is itself hypocrisy, but it’s a vice that can be forgiven like any other. I would only say this: First, make peace with your daughter and her husband. And then, make peace with yourself. Do you remember that morning during our first meeting, I referred to a poem, remember?”

“Oh, yes, Robert W. Service’s.”

“I had it looked up and typed out on a slip of paper for you. If old Robert didn’t have you and your daughter in mind when he wrote this, he had lots of others like the two of you. He’s put into words what I’d like to say to the both of you now, and far better than I could ever express it. Read it. Bye.”

Jaquith was certainly, from what she had heard, a highly pleasant person, and equally certainly he had broken the ground by that suggestion about reaching out to you, so all she had to do was to feel her way along those same lines with tact and prudence. She found his manner most refreshing. After the sleek, soft ways of the doctors she used to go to, he was infinitely bracing. She loved going to see him. She came away feeling incredibly brisked up, and ready for anything. As hard and taut as prize-fighters she felt, after a two hours’ scrap with Dr. Jaquith. Divine, she agreed, not to be mewed over, but given a clean, straight sock—her very language, after being with him, was virile on the jaw. After Dr. Jaquith said his goodbyes and left, Fanny looked at the crisp white card stock he had given her, and read aloud the poem printed on it in bold black lettering.

There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,

A race that can’t sit still;

So they break the hearts of kith and kin,

And they roam the world at will.

They range the field and rove the flood,

And they climb the mountain’s crest;

Their’s is the curse of the gypsy blood,

And they don’t know how to rest…

Fanny walked slowly down the hallways, headed for Job’s study. Like the Kingdom of Heaven, she wasn’t going to be taken by violence. So justly angry with herself was she, so rightly revolted by her manner, that as she hurried upstairs, it was not till she reached the last step did she remember that she couldn’t possibly show herself to him as she was now, and pulling up short was on the point of turning around and going downstairs again. When she stood in the doorway, she watched as Job gave Miss Cartwright an envelope to mail out.

“Would you to see to it that the postman gets this? Place it directly in his hands if you have to.”

“Certainly, Mr. Skeffington.”

“Thank you, Miss Cartwright.” While Miss Cartwright left, Fanny entered. Job had become attuned to the sound of her footsteps and could recognize them immediately. “Did you and Dr. Jaquith have a productive session?”

“Yes, during his visit, there were lots of things he said that— Well, I won’t go into detail, but he offered me plenty of things to chew on. The most important being that I need to work things out with our wayfaring daughter.”

“So what are you going to do about our wayfaring daughter?”

“That’s still a hard task. Dr. Jaquith said I should invite her to the wedding, ask her to come back even if it’s only for the day. I’ve been objecting her relationship with Jim for a long time. Too long. In doing so, she has been avoiding me. I haven’t been a good mother, but I want to be there whenever she needs me from now on. I’ve been resisting change for so long, but now… I don’t want things to go back the way they were. I’m ready to say I’m sorry. But why should she want to forgive me?”

Soon after that she began to wonder at herself for having behaved so badly like that, and a few miles farther on had arrived at the stage of being thoroughly ashamed. By the time Dr. Jaquith left she was quite overwhelmed by compunction, and decided that never in her life had she heard of conduct more disgraceful. Talk of being inhuman and numb! It was she who had been inhuman, and utterly numb to the feelings of others, only intent on getting away and not caring how many lies she told. Just because she was bored and tired; just because, having stupidly said something bound to rouse you, she felt she couldn’t go through any resulting scene. She was glad Job couldn’t see the look on her face, for she had been thinking, how on Earth had he managed to be so fond of me all these years if the whole time, in his heart, he had never been sure I would behave honorably when put to the test? Doubly astonished, her breath quite taken away by these sudden revelations, she stood looking at Job, unable to say a word, listening in a silence she took as boding no good to what she began telling him about you. The only remaining string your bow would come in, and she would appeal to your pity; and if that was no good, then…then… She didn’t know.

With the help of his cane, Job got up, went around his desk to her, leaned on the edge of it, and put his arm around her. He bent down and kissed the top of her head. This was not only to show he loved her and sympathized with her, but also so that he might have a second or two to think what he ought to say next. She was in great stress of mind. Fanny was still his darling wife, and he was worried about her. “Although it’s painful, you do have a point there, Fanny. Our daughter is well within her rights to never forgive you. But I also agree that she won’t respond to or even read any letter written and sent by you. That’s why, while you and Dr. Jaquith were talking, Miss Cartwright was helping me to write a letter to our daughter. We finished it just before Dr. Jaquith left. Miss Cartwright has just gone to send it out. If she won’t listen to you, hopefully she’ll listen to me and be here for our wedding.”

“Oh, Job. Thank you. Thank you s—”

“Don’t thank me just yet, Fanny. I’ve only done the first step for you, but I can’t help you any more beyond that. The rest you’ll need to do yourself. If she comes, she’ll undoubtedly bring Jim with her, and it’ll be up to you to begin the process of repenting for your past mistakes and making amends with the both of them. It may not be as easy as an apology. It may be a long road. It’s my hope, and your hope too, that she and Jim will forgive you. But you’ll have to be ready for anything, and I do mean anything.”

April 1940

My darling daughter,

I remember a time when I was seventeen and going with Trippy and our parents to my Great Aunt Sophie’s house, someplace where I had never been, and the question of what to wear was a weighty one. I knew it was in the mountains, but was it really cold or just cold for New York? On the other hand, the drive up would probably be on the warm side. What to put on? I finally settled for an olive-green gabardine dress. Once the choice had been made, I considered it inspired and went happily off to the train station and, from there, we were to assemble and be driven up to her house by her chauffeur, who she had waiting for us. Alas, my complacency was short-lived. For as long as I could remember, no matter how pleased I may be with my clothes when I am ordering them, no matter how successfully I may feel they have turned out the day they come home from the shop and are lifted from their boxes, I have only to walk into a restaurant or the theater or a friend’s house to be instantly convinced that every woman there is more appropriately and becomingly dressed than I. That day at my Great Aunt’s house was no exception. I arrived in my gabardine, Great Aunt Sophie was in distinguished tweeds, and my heart sank. Of course, I thought, tweed. Even I, dope that I am, should have known enough for that. Correct and smart. Naturally. And far better cut than this sacking I was draped in. I spent the entire first day in the mountains plunged in gloom and self-disgust. Later that afternoon, Great Aunt Sophie asked me to have a drink with her and her much younger husband. In the course of the visit, I remarked that I liked her dress and that it was the perfect thing for a grand house in the Rocky Mountains. She looked at me in pleased disbelief. “You think so?” she asked. To which I answered, “Yes, of course. I only wish I had one to wear up here.”

She burst into the unrestrained laughter which was characteristic of her. “My God,” she said, “that’s funny. I’d been debating what to wear and I finally settled for this, then you walked in. I took one look at you and thought, of course, Fanny’s no fool. Gabardine. That’s what I should have on! I damn near went back up to my room to change.”

