#a creature whose beauty is only exceeded by his mystery

[hello-delicious-tea]

Teaschooler is lying quietly and agreeably in his bed, murmuring sleepily to himself about going and getting tasty snacks of varying kinds with me. He is not hungry. He is DEFINITELY not hungry. He consumed a large quantity of sausage and became so high off sausage that he danced wildly, naked, for twenty minutes in the living room, yelling "We are looking at our dancing piglet! Go team! Stomping like a tyrannosaurus rex! WAGGLE-DAGGLE!"

[libidomechanica]

But when thereon

Why did the delight sufficeth     to shelter the Lords A. Is cold. Of a noun. All other     sweet is a mere faith no wild and doe me not to feed his     mine; ’ yet she only mischief- making crave mood;—it rauisht quite     bids me at least his early

twilight; ne your Bosom utter’d     with all thousand arm’d theirs forth. In Rhenish crimes, but lingering     that call a bird. Now Johnny vile adders story’s act.     Which guilty of herbs and pack’d I matter when so she will     keep mind you make the best

to her greatest woman, having     what substance, seldom pleasure on me this kind why wilt their     hand withdrew in deep in my sleep I dream’d not the z, paints     as Saint Ambrogio’s! Said may see, that wilderness. What wild     branch of your name my hart

before the roaring delay, a     death. Weak spirit in pure, except the sick, and Juan he convent     high spirit, and call gallop on for sorrow they not     one now and scorn, is loathsome and country summer-time, across     restore of the most

father must beat neath that he may     give. There came, and many dear lover still rave among thence     beare, althoughted, be found it went on is preserve and     turmoyle, to irrigate to bull-fights, mass, place, for Johnny,     Johnny’s left us can

complaint to give her pitch, that I     e’er befall, which is London’s no one unders! Love speak as     I have the bliss, stutter whose higher, like manner nor dare     and eke tenne thou art my music, whether t was good     Angelico’s that cannot

tell. A hundred Graces are what,     near the raging face? But when thereon. Should not covet Mr.     The lucid out of sin; wherein I sawe so fayre be     lost: so she will keep your brighteous Lord Henry and was like     a tooth kissing at that

mens confess. ’ Now, Don Alfonso’s     heads doe at length they may learn, I can’t help the blouse you with     fancies wonderful, and as fresh Spring, with fancies vayne     man mighty view? What this the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefferies weary     … full in view on his

eyes my soul and not know, would be     harm’d, there are only son left; all the cause I counterpane     and I must take my wombe thou his bow of ours, her goodly     semblance between em; but a blush Cupid fourteen her     bowery flake, and listened

him well, but more with the mystic     art, loue too big to proclaim— departed … never be apples     the song of mind, that awkward through perplexing waues and     that nights are over all they who swore he and therefore are     the hushed Casket of her

fayre hath kisses survey, for heaven!     Monstrous deed: but the guest, think a very much exceeding     feet—day has been he; but better. Love the remaine. But     spoils the mouth it’s … well, there’s nobody that his reacherly     heads adorne; there is

paid a wond’rous riddle, or make     each others’ share. We Carmine’s mystery would apples,     but they go, are ways with vacancies wonders. I to my     rhyme, exceeding chance Rumpelstilts of Happiness; and sleep     to costume. He saw in

ilka beild! In days and loose a     tear; by which adorne, you may yet she doth flow, since is sure     maker ye entranced, he start none can into a rivulet;     and still heart is lights, chaste descry, myld humbled harbour,     yet in my father’s facts

attack, and of State’s company’s     a certain’d the helpless creature to grasp’d his, now faint on     the fern or in a sometimes are our earth of conscience, nay—     he made attonce screams. He should bring the learne will not dares not     sound growest fingers beauties

pride display terrors fall; she     rest, of their earliest aspect of the sons new: her stammer,     but what she distinguishment of please. Her for that was     such a nights, intrigues, and woe is mild and large rich with girland     crow to-whoo, to-whoo,

to-whoo, and take delight, Then look     and most diverting plann’d, unless it throws a loving in     July, me almost speech each where you and dismay, in five     o’clock,—a clear; by which my bonie lass, and all quality.     The drear, to comfort shew?

[mattchase82]

Saint Aloysius Gonzaga, Confessor from the Liturgical Year (1904)

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"Oh! how exceeding great is the glory of Aloysius, Son of Ignatius! Never could I have believed it, had not my Jesus shown it to me. Never could I have believed that such glory as that, was to be seen in heaven!" Thus cries out Saint Mary Magdalene de Pazzi, whose memory we were celebrating a month ago: she is speaking in ecstasy. From the heights of Carmel, whence her ken may reach beyond the heavens, she reveals to earth the splendour wherewith the youthful hero of this day shines amidst the celestial phalanxes.

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Yet short was the life of Aloysius, and it had offered nothing to the superficial gaze of a vast majority, save the preliminaries, so to say, of a career broken off in its flower, before bearing fruit of any kind. Ah! God does not account of things as men do; of very slight weight are their appreciations, in His judgment! Even in the case of the saints themselves, the mere fractional number of years, or brilliant deeds, goes far less to the filling up of a life-time, in His view, than does love. The usefulness of a human existence ought surely to be measured, as a matter of fact, by the amount produced in it, of what is lasting. Now beyond this present time charity remains alone, fixed for ever at that precise degree of growth attained during this life of passage. Little matters it, therefore, if without any long duration or any apparent works, one of God's Elect have developed in himself a love as great or greater than some others have done, in the midst of many toils, be they never so holy, and throughout a long career admired of men.

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The illustrious Society that gave Aloysius Gonzaga to holy Church owes the sanctity of her members and the benedictions poured upon their works to the fidelity she has ever professed to this important truth, which throws so much light on the Christian life. From the very first age of her history, it would seem that our Lord Jesus, not content to allow her to assume his own blessed Name, has been lovingly determined so to arrange circumstances in her regard that she may never forget wherein it is her real strength lies, in the midst of the actively militant career which He has especially opened before her. The brilliant works of Saint Ignatius her founder, of Saint Francis Xavier, the apostle of the Indies, of Saint Francis Borgia, the noble conquest of Christ's humility, manifested truly wondrous holiness in them, and to the eyes of all; but these works of theirs had no other spring nor basis than the hidden virtues of that other glorious triumvirate, in which, under the eye of God alone, by the sole strength of contemplative prayer, Saints Stanislaus Kostka, Aloysius Gonzaga, and John Berchmans, rose to such a degree of love, and consequently to the sanctity of their heroic fathers.

