#and we retreated to isolation in the highest point of the small house on the island

[magicalgirlmindcrank]

we're having a lot of weird dreams and a lot of trouble getting out of bed. We're either depressed or something weird is going on.

[blackjacktheboss]

“Are you warm enough?”

this super got away from me and I did not proofread so please keep any typos you find your yourself lmao 

Percy sticks two logs into the fire and takes his seat next to Annabeth, wrapping his arm around her. “Are you warm enough?”

She nudges him as she laughs. “For the millionth time, yes. I’m fine!”

“I still think you should go to bed,” he says, despite the fact that he is pulling her closer to him. He places a kiss on her cheek. “I can finish tonight’s watch by myself.”

“I’m not leaving you alone on the solstice,” she says as a shiver runs through her. She tilts her head up. “Besides, the stars are far too beautiful.”

Percy follows her gaze and smiles at the millions of speckles of light that mark the night sky. “None as beautiful as you.”

“For a man who was chosen at birth to take a sacred oath and live his life in isolation, you are quite the romantic.”

“Do you wish me less romantic?” Percy asks, his eyes tracing Annabeth’s silhouette.

Annabeth turns to look at him and lightly shakes her head. “No. I wish you exactly as you are.”

Percy smiles, but as he leans in to kiss her, the trees just in front of them begin to rustle.

He jumps to his feet and draws his sword, which had been resting at his side, and slowly  walks around the fire towards the noise. He hears the sounds of Annabeth taking out her dagger behind him and takes a calming breath, reminding himself this is what he has been training for since he was twelve years old.

“Remember,” he says over his shoulder.

“No getting stabbed, I know,” Annabeth drones, and he can practically hear her rolling her eyes.

“I was going to say protect the Temple at all costs.”

“Oh,” she says. “Right.”

“But also, do not get stabbed again.”

The rustling in the trees grows louder and as Percy readies his stance, a small figure stumbles out of the forest.

They wear a brown cloak covered in multicolored patches, and it has a hood that hangs over the top of their face. A wrinkled hand rests atop a gnarled cane and a satchel is slung across their front, though from Percy’s view it looks empty.

“Hello, young man,” they say in a rickety voice. They pull back their hood and reveal the face of an old woman with kind chestnut eyes and thin brown hair that is pinned back. “Might you have some water and spare food for a weary traveler?”

Percy stares at her from a moment, a small voice in the back of his mind whispering something about her that he can’t quite make out.

“Young man?” she repeats.”

Percy shakes his head and puts his sword away, standing tall. “Of course we do. Please, miss, join us at our fire.”

She sits against a log, putting her diagonal from Annabeth who watches her skeptically while Percy goes to fetch the food and water.

“I bear no ill will, child,” the old woman says, holding her hands close to the fire.

“What brings you out into the woods all by yourself?” Annabeth asks, wrapping herself back up in the blanket.

The old woman sighs and rubs her hands together. “The solstice is a magical time. One never knows what one may find if one is only willing to look for it.”

Percy returns with a pail of spring water which he places next to the woman, and a bag full of food that he hands her. “Hopefully this is enough food to last you through your travels.”

“You are too kind, my son.”

“Not at all,” he says with a smile. “Do you have a canteen you can fill?”

The old woman sips from the ladle in the pail and shakes her head.

“I can fashion you one before you go,” Percy says. “One must always travel with water.”

“What gods do you worship that you would show an old stranger such kindness?” the woman asks as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I was wondering the same thing,” Annabeth asks pointedly, clearly suspicious of the stranger.

“I await no reward, if that’s what you’re asking,” he answers. “In this life or the next. I simply extend the kindness I would hope to be shown.”

The old woman winks at Annabeth. “You have found yourself a good man.”

Annabeth blushes despite herself. “Of the highest order.”

Percy scrunches his nose up at her before turning back to the traveler. “You may stay as long as you like, as our guest, but I must warn you this part of the woods can be quite dangerous. It may be best for you to leave as soon as you have had your fill of food and drink.”

The old woman smiles as she pulls a loaf of bread from the bag and breaks it open. She places one half to her nose and inhales deeply before tossing it right into the fire. “As long as I walk under the gaze of the moon, no mortal man may harm me.”

“What luck,” Annabeth says facetiously and Percy nudges her with his shoulder.  

The woman laughs. “It is good for a woman in this world to protect herself with wit and anger. Some days, those will be the only things on her side. No one knows that quite like you, Annabeth.”

Annabeth and Percy’s bodies tense in unison, and Percy’s hand slowly moves towards the hilt of his sword.

“Didn’t you hear me?” she says, not looking up at either of them. “No mortal weapon shall harm me while I walk under the light of my sister’s moon.”

“Your… sister’s… moon?” Percy repeats slowly.

“Do not fear me, Percy. It is in my name you hold this vigil, after all,” the woman says, looking Percy in the eye.

Percy’s mind flashes back to the night of his twelfth birthday, when the priests arrived at his village to begin his training. They sat at this very fire, and when Percy looked into the flames, the same eyes he sees now were the very eyes that stared back at him then.

“Lady Hestia,” he says, his voice barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

Hestia smiles, childlike and bright as her wrinkles and the exhaustion evident in her body melt away. Her cloak remains the same, save for the multicolored patches all seem to have a golden sheen to them in the light. She sits up straight and stretches towards the sky. “I am so proud to have a champion with such a kind heart,” she says happily. “And that he has a companion as equally skeptical. Balance is so important in these matters.”