Another celebrated woman who suffered from clothes insecurity was Miss Gretchen Lesnicki, the daughter of one of my Great Aunt’s neighbors, and I got to know her. Miss Lesnicki, to the innocent beholder, was smart as all get out, but she, too, apparently viewed her own reflection with a soured eye, once she had spied the other entrants in the social arena. Moreover, she was harassed by a further ailment common to the fashion-conscious. She had only to see an outfit she had sold or given away worn by someone else to be instantly aware of its outstanding chic and to be moved by a strong impulse to kick herself for having got rid of such a becoming and durable garment. I knew what she went through. During the rest of our stay at Great Aunt Sophie’s house, the clothes problem no longer troubled either Miss Lesnicki or myself, for we were wearing dresses designed for us by “the best of the best” (in Great Aunt Sophie’s words). We had several days of radiant weather, and when not engaged in a ball, dinner party, or any other important outing or social obligation, I used to lie on the grass in her garden and look up through the glittering leaves of the trees or through the dark gleaming needles of the pines, deep up into the sky where the little clouds drifted. I was trying to apply a lesson I knew well but which was hard to put into practice, and that is not to let personal unhappiness blunt for us the loveliness of the external world. When we do, we are a little less civilized. Unhappiness spreads a scar tissue over our perceptions and we rob ourselves of our most intimate wealth, the awareness of nature. Love was my trouble and my woe was unconfined. An emotional orgy is momentarily gratifying to the emoter, but it is sterile and any performance is the more impressive as well as more sincere if there is evidence of intellect. Besides, this sort of sentimental suicide is futile; since we will survive anyhow; we will not induce love where love does not exist and we cheat ourselves out of countless delights by coddling our misery. All this I knew.

Putting it into practice I found virtually impossible, yet my sense of degradation was partially alleviated by the kindly understanding of Dr. Jaquith. Seeing me tearful, he asked what was the matter. Between laughing and crying I told him I was ashamed of myself but that I waited for word which didn’t come. I waited without humor and without courage. I knew I was behaving with self-indulgence and with a marked lack of common sense, with my experience and at my age... I continued to castigate myself, but faster fell the tears. Dr. Jaquith laughed, but his laughter was gentle. “My dear,” he said, “I am many years older than you but I am still capable of disappointment if a letter I am hoping for doesn’t come. Don’t count on age to get you over that one. Realize that when your feelings do not dull you are the more alive. It’s painful but it’s worth it.” Dr. Jaquith is a nice man. I was at Great Aunt Sophie’s only a few days and it was in the season of my discontent, but owing, in large part, to his understanding, I remember with delight the sky and the water and the dark, strong color of the pine trees like a canvas freshly painted. When I was seventeen, for the first time, I saw the world as you see it. It had been so long…so many years passed between the first and last time I went to her house… I had forgotten…what it felt like.

Love,

Your mother

Weeks passed. The wedding was tomorrow, yet not a word was heard from you. Not a letter, a phone call, a postcard, nothing. You hadn’t said anything to your sister either, which was most unusual, since you told her almost everything. Fanny was much happier to marry Job this time around than she was twenty odd years ago, but she was still down in the mouth about your silence. She really hoped Job’s letter would’ve been moving enough for you to break your vow of no-contact. She was really hoping to hear from you, even if it was to tell her of your decision to decline attending the wedding.

“Why so glum?”

“I could use some sleep. I’m not glum, Manby. Just tired. Even a woman of my amazing energy…”

“Go ahead and go to bed. We want you to look beautiful tomorrow. Anybody who says you aren’t, we’ll fight ‘em.”

“I like to think of myself as distinguished looking rather than just beautiful. Goodnight.”

[happy-mokka]

Tag Game!!

ˏˋ°*♡➷ get to know me ༊*·˚

(I was tagged by @santacoppelia <3 muchas gracias!)

rule: name your favorite movie, character, animal, drink, song, season, book, color and hobby

Ok, let's do this...on a side-note: I'm VERY bad in making decisions when I like so much stuff equally...you should see me in a restaurant with a huge menu... :)

Movie:

Favorite: E.T. I soooo love movies...if I really have to choose 1 favorite, then it has to be "E.T." (Sorry "Jaws"...it was a close call...). I watched this as a six year old in our small town cinema when it came out 1982 (yes, I'm THIS old^^).

Recent: "Everything Everywhere All At Once" In the recent-section it's definitely "Everything Everywhere All At Once". Breathtaking movie...so many things at once... ❤️

Favorite character:

Aziraphale. (Took 1st place by storm on angel's wings)

Waymond Wang. (Bascially me in asian)

Malcolm Reynolds. (Funny, Goofy, Selfish on the outside but his heart on the right spot.)

Animal:

Dogs (better humans) Cats (when they feel like it, they cuddle the whole day, when not they don't give a shit...sometimes I admire that, even if I can't...not give a shit I mean) Parrots (so intelligent, brilliant therapists when you just need someone to talk to who only replies with "wwwwaaaaak. idiot.")

Favorite Drink:

Coffee. Nothing comes close. Black, no sugar. I also love to collect all kinds of weird cups for that matter... When I'm with my family and closest friends, the coffee comes as a "turkish coffee" (or "mocha" or I believe sometimes "demitasse" in the States?). We're from the Balkans and inherited that from the Ottomans and on top of this my sis-in-law is Lebanese...

Over the day it's otherwise just water or all sorts of teas.

Song:

Oh gosh. Same as with movies. I just love almost all genres and favorites change on daily basis depending on mood, weather, ...

Some picks:

Season:

Spring Everything blossoms and nature just explodes from winter slumber...

Fall / Autumn Colors, colors, colors...sensory overload.

Books

Again sooo tough. But anyway, I'll try:

"The Lord of the Rings" - J.R.R. Tolkien Blew me away when I was 15 and a regular 2-year read since then...

"The Witching Hour" - Anne Rice Was my first Anne Rice and read basically all her work since then and still own the larger part of it in my shelf.

"Good Omens" - Neil Gaiman I must admit I only recently got to him, but currently digging through his other works as well...

Color:

Green, Blue, White

Hobby:

Books Fiction mostly of all genres, some poetry (Shakespeare ❤️)

Movies Going to the cinema regularly. Love to see things on the big screen and the whole package that comes with it incl. the smell of fresh popcorn... Love all genres including subtitles.

Photography Totally unprofessional. Just love to picture moments on a walk in the park or walking home from the office. I see something that captures my eye, I have to stop and take a snapshot... Who's interested, come by my Insta "happy_mokka"...

tagging, without any obligation and with all the pleasure:

@uncleadelheid-will-eat-your-soul @eugenoid-remade @littlelodell

[opera-ghosts]

Here we see the Italian bass Nazzareno de Angelis (1881 – 1962) as King Henry from Lohengrin. I love the imposing costume and regal pose.

De Angelis was born at L’Aquila on 17 November, 1881 and began his musical life as a boy soprano, first with local choirs, then at the Capella Sistina in the Vatican. After his voice lowered, he studied with one Dr. Faberi at the Accademia di Santa Cecilia in Rome. For several years, he and his mentors wondered about his true vocal placement, and he studied both baritone and bass scores with equal intensity. The top of his voice was tremendous, but it became increasingly clear that it was centred where kings, prophets and devils live. His last two years at the Accademia were spent developing repertoire, and he gave several recitals there before making his opera début at the Comunale of L’Aquila in May of 1903 in Linda di Chamounix, followed by an opera called“L’Educate di Sorrento, by E. Usiglio, at the same theatre. 