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Again, it is by Mary Magdalene de Pazzi, the depositary of the secrets of the Spouse, that this mystery is revealed to us. In the rapture during which the glory of Aloysius was displayed before her eyes, she thus continues, whilst still under the influence of the Holy Ghost: "Who could ever explain the value and the power of interior acts? The glory of Aloysius is so great, simply because he acted thus, interiorly. Between an interior act and that which is seen, there is no comparison possible. Aloysius, as long as he dwelt on earth, kept his eye attentively fixed on the Word; and this is just why he is so splendid. Aloysius was a hidden martyr; whosoever loveth Thee, my God, knoweth Thee to be so great, so infinitely amiable, that keen indeed is the martyrdom of such an one, to see clearly that he loves Thee not so much as he desireth to love Thee, and that Thou art not loved by Thy creatures, but art offended!.... Thus he became a martyrdom unto himself. Oh! he did love, whilst on earth! Wherefore, now in heaven, he possesses God in a sovereign plenitude of love. Whilst still mortal, he discharged his bow at the Heart of the Word; and now that he is in heaven, his arrows are all lodged in his own heart. For this communication of the Divinity which he merited by the arrows of his acts of love and of union with God, he now verily and indeed possesses and clasps forever."

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To love God, to allow His grace to turn our heart towards Infinite Beauty, which alone can fill it, such is then the true secret of highest perfection. Who can fail to see how this teaching of today's feast answers to the end pursued by the Holy Ghost ever since His coming down, at our glorious Pentecost? This sweet and silent teaching was given by Aloysius, wheresoever he turned his steps, during his short career. Born to heaven, in holy baptism, almost before he was born to earth, he was a very angel from his cradle; grace seemed to gush from him into those who bore him in their arms, filling them with heavenly sentiments. At four years of age, he followed the marquess his father into the camps; and thus, some unconscious faults, which had not so much as tarnished his innocence, became for the rest of his life the object of a penitence that one would have thought rather beseemed some grievous sinner. He was but nine years old when, being taken to Florence, there to be perfected in the Italian language, he became the edification of the Court of duke Francis; but though the most brilliant in Italy it failed to have any attraction for him, and rather served to detach him more decisively than ever from the world. During this period, likewise, at the feet of the miraculous picture of the Annunziata, he consecrated his virginity to Our Lady.

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The Church herself, in the Breviary Lessons, will relate the other details of this sweet life, in which, as is ever the case with souls fully docile to the Holy Ghost, heavenly piety never marred what was of duty in earthly things. It is just because he really was a model for all youth engaged in study, that Aloysius has been proclaimed Protector thereof. Of a singularly quick intelligence, as faithful to work as to prayer in the midst of the gay turmoil of city life, he mastered all the sciences then exacted of one of his rank. Very intricate and ticklish negotiations of worldly interest were more than once confided to his management: and thus was opportunity afforded of realizing to what a high degree he might have excelled in government affairs. Here, again, he comes forward as an example to such as have friends and relatives who would lain hold them back, when on the threshold of the religious state, under pretence of the " great good they may do in the world, and how much evil they may prevent." Just as though the Most High must be contented with useless non-entities in that select portion of men He reserves to Himself amidst nations; or, as though the aptitudes of the richest and most gifted natures may not be turned all the better, and all the more completely to God their very principle, precisely because they are the most perfect. On the other hand, neither State, nor Church, ever really loses anything by this fleeing to God, this apparent throwing away of the best subjects! If, in the old law, Jehovah showed Himself jealous in having the very best of all kinds of goods offered at His altar, His intention was not to impoverish his people. Whether admitted or not, it is a certain fact, that the chief strength of society, the fountain head of benediction and protection to the world, is always to be found in holocausts well pleasing to the Lord.

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Prayer:

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Venerable old age is not that of long time, nor counted by the number of years: but the understanding of man is grey hairs; and a spotless life is old age (Wisd. iv. 8, 9). And therefore, Aloysius, thou dost hold a place of honour, amidst the ancients of thy people! Glory be to the holy Society, in the midst whereof, thou didst, in so short a space, fulfill a long course; obtain that she may ever continue to treasure, both for herself and others, the teaching that flows from thy life of innocency and love. Holiness is the one only thing when one's career is ended, that can be called true again; and holiness is acquired from within. External works count with God, only in as far as the interior breath that inspires them is pure; if occasion for exercising works be wanting, man can always supply that deficiency, by drawing nigh unto the Lord, in the secret of his soul, as much and even more than he could have done by their means. Thus didst thou see and understand the question; and therefore, prayer, which held thee absorbed in its ineffable delights, succeeded in making thee equal to the very martyrs. What a priceless treasure was not prayer in thine eyes, what a heaven-lent boon, and one that is indeed in our reach too, just as it was in thine! But in order to find therein, as thou didst express it, "the short cut to perfection," perseverance is needed and a careful elimination from the soul, by a generous self-repression, of every emotion which is not of God. For, how could muddy or troubled waters mirror forth the image of Him Who stands on their brink? Even so, a soul that is sullied, or a soul that without being quite a slave of passion, is not yet mistress of every earthly perturbation, can never reach the object of prayer, which is to reproduce within her the tranquil image of her God.

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The reproduction of the one great Model was perfect in thee; and hence it can be seen how nature (as regards what she has of good), far from losing or suffering aught, rather gains by this process of recasting in the divine crucible. Even in what touches the most legitimate affections, thou didst look at things no longer from the earthly point of view; but beholding all in God, far were the things of sense transcended, with all their deceptive feebleness, and wondrously did thy love grow in consequence! For instance, what could be more touching than thy sweet attentions, not only upon earth, but even from thy throne in heaven, for that admirable woman given thee by our Lord to be thine earthly mother? Where may tenderness be found equal to the affectionate effusions written to her by thee in that letter of a Saint to the mother of a Saint, which thou didst address to her shortly before thy quitting thine earthly pilgrimage? And still more, what exquisite delicacy thou didst evince, in making her the recipient of thy first miracle, worked after thine entrance into glory! Furthermore, the Holy Ghost, by setting thee on fire with the flame of divine charity, developed also within thee immense love for thy neighbour: necessarily so, because charity is essentially one; and well was this proved, when thou wast seen sacrificing thy life so blithely for the sick and the pestiferous.

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Cease not, O dearest Saint, to aid us in the midst of so many miseries; lend a kindly hand to each and all. Christian youth has a special claim upon thy patronage, for it is by the sovereign pontiff himself, that this precious portion of the flock is gathered around thy throne. Direct their feeble steps along the right path, so often enticed as they are to turn into dangerous by-roads; be prayer and earnest toil, for God's dear sake, their stay and safeguard; be they illumined in the serious matter before them of the choosing a state of life. We beseech thee, dearest Saint, exert strong influence over them during this most critical period of their opening years, so that they may truly experience all the potency of that fair privilege which is ever thine, of preserving in thy devout clients, the angelical virtue! Yea, furthermore, Aloysius, look compassionately on those who have not imitated thine innocence, and obtain that they may yet follow thee in the example of thy penance; such is the petition of Holy Church this day!

[darisu-chan]

The Fairest of Them All-Chapter 1

Yo! I’m back with the story I promised you, which will be divided into several parts. I’ll be uploading them here. This is a long overdue “Dance With Snow White” fanfiction. For more background story, you can read it here.

I won’t interrupt you more, I’ll let you read. Please enjoy as much as I loved writing it!

Summary: A runaway princess, a cursed hero, a mad king, the three bring together the fairytale you never knew you needed. Can Princess Shirayuki recover her kingdom? Or will evil King Aizen triumph? And will Kuro ever be able to break his curse?

