#Mary Ann Orchard

[worldoftheromanovs]

Anyone know if there are photos of Mary Ann Orchard “Orchie” with Alexandra’s girls? I think I have possibly found a few in Alexandra’s 1897-1899 album but I can’t be sure………

[loiladadiani]

Mary Anne Orchard (1830 - 1906)

Starting with the children of Alice of Hesse, Mrs. Orchard served the family for forty years and was much beloved.

[vantetaes]

SPRING FLING🫧🥂

COUNTRY BOY! EREN X CITY GIRL BLACK FEM READER

SUMMARY!!! yn goes back to visit what once was her home 15 years ago, only to meet a new face.

WARNINGS!!! 18+!!! high sexual themes! oral (f receiving), penetration, slow burn before smut

a part of you missed it. waking up to the fresh smell of sausage sizzling in hot grease while grits simmered on a burner next to it. feeling the cool summer breeze whip around your sweltering body from playing kickball in the large mowed field with some of the towns kids. drinking freshly squeezed lemonade your grandmother made before tending to her garden.

as the driver slowly approaches your grandparents estate, your heart couldn’t help but to let up a little. the large white house still sat perfectly on their plot of land.

“yn, sweetheart!” the houses screen door flys open with a screech. your grandmother dressed in a flowing white dress, tan beach hat, arm decorated with small gold bangles and her wedding band catching rays of sun.

the driver places his car in park, opening his door to retrieve your suitcase from the trunk. hopping out of the yellow vehicle, the older lady meets you halfway. wrinkled hands caressing your face, she smiles.

“it’s been too long. you’re all grown up on us!”

before anything could leave your lips, a grunt comes from around the bend of the house. your grandfather, covered in motor oil and dirt caked overalls. he removes his gloves, walking towards you and his wife, smile reaching his ears.

“ah i would hug ya honey but im dirtier than the pigs!”

your grandparents liked the life they lived away from the city. the way they could sit on the wrap around porch, grandfather sipping a beer and grandmother some lemonade, their towns newspaper tucked in their palms. watching as the sun ducked their bright red barn, casting a golden glow over the crops and animals grazing on the lush landscape. the stars peeking through transparent clouds, moon creating its atmosphere in the sky.

your grandmother enjoyed picking fresh fruits from her orchard, baking pies and making jams with the delectable fruits. your grandfather loved the lake that sat on the other side of the large property. growing up you’d grown to love these things about them.

as for yourself? you wouldn’t be caught dead doing half the things they do.

your career path led you to pharmaceutical consulting. working for one of the biggest companies in the world. it wasn’t something you enjoyed, but it funded the life you wanted.

living in a penthouse, well off from the city below you. the work was intense, demanding, and you needed to stay on top of it. anyone is replaceable in jobs such as those.

which is why you put in every single pto hour you had into a month long vacation.

to the middle of nowhere.

the wheels of the suitcase clank against the wooden stairs as your grandfather lugs it up the flight. following behind the older lady, excitement bubbles out of your grandmother while she quickens her pace, rushing to the door at the end of the hallway.

when she pushes the door open, it gives way easily, the hinges murmuring softly. the air that greets you is faintly cool, laced with the sweet scent of spring. someone had left the large french windows cracked open, the lace curtains drifting in slow, ghostly ripples.

“just like you left it, darlin’!” the lady says cheerfully.

stepping in feels like stepping back into a memory too fragile to hold in your hands. the room is pale, almost dreamlike. soft white walls, still wearing faint shadows of posters long torn away, frame the space. A canopy bed sits against the far wall, its sheer, pastel pink and ivory drapes spilling down like delicate water, pooled at the floor as if waiting for someone to step through them. the bed itself is made, layered with quilts of faint creams and frilly edges, whispering of afternoons spent sprawled on its surface with a book or diary.

“mary anne, we gotta get back to town to pick up some more feed for the chickens! ‘for the sun go down! i ain’t got my glasses either.” after placing your suitcase inside the threshold, your grandfather gives the back of your head a slight hold before placing a small kiss to the top.

“okay! okay! you ain’t gotta rush, clyde!” the two eventually leave you alone to unpack and do as you need.

to the right, a dresser waits, its porcelain knobs cool and familiar, though you can see chips where small hands must have struck too hard, too often. a vintage vanity mirrors the scene beside it, its surface cluttered with an array of glass perfume bottles, now dulled with dust. the mirror above has started to haze, its edges flecked with age, but you can still catch glimpses of yourself. a cushioned stool still sits beneath, its ruffled seat faded and threadbare.

the light here is alive. golden and warm, it pours through the cracked windows, catching on floating dust motes that swirl like restless fireflies. outside, unseen branches scratch faintly against the frame, their new leaves brushing with the weightlessness of spring. the breeze curls in through the cracks, carrying the faintest hints of magnolia and freshly turned earth, slipping beneath the canopy and rustling the skirts of the curtains.

there’s a rug in the center of the room, its edges frayed, and around it—near bookshelves that haven’t been touched in years—small details stand out like relics: a porcelain music box with its lid still half-open, a stuffed rabbit missing one eye perched on the window seat. all of it feels caught in a quiet kind of waiting.

your footsteps are softened by the wooden floor beneath, the boards groaning faintly under your weight. you look around and inhale deeply. it smells faintly of lavender, of clean linens, freshly cut grass, and mahogany wood.

the hot water washes away the weight of the morning and plane rides, the steam curling in soft, misty clouds that cling to the glass. you stand under the spray longer than you need to, letting it loosen muscles you hadn’t realized were tight, letting it strip the last remnants of dust from your skin. when you finally step out, the room feels cooler, the steam clinging to the mirror and walls in beads of condensation.

lathing your body in cocoa butter and applying a fair amount of lip balm.

you pull on something simple: a soft white tank top and a pair of loose cerulean cotton shorts, light enough to let the sun find your skin. carefully pulling your shower cap off, the water droplets falling down to your shoulders, running off your moisturized skin. you grab a new bottle of sunscreen from your spwarled out suitcase, the book ‘if cats disappeared from the world’, and your black chanel sunglasses.

as you make your way barefoot down the creaking staircase, everything tucked in between your arm. the house warm and bright in a way that feels both lived-in and empty. you’re halfway to the back porch when the front door swings open, and your grandparents call for your attention.

“hey, hold up a minute-” your grandfather says, pausing just inside the doorway, his hat in one hand and the keys to the truck jangling in the other. Your grandmother lingers behind him, hands resting on her hips, her face soft but serious.

“-we’re headed into town for a bit.” she says. “need some supplies for the farm and a few other things.”

you nod, shifting your weight onto one foot as you glance toward the back porch, toward the promise of sun and quiet.

“‘fore you run off-” your grandfather adds, pulling the hat onto his head.

“one of the town boys is ‘posed to be stoppin’ by. hes gone take a look at the barn, see about fixin’ up some of the beams we been neglectin’.”

“you’ll know him when you see him.” she says, a touch warily.

“so just keep an eye out. he’s probably fine, but you know how folks can be.”

something about their tone. half warning, half habit. makes you bristle. you know how quickly people judge someone based on a name, a family, a shadow cast long before them.

“all right.” you say lightly, hoping to end the conversation before it becomes something heavier.

“i’ll be outside if he shows up.”

your grandmother nods, giving you one last lingering look, and then they’re gone—boots on the porch steps, the truck’s engine growling to life and disappearing down the road. you linger by the door for a moment, watching the dust settle in the empty yard. the house feels quieter now, a little too still.

when you turn toward the back porch, the sunlight calls to you again, warm and golden, a balm for whatever comes next.

the back door opens swiftly, letting in gusts of spring air to sweep across the floors. trudging through the plains of grass tickling your thighs, you find yourself at the small floating pond your grandfather built. it sat in front of the large red barn, creating a scene of what farm living actually is.

the pond is fairly quiet, except for the hum of cicadas and the faint lapping of water against its banks. the cows deep moo a little in the distance. the sun hangs high, drenching everything in gold, and the heat wraps around you like a second skin.

you’re stretched out on a reclined lawn chair, a thin towel draped beneath you to catch the sweat. your sunglasses shield your eyes, and a book rests open in your hands, though the words blur a little under the laziness of the afternoon. a half eaten sandwich and a glass of fresh strawberry lemonade sweats beside you, the condensation leaving rings of water on the tiny wooden table. it’s sweet and cold against your tongue, a small relief in the heaviness of the heat.

your top is flung casually over the back of the chair, leaving you in a white bathing suit, comfortable and unbothered as you let the sun soak into your skin. the soft breeze off the water kisses your shoulders every now and then, rustling the pages of your book.

it isn’t until the sharp, uneven sound of boots on gravel carries over the quiet that you lift your sunglasses, brow pinching.

at first, you only catch a shadow moving toward you from the far side of the reservoir. someone tall, broad-shouldered, and clearly not your grandparents.

“hey!” the voice calls, deep but rough, like he hasn’t spoken much today.

you sit up a little straighter, your sunglasses slipping down the bridge of your nose as you look him over. he’s closer now, close enough for you to see the sharp lines of his face, the way dark hair falls a little too messily over his forehead. he’s wearing a plain t-shirt, worn jeans stained at the knees, and scuffed boots that kick up small puffs of dirt as he moves. there’s a toolbox in his hand, which he sets down carelessly at his feet.

“you’re, uh…-” he trails off, scanning you quickly before looking away, his jaw tight. he was issued to seeing old people on this property. but you were a sight for sore eyes. he couldn’t help but fixate his green eyes back onto you. watching as the beads of condensation dripped from the glass to your exposed cleavage, sliding down between your moisturized boobs. that were too big for the swim top your sported. his eyes fed off the way your e/c* eyes shined in the light under the black shields, lips glistening under the rays.

“im here for the barn. your grandparents said someone would be around.” his words are tight and frigid.

you blink, caught between annoyance and curiosity.

“yeah, they mentioned you.” you let your sunglasses slide back into place, leaning back in the chair as if his presence hasn’t disrupted anything.

“didn’t realize you’d be here so soon.”

“you’re welcome.” he mutters, a hint of sarcasm threading through the words as he squats to grab the toolbox.

you raise a brow, bristling.

“didn’t say i was thanking you.”

that makes him pause, glancing up through his lashes like he can’t decide whether to be amused or annoyed. a scoff releases from his lips.

“you sure are a real warm welcome, huh? and you’re reading a book about.. cats?”

“and you’re a little grumpy for someone who just got here. not that it’s any of your concern, i prefer cats over mutts.”

he huffs out a breath, maybe a laugh, but it’s hard to tell, and shakes his head, muttering something you can’t quite hear. you watch as he straightens up again, swiping the back of his hand across his forehead as if to dismiss you entirely.