Hearing of his enormous success the management of Rome’s Teatro Quirino immediately engaged him, and, in early July, he débuted in Norma. He subsequently appeared at the Teatro Adriano as Il Spettro in Hamlet, to the Ofelia of Maria Barrientos and the Hamlet of Battistini, followed by Rigoletto and Tosi Orsini’s Yanthis. In 1904, after some twelve performances of La Gioconda at the Teatro Lirico of Milan, he appeared at Santa Maria Capua Vetere as Colline and at the Quirino in La Favorita, Il Barbiere di Siviglia (Basilio), Carmen (Zuniga), Ernani, Norma and Rigoletto. Carlo Galeffi was his Rigoletto in several performances. He toured the Netherlands from December of 1904 to May of 1905, singing such diverse roles as Dr. Grenvil in La Traviata, Zuniga in Carmen, Sparafucile in Rigoletto, Ferrando in Il Trovatore, Fouquier-Tinville in Andrea Chénier, Tom in Un Ballo in Maschera, Angelotti in Tosca, Basilio and Raimondo in Lucia di Lammermoor. The company gave performances in Amsterdam, Rotterdam and The Hague. 

In the Autumn of 1905 he appeared at Mirandola in La Gioconda, at Parma’s Teatro Reinach in Rigoletto and Faust, and at Cagliari’s Teatro Regina Margherita as Alvise, along with those first historic performances of Mefistofele. Gaspare Nello Vetro’s Teatro Reinach says of his Faust Mefistofele: “The young Nazzareno De Angelis, now at the outset of his career, received the greatest applause and had to repeat ‘Dio dell’ Or’ at every performance.” At Cagliari, after his first performance of Boito’s Devil, the applause was interminable and it immediately led to a contract at Bari’s very important Teatro Petruzzelli, where he added Lohengrin and Iris to his roster of operas. 

In the Spring of 1906 he left on his first South American tour, appearing at Santiago de Chile and Valparaiso from June to November. He sang nine roles to enormous success. On 16 August, the region was stunned by an earthquake so severe that performances had to be suspended until 1 September. The opera house at Valparaiso was almost completely destroyed, and it was there that the greatest damage occurred. Hundreds of people died, and the wounded numbered in the thousands. Despite recurring after-shocks, the season eventually returned to normal and, in addition to his scheduled performances, he participated in several hastily arranged benefits for earthquake victims. Among his new assignments were Ludovico to the commanding Otello of Antonio Paoli, and Marcel in Gli Ugonotti. His receptions were increasingly enthusiastic, and, before the season ended, he happily agreed to return. That agreement was honoured in both 1908 and 1909. El Mercurio said of him: “…. at the end of the Prologue to Mefistofele, De Angelis received a huge and most sincere ovation.” A later review stated that “he has reminded us again as Mefistofele how superb an artist he is, and in Germania has made us marvel at his versatility in this new role”. 

The 1908 season saw him in eight operas including Gli Ugonotti with Hariclea Darclee, and in 1909, he sang nine roles including the creator part of Aquilante in Gloria After his appearances at Santiago, he is thought to have sung in Buenos Aires at the Teatro Coliseo, but no details have been unearthed about his roles during that engagement. He returned to the South American continent in 1910, 11, 12, 14, 19 and 1926, and he appeared in Buenos Aires, Rosario, Montevideo, Rio de Janeiro and São Paolo. He sang Mefistofele in every theatre at which he appeared, and in every season, except for 1914. The list of operas he performed in South America only is long: Tannhäuser, La Sonnambula, I Puritani, Gomes’s Il Guarany and Salvator Rosa, Galitsky in Prince Igor (his only Russian opera, though sung in Italian), Les Huguenots (also in Italian), de Campos’s Um Caso Singular, Verdi’s Otello and Franchetti’s Germania.

On 15 January, 1907 he débuted at La Scala as Alvise in La Gioconda and appeared for the first time in Tristan und Isolde, La Wally and as Aquilante de Bardi in the world premiere of Cilea’s Gloria. Despite recurring arguments with the theater’s management, including one four year hiatus, he would sing twenty four roles over twelve seasons. The year offered two other very important debuts, Alvise at the Teatro Verdi of Firenze with Eugenia Burzio, and King Marke at Bologna’s Teatro Comunale with Amelia Pinto, Giuseppe Borgatti and Giuseppe Pacini. Tristan und Isolde received fifteen performances and was followed by De Angelis’ only appearances in Tschaikovsky’s Iolanthe.

1908 brought with it the beginning of his Scala partnership with Ester Mazzoleni. They first appeared in Franchetti’s Cristoforo Colombo conducted by Toscanini in a run of 16 performances, followed by a revival of La Forza del Destino. Mazzoleni described the event: 

You will not be able to imagine what happened on that opening night. Icilio Calleja started ‘O tu che in seno agli angeli’ both too soon and out of tune, at which point all hell broke loose in the house. The theatre took on the atmosphere of a bullring, and, as often happens when things are not going well, the audience vented its rage at everything in sight. Both Pasquale Amato and Luisa Garibaldi were booed and hissed without mercy. The only ones who escaped their fury were De Angelis and myself. At the end, after almost collapsing from nervous exhaustion, we received a standing ovation. Notwithstanding our personal success, Toscanini, eyes ablaze, cancelled the remaining performances. 

On 19 December, 1908 De Angelis and Mazzoleni appeared in the historic production of Spontini’s La Vestale, a revival that was repeated 16 times, and then travelled to Paris. Verdi’s I Vespri Siciliani was next in the list of successes, and, on 30 December, 1909, they caused a sensation in Cherubini’s Medea. In March 1910, they appeared in what was to be their last opera together, Meyerbeer’s L’Africaine. This unbroken string of personal triumphs is one of the most legendary of all stories associated with the Milan theatre. Among other memorable evenings at La Scala was the world première of Montemezzi’s L’Amore dei Tre Re on 10 April, 1913 in the role of Archibaldo, which he later premièred at the Colón of Buenos Aires, the Costanzi of Rome, Rio de Janeiro, São Paolo and Trieste’s Teatro Verdi. 

Of his Archibaldo in the Rome première of L’Amore dei Tre Re, Il Tempo, on 15 March, 1919, said: “De Angelis, the old lion, he of the pungent, powerful voice, sang the ideal performance of Montemezzi’s king.” 

Most of 1910 was spent in the Western Hemisphere. On 31 May De Angelis debuted at Buenos Aires’ Teatro del Opera in Lohengrin with Salomea Krusceniski, Luisa Garibaldi, Dygas and Riccardo Stracciari ,and he completed his season in Aida with Giannina Russ, Garibaldi, and Giovanni Zenatello, Norma with Russ, Garibaldi and Dygas, Mefistofele with Krusceniski and Dmitri Smirnov and Gotterdammerung with Krusceniski and Dygas. In August, the company visited Montevideo for a three week season. after which De Angelis traveled to Chicago for his only performances in the United States. 

On 3 November, 1910 he sang in the inaugural performance of the Chicago Civic Opera Company as Ramfis. The cast included Karolewicz, de Cisneros, Bassi, Sammarco and Dufranne. He subsequently sang Colline in La Boheme with John McCormack, Raimondo in Lucia di Lammermoor and Ashby in La Fanciulla del West. On 18 January 1911, in a closing night gala, he appeared as Ashby with Carolina White, Caruso and Sammarco. It is curious that De Angelis accepted a contract with Chicago for roles so small when he had already become the most important bass at La Scala and in many of South America’s theatres. Perhaps the heady company that he would be keeping attracted him; that, with the hope that other more important roles would come his way. He visited several other cities, but, outside of a single appearance in Fanciulla del West at Milwaukee in November.