Once upon a time, in the far away land of Seireitei, a princess was born. She had hair as black as ebony, lips as red as blood, and skin as white as snow. Thus, she was given the nickname Shirayuki or Snow White. Everywhere she went, she was loved by those around her. She was bright and vibrant and, most of all, kind. Her virtues were known throughout the land. Her beauty was spoken of as well. Tales from travelers coming from Seireitei spoke of a girl with mysterious eyes, either violet or deep blue. Silky hair, which fell down over her face in a black cascade. And skin, impossibly smooth and pale, as if it had been sculpted in marble. She truly was the fairest creature in all the land.

However, even if Shirayuki had been blessed with many gifts, her life wasn’t without any hardships. Her mother, Queen Hisana, had passed away shortly after the princess was born. King Byakuya, fearing for his daughter’s life, had issued a decree forbidding the princess from ever leaving the castle. A hard thing to impose to such a free-spirit as Shirayuki, whose curiosity exceeded all else. She was often seen in the servant’s wing, chatting amicably with the maids. Or on the stables, playing with the dogs and horses. Her mother’s garden was one of her favorite places as well. She often climbed trees, even if her nurses always chided her, fearing she’d slip and fall to her death. But Shirayuki was such an endearing child that no one could ever stay mad at her for long, not even the king, cold as he was. His daughter was the only one that could melt his heart, which had been frozen after his wife’s death.

Overall, the princess grew up in a loving and peaceful environment, where she lived happily with those around her. But, sadly, that changed on the eve of her eighteenth birthday. As was custom, Byakuya had made a grand celebration for the princess’ coming of age. Nobles from all around had been invited. A handful of suitors had come as well. Although, Shirayuki had not cared for all of that. She had only wanted to enjoy the festivities with her father and friends. That night, she had made her entrance to the ballroom, wearing the most exquisite dress made of white silk. She was a sight to be seen. Her long hair, falling down her shoulder in an intricate braid. A silver tiara as decoration sat on top of her hair. Her lips had been painted a luscious pink. And her smile ─ Oh, her smile! ─ had blinded them all. However, the happiness of those in attendance had been short-lived. While everyone was distracted in the party, the castle had been attacked. Suddenly, the doors of the castle were torn open and in walked Aizen Sosuke, a famous noble, who had been rumored to be a wizard.

“Aizen, I demand an explanation!” King Byakuya said, standing in front of his daughter, sword drawn.

The man had merely smirked. “Gin, execute the plan.” He simply said to the silver-haired man to his right.

It had been blood-shed.

All of Byakuya’s knights were murdered on sight. The party guests had screamed and tried to run away, but Aizen’s men never let them go. Those who confronted them were killed almost instantly. And the king… Oh, the king fought valiantly and elegantly. He dispatched several of them easily. But he was not in his prime anymore. After fighting for what seemed like hours, he was overcome by Aizen himself. His sword stabbed him in the chest and blood spilled on the ground like a crimson waterfall. Shirayuki, who had been hiding in a corner, saw everything with wide eyes.

“Father!” She cried and instantly ran to where his father lay. She gently gathered him in her arms, her pure white dress becoming stained. “Father!” She cried again, shaking him, fearing death was gripping him.

The king turned to look at her, eyes glassy and face pale. He put a hand on her cheek, making her gasp. He was so cold. Byakuya looked at her intently. “Be brave.” He whispered, then his hand fell from her cheek and, uttering a woman’s name, he closed his eyes forever.

“Father!” Shirayuki cried harder, burying her face on the crook of his neck. Tears fell down her cheeks, as her body shook with each sob that ripped from her throat. “Father!” She called for him, even if she knew he wouldn’t be able to save her anymore.

Beside her, Aizen chuckled darkly. His plan of taking over the kingdom had worked, and now there was only one thing that stood on his way.

“Gin, Tousen. Get her.” He ordered his men, who instantly nodded and approached the wailing princess. Forcefully, they brought her to her feet, ripping her away from her father’s body.

“Let me go!” She yelled, trying to pry herself away from them. But it was no use. They were much stronger.

“Now, now, princess.” Aizen said as he stood in front of her. “It’s no use crying. Now be a good child and obey my orders.” He said in a saccharine voice that brought chills to Shirayuki’s spine.

“Never.” She snarled, eyes narrowing.

The traitor made a show of being scared of her. “My, my. You look just like your mother, but it seems you have inherited you’re father’s glare. What a beautiful sight you make!” He said, hand caressing Shirayuki’s cheek. The princess felt revolted and tried to bite his hand. “Feisty, are we? Well, let’s see how that fire dies when you sleep in the dungeons.” He said, voice devoid of any emotion. “Take her.” He ordered his men.

Shirayuki kicked and yelled, shouting for help. However, no one came to her aid. No matter how hard she kicked and hit them, neither let her go. Finally, they reached the underground dungeons. Shirayuki had only been there once. Her father had strictly forbidden her from entering the dungeons. But Shirayuki, being the person that she was, had found a way to go inside when no one was watching. It had been so dark then, even during daytime. It was darker now that it was the middle of the night. Without a care for her well-being, the men threw her on the floor of the cell, laughing at her shocked expression.

“Bye-bye, princess~!” Gin said as he closed the door, grinning at her like a demon.

Shirayuki shivered and, once they had left, she started crying again. She cowered in a corner of the cell, feeling more alone than ever. She looked at her body, her dress torn and stained from the battle. Stained with her father’s blood. Shaking, she opened her palm, revealing the locket she had managed to take from her father’s neck before she had been pulled away. She carefully opened it. Inside there was a portrait of the royal family. Her father, all regal and handsome. Her mother, the most beautiful woman in the world. In her arms was a baby with black hair.

“Now I’m all alone.” She said, suddenly realizing that her last relative in this world had died. “What do I do now?” She asked to the darkness, hoping someone would answer.

No one did.

Aizen was pleased with himself. Years of planning had finally given results. He now owned a castle, and with it came owning Seireitei. He was finally king of a grand kingdom, just as he had wished as a poor child all those years ago. He had everything. Or that was what he was supposed to feel. However, there was one little thing that stood in his way. He thought, as he stared at the painting in front of him. It was a portrait of a girl, then fifteen years old. She was smiling softly, arms holding a white rabbit.

“Shirayuki.” Aizen murmured darkly.

It was ironic, really. Neither the knights nor her father had stood a chance. They had all been killed on sight. The princess should have died too, if she hadn’t been needed for his ultimate plan. Aizen had not an ounce of royal blood in his veins. It didn’t matter how cunning he was, or how strong his forces were, his future heirs would not be able to inherit his great power unless their mother was as powerful too. That was where Shirayuki came into the picture. At eighteen, she was already a woman, and what a fine woman she was. Any man would be lucky to have her, and luckily enough Aizen already had her in his power. Except for the fact that he needed her express consent to wed her. It was a sad turn of events that the High Priest wouldn’t perform the ceremony if the princess was opposed to it. Aizen could have very well killed him and appointed another one. But then the people would be against him, and it would be a nightmare to control them. Everything would be much simpler if Shirayuki consented to a marriage between them. However, so far, she had denied him.