“look, i’ll stay outta your way. just here to fix the barn, ma’am.” he says, nodding toward the distant structure.

“you can go back to… whatever this is.” his gaze flickers briefly over your lemonade, the book, your sprawled-out figure in the sun, before he turns on his heel and starts walking toward the barn.

you glare after him, irritation bubbling to the surface. the nerve of him, showing up out of nowhere with a chip on his shoulder like you’re the one invading his day.

“you’re welcome.” you call after him pointedly, though he doesn’t stop, just throws a hand up in a half-hearted wave of dismissal.

the barn door groans open in the distance, and you sink back into your chair with a huff, flipping your book shut. for the first time all day, the quiet doesn’t feel so peaceful anymore.

he had been long gone by the time your grandparents arrived back at the house. watching the sun set on the horizon out of the kitchen windows, casting a warm orange and pink hue to the house. you couldn’t help but to think about how strange of an interaction that was today.

“some’ wrong, darlin’?” your grandfather asks, pulling apart a small peice of his dinner roll, slipping it into his mouth.

“nothing papa. just tired i think. not really used to the time difference again.”

-

the kitchen smells like sugar, butter, and lemon zest. thick and warm in the morning light streaming through the windows. you stand beside your grandmother at the granite counter, your hands dusted in flour as you work a soft, pliable ball of dough, rolling it carefully under her watchful gaze. the little puffs of flour catch the light as they float lazily to the counter, turning the morning into something hazy and dreamlike. outside, the morning doves are already humming, and the breeze carries the faintest whiff of honeysuckle through the cracked window above the sink.

“not too thin now, dear.” your grandmother says gently, leaning over to inspect your work. her hair is pinned back neatly, and there’s a streak of flour on her cheek that she hasn’t noticed.

“these tarts need some structure, or they’ll fall apart ‘fore they make it to the church. we can’t have a lock in with no tarts, honey.”

“yes, ma’am.” you mutter, suppressing a small smile as you focus on the dough, guiding it into perfect little circles for the tart shells.

the table is cluttered with bowls and ingredients. deep red raspberries, bright and glistening, piled in a pale ceramic dish; a glass juicer with lemon pulp still clinging to its grooves; a small jar of sugar, the lid left slightly askew. your grandmother moves around the kitchen like she always has. calm, methodical, humming a hymn under her breath as she fills the air with the scent of baking pastry. you help her spoon the tart mixture into the shells, carefully pressing a few raspberries into each before she slides them into the oven, her hands covered in oven mitts patterned with sunflowers.

while the tarts bake, she chats softly about who will be at the church service, about old friends and new faces, her voice lilting as if trying to bridge the years that you’ve been gone. it’s comforting, her easy way of speaking, and you let it wash over you as you wipe down the counters, the scent of caramelizing sugar growing richer by the minute.

“i really appreciate your help this mornin’.” her sweet voice fills the silence.

your grandfather appears in the doorway just as you’re checking the tarts, a small grin tucked beneath his mustache. hes holding a set of keys. old, scratched, and gleaming faintly in his calloused hand.

“got something for ya.” he says, the words light but carrying a weight that makes you stop mid-step.

your grandmother glances over her shoulder, smiling softly as if she’s been expecting this.

“go on, now. see what he’s got.”

you follow your grandfather outside, the morning sun already high and hot, the light pooling across the gravel driveway. parked just off to the side of the house is a truck—not new by any stretch of the imagination, but clean, its pale blue paint shining faintly in the sunlight. it’s an older model, rounded and boxy in that classic way, and you can see where he’s spent hours tinkering with it. fresh tires, a polished hood, the faint scent of oil and steel lingering in the air.

“you’re givin’ me this?” you ask, a little breathless.

“sure am.” he replies, pressing the keys into your palm with a nod that’s gruff but affectionate.

“i’ve been workin’ on it a few months now. runs smooth s’ever. figured you might want somethin’ to get around while you’re here.”

the gesture hits you harder than you expect, and you swallow against the sudden warmth building in your chest.

“thank you,” you say softly, running your fingers over the keys before looking back at him.

he pats your shoulder in that firm, no-nonsense way of his.

“you go on, take her for a spin. just don’t let it sit idle too long, y’hear?”

you decide you can’t possibly drive your new truck around town in the same pajama bottoms and rumpled tank top you’ve been in since morning. after a quick shower, you stand in front of the mirror in your childhood bedroom, brushing your hair as the sun filters softly through the lace curtains. you choose something easy. a flowy white sundress, the fabric soft against your skin, cinched at the waist, flaring out below. it’s the kind of dress that moves when you walk, catching the breeze and making you feel like youre floating. slipping on tan sandals and grabbing your sunglasses.

sliding into the truck feels surreal, the leather of the driver’s seat warm beneath your legs as you turn the ignition. the engine rumbles to life with a satisfying purr, and you grip the wheel with a grin you can’t quite suppress.

the drive into town is nothing short of idyllic. the windows are rolled down, the warm breeze tugging at your hair and the hem of your dress as you cruise past fields of tall grass and wildflowers. radio crackles softly, static giving way to an old country song you don’t recognize but hum along to anyway. the town comes into view slowly. a handful of streets lined with brick buildings, white picket fences, and storefronts with painted signs. it’s small and familiar, a place where everyone knows everyone, and yet it feels entirely new through your eyes.

you park the truck just off the main street, slipping the keys into your bag before heading toward the square. the town is quiet, but there’s enough movement to remind you that life trickles on here. people chatting on porches, kids weaving through alleys on their bikes, a group of guys sitting on the bed of an old truck parked near the general store.

you don’t notice them at first, too busy taking in the details of the place. but their voices, loud and lazy—drift over as you pass.

“well, well.” one of them drawls, amusement curling through the words.

“ain’t expect to see you all the way out here.”

you glance over sharply, your gaze landing on none other than him. eren jaeger. leaned back against the tailgate of the truck, his arms crossed and a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. his friends exchange looks that border on curious and entertained.

“didn’t expect you to talk to me.” you shoot back without missing a beat, stopping just a few feet away.

eren raises a brow, clearly enjoying this already.

“oh, don’t worry. i’m just surprised you’re not still sunbathing by the pond, princess.”

“princess? it’s yn to you. and all of you.” you repeat, folding your arms across your chest.

“also, big talk for someone who can’t even find full jeans.” your acrylic points to the dirty man-made holes decorating the boys jeans.

that earns you a snort of laughter from one of his friends, but eren just tilts his head slightly, the smirk never faltering.

“guess you’re still mad about yesterday. why you so upset at me, darlin’?”

“mad? please.” you say, rolling your eyes. “nothing even happened.”

“mmh. sure you aren’t.” he says, pushing off the tailgate to stand up fully, his height a little more imposing up close. there’s something sharp about him. his voice, his gaze, but beneath it is something else, something less certain. you get the feeling he’s used to being looked at sideways, just like your grandparents warned you about.

“you always this charming, or is it just for me?” you ask, tipping your chin up slightly. eyes meeting his low green ones.

he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as his friends snicker quietly behind him.

“you’re somethin’ else.” he mutters, more to himself than to you. turning on your heels, you rush to excape the uncomfortable encounter.

“see you around, princess.”

-

the next day stretches out slow and quiet. the house feels bigger without your grandparents, their absence leaving a stillness that clings to every corner. you’ve taken full advantage of the solitude, padding barefoot through the rooms in an oversized t-shirt and little else. the fabric brushes against your thighs as you move, worn soft with age, like an old friend. the back of the shirt reads something about a fishing derby from a year that predates you, and you’ve rolled the sleeves haphazardly up your shoulders, letting the collar slip wide against your collarbone.

you spend the morning lazing on the couch, your legs sprawled across the cushions as you flip halfheartedly through a book you aren’t really reading. somewhere outside, birds chatter, and the cicadas hum their slow, pulsing chorus.

it’s the kind of day where time feels like it doesn’t exist. you shuffle into the kitchen whenever you’re hungry, toast a bagel you don’t finish, drink lemonade straight from the pitcher, and leave the radio on low just to fill the silence. some soft, crooning voice filters through the speakers, adding to the lazy weight of the afternoon.

you’re perched on the arm of the couch, knees drawn up to your chest, flipping through an old fashion magazine you found tucked in a drawer when the knock comes, sharp and sudden against the door.

it startles you, your head snapping up as the noise echoes through the quiet house. the second knock follows quickly, impatient this time. you glance toward the clock on the wall, but it’s no help, just another reminder that time isn’t real today.

frowning, you slide off the couch, tugging the hem of your t-shirt self-consciously as you head toward the door. the knob feels cool beneath your fingers as you pull it open just far enough to see who it is.

and there he is.

eren, standing on your grandparents’ front porch like he belongs there, though his posture suggests otherwise. hes got one hand braced against the doorframe, his other hooked loosely in the pocket of his jeans. a thin white t-shirt clings to him in the heat, faint smudges of dirt streaked across the fabric like he’s been working outside all day. his dark hair looks even messier than it did before. some tucked into the cowboy hat, other strands falling over his forehead and curling faintly from the humidity.

for a moment, he doesn’t say anything, his gaze catching on your bare legs before he flicks his eyes up to meet yours. his expression shifts, something unreadable dancing just beneath the surface. you realize too late how you must look: hair messy, t-shirt oversized and sliding off your shoulder, a little breathless from having rushed to the door.

“what?” you say finally, crossing your arms over your chest as if that might protect you from the way he’s looking at you.

“nice greeting.” he says dryly, his voice low and a little rough around the edges.

“well, you did show up uninvited.” you shoot back, arching a brow.

“what do you want?”

eren exhales through his nose, almost like he’s amused but trying not to show it.

“your grandparents asked me to stop by. said there’s a busted pipe in the barn and they didn’t want to wait until they got back to fix it.”

you frown, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe.

“and they sent you?”

“clearly.” his lips twitch, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.

“believe it or not, i know how to do more than just piss you off.”

you roll your eyes, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“well, the barn’s out back. you know where it is. the big. red. building.”

“i do. smartass.” he says, but he doesn’t move, and there’s a spark of something in his eyes. mischief, maybe. that makes you suddenly aware of just how much skin your t-shirt doesn’t cover.

“what?” you ask again, sharper this time.

“nothing.” he shrugs, the movement lazy as he pushes off the doorframe and takes a step back.

“just didn’t peg you for the type to lounge around in your underwear all day. but what do i know? you wore a bikini outside.”

heat flashes across your cheeks instantly, and you grip the edge of the door tighter.

“it’s not underwear, creep. it’s comfortable.”