Annabeth blinks slowly as she tries to process what is happening in front of her. “I was rude… to a goddess.”

Hestia waves Annabeth’s concerns away. “I am not nearly as tempestuous as my sisters, dear girl. As I said before, I bear no ill will. In fact, I have been watching you two for quite some time.”

Percy and Annabeth look at each other, and both begin to turn red.

“Not like that,” the goddess assures them. “I mean I have been evaluating to see if you both are ready for what must be done. While I do wish there were more time, events have already begun to unfold that I’m afraid put as at a bit of a disadvantage.”

Percy looks to Hestia, then Annabeth, and back again. “Lady Hestia, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“I bring you two a quest,” she whispers.

Annabeth’s eyes light up at the word quest and she places her hand on Percy’s knee. “What kind of quest, Lady Hestia?”

“The dangerous kind,” the goddess whispers back.

Percy shakes his head. “I took a vow, Lady Hestia.”

“One you have already broken, my child,” she says with a pointed look between the couple. “Many times over.”

Percy blushes again, closing his eyes to refocus. “I am not to leave the hallowed grounds that mark the entrance to your temple. I must not leave, in retreat or in pursuit of enemies, no matter the circumstances. I may not see my mother’s face again until my watch has ended. I must live here, with nothing but the company of the marble doors and I must never, ever enter your Temple or I will face an unimaginable punishment in the Underworld. I have trained since  I was twelve and held this post since I was sixteen. Even with Annabeth here, and the life I dream of having with her, I have protected this place as I swore to do all those years ago. I have given up my life in your service, Lady Hestia, and now you would ask me to forsake all of that?”

Hestia looks at him, her expression blank. “Yes.”

“I can’t,” he says plainly.

“Percy, my priests are all dead,” she says, her eyes suddenly full of sadness. “Everyone who had a hand in training you, slaughtered by the forces that would add your body to the pile without a second thought. I do not wish that fate for you.”

Percy looks to Annabeth as panic rises in him. “You have to go,” he says.

“I’m not leaving you,” Annabeth answers. “We leave together or not at all.”

“Annabeth-”

“If you tell me one more time that you took the vow and I didn’t, I will kill you myself. I will not leave you, Lady Hestia as my witness.”

“I do not ask this lightly,” Hestia says. “But I do ask it.”

Hestia steps forward then, and places her hands on either side of Percy’s face, and his eyes flutter shut. Percy feels his face grow warm as he has visions of himself as a little boy hugging his mom, and again as a grown man. He sees himself building Annabeth a house by the sea, the one she has described to him a million times over, and in that house he sees him and Annabeth having a wedding, and children, and so much happiness he could burst. He sees them all near the sea, dancing in its waves as the sun glows above them, and he feels a peace that he has never felt before settle over him.

When he opens his eyes, he feels the tears that are running down his face.

“That is a beautiful life you have dreamed, Percy,” Hestia says. “Hearth and home are what keep us anchored in the storm of the world. You have pledged yourself to me, and even now you honor my name. But if you do not take up this task, I am afraid you will die here, also in my name, having lived a muted life. And dear hero, please hear me when I say I do not wish that for you.”

“Percy,” Annabeth says, and he feels her hand slip into his and squeeze. “Whatever you decide, I am with you.”

Percy squeezes her hand back. “Until the end?”

“In this life and the next.”

Percy turns back to the goddess and swallows hard, his hand still squeezing Annabeth’s. “Tell us what you need us to do.”

[stars-in-my-damn-eyes]

Ophelia is Just a State of Mind

Summary: Rhian’s life in itself hadn’t been too hard. She’d been born into an unimportant family at a GA base in Wales, to loving parents. However, the GA itself, as was customary, seemed more than happy to break through the illusion that everything was alright.

Rhian Vaughn’s father was a man with tired eyes who always smiled gently at her and patted her head softly whenever she went up to him. Her mother didn’t like to touch Rhian - or anyone - but she’d always sing to her, and assure Rhian that she loved her.

When Rhian’s mother didn’t come home one day, her father changed. Whenever he thought Rhian or little Trystan weren’t looking, an anger would settle within him, as if he was mad at the world.

Her mother had died when Rhian was five, but Rhian was six when she asked her father what had happened to her.

“She’s dead, lamb,” he’d said, and the tiny part of Rhian that had been hoping that she’d just transferred bases and was going to come back any day felt something shatter.

“Oh,” she said. “But Mum wasn’t old.”

“She wasn’t,” her father said. “But someone in her office had let an important file get corrupted, and the blame fell on her head.”

“Did the corruption kill her?” Rhian asked, voice small.

Her father chuckled. “Something like that.”

They didn’t talk about Rhian’s mum again - it simply wasn’t done in the organisation to dwell in the dead when life was moving on, after all - until they recieved news that they were to be transferring from their base in Wales to one in England, when Rhian was eight, almost nine. It was the main base of the GA, her father had said, and a very prestigious location. That’s where Mark Grey, the head of the GA himself, lived, and where their mother had come from.

“We’re going to Central?” Rhian had yelped, stars in her eyes, Trystan standing beside here with an expression of quiet awe. “How come? Will mum’s friends be there? Do we have any aunts or uncles there?”

“Naw,” her father had chuckled mirthlessly. “I don’t know where your aunts and uncles have been stationed. We’re going to Central because of you, Rhian.”