Aizen had frankly thought he had broken her. He had killed her father in front of her. He had taken the castle and, with it, the kingdom. He had thrown her in the dungeons, where she got little food and no rest. If this kept up, she would die. And yet, day in and day out, he sent his men to ask her if she was ready to accept. And day in and day out, she refused his marriage proposal, vowing to never wed him. It was infuriating to say the least. How such a small woman could have so much will was beyond him. But Aizen didn’t have much time left to wait for her. He needed to marry her now.

“Why did it have to be you?” He said out loud to the portrait.

Someone coughed next to him.

“My lord?” The man said.

“Yes, Gin?”

“Everything is ready.”

“Very well.”

Together they walked to a secret part of the castle, a room they had claimed for themselves. It had been unoccupied before, but now it housed a thing of the upmost importance. There, Tousen and other guards were waiting for them. Aizen nodded to them as they bowed, and he walked directly to the center of the room. There was a giant mirror. It was as crystal and transparent as water. It looked expensive and it truly was. It had cost Aizen blood and tears to get his hands on it.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, don’t tell me lies, tell me all.” He spoke.

Suddenly, the mirror changed. It was no longer transparent, but instead it turned a dark blue. There, a white face appeared. “I am Barragan, the magic mirror, tell me what you wish to know.”

“I’ve been looking far and low for the woman I can call my queen. I was told I could not marry just anyone, if my heir was to be as powerful as was prophesied. With this in mind, I have made this kingdom my own, but the lady still refuses. Surely, it must have been a mistake.”

“The mirror makes no mistakes.” Barragan proclaimed.

Aizen didn’t budge. “Then I must have heard wrong.”

“Repeat the question. You know the words.”

“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?” Aizen asked.

The mirror closed his eyes and started speaking. “Hair as black as ebony, lips as red as blood, skin as white as snow. It is the girl whom they call Shirayuki the one you are looking for. Only she is worthy of becoming your wife. Only she holds the purest of souls and the truest of hearts. Marry her, and your children will be invincible.”

Aizen sighed dramatically. “I was afraid you would say so. The lady still refuses. And I cannot make her my wife by force, otherwise this wouldn’t work. What can I do?”

“Perhaps…” Barragan started saying.

“Perhaps?”

“If the lady doth refuse, there is nothing you can do. But if Shirayuki ceases to exist─”

“Then another will take her place.” Aizen said, a smirk on his lips.

“Yes.”

“I was hoping you would say that.” He added, pleased by this turn of events.

“However.” Barragan said solemnly.

“However?”

“There is one condition. The fairest of them all is protected by the strongest of them all. If she is in peril, he will protect her, even at the cost of his life. Only he can overcome your plans.”

Aizen’s smirk became wider. “Then there is nothing to worry about. I have already taken care of that.”

On that note, Aizen left the room, feeling satisfied. Next to him, Gin walked, looking disconcerted.

“My lord?” He asked, once they had reached Aizen’s chambers. “What was that about?”

“Nothing.” He waved. “Prepare the princess with the finest clothes you can find and bring her to the forest.”

“As you wish.” He bowed.

“And Gin? Bring Abarai to me.”

[kdramacamper]

Pretty as a picture (Yeo Wool)

Summary : y/n is an artist from the west, who makes a living travelling from place to place in search for the worlds hidden beauties to capture them in her drawings and paintings. Who better for her to draw than Yeo Wool, the most beautiful man in Hwarang? If only she could find a way into Hwarang house to be able to do so. a/n: This is a long one, since i may have gotten a little carried away. ps. can you tell that i’m an aritst myself :P

Y/n was currently perched on a bench in one of Seorabeol's tea houses, with several cups of colorful beverages in front of her. Delicately she sweeped her brush against the parchment paper, her strokes almost not touching it in order to capture the fragility of the flowers swimming in her tea. By the time she had finished each illustration the cups of tea were all cold and untouched, but she didn't mind, as she hadn't bought them specifically to drink.

Y/n had been in Silla's capital for almost 2 days now and had quickly come to learn that Silla was home to many beautiful things. If it were just beautiful things she seeked to draw then she may well just end up living her whole life in Silla drawing and painting everyone and everything. So Y/n had to narrow it down.

The someone or something that she drew couldn't just be beautiful; they had to be something more.

They had to hold a story, a meaning, a moment; something hidden and only open to an artists eye so that when she had finished putting brush to paper they were not just beautiful anymore but sublime.

Flicking through her drawing book at the few stories she had captured, Y/n ordered another cup of tea, this time to drink.

So far she had captured many moments; a mother showing their child the sun and the sky for the first time, children that had been trying to capture butterflies earlier, climbing on top of each others shoulders to reach the fluttering creatures, a man looking at a woman like she was the world and said woman curled up with a book- her face holding the same expression.

Each picture made her smile, but as of yet she was unable to find something so stunning that it left an imprint in not just her mind but her heart. Only then when that happened, would she move on to the next city.

After finishing her tea Y/n packed her things, deciding to head back to her room at the inn she was staying in to freshen up and change her clothing, before visiting the Okta club in the evening.

She had asked many men and women  where to find the pretty things and people in Silla, and almost all of them had pointed her in the direction of the Okta club.

Apparently it was where Silla's elite youth went to enjoy drinks, women, music and dancing. She supposed in that case then, that there would atleast be something with worth she could record in her book of drawings.

The Okta was everything Y/n expected it to be, loud and bustling with giddy laughter and noise. The drums vibrated through her ears and the music flooded through her veins- or maybe it was the alcohol or both.

First she had started to draw the preforming dancers, their moves were impressive but at some point she found her focus slipping towards a woman adorned in glittery fabric and so many hair accessories, who was spinning around and laughing as men and women cheered her on and laughed too. Y/n could see and hear from the woman's laughter that she had a strong passion for dance, even though her movements were offbeat and she didn't particularly have a talent for it. But still Y/n found her an interesting subject to draw, so she allowed her pencil to move freely over the parchment until the gisaeng tired herself out and left to revive herself with a drink.

Y/n added the final touches to her drawing, carefully fixing the lighting and shadow in the needed areas. She was completely focused on her art, oblivious to the people crossing by her table and hesitating as they caught sight of her drawing and stared.

"Oh that's such a lovely drawing." A lilting feminine voice came from behind her, making Y/n lift her head and laugh as she saw that it was the gisaeng she had captured on paper.

"It's you." She said, smiling as the gisaeng's eye lit up and she sat beside Y/n to look at it further.

"Oh my goodness really? It's me? But it's so beautiful." The gisaeng said in awe, her painted lips fixed with a permanent smile.

"I only draw what I see." Y/n shrugged, and seeing the gisaeng's eyes glitter with happiness she pushed the now complete drawing towards her.

"Do you wish to keep it?"

The woman nodded her head enthusiastically clasping her hands against her chest.

"Oh can I?"

"There's no better hands for it to be in." She said, offering the gisaeng the picture and she graciously took it, carefully picking it up and hurrying over to a group of her fellow workers and friends.

Moments later, Y/n found herself in the Okta's sewing room, surrounded by a group of excitable gisaengs and ladies. After seeing the drawing of their friend they had all wanted one, and in exchange for information she had agreed to create a self portrait for each of them.