Upon his return to Italy, De Angelis prepared for the most important début of his career: the Costanzi of Rome. The theatre was to present a gala ‘Musical Exposition’ of opera and ballet in celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of the declaration of the Kingdom of Italy. Among the notable events were the company premières of Verdi’s Macbeth and Donizetti’s Don Sebastiano and the Italian première of La Fanciulla del West, with Eugenia Burzio and Giovanni Martinelli. Serge Diaghilev’s Ballet Russe presented local premières of Les Sylphides and Giselle with Nijinsky, and Toscanini conducted several of the operas. In the midst of this carnival of riches, on 16 April, 1911, De Angelis débuted as Don Basilio with the stellar cast of Graziella Pareto, Umberto Macnez, Titta Ruffo and Giuseppe Kaschmann. The theatre was packed with family, friends, colleagues from his days at the Vatican and the Conservatorio, and former teachers. Dal Costanzi all’Opera states that “it was an evening of surpassing grandeur, refinement and polish, a performance beyond any criticism”. Il Giornale d’Italia reported that “De Angelis convinced a highly expectant audience that he is truly an artist of the first rank….The tumultuous applause that greeted the singers became a roar each time that he appeared before the great curtain”. He was to tell Paolo Silveri many years later that it was the most emotionally satisfying evening of his career. The bond between singer and city had been permanently cemented and he would return in thirteen additional seasons in seventeen roles.

On 23 May, De Angelis debuted at the Teatro Colon in Buenos Aires as the Landgrave in Tannhauser with Pasini-Vitale, Ferrari-Fontana and De Luca. He sang in ten operas, including his first performances in Don Carlo with Agostinelli, Garibaldi, Constantino and Ruffo, La Sonnambula with Barrientos and Bonci and I Puritani with Barrientos, Bonci and De Luca. The Colon hosted him the following year in seven operas, including his only performances as Friar Lawrence in Gounod’s Romeo et Juliette with Lucrezia Bori and Giuseppi Anselmi. De Angelis sang at the Colon for the last time in 1914, but he returned to Buenos Aires in 1919 as Basilio, Mefistofele, Galitzky, Mose and Archibaldo at the Teatro Coliseo. 

On 10 October, De Angelis sang Mefistofele at the Costanzi for the first time, and it would be the defining event of his career. The first night audience cheered for nearly an hour and the next day’s reviews were among the most laudatory ever seen: 

Mefistofele at Rome - Il Corriere d’Italia - 11 October, 1911. “This singer and magnificent actor can truly claim to be the greatest basso currently on the lyric stage. Extraordinary power, an excellent voice, clear and perfect diction and impeccable technique were all completely confirmed last night. His success was enormous.” 

His triumph was reported on the front page of newspapers throughout Italy and he was immediately asked to sing the role in virtually every Italian theatre. Within four months he had débuted at Turin’s Regio, Trieste’s Verdi and the San Carlo of Naples, where he sang fourteen performances of the opera. Barcelona’s Liceo received him with enormous acclaim in April of 1913 and Mefistofele was to serve as his debut role at Venice’s Fenice, Genoa’s Carlo Felice and Politeama, Brescia’s Grande, Padua’s Verdi, Palermo’s Massimo and the Verona Arena. In 1918, De Angeles sang the role for the first time at La Scala with Linda Cannetti, Elena Rakowska and Gigli, and, in 1920, at Milan’s Dal Verme, he appeared in some fifteen performances of the opera with Hina Spani as Margherita. It was so overwhelming a part of his career, that in 1923, it was the only role he sang. 

On 4 April, 1915, he sang Mosè for the first time, appearing at Rome’s Teatro Quirino and took the role to Firenze, Livorno’s Teatro Goldoni, the Comunale of Bologna and Milan’s Dal Verme. The cast included Giannina Russ, Adele Ponzano, Luigi Pieroni and Alessandro Dolci, and was conducted by Mascagni. The tour was among the very few performances he gave between the Spring of 1915 and the Winter of 1918. A 1916 press release from the Teatro Municipal of Santiago, Chile notes that, because he was serving in the Italian armed forces, he would not be able to appear. He returned to the stage at Rome’s Costanzi in February, 1918, and sang Mosè there on 23 April. 

Mosè - 2 June, 1918 - Rome Dal Costanzi all’Opera. “On the closing night, which presented the tenth performance of Mosè, De Angelis achieved one of the greatest successes of his career.” 

La Tribuna said: “The great bass received an ovation perhaps without parallel in memory. His performance was of monumental proportions, and the audience responded in kind.” 

Over the next several years, De Angelis sang Mose at La Scala, Buenos Aires, Rosario, Montevideo, Rio de Janeiro, Sao Paolo, Bergamo, Genoa, Ferrara, Trieste, Turin, Ancona, and, for the last time in 1925 at the Verona Arena. 

Although De Angelis’ stage debut was in Linda di Chamounix, Donizetti and Bellini seem not to have been composers for whom he felt much affinity. In 1911, he sang in La Sonnambula and I Puritani at the Colón of Buenos Aires and, on the closing night of the 1926 season at Rio de Janeiro, he sang one additional lonely performance of I Puritani. By 1912, he had stopped singing in La Favorita and Lucia di Lammermoor and seems never to have appeared in a Donizetti opera again. He sang important revivals of Norma with Giannina Russ, Claudia Muzio, Vera Amerighi-Rutili, Bianca Scacciati and Iva Pacetti, but they were few in number and widely separated in time. 

Lucia di Lammermoor at Buenos Aires - La Prensa - 27 May, 1911 Though the soprano role is the centrepiece of this opera, Barrientos’s grand companions, Constantino, Ruffo and De Angelis were all triumphant. 

Norma at Rome - Il Tevere - 28 December, 1928 The evening confirmed the triumph of Norma, and of Muzio, Luisa Bertana, the tenor Mirassou and Nazzareno De Angelis, who conferred, with beauty of voice and physical presence, the ultimate realization of Oroveso.

Don Basilio in Il Barbiere di Siviglia was a very important role in De Angelis’s career, and he sang it in both the largest and smallest theatres. In the Spring of 1916 he toured among Parma’s Regio, Naples’ San Carlo, Pisa’s Verdi, Pesaro’s Salon Pedrotti and Rome’s Quirino in commemoration of the 100th anniversary of the opera’s premiere. The cast for the performances was Fanny Anitua as Rosina; Carpi and Macnez sang Almaviva; Galeffi portrayed Figaro and Kaschmann, Bartolo. At Rome, the cast included de Hidalgo, Salvati and De Luca. He sang it at the Costanzi in 1919 and garnered his usual superlatives. 

Il Barbiere di Siviglia at Rome - Il Messagero - 16 February, 1919 “This old opera rarely has one divo, fewer times two, but tonight there were four, de Hidalgo, Schipa, Galeffi and De Angelis, truly an Olympus of singers. It was a marvellous evening, one which made us almost believe that we were seeing the opera for the first time. The soloists sang as though inspired by some magic spirit.” 

In 1919, De Angelis toured to Buenos Aires, Montevideo, Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paolo as Basilio with Angeles Ottein, Tito Schipa and Armand Crabbe. It was on this tour that he appeared in Prince Igor, Il Guarany and Salvator Rosa for the only times in his career. In 1921 he appeared as Basilio at Spoleto with the inimitable Conchita Supervia and in 1922 he appeared in a lavish production at La Scala with de Hidalgo, Hackett and Galeffi. In 1925 he made both his Swiss debut and farewell as Basilio at Lugano. 