“sure.” he says, smirk fully formed now as he starts toward the barn, hands tucked into his pockets.

“looks real… comfortable.”

you slam the door before he can say anything else, the wood rattling in the frame.

“asshole.” you mutter under your breath, but your voice is drowned out by the sound of his boots on the gravel, his laughter carrying faintly through the cracked window.

the hum of the radio drifts on, and sunlight still slants through the windows, but something about the space feels restless now. like the air has been disturbed and won’t settle again. you find yourself standing by the door, chewing your lip and staring at nothing in particular.

it’s curiosity, you decide. that’s all it is. you’re just curious about him. about the boy who showed up at your door unannounced, dripping sarcasm like it’s second nature, as though he thrives on pressing your buttons. that’s why, after pacing the kitchen once or twice, you tug on a pair of shoes and head outside.

the barn stands at the back of the property, worn and familiar, its paint faded and roof patched with tin that glints under the afternoon sun. the gravel crunches beneath your feet as you cross the yard, your shadow stretching long ahead of you. you can hear him before you see him. something clattering against metal, followed by a low muttered curse that drifts out through the open barn doors.

you pause just outside, peeking around the corner. eren is crouched low near the base of a wooden post, his toolbox spread out beside him, sleeves shoved up to his elbows. sweat glistens faintly along the line of his neck, dark hair curling slightly against his temple, though he seems too focused on whatever he’s fixing to notice you.

“i hope you don’t talk to the pipes like that.” you say, stepping into the doorway.

eren glances up sharply, his eyes narrowing as soon as he sees you.

“what are you doing in here?”

“just checking on you.” you lean against the frame, arms crossed, the hem of your t-shirt fluttering faintly in the breeze.

“you could be in here stealing, for all I know.”

he snorts, turning back to the pipe.

“yeah, im gonna steal an old tractor and a pile’a hay. that’ll really set me up for life.”

“you’ve got the attitude for it.” you shoot back.

eren doesn’t respond right away, just reaches into his toolbox and pulls out a wrench, testing the pipe with a faint metallic screech. you take the opportunity to wander further into the barn, your bare legs brushing against the dust-speckled air, the smell of earth and old wood thick in your nose.

“don’t distract me.” he mutters after a moment, though there’s no real heat in it.

“distract you from what?” you ask, looking over your shoulder at him.

“you seem like you know what you’re doing.”

“i do.” he replies quickly, then pauses to glance up at you again, that familiar edge of sarcasm tugging at his voice.

“but I don’t need you hovering over me like a supervisor.”

“im not hovering.” you say, wandering toward the ladder that leads up to the loft. You trail your fingers along a beam as you go, the wood rough and splintered beneath your touch.

“im just… observing.”

“observing me.” he corrects, the corner of his mouth twitching.

you shrug, tilting your head to look at him.

“maybe. you’re hard to figure out.”

“well… why are ya tryin’ t’figure me out?” he fires back, turning his full attention to you now. his gaze is sharp, but there’s something behind it. something curious, like he’s trying to pick you apart the same way you’re doing to him.

you hesitate, feeling your face heat up despite yourself.

“im just bored.”

“bored ?” eren repeats, his voice dry.

“well, sorry im not here to entertain you, princess.”

you bristle at the nickname, pushing off the beam to face him fully.

“will you quit calling me that?”

“what?” he says, smirking now. “does it bother you?”

“obviously.”

“good.” he huffs a quiet laugh under his breath, shaking his head as he goes back to the pipe, adjusting the wrench with a sharp twist. the muscles in his forearm flex with the movement, beads of sweat dripping from his body.

“you’re insufferable.” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you turn and start to climb the ladder to the loft. the wood creaks faintly under your hands and feet, but you ignore it, needing to put a little distance between you and him.

“where are you going?” he calls from below, sounding more amused than anything.

“away from you!” you shout back, hoisting yourself onto the loft and brushing the dust from your knees. the space is dim, beams of sunlight filtering through the slats in the walls, catching on cobwebs and hay strewn across the floor. you sink down near the edge, letting your legs dangle as you glance back down at him.

“don’t worry. i won’t distract you from all your hard work.”

eren glances up at you with a look that’s half exasperation, half something else. he stands, tossing the wrench back into his toolbox with a faint clatter.

“or you could just gone back in the house. you’re a real piece’a work, you know that?”

“you’re one to talk.” you shoot back, swinging your feet slightly.

“you act like you hate me, but you keep showing up.”

“i don’t hate you and i keep showing up for your folks, not you.” he mutters, scrubbing the back of his hand across his forehead as he looks away.

“you just talk too much.”

“and you’re just cranky.”

he lets out a soft laugh, one that seems to surprise even him. when he looks back at you, his expression is different, though it’s hard to tell in the dappled light of the barn.

“you don’t know anything about me.” he says finally, his voice quieter this time.

you tilt your head, studying the man below you.

“maybe not. but I know you’re not as bad as everyone says you are.”

eren stiffens slightly at that, his jaw ticking as he averts his gaze. for a moment, the only sound is the wind pressing against the barn, rattling the boards, and the distant hum of cicadas.

“you don’t know that either. and what about you, huh? showing’ up outta nowhere. bein’ as bossy as you are?” he says eventually, his tone flat.

“im a pretty good judge of character. and i used to live here. a lot changes in fifteen years.”

he scoffs, but there’s no real bite to it.

“you’re annoying.”

“and yet you’re still here.” you say, letting a smile creep onto your face.

the loft creaks beneath you, but you don’t think much of it at first. it’s old, worn by years of weight and weather, and the barn itself seems to hum with the memory of its age. eren is below, fiddling with his toolbox, muttering curses under his breath as he wrestles with some stubborn pipe or post. you’re perched on the edge of the loft, legs dangling as you watch him, not bothering to hide your smirk.

“you’re taking forever.” you tease, your voice carrying through the barn.

eren pauses, glancing up with an annoyed glare.

“if you think you can do it faster, darlin’ , be my guest.”

“oh, i didn’t say that.” you reply, leaning back with a huff of satisfaction.

“i’m just observing how inefficient you are.”

he mutters something under his breath, shaking his head, and you’re about to push his buttons again when the sharp sound of splintering wood freezes you. the beam beneath you gives a slow, aching groan. erens head shoots up, noticing the lift giving in right where you sat.

you don’t have time to react. the wood cracks loudly, shattering the stillness, and suddenly you’re falling.

it happens in a rush. your stomach lurching, air rushing past you, hands scrambling for anything to grab. you hit something solid but not the ground. the impact knocks the wind out of you, but there are arms around you, holding you tightly.

“jesus christ!” eren’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and alarmed. “are you stupid?”

your brain catches up slowly, heart still slamming against your ribs as you look up to find eren staring down at you. his face is just inches from yours, his arms wrapped firmly around you where he caught you before you could hit the floor.

“i—” you start to say, but the words catch in your throat.

eren lets out a breath, long and shaky, as he lowers you carefully to the barn floor. his hands linger at your sides, steadying you. “are you okay?”

you try to nod, but then you feel it. the sharp, searing pain radiating up your leg. you wince, shifting slightly, and his eyes dart downward.

“you’re hurt.” he says flatly.

“no, i’m fine,” you lie, but as soon as you move your leg, the pain worsens. you look down to see a gash along your shin, blood streaking your skin where the wood must have splintered against you.

eren notices immediately.

“shit-” he mutters, reaching for you before you can protest. “don’t move.”

“eren, i’m fine,” you insist, but your voice wavers when you try to put weight on your leg.

“yeah, sure you are,” he shoots back, already scooping you up before you can argue. his arms slide beneath your knees and back, lifting you effortlessly.

“stop squirming, unless you wanna make this worse.”

you freeze, stunned at the way he carries you, like you weigh nothing at all. his face is set, focused, though you swear you can see a flicker of concern beneath the irritation.

“you don’t have to carry me.” you mumble, feeling heat creep up your neck.

he doesn’t look at you. “and what, let you drag yourself back to the house? don’t be stupid. now imma have to fix up the loft.”

the walk back to the house feels longer than usual, the silence stretching between you save for the crunch of his boots against the dirt. you steal glances at him—at the way his brow furrows in concentration, at the way his arms flex slightly beneath your weight. his grip is careful, like he’s afraid of jostling you too much.

“you’re really dramatic, you know.” you say quietly, trying to lighten the mood.

eren snorts, glancing down at you with a raised brow.

“me? you’re the one who decided to fall through the damn barn.”

“it wasn’t a choice.” you mutter, pouting slightly.

“whatever you say, princess.”

he carries you through the front door like it’s nothing, kicking it open with his boot before setting you down gently on the couch. the shift makes you wince, and he notices, crouching beside you immediately.

“last door on the left, under the sink.”

“stay put.” he says, voice low but firm, before disappearing into the bathroom.

you sigh, leaning your head back against the cushions as the adrenaline starts to wear off, leaving behind nothing but the dull ache in your leg and the embarrassment settling deep in your chest.

when eren comes back, he’s holding the first aid kit and a damp towel. he drops onto the floor in front of you, his knees brushing the edge of the couch as he sets everything down.

“this might sting.” he warns, wetting the towel before carefully pressing it to your shin.

you hiss through your teeth, nails curling into the couch cushion. “you could be a little gentler, you know.”

“i am being gentle.” he says, though his tone lacks its usual bite. he works quickly, cleaning the blood and dirt from the scrape before carefully dabbing it dry.

you watch him quietly as he unwraps a roll of gauze, his movements surprisingly careful, his expression softer than you’ve seen before.

“you didn’t have to do all this.” you say softly.

eren doesn’t look up, focused on securing the bandage.

“yeah, well. you’re not exactly good at taking care of yourself.”

“is that your way of saying you care?”

he pauses for half a second, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. the look he gives you is unreadable, but there’s something there. something warm.

“just… don’t do anything stupid like that again.” he mutters, his gaze dropping back to the bandage.

you bite back a smile, watching as he finishes and sits back on his heels. his hands linger on your leg for a moment, testing to make sure the gauze is secure before he finally stands.

“thanks.” you say quietly, your voice soft.

eren just shrugs, grabbing the first aid kit and standing to his full height. “don’t mention it.”

you try to mimic his movements, grabbing onto the arm of the couch for support until the pain shoots you right back down. eren wastes no time meeting you at eye level again, frowing a little.

“you need to stay put. stop being so damn hardheaded, yn.”

“finally you use my name.” his eyes burn deep holes into yours, brown chunks of hair framing his face.

“eh. i still like princess.”

he pauses, just for a second, as if he’s considering something. then he turns, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.