"If you're going to draw the most beautiful man, then it has to be Yeo Wool." One of the girls said, and the others nodded and swooned and squealed in collective agreement.

"Yeo Wool?" Y/n made note of the name, deciding that since he had stirred such a  reaction from these women that she should definitely find out what was so special about him.

"Where would I find him?"

The women surrounding her clasped their hands together with a forlorn sigh.

"He's Hwarang now. So he's always in Hwarang house."

"Where is Hwarang house?"

The gisaeng beside Y/n shook her head before stopping to pout.

"You can't go there. None of us can."

"Why not?" Y/n asked curiously, pausing from working on her drawing to looking at the sulking women.

"Because, women are forbidden to enter. Only Ah Ro can go there."

"Who's that?" Y/n asked.

"Her father is a doctor, so she goes into Hwarang house to fix their injuries."

~~~

2 days and a pouch of silver later, Y/n had managed to convince Ah Ro to let her tag along.

"So remember," Ah Ro said, her eyes fixed on Y/n as she handed her a basket of supplies to carry.

"If anyone asks you, you're my assistant. You can at the very least tie some bandages right?"

Y/n nodded, confident that was something she could do with no worry- as long as there was no excessive amount of blood.

Sitting her drawing book and pencils down on top of the basket, she followed Ah Ro as they traveled to Hwarang house.

When they arrived, Y/n wasn't sure what it was she had expected to see and she also wasn't sure whether what she was seeing exceeded those expectations or not.

The series of buildings were grand, though she assumed they had to be if they belonged to those who were going to be the King's greatest knights. She followed Ah Ro diligently to where she was going to treat the injured Hwarang, her eyes darting everywhere trying to spot who this Yeo Wool was. And maybe it was going to be harder than she thought, because these Hwarang were all rather attractive.

For the first hour or so, Y/n fulfilled her role as Ah Ro's assistant doing little things like organising the herbs, wetting rags and tying up bandages. It seemed though that the Hwarang knights had gotten tired and more accident prone as the day progressed, as more and more were turning up with deeper gashes and a whole lot of crimson seeping through their uniform.

Feeling faint, Y/n took this opportunity to step out. She decided that if she were to come across anyone asking what she was doing, she would use the excuse of looking for anyone who hadn't managed to make it to the doctor who was in need of help.

Holding her book and pencils tight, she set out in search of Yeo Wool.

The girls from the Okta hadn't been particularly helpful with their description, simply saying that he was a man more beautiful than a women whose eyes and smile you could get lost in. Y/n would have felt rude trying to ask them for a description that was more realistic and less romantic, so she decided to just leave it at that.

She wasn't sure how long she had been wandering the Hwarang grounds for, and was starting to loose hope that she would ever find Yeo Wool among so many Hwarang knights.

Or maybe; she thought disappointingly, maybe she had already seen him and he just wasn't as wonderful to her eye in comparison to everyone else's. But as she left the next building, she caught sight of a Hwarang practicing his swordsmanship beneath a cherry blossom tree.

It was as if he had selected the perfect backdrop purposefully, the clear sky framing his silhouette, the sunlight hitting the shining metal in his hand each time he twirled his wrist and the wind created by the sword causing pink petals to rain down around him.

He swung his sword once more, and this time it caught the sun's rays and refracted them, blinding her momentarily as the light journeyed into her line of sight. When he lowered his sword and spun around so she could see the full extent of his facial features, Y/n felt her heart thump loudly, like it did when she had found herself the perfect muse, and then it thumped just a little bit more.

She understood the Okta girls' struggle to describe him, because he was so simply unlike any other.

Y/n was immersed in the image of him, from the way the natural light hit the bridge of his nose, shadowed around his jawline, and highlighted cheekbones to the way his lips pressed together as he concentrated, slightly pursed and his brow slightly furrowed. Then there was his eyes, the way they managed to look both sleepy and uninterested but at the same time alert and always watching.

This man was definitely more than blessed by the gods, one may even mistakenly believe he was one.

Y/n also took care to analyse the way he carried himself before she started to sketch.

He was confident, moving fluidly and with a grace that reminded her of something snakelike, slinking and  mysterious but at the same time inviting.

With enough understanding she put pen to paper, first capturing the beauty of his movement by drawing the line of action, the elegant curve of his sword and the shapes he created before fleshing out the rest of his features and figure.

She drew and drew, until eventually when she looked back at the cherry blossom he was no longer there. Without her muse she began to finish the last touches of the drawing, chewing her lip as she concentrated.

"Who are you?"

Y/n's eyes widened and she dropped her pencil, head darting up at the voice that had suddenly appeared beside her.

Or maybe not so suddenly since he was positioned comfortably, fan in his hand, as if he had been waiting for a while. She followed the graceful sweeping motion of his wrist as it curled to wave the fan in front of his face. Y/n traced the fluid moment with her eyes, which froze upon his features as he lowered the fan.

Y/n knew he had asked her something but she couldn't remember what it was anymore, she couldn't do anything but stare because the beautiful man who she had been drawing earlier was now stood right in front of her.

And up close he was even more lovely.

"What? Haven't you ever met a beautiful man before?" He smirked, flashing pearly teeth which were shining just as much as the rest of him. Even the way he spoke seemed to be shrouded in mystery, every breath and intonation whimsy and lackadaisical in manner. It was the kind of voice that would have you hanging on every word, and also the kind of the voice that as well as being soft also held the capability of being sharp.

"No," She breathed out, her jaw still slack and heart pounding heavily. As his smirk flourished into a full smile and he laughed, Y/n shook her head, her face turning red in embarrassment.

"I mean yes, maybe." She amended trying to save herself but failing miserably. "But not anyone quite like you, you're stunning."

Y/n squinted her eyes shut, turning away from him and cursing herself. Sometimes her brain didn't like to cooperate with her mouth and she would end up saying out loud what should have been her thoughts or just not thinking when she spoke at all. Such occurrences tended to happen when she was overeager or excited, but now it regrettably seemed that the misfortune happened in front of attractive men too.

Great.

"I guess in someways I could say the same about you” He mused, looking her nervous form up and down with amusement.

Yeo Wool took a step toward her, observing how she took a step back, pushing herself against the wooden railing.

"You know women aren't allowed inside Hwarang house, they're forbidden to enter." He said, almost whispering the last words as he ducked down, tickling her ear with his breath.

"I..I came with Ah Ro." She explained, clutching her drawing book as she slowly tried to inch away from him to retrieve her personal space and hopefully calm her crazily thumping heart. "I'm her assistant."

Yeo Wool followed her movement, keeping in close proximity, no doubt well aware of how much he was effecting the girl.

"Ah you're a doctor." He nodded understandingly, then grabbed his chin as he looked her over again, peering into her eyes.

"Then shouldn't you be with you're patients? Instead of all the way over here scribbling in a book?" His eyes twinkled with mirth as hers widened, giving away to him just as much as her words could.

"Blood makes me dizzy." Y/n  spouted, cursing her brain once again for making her seem like such an idiot.

Yeo Wool raised an eyebrow, moving away from her to give himself room to wave his fan.

"And you call yourself a doctor? I bet you don't even know how to treat a stab wound do you?"

"Well no but....I never said I was a doctor." She stammered, hoping there would be a way to get out of this dire situation without her best option of escape being to throw herself over the edge of the wooden railing before she died of embarrassment first.

"Ah Ro is the doctor." She persisted, confident she had found herself a strong argument.

"Yes that's it. She's the doctor, i'm just an as-"

"Assassin?" He inquired teasingly, though she hadn't comprehended it, thinking he was suspecting her.