His Wagner roles were seven: King Marke in Tristan und Isolde, Wotan in both Das Rheingold and Die Walküre, King Henry in Lohengrin, Hagen in Götterdämmerung, the Landgrave in Tannhäuser and Gurnemanz in Parsifal. In 1914, he sang Gurnemanz an amazing twenty seven times during La Scala’s first season of Parsifal and premièred the opera at Buenos Aires’s Teatro Colón the following May. In January 1922, he returned to La Scala for eleven performances in a cast that included Helene Wildbrunn, Amadeo Bassi, and on the fourth night, the debut at that theater of Apollo Granforte. He appeared at Paris as Gurnemanz in May of the same year. De Angelis appeared in Die Walkuere at Rome, La Scala, Naples, Rio de Janeiro and Sao Paolo and in Das Rheingold at Bologna, Rome and La Scala. In the winter of 1938 at Rome, he sang Wotan in Das Rheingold and Die Walküre, as well as Hagen, in the first ‘Ring’ ever performed completely in Italian. The undertaking was supervised by Tullio Serafin and the four operas were broadcast throughout Italy. De Angelis’ last Wagner performances were as Gurnemanz at the San Carlo of Naples in April, 1938.

Of his performances in the 1938 ‘Ring’at Rome, the following reviews are quoted. 

Il Messagero, 25 January - Das Rheingold De Angelis sang with enormous resonance. His achievement was hard to imagine, sung with the greatest of expression, vigour and vibrancy.

Il Piccolo, 27 January - Die Walkuere He maintained a level of excellence throughout this very long and difficult role that was exceptional. 

Among Verdi’s operas, he sang Zaccaria in Nabucco, Silva in Ernani. Ferrando in Il Trovatore, Grenvil in La Traviata, Sparafucile in Rigoletto, Tom in Un Ballo in Maschera, Padre Guardiano in La Forza del Destino, Procida in I Vespri Siciliani, Fiesco in Simon Boccanegra, King Philip in Don Carlo, Ramfis in Aida and Lodovico in Otello. Interestingly, he sang far fewer performances of Verdi than he did of Wagner. In fact, in no Verdi opera, outside of Aida, did he sing more than twenty five performances, and Simon Boccanegra, had only one revival, at La Scala in 1933. It was his last new role. 

Aida - Rome - La Tribuna - 6 October, 1911 The Ramfis of Nazzareno De Angelis showed an extraordinarily robust, mellow and vibrant voice. 

Nabucco - Rome - La Tribuna - 2 June, 1916 A memorable evening of art, of patriotic love.... in which all the artists offered a spectacle of singular interest. The interpreters, Nazzareno De Angelis in the white robes of the high priest, Zaccaria, Carlo Galeffi, Cecilia Gagliardi and Fanny Anitua gave superb examples of their great art. 

Non-operatic appearances were fairly infrequent. He sang in Verdi’s Manzoni Requiem several times, most importantly at La Scala in 1913 under Toscanini’s direction, at Rome’s Teatro Augusteo in both 1913 and 1922, and in 1924 at Vicenza and the Verona Arena. The Verona engagement with Rinolfi, Minghini Cattaneo and Taccani, was so successful that after two performances in the outdoor stadium, an additional two were given at the Teatro Filarmonico with Lucia Crestani singing the soprano music. In May 1938 he returned to the work for the last time when he sang it at Rome’s Teatro Adriano with Caniglia, Stignani and Alessandro Granda. On 4 December 1924, under Toscanini’s direction, he and Hina Spani sang at Giacomo Puccini’s Funeral in the Duomo of Milan, and on the 29th , the program was repeated at La Scala. Among De Angelis’ more interesting concerts were three at Rome’s Teatro Quirino. On 4 April 1915 he appeared with Russ and Battistini in an all Mascagni programme honouring the composer. In September, 1915 he appeared in a composition called Inno alla Patria by Zandonai accompanied by Gabriella Besanzoni, and in June 1916, he sang in Canto di Guerra, written by the great bass-baritone Giuseppe Kaschmann. 

De Angelis’ career in Iberia was not impressive. He sang Mefistofele at La Coruña, Spain in 1908 and appeared at Barcelona’s Liceo in the Spring of 1913 as Boito’s Devil. The La Coruña engagement includes a reference to Gounod’s Faust, which, if it were to have happened, would have been an extremely interesting juxtaposition of roles. Perhaps it did. There are announcements of a second engagement at La Coruña in 1912, but I have found no details. It would seem, from the evidence, that he never appeared in Portugal.

By 1927, De Angelis was averaging no more than 20 performances a year, though he continued to make recordings at a prodigious rate. In 1934, his only appearances were as Mefistofele at Piacenza and, about a year later, he sang Oroveso, Gurnemanz and Padre Guardiano at Genoa’s Carlo Felice. After a three-year absence, he returned to Rome’s Teatro Reale in January of 1938 for Mefistofele and the celebrated ‘Ring Cycle’. In August, after a debut at Rome’s Caracalla as Mefistofele, he sang his valediction at Naples’ Arena Flegrea as Boito’s Beelzebub, with Delia Sanzio, Margherita Grandi and Granda. De Angelis had appeared in fifty seven operas and had sung well over fifteen hundred performances. 

It has been reported that he gave occasional recitals until about 1942. Upon his eventual retirement, he taught in Milan and, later, at his favorite city, Rome. He died on 14 December, 1962, in Rome, at the age of 81. 

[huntunderironskies]

Mythology Monday: the Final Breath

Man, I owe you guys a few, huh.

But! I've mostly sorted my living situation out (which was singularly the biggest stressor I was deailng with) and I am currently free of deadlines. So I'm going to try and get back into this. This is another myth told in Wilmington, North Carolina.

...But it's a Changeling one, so there's almost certainly more than a grain of truth to it, isn't there? It might not be...just a Changeling one, though. ;>

Once upon the shores, there was a queen. She had not always been a queen, for once the queendom had been a society of equals. But a plague struck and the dead rose again, and the ones who did valued the blood of her people above all else. The queendom did not seek war, and so instead they bartered with the wicked dead.

At first, it was merely the criminals, and so the kings and queens gave up their subjects gladly. When the criminals ran out, they took the old and sick and those lost to their own dreams, saying they would die soon anyways. When there were no more old and sick, they claimed they had enough, but the young and helpless would disappear instead.

It was not long before there was only one person to take the throne, for she was the sole person left alive. Her grief was immeasurable, and she knew now it fell onto her to avenge her people. And so first, she turned to the oldest allies they had, the seasons.

“Summer, o Summer,” she pleaded. “You are the season of war, your sun shines so bright. Bring the light to the dead and turn them to ashes. Whatever you ask, I will give it to you, but let me take my revenge.”

“I cannot,” said Summer. “They already know to escape my gaze, they come only during the moon’s light. Seek help elsewhere, you lone queen.”

And so the queen ran, ran across the months, until the leaves turned to flame on the branches.

“Autumn, o Autumn,” she pleaded. “You know death better than any other season. That which clings to life can do so no longer with your passing. Let the false dead fall silent for good. Whatever you ask, I will give it to you, but let me take my revenge.”

“I cannot,” said Autumn. “There is no life left in them to take. Seek help elsewhere, you lone queen.”

And so the queen ran, ran across the months, until the flames on the branches turned to cinder and fell.