“both are real pretty though.” he mutters, but his voice is quieter now, softer. there’s an edge of something else there, something that’s hard to place.

you feel your heart pick up, and before you can even process the thought, before you can even think to stop him, he’s closing the space between you. his hand comes to rest gently on the side of your face, and then, with surprising tenderness, he leans in. the kiss is slow, hesitant at first. just a brush of lips against yours. but it deepens quickly, and for a moment, it feels like time itself is holding its breath. maybe you were holding your breath. his hand curls around the back of your neck, and you instinctively lean into him, eyes fluttering shut as the warmth of his lips presses against yours, soft and urgent.

the kiss is over almost as soon as it started, and when he pulls back, his face is so close to yours that you can feel his breath on your skin. his eyes are dark, a little unsure, but there’s something raw there too.

“eren?” you whisper, breathless, unsure of what to say, what to do with the sudden surge of emotions.

he doesn’t speak at first, just looks at you like he’s trying to figure you out. his fingers linger against your skin for a second too long before he pulls away, stepping back.

“um, guess i’ll get going then.” he says, voice low, almost like he’s unsure of himself for the first time.

he basically rushes out the front door, leaving you with a bloody gauze pad wrapped around your shin and a sense of confusion.

-

the farmer’s market buzzes softly with life. the air smells of ripe peaches and freshly baked bread, and the sunlight filters through the trees, dappled and golden. you weave through the crowd, your basket swinging lightly on your arm, filled with a small loaf of sourdough and a jar of honey. it’s your favorite part of the week, wandering between the stalls, picking out produce and listening to the steady murmur of the townsfolk.

you’ve got a small crumpled list tucked into your hand: oat milk, a jar of honey, maybe some fresh greens, and you’re weaving your way through the market when you spot him. eren. he’s standing with a man you can only assume is his father. the resemblance is impossible to miss: the sharpness of the jawline, the same dark hair, though his father’s is streaked with gray, and the way they both carry themselves. quiet and a little standoffish. they’re posted at a vegetable stand, crates of carrots, onions, and cucumbers spread out before them. eren’s arms are crossed as he listens to something his father says, his brow furrowed like he’s only half paying attention.

something about the way eren glances around, almost restless, makes you hesitate. you watch for a beat longer, tucked slightly behind another booth, debating whether to approach. but then eren looks up, and his gaze lands on you. for a second, he’s still, his face unreadable. then his eyes shift slightly, narrowing, and it almost feels like he’s warning you.

you step forward anyway, hobbling a little on your sore leg.

“eren.” you say, your voice soft but steady. his name feels strangely loud against the background chatter, and both he and his father turn to look at you.

eren’s face tightens slightly, but he doesn’t look away. his father, on the other hand, gives you a long, slow once-over, his sharp green eyes cutting into you with a coolness that makes your chest tighten.

“who’s this?” his father asks, his tone mild but clipped, like the words have edges.

“yn, sir.” you offer quickly, stepping closer and giving him a polite smile.

“i’ve been staying with my grandparents for the spring. i’ve seen eren around, so i thought i’d introduce myself. he helps around a lot.”

you hold out your hand, but his father doesn’t take it. instead, he leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the booth’s counter, his gaze steady and unwavering.

“introducing yr’self, huh?” he says, his voice light, almost amused, but there’s something underneath it, something just sharp enough to make your stomach flip.

“not many of the town folk bother to stop by our booth, let’lone introduce themselves. guess you must be curious.”

you pull your hand back awkwardly, your smile faltering as you glance at eren.

“i just thought it would be nice, sir. i apologize.” you reply, trying to keep your voice even.

“your vegetables do look great.”

his father lets out a soft huff of a laugh, barely more than an exhale.

“yeah, they do, don’t they? we put a lotta work into this land. more than most people around here would know.”

eren shifts beside him, his jaw tightening.

“dad.” he mutters under his breath, but his father doesn’t even glance at him.

“you stayin’ with the wrights?” his father asks, tilting his head slightly.

“figured. they’re good people, always minding their own business. shame not everyone in town does the same.”

you blink, the words settling in your chest like stones. there’s no malice in his tone, not directly, but the weight of them is unmistakable.

eren’s hand comes up to rub the back of his neck, his shoulders tense.

“she’s just trying to be nice.” he says, his voice low, almost resigned, like he knows it won’t make a difference.

his father finally straightens, dusting his hands off on his jeans.

“nice is fine-” he says, glancing at you again. “-but not everyone ‘round here is friendly as they seem. might be worth ‘membering.”

the air between you feels tight, uncomfortable, and you’re not entirely sure if his words are meant as advice or something closer to a warning. you force another smile, even though your face feels stiff, and take a small step back.

“well, it was nice meeting you.” you say, your voice a little quieter now.

“i’ll let you both get back to work.”

eren looks at you then, his lips pressing together like he wants to say something but can’t. his father, however, just gives you a small, curt nod.

“have a good day, darlin’.” he says, the words clipped and formal.

you turn quickly, your cheeks burning, and make your way back into the flow of the market. the cheerful voices and warm sunlight feel duller now, muted by the lingering tension.

it’s not until you’ve stopped by another stall, pretending to inspect a bunch of lavender, that you feel eren’s presence beside you. you glance up, and there he is, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his face pulled into a scowl.

“sorry about him.” he mutters, his voice low. “he’s… he’s just like that.”

you shrug, trying to act like it didn’t bother you, though the knot in your stomach hasn’t quite eased.

“it’s fine.” you say softly, but the look he gives you says he doesn’t believe you.

for a moment, neither of you speaks. the market swirls around you, full of life and sound, but between you, there’s only a quiet tension. finally, eren sighs, tilting his head toward the edge of the market.

“come on,” he says. “let’s get out of here.”

-

you’ve learned to move quietly, to slip through the back door of the house when no one’s looking, to meet him at the edge of the woods by the lake when the sun has set and the stars are just beginning to prick the sky. everything feels like it’s wrapped in silence, soft and secretive. even the air between you seems charged with something unspoken, something thrilling. for two weeks.

he was addictive.

soft whispers under your large quilts as his lips traced kisses from your neck to lips. engulfing you in a warm embrace. wind blowing through the windows he snuck into.

he loved seeing you drive past him casually in your truck while picking up groceries for your grandmother. watching your hair whip in the wind and the low hum of the trucks engine passing by.

when you and him sat in his living room, playing with the golden lab he named ‘scout’ when he was four. your fingers comb through his mane, tilting your face upwards to avoid from being licked by the drooling animal.

whenever your grandparents gave him yet another daunting task around the farm, he’d watch as your sprawled out in a bikini. sipping the sweet tea, beach hat shading your face. watching as the droplets of water dripped down your chest. he’d hate to admit how many times he’s almost nailed his hands to the barn.

“you okay over there?” your arm, half up in a wave, drawling his attention from your new position. you lay on your chest, slowly pulling at the strings holding your top up. letting them dangle off the side of the chair, you slide the waistline of your bottoms down a little.

“eren! why don’t you come have some lemonade with me?”

you were driving him nuts.

he loved how lively you would get after spending the afternoons in a tiny, quaint bar located on the outskirts of town.

the drives back usually consisting of you halfway out the passenger window, eyes gazing up at the sky as you took advantage of the open landscape. eren would watch you intensely, eyes bouncing from the road back to you.

pulling into erens dirty path driveway, he pulls your body across the long front seat, carefully tucking his arms under your knees and around your back.

“im not drunkk!” you whine, face buried into the crook of the man’s neck while he places you down softly on the dark leather couch. closing his front door, his hand runs through his brown locs with an exasperated sigh.

“you need to sober up so i can take you home, yn. i ain’t trynna deal with a angry mob of old church people.” his height blinds out everything in your path as he stands over you. his large hands cup your face gently.

“boy im grown, come here.” you whisper, pulling him down by the forearm, eyes never leaving his. green eye flicker from your eyes to your glossed lips. your essence was like a gravitational pull.

lips locked onto one another, you can’t help but to notice he much softer his lips have gotten.

“you been exfoliating?”

“i’on know what that is, shut up and kiss me.”

it was hungry. borderline filthy the way his hands rubbed you down slowly. caressing the dips of your waist, cold jewelry slides across your stomach, hitching your breath. the tank top you wore stood no chance. brown nipples poking through the sheer cotton fabric.

hes smiling. feeling his hands roam you so freely. he couldn’t help but to take his thumbs and pointer fingers, slipping them into his mouth and out with a quick pop! going back under your shirt, he takes your perky buds in between his fingers, rolling them slowly as the rest of his hands cup your breast.

“oh! eren- oh my god.”

his lips pepper kisses all over your exposed skin, nipping at spots before kissing over the pain. hands roam down to your thighs, giving them tight grips before sliding down the couch.

eyes latched onto each other, you can’t help but to whine.

“please eren.”

this was the first time in years you’ve felt this strong of an attraction towards someone else. crazy for it to be eren of all people.

“please, what?” he’s slowly tugging at the drawstrings of the shorts you wore. eyes locked on you with a burning passion. sitting up against the arm of the couch, your shorts make it to the other side of the room.

your jaw is wide , eren hissing when you tug at his long brown locks. the moment he’s sliding his middle fingers into your burning core, stretching you open as his thumb slowly teases your clit. his body proceeding lower, all you can feel is slight gust of air hitting your cunt. his lips wrap gently around the swollen bud, sucking agonizingly slow, saliva and slick stick to the man’s face. he hums into your taste, wrapping his arms around the base of your thighs. he laid fully out on the couch.

instantly, you’re falling apart. moans breaking out in short whimpers and high gasps, grinding into his palm and nose. feeling his tongue slip inside your clenching hole, only to add two of his slender fingers.

his fingers scissor up into your throbbing cunt, hitting your sweet spot.

“babyy” you whimper, barely able to get anything out with the man’s face devouring you below. eyes closed in euphoria and concentration. hands interlocked into his head full of hair, your moans grow louder.

“doin’ such a good fuckin’ job, princess.”

feeling how he used his thumbs to spread open your pussy, using his tongue to penetrate your clenching hole. his tongue dips into you, coating his tongue in your cum, before coming back out and circling your swollen bud. the repetitive sensation sends you into a fit of louder moans, enticing the man to keep going.

“oh! ba- fu,fuck eren! im fucking c-“ the pressure builds, coiling tighter in your abdomen until you can't hold back anymore. not even when you’re cumming all over the man’s face, does he stop. he wants more now. he needs more.

from the first day he saw you out by the water, he knew he wanted you for himself. he watched the way you interacted with the townsfolk and farm animals. how sexy you were effortlessly. walking around your grandparents farm with nothing but a bikini on and practically see through shorts.

he hated to see other men in town look at you. the way the old, decrepit men would sit in the farmers markets and watch you browse around. whispering to each other while you naively chose your fruits and vegetables.

he didn’t want to share you with anyone.

his body jolts to a standing position, with ease he’s dipping down to pick you up off the couch. a large wet spot decorated the leather where you lie. he’s carrying you over his shoulder down the narrow hallway of the house.