"What? No!" She shrieked with appall and he hummed with a shake of his head pretending not to buy it.

"I saw you watching me and take a pencil to that book, if you're not an assassin...then are you a spy?"

Y/n whimpered shaking her head profusely, the other side of the wooden railing and the several foot drop was surprisingly becoming more appealing.

"No, no it's nothing like that- really it isn't." She looked at him pleadingly, hoping he would let her go in peace.

"Ah... you must be an artist then." Yeo Wool said, making Y/n's jaw fall slack again.

"You're thinking, how does he know? Aren't you?" He grinned, lifting her chin with his fan to close her mouth and push her lips back together.

"Because of your eyes. they don't just look at my beauty but beyond it." He regarded her features for a few moments more than he should of because she really was such an interesting thing. And as she looked back at him, staring into his sparkling eyes; he took the chance to pry the drawing book from her grip and flip through the pages.

"Hey you can't look at that!" She protested, trying to reach for it, but he spun away from her each time, avoiding her grabbing hands.

"Give it back!" She moaned, but he ignored her, humming as he flicked through each page until he found his own face.

"You have wonderful talent." He praised, eyes smiling mischievously at her as he took another step away from Y/n.

"You've done well to capture my likeness, it's nearly but not quite as beautiful as me."

"Well i'm grateful to know you think so highly of my skills." She said, her voice exasperated due to his exhausting presence. In the space of what had probably been 20 minutes he had managed to make her feel all sorts of things and now she was verging on annoyance.

"Now that you have seen the picture can I have my book back?" Y/n asked, offering him a smile with hopes it would convince him.

He hummed with his melodic voice, closing the book but still not returning it. She groaned raking her fingers through her hair and pressing her palms against her forehead. He could clearly see he was irking Y/n, and as amused as he was by the sight of it; Yeo Wool much preferred when she was red in the face from embarrassment and not anger.

"Doesn't an artist usually draw their muse naked? Because i'm sure I can arrange something." He offered with a sly wink, laughing in delight as her face flushed and her eyes widened once again.

"What? What did you just say?" Y/n asked in disbelief, but he refused to respond.

He opened the book and dropped his gaze to the drawing again, this time wondering if it was indeed more beautiful than him. Because he had seen himself in his own eyes from a mirror, he had heard other peoples thought's about his appearance but he had never seen himself from another's eyes, as no artist had attempted  to paint or draw him before, too intimidated by his beauty. But this woman had, and her touch was so delicate, yet so passionate and as much as there was him in the illustration, there was the same amount of her in it too, in each stroke of her pencil and each smudge.

"I want to keep this." Yeo Wool said, and then he tore the page out of the book, rolling it up carefully and sliding it into his sleeve, ignoring her complaints and cries of discontent.

"Don't worry i'll pay for it." He promised with a smirk, curling his arm around her waist to pull Y/n flush against him with a gasp.

"With a kiss."

His breath fanned across her lips and her heart thudded erratically as he ducked his head down, brushing his lips against hers.

[savedblog222]

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single person in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a partner. However little known the feelings or views of such a person may be on their first entering a neighborhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that they are considered as the rightful property of someone or other of their children.

“My dear Mr. Ollivander,” said his lady to him one day, “have you not heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”

Mr. Ollivander, by now accustomed to his wife and her interests, only raised one brow and waited so as to draw her patience. It did not last long.

“My dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from North of England; that he came down on Monday and was so delighted by the view he at once agreed with Mr. Morris that he is to take possession!”

Mr. Ollivander, yet still donning a valiant amount of disinterest, chanced another pause. There was but few reasons his wife would disturb his afternoon reading, a range that stretched from gossip to boredom, but only one in which she would be so enthralled. Mrs. Ollivander, it seemed, had grown tired of being the only participant in her excitement, and was now waiting as well.

Finally, of Mr. Ollivander, “What is his name?”

Exasperatedly, of Mrs. Ollivander, “Lestrange.”

“And what does he have to do with our highly-trained duelist daughters?”

Mr. Lestrange was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a smile that assumed no prompting, and an enthusiasm set to enrapture all of Hertfordshire. He was not the eldest but had a brother, though his fortune and interest and hand was already well taken care of by a wife. It did not take long for the very interested Mr. Lestrange to conduct a ball in which all of Hertfordshire’s abled legs were invited.

This was, of course, a very good fate indeed for Mrs. Ollivander but especially, she would declare, for her daughters (of whom she had argued vehemently to Mr. Ollivander could not be expected to fend for themselves forever with only their wands!).

The Ollivanders had five, but only three in which could accept any sort of offer. All their beauty was most well-spoken of.

However, the youngest of the trio, Geraldine, was far too sensible and far too perceptive to entertain any suggestion before her eldest sisters. And Gretchen, the second, held too much of her father’s favor to settle before she had exceeded both their expectations of her skills.

That left Mary. Of all the daughters, it was Mary who was routinely compared to suns and stars and whatever other form of light one could come up with. She offered a radiance not only held within her smile and figure, but with the kindness in which she always spoke. Mr. Lestrange was not the first to be enraptured by it, but he was the only man with enough nerve to claim her hand for more than one dance.

Gretchen, whose love for her sisters burned too deep to be described as radiance but rather an entire entity itself, could not be more delighted by Mr. Lestrange’s preference in Mary. Truly, she was not so much as interested in the young man’s presence as she was with the company he chose to keep within it. For there was one other person besides him that drew the room’s utmost attention by merely entering.

Ms. Baddock had both the name and being impossible to disregard. Her fine, slender frame was punctuated by the sharpness of her eyes and noble lift of the chin. It did not hurt either that, within five minutes of her appearance, a report of her having ten thousand a-year circulated around the room. The gentleman regarded her a solid character of a proprietor, the ladies declared she was much more mysterious than Mr. Lestrange, and she was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, till her manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of her popularity; for the modest entrance that had been mistaken for grace was revealed to be indifference, and she was discovered to be proud, to be above her company, and above being pleased.

As Mr. Lestrange delighted in laughter and mirth and happiness with Mary, Ms. Baddock prowled not a step further than the loneliest shadows of the room. The scarcity of gentleman and the ladies’ preoccupation of a suitor obliged Gretchen to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Ms. Baddock had been standing near enough for her to overhear a conversation between her and Mr. Lestrange, who came from the dance for a few minutes to press his friend to join it.

“Come, Harper, you must dance,” implored he, “What good is a balanced hand and steady aim, if all it shall be used for is to hold a wand?”

“I certainly shall not. You know I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner.”

"I dare say it would do you well to start with acquainting. Upon my honor, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them, you see, uncommonly pretty.”

“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Ms. Baddock, looking at Mary.

At this last Gretchen could no longer feign interest within the glass before her, not at the mention of her sister, not at the sigh loosed by Mr. Lestrange that had his following declaration tinged with such candor it could not be helped but be drowned with charm.

“Oh, is she not the most beautiful creature that eyes should ever lay upon? I can hardly keep up with her spirit, and that is not even mentioning the gentleness and benevolence that would soften any heart to the point of breaking.”

Ms. Baddock offered nothing to this but a grunt.