“Me? How come?”

“Someone in the Academy was very impressed with your scores, lamb, and they want you in Central.”

Rhian would regret the glee that overtook her heart for a very long time afterwards.

At Central, she’d been put in a smaller class of ten other kids by the Academy adminitrators.

“The Grey Alliance Academy has recognised your proficiency in the STEM disciplines, Vaughn, and we have chosen to assist you in achieving your highest potential,” someone had told her, and Rhian had been informed that she was going to be specialising in that discipline from now on.

She was slightly disappointed that she didn’t get to choose her classes, but she pushed that aside rather quickly. She was in Central, after all - that more than made up for it.

In her class, she worked diligently.

She was approached by a classmate a few weeks later.

“Hi. Vaughn, right? I’m Alice Kingsley. Congrats on being first,” she said, her sallow face betraying no emotion.

“What am I first in?”

Kingsley’s surprise showed both on her face and in her voice. “In our class! And you’re ninth overall for Division Four trainees. Don’t you check the rankings?”

“Oh. Not really,” Rhian said. “I don’t really care about that stuff.”

Kingsley almost choked. “You don’t care about the rankings? The single most important thing that determines your future in the GA?”

“I don’t really mind what I end up as.”

“Not even if you end up in Division One as field operative? They have the highest mortality rate, you know, and that’s where you go if you don’t score high enough!”

“My dad was in Division One for twenty-five years, and he’s still alive. My mum worked in Division Two in data analysis, I think, and she died when I was five.”

“Yeah, but that’s probably an isolated incident. Field ops are-”

“My dad says incompetence gets you regardless of division,” Rhian cut her off. “So I don’t care where I end up. Just so long as I can do whatever it is I’m doing well enough.”

“Oh. Okay.” Kingsley lapsed into a momentary silence. “Anyways, I was going to ask, do you want to study with me? I could really use the help of the smartest student in class.”

“Okay.”

True to her word, Kingsley showed up that night to study with her.

And the night after that.

In fact, Kingsley showed up at the Vaughn flat to study with Rhian most nights.

Over the next few months, Rhian got to know Kingsley - Alice - rather well. She found out that she was from an important family - the Kingsleys were part of the Grey clan, and Alice’s father sat on the Grey Alliance Council. Rhian had had a minor freak-out over this revelation - the GAC, after all, was a gathering of all of the most important members of the whole Alliance - and Alice had laughed at her face. More importantly, she had found out that Alice’s favourite food was strawberry milkshakes, and immediately had an intense debate with her friend over whether or not milkshakes could actually be classified as a food. She found out that Alice had a tattoo of an ornate key on her lower back (“You should get a lock done, Rhian, then we could match!”), and that Alice knew almost all of the secret passageways within the GA Central building.

“We have to explore them,” Rhian had said suddenly, a picture of seriousness, when she was twelve.

“You’ve been saying that since we were nine,” Alice laughed.

“I’m serious.”

“You chicken out ever single time.”

“I won’t this time.”

“You’ll eat your words the next time we encounter a patrol,” Alice snorted.

“Do you want to bet on that?” Rhian challenged, eyes glowing with determination.

“Absolutely,” her friend smirked.

They dodged the patrols with practiced ease - or rather, Alice did, with Rhian stumbling along behind her, barely managing to keep silent. The first passage was behind the statue of Praetorian - the founder of the GA and a man apparently uncreative enough to steal a name from the Romans - in the corridor leading from the reception area. It was, according to Alice, the main passage, and the most expedient way to access the prohibited areas of Central. The second passageway was revealed to be behind a large tapestry of Elizabeth Hawthorne in the centre of the one wall of the GAC meeting hall that was free of balconies. Rhian had had a vague idea of who Elizabeth Hawthorne was at one point, but since she was terrible at history, she had long since forgotten what Elizabeth had actually done. It was apparently significant enough that the GA had at once been called the Hawthorne Alliance, but not so much that Rhian would actually remember what.

After that day, Rhian and Alice spent most of their free time exploring the Central building’s passageway and discovering new ones, to the point where Rhian, as well as Alice, knew them all as she did the back of her hand.

They were entirely unprepared for the one day, when the two of then were fifteen - and yes, Alice, if one’s fifteenth birthday was withing three weeks, that did indeed count them as a fifteen-year-old - for the encounter that awaited them as they stumbled out from behind the coat of arms belonging the now extinct Harrow family.

“Ordinarily,” mused a deep voice, one that was oh-so-familiar from so many speeches and broadcasts, “I’d consider the usage of restriced passages to enter areas that are out of bounds a criminal act, but I’ll make an exception for a pair of future Council members.”

Mark Grey himself stared down the two terrified girls.

“S-sir?” Alice choked, Rhian standing behind her, red-faced and sweating.

“I’ve made my selection,” Grey said. “As you know, the heads of division are usually members of the Grey clan, with the first-ranked trainee of that division becoming their second-in-command. Ordinarily, we’d wait until you were seventeen, or at least sixteen, but with the… unfortunate circumstances surrounding Markowitz and his deputy, we’re appointing you two early.”

“W- we’re just kids, sir,” Alice stammered. “We don’t want to d- disappoint you. Sir.”

For a second, Rhian wondered, fear seizing her heart, if Grey was going to reprimand Alice for questioning him, but the leader of the GA merely chuckled.