“where we goin’?” you ask, eyes low and hazy.

you make it to the well decorated room. posters and band prints scattered on the wall , a radio sat in the corner, humming random songs from the station eren left it on. his bed was royal blue and well kept.

that was until you were being pounded into the bed.

you nails grip for anything they can reach. digging straight into the bed set, while his throbbing cock dips in and out of you. he has your right leg thrown over his shoulder, hands pinned to your waist as he draws out. face twisting in pleasure. his dick coated in the slippery substance, a faint white line forming the base of his cock as he moves in and out of you repeatedly .

“makin’ such a mess on me. pretty fuckin girl.”

he waste no time, throwing your other leg over his shoulder, locking you in as he quickens his pace. shallow breaths escape his mouth, eyes locked in concentration. you’re stuck with your mouth in an -o- shape as the man pounds you relentlessly. with a swift pull out, he taps against your side.

“on your knees, princess.”

on all fours, he wastes no time reinserting himself, bottoming out while his nails dig into the supple skin on your waist. the sound of skin slapping together and the wet squelches of your abused cunt bounce off the walls, filling your ears.

“i’ve wanted you for so long, you’re so good to me- fuck!”

the more your honey coated words fall from your lips, the more the man wants to ruin you. he wants to see you beg for him. he needed to have it.

pulling your arms from under you, he pins them to your back, locking you in an unforgiving arch. he feeds you slow, agonizing pleasing, strokes. loved watching the way your pussy desperately gripped around him as he pulled out.

trying your hardest to escape the abuse of your cervix, you try to pull away, only to receive a fire fueled spank on your ass.

“take this dick, baby. you had all that mouth ‘member? you can do it, i know ya can.”

his pace quickens, yearning for your release. the only thing you can form is small gasps of air as the man shows no mercy on your smaller frame.

“eren! oh shit- im cumming again ple-“

he releases your hands, using his free hand to rub at your clit as he continued fucking into you.

your body goes limp, clear liquid spewing out onto the man’s blankets. he flips you back over, eyes dark and full of hunger still.

“gimme just one more? please, honey. she just so good.”

folded into a middle split off the bed wasn’t something you ever thought you could do. yet here you were, on your back, eren standing in front of you, holding your legs apart.

his hips roll into yours, digging at your inside slowly. head tilted to the side, eyebrows furrowed and eyes low. your hands hold onto his muscular forearm, trying to keep grounded as the man was wearing you out.

with a few more thrust, he pulls out. long white ropes decorate his chest.

“you’re something special, yn.”

-

after your grandparents had gone into town for their usual errands, you find yourself at the edge of the lake, hidden in the soft embrace of the willow trees. the faint glow of fireflies flickers in the warm spring air, and the world feels still, like it’s holding its breath for what’s to come. eren’s there before you, waiting, leaning against a tree with a smile that always makes your stomach flip.

“thought you’d never show up,” he teases, his voice low and smooth, like it’s a secret only meant for you. his eyes flicker over you, and the corner of his mouth pulls into a crooked grin.

“you just like being dramatic,” you reply, though you can feel the flutter in your chest as you walk closer, the pull between you too strong to ignore.

he steps forward, closing the space between you, and before you can say anything else, his lips are on yours. quick, soft, the kind of kiss that leaves you breathless. it’s always like this, quick, a rush of feeling that neither of you can seem to contain. he pulls away just as quickly, his forehead resting against yours, breath mingling with yours in the cool night air.

“you’re insane.” you whisper, though you can’t hide the smile tugging at the corners of your lips.

he grins, taking your hand and guiding you down the worn path toward the lake. the grass brushes against your bare legs, soft and cool under the fading light. the blanket he’s spread out by the water is a patchwork of colors. faded reds and yellows that look almost too bright against the darkening sky.

you settle down beside him, the scent of wildflowers heavy in the air. the lake reflects the dimming stars, the quiet ripples in the water mirroring the racing of your heart.

“y’know. ive been havin’ a lot of fun with you.” he playfully nudges your body, rocking you to the side.

“i know. imma miss you, country boy.” the fake southern accent rolled off your tongue sarcastically. although the tone was funny, something about erens aura shifted.

“what’s up? why’ve you gone all quiet?” you ask, eyes fixated on the male. the moonlight illuminated his face, exposing every freckle, unshaven parts of his face, and his eyes locked onto yours.

“i jus’ really don’t wanna let you go, princess.”

“don’t go all sappy on me now. i’ll visit when i can, you know that right?” he just nods, taking a drink of the beer he had before your arrival. the air was thick and warm, your knees pressed together, watching the water reflect the bedazzled night sky as eren just shuffles in his spot.

“yn, promise ya wont forget me?”

“eren-“ you try to stop the conversation before it happens. instead ending up in a tight hug from the man. his arms latch around your waist, head resting over your shoulder.

“im serious, yn. i ain’t ever felt this way for nobody.” pulling away, all you can see is his bright green eyes burning into yours.

“how could i ever?”

you lean in, your free hand brushing against his jaw as you kiss him. it’s slow, deliberate, and familiar, yet it feels new in the way it sends warmth flooding through you.

his hand comes up to cup the back of your neck, his touch firm but gentle as he deepens the kiss, like he’s trying to hold onto the moment for as long as he can. the world around you fades. the quiet lap of the water against the shore, the soft hum of the crickets. until there’s nothing but him.

when you finally pull back, your foreheads rest together, your breaths mingling in the cool night air. eren’s thumb brushes over the curve of your jaw, and his lips curl into a small, almost sheepish smile.

“you ever thought about visiting the city?”

© vantetaes. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. ageless/blank blogs dni.

random inspo pics at the bottom? yes!

[wheel-of-fish]

Favorite books with autumn vibes

Contemporary

All Souls Trilogy by Deborah Harkness

At the Edge of the Orchard by Tracy Chevalier

For the Wolf by Hannah Witten

The Ghost Bride by Yangsze Choo

The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman

The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova

The Invisible Life of Addie Larue by V.E. Schwab

The Night Circus by Erin Morgenstern

Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo

The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman

The Once and Future Witches by Alix Harrow

The Only Good Indians by Stephen Graham Jones

Piranesi by Susanna Clarke

Red at the Bone by Jaqueline Woodson

The Scholomance Trilogy by Naomi Novik

The Secret History by Donna Tartt

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Luis Zafron

Under the Whispering Door by TJ Klune

Uprooted by Naomi Novik

Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

Classics

And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie

Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery

The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter

Daddy Long Legs by Jean Webster

Dracula by Bram Stoker

Frankenstein by Mary Shelley

The Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen

Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier

The Turn of the Screw by Henry James

We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson

The Woman in Black by Susan Hill

Graphic Novels

My Favorite Thing is Monsters by Emil Ferris

The Sandman Vol. I: Preludes and Nocturnes by Neil Gaiman

Through the Woods by Emily Carroll

Always looking for more! Tell me yours!

[rockislandadultreads]

September NoveList Challenge: Dark Academia

It's time to go back to school! Read a book with the theme dark academia.

Did you know NoveList is a database you can access with your library card to find reading recommendations? Find your next favorite read with this fantastic readers tool! Check it out on our website here.

Piranesi by Susanna Clarke

Piranesi’s house is no ordinary building: its rooms are infinite, its corridors endless, its walls are lined with thousands upon thousands of statues, each one different from all the others. Within the labyrinth of halls an ocean is imprisoned; waves thunder up staircases, rooms are flooded in an instant. But Piranesi is not afraid; he understands the tides as he understands the pattern of the labyrinth itself. He lives to explore the house.

There is one other person in the house—a man called The Other, who visits Piranesi twice a week and asks for help with research into A Great and Secret Knowledge. But as Piranesi explores, evidence emerges of another person, and a terrible truth begins to unravel, revealing a world beyond the one Piranesi has always known.

Magic for Liars by Sarah Gailey

Ivy Gamble has never wanted to be magical. She is perfectly happy with her life. She has an almost-sustainable career as a private investigator, and an empty apartment, and a slight drinking problem. It's a great life and she doesn't wish she was like her estranged sister, the magically gifted professor Tabitha.

But when Ivy is hired to investigate the gruesome murder of a faculty member at Tabitha’s private academy, the stalwart detective starts to lose herself in the case, the life she could have had, and the answer to the mystery that seems just out of her reach.

Plain Bad Heroines by Emily M. Danforth

Our story begins in 1902, at The Brookhants School for Girls. Flo and Clara, two impressionable students, are obsessed with each other and with a daring young writer named Mary MacLane, the author of a scandalous bestselling memoir. To show their devotion to Mary, the girls establish their own private club and call it The Plain Bad Heroine Society. They meet in secret in a nearby apple orchard, the setting of their wildest happiness and, ultimately, of their macabre deaths. This is where their bodies are later discovered with a copy of Mary’s book splayed beside them, the victims of a swarm of stinging, angry yellow jackets. Less than five years later, The Brookhants School for Girls closes its doors forever—but not before three more people mysteriously die on the property, each in a most troubling way.

Over a century later, the now abandoned and crumbling Brookhants is back in the news when wunderkind writer, Merritt Emmons, publishes a breakout book celebrating the queer, feminist history surrounding the “haunted and cursed” Gilded-Age institution. Her bestselling book inspires a controversial horror film adaptation starring celebrity actor and lesbian it girl Harper Harper playing the ill-fated heroine Flo, opposite B-list actress and former child star Audrey Wells as Clara. But as Brookhants opens its gates once again, and our three modern heroines arrive on set to begin filming, past and present become grimly entangled—or perhaps just grimly exploited—and soon it’s impossible to tell where the curse leaves off and Hollywood begins.

The Cloisters by Katy Hays

Ann Stilwell arrives in New York City, hoping to spend her summer working at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Instead, she is assigned to The Cloisters, a gothic museum and garden renowned for its collection of medieval and Renaissance art.

There she is drawn into a small circle of charismatic but enigmatic researchers, each with their own secrets and desires, including the museum's curator, Patrick Roland, who is convinced that the history of Tarot holds the key to unlocking contemporary fortune telling.

Relieved to have left her troubled past behind and eager for the approval of her new colleagues, Ann is only too happy to indulge some of Patrick's more outlandish theories. But when Ann discovers a mysterious, once-thought lost deck of 15th-century Italian tarot cards she suddenly finds herself at the centre of a dangerous game of power, toxic friendship and ambition.