“Winter, o Winter,” she pleaded. “You are the season of bitter cold, freeze over the earth so the dead will be trapped beneath rimefrost and clay. Whatever you ask, I will give it to you, but let me take my revenge.”

“I cannot,” said Winter. “The dead lie in shallow graves, freeing themselves will be a simple task. Seek help elsewhere, you lone queen.”

And so the queen ran, ran across the months, until the blooms clawed their way out of the earth.

“Spring, o Spring,” she pleaded. “You are the season of desire. I know now that no season alone can defeat them. Bring those who still love life to me, then, so I will not be alone. We will defeat the dead forever. Whatever you ask, I will give it to you, but let me take my revenge.”

“I cannot,” said Spring. “Desire is selfish, and none desire death. You face a lost cause, lone queen. Escape with your life, this place is already lost.”

And so the queen ran, but there was nowhere left for her to run. She stopped at the sea, and knelt before it.

“Tides, o Tides,” she said. “You are where all things began, you are where all things will end. Swallow up the dead, take the rest of this place with them. Whatever you ask, I will give it to you. I care for nothing but my revenge.”

“It can be done, lone queen,” said the Tides. “I will tell you my request: my child needs a mother, there is only so much I can do alone. Protect them, guard them until they are well enough to rise again.” 

And the Tides parted, and she saw the thing beneath, claws and eyes and carapace. Her heart quailed. “You ask too much of me, this I cannot do.”

And so the queen ran, ran back to the dunes, and among the sea-oats and silkweed she collapsed, sobbing.

It was then the Owl who heard her tears, and they, all smoke and shadow, lofted next to her. “Why does one so beautiful mourn so?”

“The wicked dead have taken my people, I am the only one who remains. There are none left to help me, the seasons and the tides themselves have turned on me.”

“Ah! A story to make anyone weep,” said the Owl. “But perhaps you are not so alone as you think. My people have been known to take the carrion of the dead. Perhaps I can help.”

The queen, at last, took to her feet. “Then whatever you ask, I will give it to you, only let me have my revenge.”

“My queen,” said the Owl. “Your revenge is my own. I can ask nothing more of you than your success. Together, we shall never be forgotten.”

She wept tears of joy. "It will be done, this I swear." And then, there was no longer a queen, nor an Owl.

Now, there is only the Final Breath.

[pilferingapples]

your questions for the meme! 1. what's your favourite wearable green object you own? 2. what wearable green object do you most wish you owned? 3. did you have a different Life Passion before you fell into les mis/french romanticism? 4. what is your very most favourite fact about gautier? 5. what are your opinions about christmas?

ooh these are fun, thank you:D

1- aaah I have so many good Green Clothes and some of them are even made by dear friends so I CANNOT choose a favorite BUT I do have a Most Frequent and it's this shawl :

It was made by a weaver who works the renfair circuit with a wooden loom! I get to go see her every year and anyone can watch her working! I know where she got the yarn and everything and I do in fact love knowing how almost every step of the process went! But also it's just a fantastic shawl, keeps me warm in the light-cool of spring and autumn and keeps the sun off my shoulders in summer. Heck, I wore it today (Texas. it was 72 F) and it was just the right Extra Warm over my sundress. And it goes with every dress I own! The joys of a chromatically unified wardrobe :D So: this!

2. what wearable green object do you most wish you owned? ...MAGIC CLOAK THAT LOOKS LIKE LUNA MOTH WINGS AND ENABLES ME TO FLY More mundanely, I'd love to get a custom corset by someone local enough I can actually go to them for a fitting? I've had customs before but I've always had to do my own measurements etc and do it by mail and I am just NOT an expert, even with muslins. There's just no one close by who does what I want, a peril of living in the middle of nowhere. :/

3. did you have a different Life Passion before you fell into les mis/french romanticism? HAH I had many!! Part of why the current situation is so enduring is because it fused many of them into one. But oh one that's stayed with me but I don't talk about much here is comics? Just. The art and structure of them! The potential! I kinda stopped talking about them in general spaces because STILL when I say " comics" people go " oh superheroes" and NO NOT SUPERHEROES THAT'S A GENRE, that's like hearing " books" and responding with " oh yeah, Harlequins" YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT LIKE TWO PUBLISHERS AGAINST A WHOLE MEDIUM , THEY MAY BE THE MOST POPULAR BUT THEY DO NOT GET TO DEFINE THE WHOLE FORM AAAAH anyway read Scott McCloud and also talk to me about the comics you love 4. what is your very most favourite fact about gautier? gkdghl I tried to write about the actual thing I've been turning over in my head lately but it got Too Long So for now: he started doing his arts columns with the idea that there should be someone critiquing art and writing who actually liked it

and then!! He was so positive about art shows and plays that some artists got together and tried to figure out how to make him stop because even though everyone agreed his critiques were accurate and honest, they were afraid they wouldn't be taken seriously without meaner reviews???

(they were unable to make him stop being nice?!? it was the lowest stakes conspiracy ever and it FAILED skflashgsakgh)

5. what are your opinions about christmas?

there are DECORATIONS there are COOKIES there are PRESENTS

there are THINGS TO DO that are actually accessible for me because lots of general-public events are being planned for people with limited stamina and wheeled mobility aids

there are GHOST STORIES

there is A STOP MOTION ANIMATION SPECIAL ABOUT SANTA BEING RAISED BY SOCIALIST FAIRIES

I don't approve of it taking over the entire back half of the year and i fully respect that it is aggravatingly dominant to anyone who's not into it but . I am in fact EXTREMELY into it. There's just so much completely weird lore and so many excitingly bizarre traditions, it's Haunted and Blessed in equal amounts, how could I, personally, ever not enjoy it?

[unhingedselfships]

this one for you: primrose, cosmos, poppy, aster (basically im asking for non-rgg crushes!), and freesia

primrose— how long does it take for you to get ready for the day what does your routine usually consist of?

I'm so lazy XD Depending on the day, I'll crawl out of bed, throw on jammies, and into my chair. On work days, scramble out of bed, throw on the uniform, power walk to the bus stop lmao

cosmos— what's the best compliment you've ever received? who was it from?

So I couldn't tell you anything specific. My memory is trash. But what sticks with me on an emotional imprint level, is when I'm told I did something hmm. Well? Or 'good enough'? I always feel like I fall short. I'm not smart or talented or good enough. And when someone comes in with "you did good!" That hits.

poppy— out of the four seasons, which season of the year is your favorite and why?

Spring! I love rain and fresh growth and cool breezes. It used to be autumn, which is still a close second.

(my allergies hate all 4 equally. I never get a break XD)

aster— do you have any 'fictional crushes' on any movie, tv show, or book characters? who and why?

Oh lord the box this opens. We could be here forever. I essentially go through 'phases'. Before RGG consumed my life, my main was Veldora from That Time I Got Reincarnated As A Slime actually. Closely followed by Guy Crimson, who honestly, 100% could get it anytime, any verse. I have my staples that I've held onto for years. Like Kakashi lmao. JJK gave me some greats, Gojo I want to slap but also. Not the only hitting I'd be down for. Toji would be toxic and a terrible idea but oh well. Nanami is husband material, you can't change my mind. We could be here for awhile but. That's enough for rn lol.

freesia— what do you want people to remember you for? (serious or non-serious answers)

Honestly I almost don't want people to remember me at all.