“Don’t worry, Kingsley, I’ve accounted for that. I’ve appointed an advisor to assist you in the running of Division Four until you turn old enough to do so independantly. Congratulations on your promotions to Head of Division Four, Kingsley, and you to Second, Vaughn.”

Rhian’s dad had cried at the news, and Trys had been indescribably jealous. Rhian had had to move out of her family’s flat, into a luxurious two-storey flat in the same corridor as Alice’s slightly larger one. As Rhian stood in the flat, she marvelled at the engineering prowess of whoever it was that had managed to build the quasi-city of Central into a hill that contained a buried castle and over seventy underground storeys of GA architecture, whilst still managing to conceal the entire thing’s existence from the general public.

For a while, life was perfect, as Rhian and Alice adjusted to running the Technology, Engineering and Research Division of the GA.

Then, of course, the whole idyllic illusion shattered.

Rhian and Alice had found a new passageway, which seemed to lead to Floor 74.

Nothing ever led to Floor 74.

Rhian went first, elbows pushed against the sides of the cramped passage, preventing her from slipping on her stomach down the steep downwards slope that the passage lay on.

The end of this passage seemed to be an observation window, looking into a dim room with stone walls, housing a single, solitary metal chair.

Alice shot her friend a look of confusion, to which Rhian replied with a minimal shrug of her shoulders, as much as she could without losing her support.

They were about to retreat up the passageway when a young woman - barely a woman, even, mostly a girl - entered, dragging with her a bedraggled and bloody man in cuffs, who she threw at the chair with a strength unsuited to her slight build as harsh interrogation lights snapped on. They knew who she was - Allana Julian, the 18-year-old prodigy who had recently recieved a promotion from second-in-command of Division Zero to its Head after her boss’ unfortunate demise, becoming the first non-Grey in over a century to command one of the Divisions.

Division Zero dealt mainly with external affairs and threats, but also with internal ones when the opportunity arose. Julian, renowned for her cold and calculated efficiency and efficacy, seemed like the perfect fit for the job.

With a start, Rhian realised that she recognised the man. His name was Wolfgang something, she knew - a coworker of his father’s after his transfer to Division Two after coming to Central.

Division Two specialised in data management and IT. As Wolfgang tried his best to right himself on the chair, Rhian remembered a conversation she’d had with her father one night, back in Wales.

“But someone in her office had let an important file get corrupted, and the blame fell on her head.”

Was this what had happened to her mother?

“Schliemann,” Julian’s voice said, the authority it carried not even slightly mitigated by its raspiness. “We know that someone in your office botched the report regarding that damn Underworld pub in Leeds. We know this, because a full success was reported, and yet our very own operatives took three of the damn renegade psychopaths into GA custody yesterday. So, how is it that the report claims that all the patrons, who we have spent months building profiles on, were confirmed dead?”

Wolfgang spat blood as Julian’s fist collided with his face and he collapsed to the floor.

“It wasn’t me! Vaughn filed the report!”

As Julian’s cold, calculating eyes studied the man, Rhian’s blood ran cold. She barely felt Alice’s hand on her shoulder.

“Vaughn will be punished accordingly for filing incorrect information, rest assured. Congratulations on signing your friend’s death warrant, Schliemann, but it won’t save you. We have all the information. I just want to know your reason for writing it as you did.”

The desparation in Wolfgang’s eyes was swiftly replaced by terror.

“Please…”

“Hm?”

“Please don’t kill me.”

In an instant, Julian’s calm and collected persona vanished, and was replaced by something else.

Something angry, and terrifying.

“Answer,” she screamed, delivering a forceful kick to Wolfgang’s ribs, prompting more blood to escape from between the man’s lips, “the god-damn question, you pathetic maggot!”

“I-” Wolfgang wheezed. “I felt sorry- If Hernandez reported another failure, they were gonna- get axed.”

“Hernandez,” Julian said, and the calmness returned as abruptly as it had vanished. “Of course.”

She reached out an arm to help Wolfgang up, and he took it.

Julian pulled the man up, and spun him around, so that he was facing away from her, legs splayed, being supported completely by Julian.

“Thank you, Schilemann,” she whispered into his ear, so quietly that Rhian had to read her lips.

She snapped Wolfgang’s neck like it was nothing.

The lights dimmed as Julian walked out, with guards entering to clear Wolfgang’s body away.

“Jesus,” Rhian gasped, sobs choking her, and Alice looped an arm around her chest, hugging her as best she could without losing purchase. “Liss, she’s coming for my dad. She’s gonna kill my dad for- for something that wasn’t his fault!”

“I-” Alice lapsed into slience.

“I’m gonna get him out,” Rhian said.

“No,” Alice whispered. “They’ll kill you, too, if you betray them.”

“It wasn’t even his fault! Is this what happens to everyone who messes up?”

“I don’t know,” Alice whispered. “I don’t know, Rhian.”

“I’m gonna help my dad escape,” Rhian said. “The GA aren’t gonna kill him for something he didn’t do!”

“Rhian,” Alice said, softly, barely speaking. “I’ll do it with you.”

There was obviously going to be CCTV operational in all areas of the Central building, with no exceptions made for privacy reasons, save perhaps in the cases of the highest-ranking members of the GA.

They would surely be caught.

No.

There was no CCTV in the passages.

This was a hypothesis they’d confirmed a while ago, simply out of idle curiosity. The structure of the passges simply didn’t allow hidden CCTV to be installed, and, given that they had seemingly been constructed for GA business that was not to go on record, it made sense that they weren’t being surveilled.