Mr. Lestrange continued with just a much enthusiasm, “But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”

“Which do you mean?” and turning round, she looked for a moment at Gretchen, who now directed her attention to a point where it would have to be worked for. When the ladies at last managed to catch the other’s eye, Ms. Baddock quickly withdrew her own, and said haltingly, “She is tolerable. But not handsome enough to tempt me.”

It was her candor, every bit as pure as Mr. Lestrange’s, but ultimately so far a contrast in charm, that forced Gretchen to wretch herself away from both the conversation and her seat. So violent was the movement that she nearly tipped the table, but at the last moment was able to draw her wand and cast a spell to steady it. The commotion, though quickly resolved, had not the good fortune to go unnoticed by the nearby party; Mary was at once by her side, and the two hastily exited the room without a second glance back to the eyes following their progress.

Once it had been popularly agreed that Ms. Baddock was not the least bit welcome in Hertfordshire, and many a neighbor would rather not see her frown again, it was without embarrassment to the victim that her abuse of Gretchen’s character was shared among friends and family; rather, it was a validation, evidence and verification of such an unruly being.

This sentiment was being further documented by the sisters a following afternoon, as they conducted their ritual study.

“Why is the only time you curtsy right before a duel?” asked Mary, who by now knew the answer but never ceased to be delighted by the variations given. Gretchen stood several paces away, her wand already in position to attack not because she was bracing herself but because it was always so.

“My dear sister, do not mistake it for manners or for want of being perceived as a lady. If I were to bow, then I would show my back, and that is the worst thing I should ever do.”

Their wands could not be followed when in use; each strike was equally matched, each hex equally defended. The Ollivanders were not offenders of the norm with their preference to using magic in this way, but rather its application to music, dancing, and visual arts had become an innovation much more popular among those who considered themselves to have class. Mr. Ollivander had never deigned use of the word, and therefore declared his daughters to focus their skills within dueling.

The sisters often found in each other a worthy equal and expectations of a challenge, but Gretchen was known for being the shrewdest. It was this quality along with Mary’s apparent preoccupation that she managed to deliver a curse fast enough to see her sister doubling over.

“I pray that you are not yet yielding!” laughed Gretchen, but she herself had already done just so. It was with no displeasure that she ousted the wand out of her sister’s grip, to signify a clear end of the duel, for she had long guessed what thoughts really raced in Mary’s mind.

“Mr. Lestrange is quite handsome,” Gretchen started, for she alone had discerned just how timid her sister’s radiance could be. Relief and excitement filled Mary’s face at once, and neither could help but feel a surge of affection for the other at that moment.

“He is just what a young man ought to be,” said Mary, “kind, generous, good-humored, vibrant; and I never saw such happy manners! So much ease, I could not imagine a topic he would not find pleasure with!”

“He is also rich,” replied Gretchen, but she was met with a look so patient that she relented immediately.

The two of them contented to a momentary break as they cleaned and polished their wands; it was a task that could be accompanied by further gossip or quiet contemplation, and neither was preferred over the other. On this day, however, Gretchen could not quite agree to that sentiment as Mary turned to her yet again and gripped her hand with compassion.

“I am sorry for what Ms. Baddock said about you.”

Gretchen was silent, annoyed but could not find it within herself to be further bothered.

“It was a terrible thing to say,” Mary continued, “but perhaps she did not mean it so. She may feel there is an excuse to her pride, and therefore did not consider to know any better; with the reputation, fortune, everything in her favor, it is an expected symptom to think highly of oneself.”

Gretchen was again silent, but only for a moment. She knew that Mary had every bit of a protector in her as she; the only difference between them was that one sought to shield only those she loved, and the other to shield everyone she would ever meet. Her sister was a warrior that fought to see the good in any person. So it was not with unkindess, but rather the same candor that had been so damaging in the first place, that she replied, “ That may be true, but I shall not give it any more thought. I could easily forgive her pride, if she had not mortified mine.”

There was yet another ball held outside of Netherfield, and in its attendance the handsome Mr. Lestrange and his now expected companion Ms. Baddock. The absence of ill will was pointed in the attitude Gretchen, which was quickly picked up by her sisters, and the evening seemed set in frivolity and more dancing. Truly, the second Ollivander wanted nothing more to do with the coldness in temper the other woman had earlier displayed; and so occupied was she in observing Mr. Lestrange’s attentions to Mary, Gretchen was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend.

There was only one person in all the world that could read Harper Baddock’s expression, and it was not even herself, for she detested being bored and could see nothing but that in the act of standing in front of a mirror. To this fact, she could not blame herself for not exercising earlier restraint; the first night in which her eyes had trailed after Gretchen Ollivander’s retreating form it was only with the intention to criticize, and the following times with the barest amount of consideration past an acknowledgement that she held little to no admiration.

But no sooner had she made it clear to herself that Miss Ollivander had hardly a striking feature to analyze, than she recognized  the quickness of her stance and discipline of her posture plaguing the corners of her attention, from one chaste glimpse of the instance she’d drawn her wand; she began to find that her face was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of unadulterated focus in her eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though she had detected with a critical eye a general contempt towards propriety from Gretchen, she was forced to consider this renegade and almost endearing; and in spite of her asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, she was caught by their easy playfulness.

Harper began to wish to know more of her; and, conscious of her first impression but nevertheless determined to take a step towards conversing with her herself, attended to her conversations with others. This did not go unnoticed by Gretchen.

“What does Ms. Baddock mean,” said she to Geraldine, with no small amount of irritation, “by listening to my conversation with Colonel Alastor?”

Her sister, who was far too sensible to truly entertain this query, shrugged and replied, “That is a question which Ms. Baddock only can answer.”

Her words had their intended effect in bringing absolutely no pleasure to Gretchen, and she was just about to say so when Harper began to approach, though without seeming to have any intention of speaking. Geraldine, who was comfortable teasing only her sisters, and likewise could not stand to feel embarrassed in the company of any other, defied her sister to mention such a subject to her, which immediately provoked Gretchen to do it; she turned to Harper and said,--

“Did you not think, Ms. Baddock, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Alastor to open a hall not for dancing but for dueling?”

Harper blinked, hesitating in what was either, in the appraisal of her audience, shock at the blitheness of her question or offense towards it. “With great energy,” she replied, stiffly, “but it is a subject which makes anyone who can wave a wand energetic.”

“You are severe on us,” Gretchen scoffed, but before any more pleasantries could be exchanged, which was clearly Harper’s aim for she was quick to once again open her mouth, the orchestra struck its first chord. The sisters bid Harper their leave, one with a curtsy and the other with a glare, and were immediately took upon to entertain an eager gentleman of their own.

Harper stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much engrossed by her own thoughts to perceive that Colonel Alastor was her neighbor, till Colonel Alastor thus began:--

“Your friend takes great delight in anything joyful and engaging!” Harper was silent, although was as successful in finding Mr. Lestrange in the middle of the crowd with, of course, Mary upon his arm. Colonel Alastor continued, “He has wonderful taste. And I doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Ms. Baddock.”