Well ok, if I'm alive, I hope my loved ones think of me at least vaguely positively. That I gave them something good.

When I'm gone though? Part of me would rather everyone just forgot. I don't want anyone to hurt.

[thecreaturecrossroads]

Valeriu is so tuckered out from dancing around the bonfire that Samhain Eve, that he collapsed into the bed still in his costume, his skin still painted in bright, florescent colors that still glowed with a dull, smeared hue after a long night of partying. It had been a long night, and all he wanted to do was curl up in the bed, nestling among the blankets, and cuddled up close to a warm companion. It was any wonder in his spinning, tispy state that he managed to find his way to Caoimhe‘s room, but he managed in the end. Vali wiggled around, tearing the pristine sheets and blankets up, wrapping them around himself like a sort of make shift cocoon. He then inched closer to Caoimhe, laying his paint and make-up stained face on her chest. His messy after-party look served to make him seem even more like a wild fae. And tomorrow, he would end up doing it all over again. “I’m so tired,” Vali grumbled, his eye lids heavy. “I drank so much, I ate so much, I feel like I’m going to explode.” He said with a yawn. All things considered, it was a rather eventful Samhain Eve, full of clashing fae traditions, the joining of summer fae and winter fae into autumn, so much exotic food and strange, intoxicating drink, complete with loud, enchanting music and the reverberating voices of so many of his fellow fae having an equally lovely time. It was perhaps the only time of year that all fae, regardless of season, creed, loyalty, or nature, could find a way to come together. All fae could find an excuse to party. And there were many more festivities to come before it climaxed with the riding of the Wild Hunt. He would be dead on his feet by the time the evening festivities rolls around tomorrow if he didn’t get some proper shut eye right now, and so he made himself comfortable, wrapping his arms around Caoimhe’s frame, squeezing, and allowing himself to slip off into the realm of dreams.

Caoimhe was anything but sleepy this time of year. Infact, unless she was in the act of taking a mate this year, she wouldn't be sleeping again until spring. And her usual cool feeling skin was now almost hot to the touch. Her Autumnal markings and the like were firmly in place and her smiles were accompanied by the glimpse of sharp teeth. Something her usual mild mannered looks never alluded to. Fluffy and even more feathered she was laying propped up on pillows with the offerings of her people on the floor around her nest bed. Working tirelessly on their outfits for the next night.

When Vali stumbled into her room to rest from the nights' festivities, he did indeed find a warm bed companion. She chuckled and pushed aside the needle work she was doing with a shimmery starlight fabric. Holding her arms out to him as he wrapped himself up in all the sheets and blankets and inched along like an inchworm to cuddle and rest his head on her breast.

"Hoohoo CuddleBug! Ye've had a proper Samhain Eve then!" She began gently carding her black talons through his hair till it was out of his face. She kissed the top of his head and her golden eyes, now amber and orange like a harvest moon, watched him as he yawned.

"We'll get a bath drawn fer ye when ye wake an get us all sorted before things start again. I've almost finished with our matching outfits fer the crowning ceremony. They should be done right on time." Her voice was gentle and even so that even though she was talking it would only aid in sending him off to sleep.

[jeanbie]

four seasons (2) -> part of the 101 days drabble series ; eremin

📂 Structure a short story based on the four seasons; winter, spring, summer and fall. Write 100 words for each season, with the four episodes tying together and leading to a dramatic or thought-provoking conclusion.

Out of all four seasons, Eren hated Winter the most.

Winter made everything feel like an inconvenience and as of lately, Eren wishes he could hibernate and avoid the Winter season until it was gone- gone with the snow and the cold and the heartbreak.

The Spring of 2018 that followed had been a breath of fresh air for Eren; final exams were an equally valid excuse to stay in his flat and see his friends on a stingy rota. Midway through May, he realises he’s only left his flat three times.

“I’m just worried for you,” Jean said, pulling open the door to go outside. “I barely see you anymore. Do you really think he’d want-?”

“I’m fine, Jean.” Eren pulled a leaf off a nearby hedge and didn’t say much after. Jean wouldn’t know what he would have wanted. Nobody would. Not anymore.

And then the Summer season; sticky heat and sand between his toes, the comforting laughter of Sasha and Connie playing volleyball down the beach. Eren really ought to be having fun, but all he can really focus on is the fact that this year, there’s only five sun-beds instead of six.

Oh, but Autumn! The smell of candles and pumpkins and cheap alcohol- the “season of Satan”, as Connie liked to call it. This year, they dressed up and watched Get Out. Eren got as far as the deer and then went home.

This year went fast, he thinks to himself. It’s now Winter again, early December. Eren walks with stinging fingers and toes across the car-park, flowers in one dithering hand. It’s quiet here. Serene. Eren nods once- Armin would like it here. He makes his way silently down a dirt path to a little clearing near the meadow and crouches with a big sigh.

“Hey, Armin. How are you doing, baby?”

The gravestone is cold and snow-covered, ‘Loving son, brother, friend and boyfriend’ barely even visible. Looking at it, Eren can almost hear the car skidding on the ice and the crash that followed. He closes his eyes tightly, as a Winter silence embraces him.

[waterlilywritespoemsandstuff]

The Angel

It was late autumn when she first met Tamar.

The rain had been falling all day, an endless thrumming like some rhythmless instrument. Still bright, though, bright and cold. Lilah didn't like that. It seemed wrong, somehow, as if rain only ought to fall at night. The umbrella made it a little darker, though, when she'd opened it like a huge black mushroom. That's better, she thought. Then she scowled. She'd forgotten about the broken part, the umbrella rib that'd been snapped earlier in the season. Well, no matter. It was better than nothing. She made her way to the bus stop, stepping through crystal puddles, hearing the   tapping on the umbrella, idly wondering if the bus would be late again. What was she thinking? It always was. The world absolutely hated Lilah, and she hated it right back.

The bus stop was grimy, as usual, and all but abandoned, which was not. Lilah stood there in the glass rain, unsure what to say. There, seated on the soaking bench, cigarette butts scattered at a feet, was a girl. No, a woman. A young one, probably. Golden curls spilling down off her head, bright green eyes burning like a bonfire. Rainboots as pink as bubblegum, and a dress to match. The woman looked at Lilah.

"Oh, hi there! Might be a bit before the bus comes, you should probably sit down." Her voice reminded Lilah of the rain. Clear and bright. She frowned inside. Wonderful. She knew this kind of woman, after all. The kind that's as sweet as sugar and rubs in your wounds like salt. Who laces kind words with cruelty and calls you aggressor when you say something. Oh yes, Lilah knew. Knew better than to get involved.

Lilah stood. The woman's face fell slightly. Burning green eyes dulled almost imperceptibly. Something stirred.

Lilah sat.

That was how Lilah met Tamar Woland.

Despite herself, Lilah liked Tamar. Tamar was sweet, and gentle, and innocent in a way she'd never seen before. She showered gifts on her, a tree shedding leaves. She insisted it was no trouble, that she loved to give. Anything you need, Lilah, ask and you shall receive. Lilah resisted, of course. I don't want to impose on you. I don't want to take advantage. Tamar had only shook her head and smiled. Your company makes it more than equal. Please.

So when Lilah moved to another house, she'd accepted the new rug gladly. When she'd had a bad breakup, she'd had tequila after tequila, because Tamar said she was rich and bought her drink after drink. Sometimes Lilah wondered how her friend could be rich, spending so much on her. Probably inherited it. A truly generous rich woman. Imagine that. She'd practically found a bona fide unicorn, really. Or an angel. She'd be a fool, and a rude one at that, to say no. So she said yes.