The GA also did not record audio, presumably for the reason that it was stupidly inconvenient to go through, and as such the expenditure wasn’t justified.

And there were indeed gaps between each floor for pipes, wiring, and the occasional unofficial GA search of each floor.

In an instant, the two girls had set off to enact their plan.

“Don’t react, Dad!”

“Rhian?” Her father clearly had not expected his daughter’s voice to echo from the ceiling.

“Did you react?”

“Not visibly,” he said, and the wryness in his voice was so, so unbefitting of the sitiation.

“You need to leave. Grab Trys and leave the GA, forever.”

In an instant, her father’s voice grew more guarded. “What’s going on?”

“Wolfgang had you file an false report,” she said, barely able to contain her hysteric sobs. “Julian’s gonna kill you, dad.”

Her father swore loudly, and called into the kitchen. “Trys, leave your phone, grab your jacket, and get ready to fucking run.”

“Dad- what?” Rhian’s younger brother’s voice was high and confused, and she curled her sweaty, shakint palms into fists.

“Rhi, get out of there now and create an alibi. Give them no reason to suspect you.”

“Yes, dad,” Rhian choked. “Take Exit 7B, that’s got rookie guards stationed.”

“Your friends.”

“Please try not to hurt them.”

“Go, Rhian!”

Alice and Rhian stumbled out of the Praetorian statue kissing passionately.

The tunnels they’d spent so much time exploring made for such a sentimental date venue, after all.

A natural talent that Rhian posessed, perhaps fortunately, perhaps not, was the ability to lie like it was second nature to her. Perhaps it was her simple, straightforward demeanour, perhaps her unassuming appearance that pushed people to trust her, but regardless, Rhian could say that she was secretly the Queen and still sound just as sincere as normal. One might even have half a mind to believe her.

Rhian herself, though, strove to be an honest person.

She practiced no honesty when Julian pulled her into her office for an interrogation.

Rhian looked the would-be killer of her father in the eye and pretended like the betrayal of her father had stung her and that his disloyalty weighed on her heart.

Rhian may have been a good liar, a fantastic one, but she was fairly certain she had just been very luck that Allana Julian had chosen to believe her.

“I feel like I’m going mad,” Rhian whispered into Alice’s shoulder at night. “I’m going madder than Ophelia.”

“You’re not mad, Rhian,” Alice mumbles into her hair. “You’re just too decent a person for this place. That’s all.”

“No. I’m desperate, I think. I want to forget the truth. That’s what’s driving me mad.”

“You’re fifteen, Rhi. It’s gonna be okay when you get older.”

When Rhian was sixteen, she stood before the GAC and publically renounced her family and their actions, in a Southern English accent that wasn’t her own, hiding another connection to her Welsh family. It wasn’t Rhian Vaughn who left that room - the Vaughns were traitors now, after all. She’d chosen a new name, a name befitting of an upstanding member of the GAC. Division Zero agents had been assigned to get them, and there had been posters and a broadcast made.

Slowly, the girl who’d given up the right, she knew, to call herself Rhian Vaughn, got used to the sick feeling that haunted her.

The next time she entered the passages, it was for her real first date with Alice.

Life continued on, and the two of them managed Division Four with the expected efficiency, working on their own projects beside their management roles as the GA expected of such high-ranking individuals.

The plain, dark-brown hair characteristic of the Vaughn family was dyed a navy blue colour for no other reason that she liked the colour.

At nineteen, Mark Grey approached her with an assignment. Kite Jansen, a problematic case with deserters for parents and no regard for who she hurt other than her sister, was being transferred to central, as she was proving too much of a handful for the American branch to handle.

“Their incompetence will not go unaddressed,” Mark said, waving a hand, “but we need a solution on the interim. I’ve assigned her and her sister to a team, and I want you to lead it, and keep her in check.”

“Me? But I’m-”

“Your duties in Division Four - where you’ve performed admirably, mind - will be reduced, and you will be offered protection in the field. However, since you and Jansen come from similar sitiations, I thought you would be tbe ideal candidate to keep an eye on her and mitigate her rebellious actions. Understand, though, thar I’m entrusting you with this task because I trust you, not because I’m dissatisfied. I consider you one of my most competent subordinates, despite your circumstances.”

“I’m honoured, sir.”

Mark Grey gave her a smile, and she immediately shoved down the instinct that she was doing something wrong, instead pushing open the door to meet her new team.

Inside the room sat three women - or rather, two women and a girl. The girl - Kite Jansen’s sister, she assumed, looked nervous, blue eyes focused on the floor, and her hair falling over her face. One of the women was Luca Horváth, a transfer from Hungary, who had been brought to Central after the GA had recognised her skills as a fighter and an instructor. She looked none too happy at her new assignment.

Finally, Kite Jansen sat confidently at the table legs crossed and arms behind her head. She was one of those people who stood out just by existing, and the gaze that looked over the somewhat awkward figure in the doorway was critical and somewhat unimpressed.

“Who’re you?” she drawled, with a thick Brooklyn accent.

“I’m your new team leader,” the former Rhian Vaughn offered with a wan smile. “My name is Ophelia Harrow.”

[fiadhaisteach]

New York Times: text under cut

What Lockdown 2.0 Looks Like: Harsher Rules, Deeper Confusion    

By Damien Cave

_________________________________________________________

Melbourne, Australia’s second-largest city, is becoming a case study in handling a second wave of infections. There are lots of unanswered questions.