And as the game being played within the Cloisters spirals out of control, Ann must decide whether she is truly able to defy the cards and shape her own future...

[icedteaandoldlace]

9 people you would like to get to know better

I was tagged by @alittleflashvibe. Thanks, Flashy. ⚡️

1 - 3 ships - Ann Marie and Donald Hollinger, Lucy Scarborough and Zach Greenfield, and Eric van der Woodsen and Damien Dalgaard (doing ships I don't post about much to shake things up).

2 - first ever ship - I'm never sure, and I probably say a different ship every time. I know I one of my first big ships was Stevie Lake and Phil Marsten from The Saddle Club books.

3 - last song - Chokehold by Adam Lambert

4 - last movie - The Apple Dumpling Gang? Maybe?? I'm almost certain I watched something more recently than that, but that's all I can think of.

5 - currently reading - Very slowly working on Kilmeny of the Orchard by L.M. Montgomery. Also still need to finish the Anne books.

6 - currently watching - Rewatching Frasier season 1.

7 - currently consuming - A Dairy Queen cherry limeade.

8 - currently craving - Ice cream. Shoulda got one while I was there, but I knew I'd be too stuffed from dinner. 🍦

9 people to tag - some of the folks I was gonna tag already have been tagged, soooo let's do @magic-is-real-sometimes @music-stories-and-lots-of-sleep @vividly-violet and @fictionandmusic, all of whom have been my mutuals for A While, but y'all might have fun with this anyway.

[tempest-toss]

It started with a slight rumble. Water rippling out from a cup as if a T-Rex had begun its escape. Pencils rattling as if a giant train was rushing by. It stopped as soon as it started, and Site 230 was still again.

Then the tremor began.

It was violent and sudden, throwing personnel down as it seemingly increased in strength. Cracks formed along the foundations, and anything not bolted down came crashing. Emergency Protocol E was enacted, emergency warheads were disabled for the time being and covered, and every person was safely hidden under what they must.

~

The morning was hectic, with all hands on deck. Agents, MTF, and researchers assisted in searching and rescuing any trapped and missing humanoids and D-Class. The psych team was asking questions while medics attended the wounded. Janitors were cleaning up any blood, the cooks were making comfort meals for everyone, and any remaining personnel aided where they could.

Site Director Anne Marie, despite her hesitancy, led well. Sure, she wasn't prepared for what seemed like an anomalous tremor attack, but that didn't matter at the moment. What mattered was ensuring that her personnel and the SCPs were not gravely injured or dead.

There had only been a few deaths and a few more were unaccounted for by after a few hours. Some off-site crew had been called in to help. SCP 919, The Clockmaker's Creation, had her battery damaged, and was currently being repaired.

Anne Marie note that while 919 was being repaired, the "SCP Squad", as they were called in her notes by the former Site Director, were huddled around her. They included Demetria Meadowood, Wizard Wally, Lily Teca, My Guardians, Blood Puppet, Spider-Boy, the Orchard Twins, the Serpentine Siblings, and even though he tried not to look concerned, Easel.

Anne Marie watched with interest as the group watched 919's head cog being reinserted, turning on, and spinning her arms and head 360 degrees to celebrate being turned back on all better. The group of sapients swarmed 919 with cheers and smiles.

"Makes it worth it, doesn't it" a voice called out from behind her. She turned and saw a face she didn't expect to see. There stood the now O5-11, "The Godfather", holding what seemed to be a yam. "I heard through the 'grapevine', that something happened, and I came to check up on things," He said as he lowered himself down to plant the yam.

He joined Anne Marie's side, his eyes immediately landing on the "SCP Squad".

"It pleases me," he began, "That their friendship still lasts. They've found their new family here, and I couldn't be more glad."

The silence was between them both for a moment before Enigma spoke once more.

"Seeing the smiles and happiness of them all... it makes the job more than worth it. Hopefully, you see that already. If not... then I just hope soon you'll see it like I do, Site Director Marie."

[its-yesterdays-story]

In the timber-framed house of the manor of Wolf Hall in the 'Great Paled Garden,' or in 'My Young Lady's Garden,' or in the 'orchard called Cole-house orchard,' lived and played the eight children of Sir John Seymour. Three of these were to play a chief part in the drama of the history of their day. One was to become third queen of Henry VIII, and mother of the boy in whose reign reform was to sweep forward to the utmost limits, to the inevitable rebound. Of the two others, one, by force of personal magnetism and fortunate or unfortunate circumstance, was to determine the course of the early events of that reign; the other with as great, if not greater personality, and certainly with as much strength of character, was to give color to events in another and not less vital way.

It is not difficult to conjure up some picture of the early life of Jane Seymour. Born about 1509, the eldest daughter of the family of eight, she probably lived the quiet and somewhat humdrum life of fifteenth-century girlhood, working at her books little and at her tapestry much. Some in existence as late at least as 1652. 'Fives Pieces of chequered hangings of a coarse making having the Duke of Somerset's Arms in them... One furniture of a Bed of Needlework with a chaise and cushions suitable thereunto … said to be wrought by the Queen the Lady Jane Seymour were in that year compounded for with Parliament by William, Marquis of Hertford, by payment of 60 pounds. The work had come into the possession of the Crown, probably on the marriage of Jane with Henry VIII, and had remained as Crown property until given to the Marquis of Hertford in 1647 by Charles I.

Outside the quietness of the country home there had been wars and rumors of wars in the early years of Jane's life. Her father had served at Terouenne and Tournay, and had won the honor of Knight Banneret by his bravery. Less than ten years later there was a fashion of jousts and tournaments and Cloth of Gold displays at court, and in these her father and her elder brothers joined. Soon for Jane herself some of courrt life came, as, like Anne Boleyn, she seems to have been early trained in the accustomed etiquette and intrigue in the French court as maid of honour to Marie, Queen of Louis XII. This fact, however, rests on the somewhat insecure evidence of a picture in the Louvre of one of the French Queen's maids, identified, but with no certainty, as Jane Seymour. Anyhow there is no doubt that already, before Katherine of Aragon was discarded, Jane Seymour was attached to her household as lady-in-waiting. When Anne Boleyn became Queen in 1533, Jane Seymour's services were transferred to the new queen. Of their relation with one another nothing is known or hinted until the beginning of the course of incidents that was to change the whole course of their two lives and to bring one to the scaffold and the other to the throne.

[weemsbotts]

"Lest they should imbibe more exalted notions of their own importance than I could wish": The Incredible Fourteen Page Will

By: Lisa Timmerman, Executive Director

Thomson Mason (1733-1785) was born at Chopawamsic Plantation in Stafford County, VA to the powerful Mason family. Instead of deep delving into his political career, we focused on his fourteen page will, and the impressive amount of control he tried to exert even after his death. Over his lifetime, he accrued property in Stafford, Prince William, Loudoun, Richmond, and other regions and was most eager to dictate every detail. Below are some of the more interesting excerpts with our commentary.

(Aaron Arrowsmith (1750-1823) and Samuel Lewis (1754-1822) 1804 Map of Virginia via The David Rumsey Map Collection)

Thomson Mason married twice. First to Mary King Barnes (before 1758-1771). They had four children: Stevens Thomson Mason (1760-1803), Abram Barnes Thomson Mason (1763-1813), John Thomson Mason (1765-1824), and Ann Thomson Mason (1769-1817). Although originally buried at Gunston Hall, her body was later moved to Raspberry Plain in Loudoun County. Thomson Mason married Elizabeth Westwood (1740-1824) in 1777, previously married to Rev. James Wallace. She also had four children with Thomson Mason, Dorothea Anna Thomson Mason (1778-1822), Westwood Thomson Mason (1780-1826), William Temple Thomson Mason (1782-1862), and George Thomson Mason (d. 1873).

“…my body I wish to have interred upon my Son Stephen’s Plantation in Loudoun so that the foot of my Coffin may touch the head of my Son George’s, and that a Space may be left on each side of me, to receive those of my two Wives, if my present wife should desire that her remains may be beside mine, & I desire that my son Stephen will remove those of his Mother from the family burying Ground, at my brothers for that purpose, As to my worldly Estate I give of it as follows – Imprimis I give to my beloved wife Elizabeth, all the Estate of whatever nature that shall be remaining at my death, of what I gained by marriage with her. Item I give to my said Wife, during her natural life, clear of the Mortgages, and other Incumbrances on it, all my lands on Chappawamsick Run, in County of Stafford, which lye below the lands of the Revered. Mr. Harrison, & bounded by lands of the late Mr. Moncure, Mr. Adie, the Rev’d Mr. Harrison, & Chappawamsick Run, & all my lands on the said Run in the County of Prince William, which lye below the lands of Coll. Burr Harrison, Robert Carter, Esqr., Mr. John Hedges, & the said Chappawamsick Run, containing 1220 acres, in the two Tracts more or less, reserving out of the Lands, to my son John Thomson Mason, & his heirs, his choice of 50 acres, to be laid off in a Square for a Sear on which side the run he pleases, so that it does not include the gardens, Orchard, or any of the Housing, in County of Stafford, or any of the low grounds, in the same County, and after death of my Wife, I give the Reversion of all the said Lands, to my said son John Thomson Mason & Heirs, provided he attains the age of twenty one years; and I hereby declare that I intend this device to my wife, in Barr of her Dower of my other lands in Stafford and Prince William Counties, but not in Barr of her Dower of any other lands she may be entitled to elsewhere.”

Mason referenced participating in William Byrd’s (1728-1777) lottery. Byrd’s ostentatious lifestyle led to a considerable amount of debt, some of which he tried to pay in the form of a lottery. He prized most of his estate at the falls of the James River, hoping to raise 50,000 pounds by selling tickets in both Virginia and England. While his entire life deserves one or more blogs, it is sufficient for now to know he swore allegiance to the King of England during the Revolutionary War, and we can see some of the ramifications in Mason’s will.

“I give my son Stephens Thomson Mason & Heirs, the unimproved  Lotts in the Town of Richmond & Manchester which was drawn in the late Collo. Byrd’s lottery, by Tickets marked with the Initials of his Mother’s or his Brother George’s name. Item, I give to my son Stephens Thomson Mason & Heirs, the Ground in the Town of Richmond, on which the Public Store House lately stood, together with the money due from the public for the valuation of the said Store House, and all the arrearages of Rent…which will appear from my books & all arrerages of Rent due from the public or Turner Southall, who took possession thereof immediately after the Death of Miles Taylor, with my knowledge or consent, and kept possession thereof until it was destroyed by General Arnold; and I think he is intitled to recover Damages of the said Turner Southall, he having converted the said House without my Leave into a public arsenal, by which means it was destroyed by the British under General Arnold…”

When it came to dividing his enormous landholdings, Mason devised that certain land be divided for his sons to do as they pleased after they reached the age of 21, leaving it uncleared for timber until then. He also had a mill set in motion.