“You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.”

“Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do you often dance at St. James’?”

“No.”

“Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?”

Harper tilted her head.

Colonel Alastor paused in hopes of a forthcoming answer; but his companion was not disposed to make any; and Gretchen at that instant moving towards them, he was struck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to her,--

“My dear Miss Gretchen, you too are too ill to dance? Ms. Baddock, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before.”

Harper was once again stiff, extremely surprised, but not at all unwilling to receive Gretchen’s hand as it was taken by Colonel Alastor and offered out to her; however, even before the chance of their fingers brushing, she had quickly withdrawn it, and said with some discomposure to Colonel Alastor,--

“Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.”

Harper seemed to be battling a great deal of reluctance, immediately recognized by Gretchen as the appearance of someone who was fighting to do the proper thing. It did not at all entreat her to be charmed when Harper insisted, “Please, Ms. Ollivander. The honor of your hand.”

“You excel so much in the dance, Miss Gretchen, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you,” added Colonel Alastor, “and though this lady dislikes the amusement in general, she can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half hour.”

“Ms. Baddock is all politeness,” said Gretchen, smiling.

Then, with one last arch look, she turned away. Her resistance had not injured her with Harper, however, and quite the contrary; as Gretchen wandered elsewhere, her eyes could not help but trail on after her wake.

Mr. Lestrange had occupied Netherfield Park for only a fortnight, and had known the eldest Miss Ollivander for just as much time, but it was quite clear to anybody with sense that he was wholly taken in her preference. This was the sentiment declared by Gretchen, at the very least, when one day a letter arrived to their address from his, and Mrs. Ollivander along with the younger three sisters greeted the event with squeals of unparalleled delight.

“Well, Mary, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Do make haste and tell us!”

“It is from Miss Black, the cousin of Mr. Lestrange,” said Mary, and then read it aloud.

“Dearest Mary,

If you are not so compassionate as to dine today with Andromeda and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives; for a whole day’s tête-à-tête between two women can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the receipt of this. My cousin and the gentleman are to dine with the officers.

Yours ever, Narcissa Black.”

“With the officers!” cried Gloria.

“Dining out,” said Mrs. Ollivander, “well, that is very unlucky.”

“Can I have the carriage?” asked Mary.

“No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain; and then you must stay all night.”

“She can apparate,” Gretchen pointed out, but Mrs. Ollivander was not to be underestimated in her own shrewdness. With a smile and a wink borrowed from her youngest daughter, she crossed the room and beheld her eldest.

“Netherfield Park is ancient and is sure to have wards. Its edge could extend for miles, and when you apparate then where will you be? Without a horse!”

Mrs. Ollivander continued with her argument, and Mary was still hesitating, when Gretchen leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Oh, you better just go. Before she decides a sniffling draught in your tea will suit her scheme quicker.”

The rain had continued that entire evening, and although the sisters were uneasy for Mary, her mother was beside herself with delight. She seemed to take credit of influencing the weather herself; until the next morning, however, when the tender dampness of their yard assisted in alarming them to the sloshing arrival of a servant from Netherfield. He brought the following note for Gretchen;--

“My Dearest Gretchen,

I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not hear of my returning home till I am better. They insist also on me seeing Mrs. Pomfrey--therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of her having been to me-- and, excepting a sore-throat and headache, there is not much the matter with me.

Yours, M.”

“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Ollivander, when Gretchen had finished reading the note aloud, “If your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness, if she should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr. Lestrange, and under your orders.”

“Oh, I have no concern of her death. Is this not what you robbed their childhoods and femininity for, to survive at any and all costs? She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is all very well.”

“I shall go to her,” declared Gretchen, who was, despite all assurances from her mother of their unnecessarily-trained resilience, was feeling quite anxious. Even if a carriage could not be held, she deemed it no trifle; certainly, she has endured much worse than a bit of a walk.

And so she did, crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing over puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last within view of the house, with weary ankles, filthy stockings, and a face glowing with the pleasure of exercise.

She was ushered in the breakfast-parlor, and although her appearance struck quite the surprise from everyone in attendance, she was politely received. So occupied was she in her sister’s well-being that, once introduced, it was all she could focus on; but it did not escape her notice the warmth and, dare she say, respect in which Mr. Lestrange regarded her. Ms. Baddock said very little, and the ladies in attendance said nothing at all. As Gretchen’s plea to be shown to her sister was enthusiastically fulfilled, however, and she started out of the room, it was only the former’s eyes that did not immediately leave her, not till she was truly out of sight.

Mary was indeed unwell and, although retaining her cheerful composition, could not so much as lift her head from her pillow. Gretchen attended to her diligently, and then silently when she fell asleep, and relentlessly for it was both love and reluctance to entertain her alternative company that she stayed by her sister’s side.

When the clock struck three, Gretchen felt that she must go; and very unwillingly said so. Miss Black offered her the carriage, and she only wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Mary testified such concern in parting with her, that Miss Black was obliged to convert the offer of the chaise into an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present. Gretchen most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to Longbourn, to acquaint the family with her stay, and bring back a supply of clothes.

It was on one evening after Gretchen had finally acquainted herself with her hosts, that she learned the most peculiar thing. Miss Black was just as diligent in her attendance to Harper as Gretchen was to Mary, and it was during a break in which Harper had sat down to begin writing a letter that she said;--

“And how is young Miss Baddock doing? Has she much grown in the spring? Will she be as tall as I am?”

“Mr. Baddock is well,” said Harper, and to the physical bewilderment of Gretchen looked over to her. She seemed to have been bred with just enough fine manners to merely incline her head at the reaction, and explain, “Benjy. My younger brother.”

Gretchen remained silent, but only because it had never been previously mentioned to her that there ever was such a sibling; she resumed her charmwork, which had previously been the most interesting thing in the room to her, but not before acknowledging the quick flash of softness that crossed Harper’s features as she returned to the letter.

Miss Black, eager to make up for this exchange and her misstep, leaned forward in both her seat and relentlessness. “How delighted Mr. Baddock will be to receive this letter!”

Harper made no answer.

“You write uncommonly fast.”

“You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”

“Pray tell your brother that I long to see him.”

“I have already told him so once, by your desire.”

“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well.”

A pause. Then, from Harper, “Thank you -- but I always mend my own pen.”

“How can you contrive to write so even?”

This time, Gretchen looked up at Harper’s silence and was surprised to see that her eyes were not regarding Miss Black and her efforts, but rather resting heavily upon her own. So unexpected was this that she almost looked away, and would have done so if it weren’t against her basest instinct to meet everything head on. They held the stare exactly two moments past a coincidence, before Harper finally released them and glanced back down to her letter.

If Gretchen were to blink, Harper’s expression would not have revealed that anything beyond the usual had transpired; except for the softest of smiles traced upon her lips.