Credit...William West/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images

Australia’s second-largest city, Melbourne, is grappling with a spiraling coronavirus outbreak that has led to a lockdown with some of the toughest restrictions in the world — offering a preview of what many urban dwellers elsewhere could confront in coming weeks and months.

The new lockdown is the product of early success; the country thought it had the virus beat in June. But there was a breakdown in the quarantine program for hotels. Returning travelers passed the virus to hotel security guards in Melbourne, who carried the contagion home.

Even after masks became mandatory in the city two weeks ago, the spread continued. And now, as officials try to break the chain of infections, Melbourne is being reshaped by sweeping enforcement and fine print. A confounding matrix of hefty fines for disobedience to the lockdown and minor exceptions for everything from romantic partners to home building has led to silenced streets and endless versions of the question: So, wait, can I ____?

Restaurant owners are wondering about food delivery after an 8 p.m. curfew began on Sunday night. Teenagers are asking if their boyfriends and girlfriends count as essential partners. Can animal shelter volunteers walk dogs at night? Are house cleaners essential for those struggling with their mental health? Can people who have been tested exercise outside?

“This is such a weird, scary, bizarro time that we live in,” said Tessethia Von Tessle Roberts, 25, a student in Melbourne who admits to having hit a breaking point a few days ago, when her washing machine broke.

“Our health care workers are hustling around the clock to keep us alive,” she said. “Our politicians are as scared as we are, but they have to pretend like they have a better idea than we do of what’s going to happen next.”

Pandemic lockdowns, never easy, are getting ever more confusing and contentious as they evolve in the face of second and third rounds of outbreaks that have exhausted both officials and residents. With success against the virus as fleeting as the breeze, the new waves of restrictions feel to many like a bombing raid that just won’t end.

For some places, risk calculations can change overnight. In Hong Kong, officials banned daytime dining in restaurants last month, only to reverse themselves a day later after an outcry. Schools in some cities are opening and closing like screen doors in summer.

In many areas where the virus has retreated and then resurged, the future looks like a long, complicated haul. Leaders are reaching for their own metaphors to try to explain it.

Image

Credit...William West/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images

In California, Gov. Gavin Newsom has compared his opening and shutting of businesses to a

“dimmer switch.”

Dan Andrews, the premier in Victoria, the state of which Melbourne is the capital, has repeatedly referred to “pilot light mode” for industries like construction and meatpacking, which have been ordered to temporarily reduce their work forces.

Whatever the metaphor, the situation is bleak.

In Melbourne, a city of five million that is considered a capital of food and culture, the pandemic has come raging back even after a so-called Stage 3 lockdown began in early July — until recently the highest level of restrictions.

Officials have been flummoxed at every turn by the persistent complacency of just enough people to let the virus thrive and multiply.

Traffic data showed people driving more in July than they had during the first Stage 3 lockdown, in March and April. Even worse, almost nine out of 10 people with Covid-19 had not been tested or isolated when they first felt sick, Mr. Andrews, the state’s top leader, said in late July. And 53 percent had not quarantined while waiting for their test results.

“That means people have felt unwell and just gone about their business,” Mr. Andrews said.

Sounding the alarm, he made face masks mandatory the next day, on July 22.

Still, infections have continued to rise. They peaked at 753 new cases on July 30, and have hovered around 500 a day ever since, with the death toll in Victoria now standing at 147, after 11 deaths were recorded on Monday.

Those figures, while far less troublesome than those in the United States, have paved the way for a Stage 4 lockdown — what officials are calling a “shock and awe” attack on the virus — that will last at least six weeks.

Image

Credit...Daniel Pockett/Getty Images

Overwhelming force, with precision, seems to be the goal. The chief modelers of the pandemic response in Australia have found that the virus can be suppressed only if more than 70 percent of the population abides by social distancing guidelines and other public health rules.

Mr. Andrews said the new restrictions would take 250,000 more people out of their routines, in the hopes of reaching the necessary threshold.

So retail stores will be closed. Schools will return to at-home instruction. Restaurants will be takeout or delivery only. Child-care centers will be available only for permitted workers.

Those restrictions are already well understood. The rules requiring more explanation are tied to the curfew and industries that have to cut back.

Large-scale construction projects of more than three stories, for example, will have to reduce their on-site work force by 75 percent, and workers will not be able to work at more than one location. Small-scale construction cannot have more than five workers.

All of which sounds clear. But does a bathroom renovation, for example, amount to home building in an apartment with one bathroom? And what about fixing things that break, like Ms. Von Tessle Roberts’s washing machine?

Some businesses, like cleaning services, are already emailing customers to say they think they can do some work, for people who pay through welfare or who need help for mental health reasons. But, like many others, they are still seeking official clarification.

Image

Credit...David Crosling/EPA, via Shutterstock

Mr. Andrews, a Labor politician sometimes described as awkward and paternal, has become the dad everyone needs answers from. He now oversees, under the lockdown rules, what may be the country’s most intrusive bureaucracy since its days as a penal colony.

The Coronavirus Outbreak ›

Frequently Asked Questions

Updated August 4, 2020

I have antibodies. Am I now immune?

I’m a small-business owner. Can I get relief?

What are my rights if I am worried about going back to work?

Should I refinance my mortgage?

What is school going to look like in September?