“Item I direct that the Mill now begun, shall as soon as possible be finished off, a complete Merchant Mill, with two part of Stones, one pair of which at least shall be double Burr and that another set of Mills, with two parts of Stones, shall be built at the expence of my Estate upon the same run near the Mouth thereof as soon as may be & that the said Mills when finished, and all my Lands in Loudon County, between the Main County road, the Limestone Run & Potomach River, & the Cool Spring Run, together with the cleared lands on the Plantation, now rented by Fouchee, below the Mill run be also rented for the benefit of my Estate for twenty years, that four horses, four Mares, six Servant Men & one Servant woman be immediately purchased, & placed together with six Milch cows and twelve breeding sows, & worked thereon, for four years after my death, but that not more than 40 acres of fresh land shall be cleared within the bounds…”

He specified that his son Abraham would have sole management of the mills, but under strict instructions on how to divide the profit, what he could purchase (mainly enslaved persons and stock), and conditions if the mill was not profitable within a short period of time. Not surprisingly, he had similar rules for other mills.

“Item I direct that a Merchant Mill be built on Chappawamsic Run, on the lands given to my son John, where he shall direct, not to exceed the expence of four hundred pounds, which expence is to be repaid out of the profits of the Mill, in part of his Sister’s Nancy fortune…”

Here he specified everything from the names of the enslaved to the names of the prized riding horses, such as Rupert, along with other horses and colts. He also included,

“…that two indented farming white Sevants be purchased for John who have four or five years to serve, provided they do not exceed the price of thirty pounds each…”

For his wife, he left all his household furniture at Errol and Chopawamsic, stock of cattle, sheep, goats, cows, oxen, hogs, ewes, horses, his chariot and harness, and mares. For the enslaved,

“I give to my wife my negro girl Pegg till January 1789 and I direct that one Negro girl between age of sixteen and twenty be purchased by my Executor for my wife, within three years of my death and I direct that another Negro Girl and two Negro lads between age of 16 and 20 be purchased for my wife, by my Executor, within six years of my death and I give said Slaves, in Trust for use of my wife for her life and to uses she shall direct by her last Will and Testament…it being my intention that the four slaves with their increase shall be for the separate use of my Wife without the Interposition of any husband she may marry.”

She also received the promise of “geered Mill” to be constructed and maintained on Pearson’s Run. For his two youngest sons,

“…may be put to learning English, at one of their Guardians Houses till eight years of age, and that then they be kept at Writing, arithmetic, and reading elegant English Authors and modern languages till they are 12 years of age, and then to be kept at learning the Latin Language, Book keeping, Mathematicks, and other Useful branches of literature, till the age of 18, and then to be put out to such Business or profession as their Genius’s are best calculated for. Item I particularly direct that neither of my younger sons shall reside on the South side of James River, or below Williamsburgh, before they respectively attain age of 21 years, lest they should imbibe more exalted notions of their own importance than I could wish any child of mine, to possess.”

His thoroughness continued.

“Item I give the use of my Gold watch, to my wife till a new Gold watch with an embossed case and Equipage suitable for a Lady, of the price of 30 Guineas can be purchased for her out of my Estate, and as soon as such Gold watch and equipage is furnished for her I give my gold watch to my son Westwood. Item I give to my daughter Ann Thomson Mason the equipage that was her mother’s and direct that a gold Watch of twenty Guineas value be purchased for her. Item I give to my sons Abraham, John and Westwood and Temple such a horizontal Silver watch, when they arrive at the age of twenty one years, and I give to my son John Thomson Mason my brass barreled Pistols.”

Two of the enslaved persons received special accommodations.

“Item I direct that my Negro boy Jack be allowed to settle upon any of my land in Loudon Stafford or Prince William, and that my Executors lay off for him, 30 acres of good arable land 10 acres of pasturage, to tend a crop for himself, build him a barn of Loggs, 20 feet square and furnish him with 1 cow, 2 sows, 1 Ewe and a Mare of ten pounds value, one barshare plow, one Dutch plow, 1 broad Hooe, 1 narrow hooe, 1 axe, 1 mattock, 5 barrels of oats, 5 barrels Rye, 5 Bushels Wheat and 10 barrels of Corn, to stock his Plantation and set him forward, and let him have one month’s work of an able negro man and the loan of my ox cart, for the same time, to put his little farm in order with Liberty to get Rails and fire wood off my adjactent lands and I direct thr whole profits of his farm and the Stock given him be at his own Disposal and over and above the bore mentioned provisions. I also give him the annual sum of six pounds specie, the use of the lands I give him for life and the Stock forever; and I hereby direct that my Executors and Heirs all join in protecting of my said slave Jack, in all his just rights, and the he shall be subject to the control of no person whatsoever, and this provision I have made for him as a grateful acknowledgment of the Remarkable fidelity and Integrity, with which he has conducted himself to me for twenty years and upwards. I also give to my said Slave Jack, 300 weight of pork to be paid him in the year I shall dye.

Item I direct that if every my maid Catina should be parted from my Wife, that she also receive 200 weight of Pork, a White shift, and a Callico Gown and petticoat annually…”

Thomson Mason died on 02/26/1785. Interestingly, Elizabeth Mason appeared in front of Stafford County Court on 10/10/1785, to declare she would,

“not accept, receive, or take any Legacy, or Legacies or any part thereof, to me given by last will and Testament of my late Husband Thomson Mason Esquire, and do renounce all benefit and advantage which I might claim under the said Will.”

Why would she contest the will? Given that he had eight children, four with his former wife Mary King Barnes, she could have protested the distribution of inheritance or the rules concerning her dowry if she were to remarry or remain a widow. A will that went so far to specify who would determine the proportion of meat given to enslaved persons, could create chaos if the provisions were not desirable as Thomson Mason clearly tried to control his wife, children, and property from beyond the grave. He often noted the conditions of her dower, a crucial element to her livelihood as a widow. The legal rights of women in the 1780s solely depended upon their marital status. Different rules and rights applied to single, married, and widows, and often widowers experienced the most freedom. Almost immediately, Thomson Mason noted Elizabeth’s dower,

“and after death of my Wife, I give the Reversion of all the said Lands, to my said son John Thomson Mason & Heirs, provided he attains the age of twenty one years; and I hereby declare that I intend this device to my wife, in Barr of her Dower of my other lands in Stafford and Prince William Counties, but not in Barr of her Dower of any other lands she may be entitled to elsewhere.”

On 11/14/1797, a different Elizabeth Mason submitted a similar document to the Fairfax County court protesting her deceased husband, George Mason V’s, will. Scholars believe she renounced his will because of the consequences of remarriage and the inheritance of the two oldest children. Ultimately, she won with a 1799 deed that preserved most of the original document’s language but removed stipulations regarding her widowhood and/or remarriage and granted her more property at the expense of her son’s inheritance.

While the Mason family was extremely powerful, Thomson Mason’s attempts to control the years and decades following his death were remarkable, especially given the country’s emerging and still very fragile independence and identity. From an economic and moralistic perspective, Mason created a will that probably caused a few headaches.

Note: The Prince William Resolves Chapter, National Society Daughters of the American Revolution (NSDAR) will hold a Wreath Laying Ceremony honoring the 274th Anniversary of the Town of Dumfries and the 249th Anniversary of the signing of the Prince William County Resolves. The event will take place at the Weems-Botts Museum, Dumfries, VA at 11:00a.m. on Saturday, May 6, 2023. HDVI & The Weems-Botts Museum is honored and excited to help commemorate the many historical happenings in our community!

(Sources: Sparacio, Ruth and Sam Sparacio. Stafford County, Virginia. Order Book Abstracts, 1664-1668 & 1689-1690. Millsboro: Colonial Roots, 1987, Note: The enslaved names were often excluded from this transcription; The Mason Web: The Mason Descendants Database, Gunston Hall Library, https://gunstonhall.org/wp-content/uploads/masonweb/index.htm; Mason Family Papers: The Digital Edition: Exhibits: “I Elizabeth Mason … Do Hereby Declare That I Will Not Take or Accept [the] Provision for Me Made”: A Widow Asserts Her Independence, https://research.centerformasonslegacies.com/s/masonfamilypapers/page/elizabethmabmason; Evans, Emory, and Dictionary of Virginia Biography. "William Byrd (1728–1777)" Encyclopedia Virginia. Virginia Humanities, (22 Dec. 2021). Web. 19 Apr. 2023)

[english-history-trip]

Wolf Hall: "And then Wolsey gave Cromwell a package and said to open it after he died. He noticed that the Cardinal's turquoise ring was missing from his hand."

Me: Hoe don't do it

Oh my god

[shirbertshitposts]

Mary baking apple cider donuts in the fall

That’s it thats the post

[fyeahanneboleyn]

Do you know if there are any books or stories written form the POV of Mrs Orchard, or any books that feature her prominently? She was Anne's childhood nurse, and she was also able to be with Anne during her last days. We know she seemed to have cared deeply for Anne, since she "shrieked out dreadfully" when Anne was pronounced guilty, but she's rarely featured in stories about her charge:/

I don’t know any off the top of my head, I’m sorry! So many books about Anne don’t bother with her childhood to begin with; if I remember right Brief Gaudy Hour gives Anne a good relationship with her tutor/nurse, but she’s a wholly fictional character, not Mary Aucher/Orchard.

Does anyone else have a more helpful answer?

[rockislandadultreads]

Happy Fall!

Commonwealth by Ann Patchett

One Sunday afternoon in Southern California, Bert Cousins shows up at Franny Keating’s christening party uninvited. Before evening falls, he has kissed Franny’s mother, Beverly - thus setting in motion the dissolution of their marriages and the joining of two families.

Spanning five decades, Commonwealth explores how this chance encounter reverberates through the lives of the four parents and six children involved. Spending summers together in Virginia, the Keating and Cousins children forge a lasting bond that is based on a shared disillusionment with their parents and the strange and genuine affection that grows up between them.

When, in her twenties, Franny begins an affair with the legendary author Leon Posen and tells him about her family, the story of her siblings is no longer hers to control. Their childhood becomes the basis for his wildly successful book, ultimately forcing them to come to terms with their losses, their guilt, and the deeply loyal connection they feel for one another.