Autumn became winter became spring became summer became autumn, round and round and round. The wheel of time rolled on. You're an angel, Tamar. She'd said, the day Tamar declined to take back the car she'd lent her. Oh, I don't need it. I can walk. Just keep it. Lilah had protested, but not very much. She did need a car. She did want one, and Tamar didn't. It's not taking if it's given. And Tamar had insisted, hadn't she? There's nothing wrong with accepting gifts.

When Lilah implied she'd like a dog, Tamar was thrilled to fund it. That's amazing! She'd gushed, leading Lilah by the hand to a reputable shelter she knew of. They're just beautiful creatures, aren't they? So what breed would you like? Chihuahua? My Behemoth is the best chihuahua, but I'm sure some come close. Or a pug? I know a breeder who specializes in ethical pug breeding. Maybe a mutt? Or a Great Dane? Tamar giggled to herself at that. They both knew Lilah didn't like large dogs. A few days later, Tamar watched as Lilah carried her brand-new samoyed, Mitchell, into the house. She'd already volunteered to look after Mitchell during the day, whenever Lilah didn't want to. Lilah intended to care for the dog herself, but it was true. She was so very busy. She did have many hobbies, many people to talk to and drink with. If Tamar wanted to do the hard work, who was she to stop her? Tamar was such an angel. Let her spread her wings.

A few months later, Lilah found herself light on cash to start her business with. Just 25,000 dollars. That was all she'd ask for, she'd sworn to herself. 25,000 would be more than enough to get started, and then she wouldn't ask for more. That's what she told herself, as she drove the gift car to Tamar's home. That's what she insisted to herself, as she asked for the money. But Tamar gave her twice that amount. So really, what was wrong with spending 10,000 on a few luxuries? It was extra, after all. She'd only asked for 25,000. What was she supposed to do with the extra half? Surely she was meant to treat herself. Who wouldn't?

A few years after that, she was yearning for a real house, with a real balcony. It was selfish, she knew, but it was what she wanted. And when she'd mentioned it, when Tamar had offered to give her a big house with a big balcony, that was all Tamar. Lilah would be insane to say no, when offered so much. Tamar had made the offer. Tamar wanted to give it. Tamar ignored her protests.

Not that Lilah had really tried to protest. Why not let the angel do good?

A meaningful pause, a few chosen words with extra weight, and present after present, surprise after surprise would rain down upon her. It wasn't something she could control. It wasn't something she should, really. If Tamar wanted this, it'd be a fool's game to keep her from it. Lilah did not want to be a fool. What she wanted to be was someone with a fountain of generosity for a companion. And that she was.

In time, she was also someone with six cars, three dogs, two cats, two thriving businesses, and appearances in various magazines. She'd even published a book, which Tamar had eagerly agreed to deal with all the boring parts of. When she moved in and gave Lilah access to her bank savings, she'd practically insisted her friend take what she wanted. It was getting easier by the day to fend off those thin, fragile threads of guilt that sometimes still tugged in the back of her mind. Tamar wanted this as much as she did. Tamar started it all. Tamar had insisted. It couldn't be wrong to indulge, when practically being begged to. Was it? No. Tamar was an angel, she loved indulging Lilah, and that was simply that.

Year by year by year, each stone in the bucket one step closer to spilling the water out. Plastic surgery after plastic surgery. Lilah just wanted to look younger. Nothing wrong with that. After all, Tamar must be doing it too, though she'd never said anything about it. She looked almost as young, as girlish as the day they'd met. Burning green eyes not even starting to flicker. Lilah had asked what surgeon her friend went to, once, but Tamar had insisted that no, she'd simply gotten lucky. She'd been quiet the rest of the day. It was true Tamar bore no surgical scars. It was also true she'd suggested that if Lilah wanted another facelift, she was welcome to her friend's funding. Lilah didn't ask again.

Tamar was such an angel she never left Lilah's side. Not when Lilah got drunk after one of the concerts she went to weekly, not when Lilah suffered food poisoning after too much caviar, not even when Lilah was upset her $8,000 toaster had been lost in the mail. It was lucky, Lilah knew. She didn't know what she'd do without her Tamar to do everything, pay for everything, just relax and let Tamar do the work. It wasn't greed or gluttony, Lilah knew. Not when your friend had so much to give she gave money and love and time like a tree grows and casts off leaves. Not when your friend was so constant that surviving without them was never a worry. Not when the bonds of love were so cozy, so all-encompassing, so tight you never feared you'd fall. This must be Heaven. Why leave?

More stones in the bucket. Water creeping towards the rim.

Tamar? She'd asked, voice a dull whisper, thin form lying in the blankets. Tamar sat beside her, looking youthful as ever. Burning eyes and all. Yes? Tamar had said. Lilah nearly choked on the next words to come out of her mouth. Was I a good person? She wasn't sure. She'd been a good friend to Tamar, yes. But she didn't have such certainty about the rest. She could be snappy when her order didn't get to her table quick enough, shrieked a bit if the store didn't have what she wanted on hand. She'd once fired an employee; he hadn't brushed Mitchell quite thoroughly enough before the dog's morning walk. She hadn't done any real work in at least a decade. But surely she must be a good person, right? She'd been so charitable! Well, it was Tamar who'd had the idea, who'd written the checks, but it had been in Lilah's name. That had to count for something. She had generous, not saying no.

Everything good Tamar had done in her name, that was Lilah's work too, in a way. She hadn't forbidden Tamar from her noble works. And that ought deserve credit in itself, because Lilah was a good person too. Ambition wasn't greed. And she would've done all those good things in her life, without or without Tamar. Tamar was just the willing vessel for her charity and diligence and temperance and all of that. It was really Lilah's work, wasn't it? Wasn't it? The alternative did not bear her consideration.

Tamar gazed at her thoughtfully. Yes. She said, after a moment. You were good. You are good. You never rejected me for what- who I am. Never tried to leave me. Lilah didn't quite understand. Who could ever reject such an utter angel? Tamar was a godsend; why would anyone leave her? Tamar answered if she could read Lilah's mind. Oh, you might not believe it, but I've been told I give too much. That I'm...suffocating. But you haven't left me. You won't. Will you? You won't ever leave me, right? I don't strangle like they say I do?

Whoever told you that ought to burn, Tamar. You're an angel.

Tamar's expression seemed a little tighter than usual. Yeah....An angel.

Lilah sometimes wondered about her endlessly charitable friend. But that wasn't important. What was important was Lilah, and how virtuously she'd lived her life or not. She had been virtuous. She was sure of that now. She had her own sins, yes, but Tamar's virtues were truthfully all hers, too. It'd be foolish to say she was gluttonous. If Tamar didn't want her to be how she'd been in her weaker moments, it was all Tamar's fault.  Tamar had started it all.

Lilah closed her eyes. She never reopened them.

-------------

Tamar, later, would feel guilt for leading Lilah's soul down that path. It wasn't that she'd had anything against the human; she was actually quite fond of humanity. It had always been one of her stranger aspects. But her duty was her duty, and that meant guiding them towards Gluttony. She didn't coerce them, she didn't force them to choose anything. She didn't make them choose her Side; couldn't compel them to stay if they didn't want to. They did that all by themselves.

If they mistook her for an angel, that was all them.