As of right now, that seems likely, for at least several months. There have been frightening accounts of people suffering what seems to be a second bout of Covid-19. But experts say these patients may have a drawn-out course of infection, with the virus taking a slow toll weeks to months after initial exposure. People infected with the coronavirus typically produce immune molecules called antibodies, which are protective proteins made in response to an infection. These antibodies may last in the body only two to three months, which may seem worrisome, but that’s perfectly normal after an acute infection subsides, said Dr. Michael Mina, an immunologist at Harvard University. It may be possible to get the coronavirus again, but it’s highly unlikely that it would be possible in a short window of time from initial infection or make people sicker the second time.

The stimulus bills enacted in March offer help for the millions of American small businesses. Those eligible for aid are businesses and nonprofit organizations with fewer than 500 workers, including sole proprietorships, independent contractors and freelancers. Some larger companies in some industries are also eligible. The help being offered, which is being managed by the Small Business Administration, includes the Paycheck Protection Program and the Economic Injury Disaster Loan program. But lots of folks have not yet seen payouts. Even those who have received help are confused: The rules are draconian, and some are stuck sitting on money they don’t know how to use. Many small-business owners are getting less than they expected or not hearing anything at all.

Employers have to provide a safe workplace with policies that protect everyone equally. And if one of your co-workers tests positive for the coronavirus, the C.D.C. has said that employers should tell their employees -- without giving you the sick employee’s name -- that they may have been exposed to the virus.

It could be a good idea, because mortgage rates have never been lower. Refinancing requests have pushed mortgage applications to some of the highest levels since 2008, so be prepared to get in line. But defaults are also up, so if you’re thinking about buying a home, be aware that some lenders have tightened their standards.

It is unlikely that many schools will return to a normal schedule this fall, requiring the grind of online learning, makeshift child care and stunted workdays to continue. California’s two largest public school districts — Los Angeles and San Diego — said on July 13, that instruction will be remote-only in the fall, citing concerns that surging coronavirus infections in their areas pose too dire a risk for students and teachers. Together, the two districts enroll some 825,000 students. They are the largest in the country so far to abandon plans for even a partial physical return to classrooms when they reopen in August. For other districts, the solution won’t be an all-or-nothing approach. Many systems, including the nation’s largest, New York City, are devising hybrid plans that involve spending some days in classrooms and other days online. There’s no national policy on this yet, so check with your municipal school system regularly to see what is happening in your community.

On Tuesday, he answered questions from reporters about dog-walking (allowed after curfew, sort of, only near home) and other subjects of great confusion at a news conference in Melbourne.

Thanking those who complied with the new rules and scolding those who did not, he announced that no one in self-isolation would now be allowed to exercise outdoors. A door-knocking campaign to check in on 3,000 people who had Covid-19 found that 800 of them were not at home.

All 800 have been referred to the Victoria police for investigation. The fine for violators going forward, he said, will be 4,957 Australian dollars, $3,532.

Working, even legally, will also become trickier. Other than, say, hospital workers with formal identification, everyone traveling for a job deemed essential during the lockdown must carry a formal document — a work permit signed by the employer and employee.

For Cara Devine, who works at a wine store that closes at 8 p.m., that means carrying a government form with her everywhere, and hoping that the police recognize her task as essential when she heads home after the curfew. But she also worried about the Uber drivers who take her back and forth.

Image

Credit...William West/Agence France-Presse — Getty Images

“Even before the newest restrictions, I’ve had two Uber drivers being really late picking up from the shop because they got stopped by the police, taking about an hour out of their work time,” she said.

The police are already confronting opposition. On at least four occasions in the last week, they reported having to smash the windows of cars and pull people out after they refused to provide a name and address at a police checkpoint. The Victoria police commissioner, Shane Patton, said a 38-year-old woman had also been charged with assault after attacking a police officer who had stopped her for not wearing a face mask.

Some criminologists are questioning whether the harsher enforcement will help. Mostly, though, Melburnians are just trying to endure.

Walking to get groceries, Peter Barnes, 56, said he welcomed the stricter rules, though he admitted his city was starting to feel like George Orwell’s “1984,” with the heavy hand of the state around every corner.

Those focused solely on the economics, he said, should remember the obvious: “You can’t hire a corpse. Very bad employment prospects for people who are dead.”

By Monday night, the city seemed to be in listening mode. The streets were emptying out, silent in hibernation.

“It’s like a Sunday in the 1950s,” said Mark Rubbo, the owner of Readings, Melbourne’s largest independent bookstore. He also noted that people were stocking up again on books through online orders, with a memoir called “The Happiest Man on Earth,” about a Holocaust survivor, becoming a runaway hit.

Ms. Von Tessle Roberts has found another solution, perhaps just as likely to grow in popularity: Stand on your front porch and scream. That’s the name she has given to an event she posted on Facebook, set for Friday at 7 p.m. By Tuesday afternoon, 70,000 people had expressed an interest in joining her collective shout in anguish.

“Yelling is great,” she said. “It’s less dehydrating than crying.”

Image

Credit...Erik Anderson/EPA, via Shutterstock

_________________________________________________________

Besha Rodell and Yan Zhuang contributed reporting from Melbourne, and Livia Albeck-Ripka from Cairns, Australia.

Thanks for reading The Times.

Expand your horizons with a Times subscription.

Thanks for reading The Times.

[cornishbirdblog]

I have crossed the Cornish border many times. By car and by train, on big bridges and small. But I realised a few days ago that I have never actually crossed it on foot. So the next day I set out to Marsland Mouth to change that.