Harvest Moon by Denise Hunter

Forever walking the line between passion and conflict, Laurel and Gavin's relationship ended in divorce after years of miscommunication and unmet expectations. Now pursuing their own separate lives and careers, the two are content... though not completely happy.

When their best friends, Mike and Mallory, are killed in a plane crash, Laurel and Gavin are stunned to learn they've been named guardians of their friends' young daughter, Emma. Putting their differences aside, the estranged couple search for a suitable guardian as they care for Emma and manage Mike and Mallory's apple orchard.

Soon tempers flare - as does the passion they both remember so well. And Laurel and Gavin find themselves working through their past - their mistakes, their miscommunications, and ultimately the tragedy that ended their marriage.

Will the seeds of love, still growing inside them, thrive and flourish? Or will grief and regret strangle the feelings before they can fully blossom?

This is the third volume of the "Riverbend" series.

Lost Autumn by Mary-Rose MacColl

Australia, 1920. Seventeen-year-old Maddie Bright embarks on the voyage of a lifetime when she's chosen to serve on the cross-continent tour of His Royal Highness, the dashing Edward, Prince of Wales. Life on the royal train is luxurious beyond her dreams, and the glamorous, good-hearted friends she makes - with their romantic histories and rivalries - crack open her world. But glamour often hides all manner of sins.

Decades later, Maddie lives in a ramshackle house in Brisbane, whiling away the days with television news and her devoted, if drunken, next-door neighbor. When a London journalist struggling with her own romantic entanglements begins asking Maddie questions about her relationship to the famous and reclusive author M. A. Bright, she's taken back to the glamorous days of the royal tour - and to the secrets she has kept for all these years.

The Orchard by Kristina Gorcheva-Newberry

Coming of age in the USSR in the 1980s, best friends Anya and Milka try to envision a free and joyful future for themselves. They spend their summers at Anya’s dacha just outside of Moscow, lazing in the apple orchard, listening to Queen songs, and fantasizing about trips abroad and the lives of American teenagers. Meanwhile, Anya’s parents talk about World War II, the Blockade, and the hardships they have endured.

By the time Anya and Milka are fifteen, the Soviet Empire is on the verge of collapse. They pair up with classmates Trifonov and Lopatin, and the four friends share secrets and desires, argue about history and politics, and discuss forbidden books. But the world is changing, and the fleeting time they have together is cut short by a sudden tragedy.

Years later, Anya returns to Russia from America, where she has chosen a different kind of life, far from her family and childhood friends. When she meets Lopatin again, he is a smug businessman who wants to buy her parents’ dacha and cut down the apple orchard. Haunted by the ghosts of her youth, Anya comes to the stark realization that memory does not fade or disappear; rather, it moves us across time, connecting our past to our future, joys to sorrows.

[irene-with-a-gaze]

The pretty lights, one: shirbert series one

She said, "I was seven and you were nine"

I looked at you like the stars that shine

In the sky, the pretty lights

-taylor swift, mary's song

A whistle, low and as if meant to be whispered, meant for only one's ears, floated through the orchard. It's owner grinned, sly eyes going up and down as he surveyed the tree before him, and the little figure hidden within its extensive branches.

The figure gasped lowly, and tried-- not so subtly-- to move out of his view. The boy, nine, chuckled as he stepped forward slowly, "I wonder where... carrots is," he bellowed, stepping aside as soon as an apple was-- surely-- thrown in his direction, whether it by accident or intentionally meant to hurt him (he'd go with the latter). "How lovely, an apple just for me. De-licious. Thank you, tree, for your welcoming gif-- ouch!"

A sniffle was heard, another apple had fallen, this time directly onto his head.

"That's it," he murmured, rolling his eyes at his friend's childish behavior. After all, he was much wiser than her. By two whole years! And Christopher Columbus, what a whole lot a difference it made, those two years.

Gilbert fastened the bag of treasure he had with him (chocolates! just for her!) to his belt, and with ease proceeded to climb the tree before him. He'd gotten to where he needed to be without alerting her, as Anne had jumped and almost hit head on the branch above after he, swiftly, plopped himself beside her.

Anne quickly turned her head so he wouldn't see, but he caught the persistent tear which slid down her face, and saw the reddened nose he had gotten so used to seeing growing up beside her.

He, gently (as he had learned from his mistakes) tugged at the end of her braid, hair becoming a fiery halo around her small face, to get her attention. "Anne..."

...

"Anne-girl"

...

"I got you some buried treasure..." Anne somewhat perked up at this, although her face was still buried in the log of the tree. "Well, it was technically buried far into the cabinet, but its definitely something you'll love..."

A sniffle.

"No?" Gilbert sighed, unfastening his bags of goods, pulling a piece of chocolate out, "Alright, guess I'll have to just eat the chocolate myself.

And before he could devour the goodness held in his hand, it was swiped faster than he could scream a no, and stuffed into the face of the red nosed girl, who grinned apprehensively as she swallowed what she had stolen.

Gilbert was not impressed, but the look in her eyes quickly fixed that.

"So... wanna talk about it?"

"...erm, it's just stupid Josie," she murmured.

"What'd she do now...?"

The sky quickly darkened, little lights filled up the sky, twinkling every now and then, something which caused a smile to light up Anne's face, as she recounted her tales of trouble to her older, and much wiser friend.

Gilbert, at some point, had stopped listening. The only thing on that little boy's mind, all who he could think of was... well you know who.

[mercurygray]

To Call Her Name

I'm really enjoying Jessica Raine's Catherine Parr on Becoming Elizabeth, so I started writing this. It's a bit negated by the events of 1.3, but I still like the feeling of it.

Who is she, now that he is dead?

In her short years she's had too many names - Lady Burgh, and Lady Latimer, and finally Queen of England, the last a title that meant nothing, carried no weight. He’d had six - what was the last of them? What use was a queen but for bearing children, they would say. He went to his grave with three, and none of them were out of her. Who would she be, now that the King was dead? A queen dowager? A lady? Could she be only Katherine?

{read more on AO3 or below the cut!}

But even that name, sometimes, did not belong to her - he married three Katherines and she was but the third. Some days, when he was near the end, and his sight was failing a little, and his memory even more, some gentleman of his chamber would announce her and he would nearly fly into a rage, thrashing in the bed he could scarcely move from for his gout. "Katherine? Katherine? I have been rid of her these thirty years! Why comes she now? To haunt me?"

And she would have to come to his bedside, where the light was better, and stroke his sleeve until he could see her a little. "Peace, my darling, peace. It is Kitty. It is Kate." 

Sometimes hearing her voice was enough, sometimes the name. But usually he remembered. "Kate? Kate!" 

She hated when he called her Kate. Kate was a maid of five and twenty, flirting in an orchard. Kate had sunshine on her skin and flowers in her hair. Kate belonged to Tom.

And Henry was not Tom.

She'd heard the stories, of what the king had once been like - when he'd married his first Katherine and courted his first Anne. A giant among men, strong and beautiful to behold, hair like gold and and legs like a Greek statue, a treasure for a royal treasury. And where was that treasure now? Confined to his bed, plagued with gout, and rotting from the inside out. Perhaps she might have loved him when he was young and pretty - but it was hard to love an old and impotent thief.

King or not, that's all he was to her. He'd stolen her - every last bit of her. Stolen her name, her youth, her match with Tom. She'd arranged it, once John had died - a woman twice widowed and an heiress ought to be allowed her own mind. But Henry was the King, and kings got what kings wanted, and Henry wanted her, to be a cool and pleasant balm after his latest Katherine had burned him quite. Rings for her fingers, and women for her household, chests and plate and plasterwork badges to say what she now owned, and a new motto, too - To be useful in all I do. Useful - a nursemaid, a cupbearer, a pleasant face with which to pass the time. A thing to be stolen, not a prize to be won.

Tom thought she was a prize - Tom fought for her. Not well enough, before he went to Antwerp, but still, he fought.

She loved him, in those days -  the feel of him, the smell of him, the weight of him. All of her husbands were old men in their winters and Tom - Tom was summer. His curls, his height, his smile, his cock - the Green Man embodied, one of those ancient things that made things green and growing. And he will make her grow, too, the way Henry could not - she could feel it.  It was Tom who brought the news from Whitehall, that the King was dead, and she barred her door and let him ravish her for celebration, her legs trembling as he kissed her from throat to quim and with every thrust cried out Kate, Kate, Kate.  

For four blessed hours she was happy, before her sun started to fall on other flowers.

She loved her husband’s children - she wanted that made plain. What else was there to do, when she had none of her own? Mary was near enough her own age, and Edward a scrap of six, but Elizabeth was still a girl of fifteen, and what kind of mother could the German have been, when she was hardly at court, or the latest Katherine when she was a child herself?  Let the Princess come to Chelsea, she’d said. She is young, and in need of minding still. She is her father’s daughter, and her mind needs recreation. Her mother’s, too, and that needs temperance. 

 If he’d give me a child, she’d thought to herself, on one of those cold nights in the King’s chamber, I wish she’d be like Elizabeth. 

But I have none to claim as mine - so I’ll claim her. Make her a woman of which her father might be proud - fine in languages, great in debate, attendant in the true faith, a creature witty, worthy, and wise. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. A Princess for princes to envy and attend, and me her lady mother - a position of respect.

Then the girl came, and she realized she’d made an error. The lady was not so young as she’d remembered - and Tom was still a fool for a fine face. 

Was it only the chase he loved? She could remember running through a garden, sleeves flying and her hair loose, letting him trap her and pretending to be ashamed, begging for mercy when they both knew what she meant to be merciful. Release me, sir, I beg. Is it only this release you want, Kate? Is there to be no release for me?  He’d been chasing her for near four years, and she thought now that he’d be happy, but that seemed not to be, as he smiled over his cups at her ward, and made jokes to make her laugh, chasing again.

When they’d come for the jewels, it wasn’t only that they’d take away her ornament, or cast her aside. The cut ran deeper still. Where are my smiles, Thomas? Wherefore my laughter? Where is my position and my honor and my favor? Why do you only fight with me and not for me now? Where is my sunshine, and my shadow, as you were wont to be of old? 

His eyes left her more and more, and she began to worry - what is a woman when a man ignores her? Who is she, when no one remains to call her name? 

[glorianas]

This room is where a very young Anne and Mary have learnt numerous stitches from their governess, Mrs Orchard, their mother, Lady Elizabeth Howard, and their grandmother, Lady Margaret Butler. Here, the women of the household talk – or parlay (hence ‘parlour’) – and complete the blackwork for their smocks and shirts for the men of the household. This isn’t considered labour for women of the Boleyns’ status, for all its effort.

Ridgway, Claire; Emmerson, Owen. The Boleyns of Hever Castle (p. 23).