The Cornwall/Devon border wiggles it’s way between the Atlantic Ocean and the Channel for roughly 65 miles (104km). The River Tamar creates a natural barrier for just over 60 miles (98km) of that. The source of the Tamar can be found on Woolley Moor and roughly a mile away from where it rises another stream bubbles up. This river wanders off in the opposite direction towards the north coast. Marsland Water – this other unsung river also marks our border with Devon.

So, Cornwall truly is surrounded by water.

I set out to cross the Marsland Water at Marsland Mouth on the North Coast, where one steep side of the valley is Devon and the other side Cornwall.

As I stand looking down at the grey slate beach from the Devon side I decide it’s a scene that has changed very little in centuries. And certainly very little since Folliett-Stokes walked the same path in 1928 or thereabouts.

Four hundred feet beneath us a stream dashes in torturous windings between fern-covered banks fringed with blackthorns and elders. As it approaches the sea it rushes into a canyon that it has carved for itself out of the valley bed.

Wildlife Galore

The Marsland valley covers 523 acres and is cared for by the Devon Wildlife Trust. It was donated to the Trust by Christopher Cadbury who died in 1991. As a young man Christopher Cadbury worked in the family firm of Cadbury Brothers, the chocolate manufacturers. He retired from the food industry in the 1950s and devoted the rest of his life to the cause of wildlife conservation.

The Marsland valley has become a real haven for wildlife. Its variety of habitats supports a wide range of birds and mammals, including the rare and elusive dormouse. In spring and early summer it’s here that two rare butterflies, small pearl-bordered and pearl-bordered fritillaries, take to the wing.

And on my walk, as if by magic, one appears at my feet and kindly poses for a picture. In recent years some 34 species of butterfly have been recorded here.

I am also struck by the huge range of wild flowers too. There are so many, some that I recognise but so many I don’t. And the air is alive with bugs!

The White Witch

The whole valley is lush and vibrant with fresh spring growth. From the cliff top my eye traces the river’s path back up the valley to a little white cottage huddled on the Devon side. This is supposedly the house of Lucy Passmore, the white witch.

At the bottom of the valley not far from the shore and close to the stream is a cottage. It is an old mill and we see the great overshot wheel making a rich brown note against the ivy coloured wall. A few yards above the house is a millpool. It was here that Lucy Passmore, the white witch came to live. . . Thinking to gain a little local information we knock at the door. There is no answer and we find it is locked. On passing the front room window we peep in through the dusty glass. The room has whitewashed walls. In the centre of the floor is a table, close to it, on the window side, is a chair pushed slightly to one side. On the table opposite the chair is a large open Bible, on it’s right-hand page is a half eaten pasty. It is curious we think that a scene so characteristic of Cornwall should greet us on it’s threshold. For the Cornish, as everyone knows our great Bible readers and eat pasties all the year round.

This was Folliett-Stokes fascinatingly vivid description of the cottage in 1928. Today the house is privately owned, so no peering in the windows! But the public footpath up the valley passes close by. And I try to recreate his early photograph.

From the cottage I retrace my steps to the beach. Here at Marsland Mouth a little wooden bridge that takes you from one county to the other without getting wet feet! It was a different, rather wilder scene in 1907.

I found no Coastguard path, no track of any kind and soon ceased to trouble about seeking one. It was simpler to climb a cliff clinging to rocks and undergrowth with hands and toes. To mark the narrowest point of the rushing stream far below and to scrambled down towards it. Wet feet where a trifle but it was uncomfortable to slip on the fording stones and fall shoulder first into the stream. – C Lewis Hind, Days in Cornwall, 1907

The beach itself feels isolated and wild. It is covered with sea smoothed slate pebbles and drift wood.

Impressive Geology

The coastline here at Marsland Mouth has some of Cornwall’s most impressive geology. Upper Carboniferous rocks belonging to the Crackington and Bude formations are exposed in very large, sharp folds. According to geologists this area provides ‘an excellent demonstration of the nature of folds produced during the Variscan Orogeny near the northern margin of the Culm Synclinorium’.

This area also shows the geomorphological relationships between coastal and fluvial features. It contains fine examples of hog’s back cliffs and shore platforms.

It is noted for a remarkable set of former valleys which have truncated by the retreat of the cliff-line so that their floors now lie well above present sea-level.

I cross over the Marsland Water and its deep-cut valley into Cornwall. As always I am delighted to see the Kernow sign. As always I get that same old feeling – pride, happiness and hireth.

*Notes & Directions

To cross the Devon/Cornwall border border on foot I walked from the Devon side. You can find parking at Welcombe Mouth – EX39 6HL.

There are some VERY steep hills on both sides of the border.

Further reading:

Cornwall’s Highest Cliff

St Nectar’s Glen

Marsland Mouth – crossing the Cornwall & Devon border on foot I have crossed the Cornish border many times. By car and by train, on big bridges and small.

[theconservativebrief]

“Don’t you dare go back to that doctor” my mother growled into the phone. “He’ll put ‘bipolar’ on your record, and then you’ll never be able to get a job.”

I nodded into the receiver. “Okay.”

I never went back. Seven years later, I woke up in a psych ward.

Growing up, I thought I was emotionally healthy. I had a large Chinese family on my mother’s side (my father is white). We were a lively, loud, tight-knit group consisting of around 20 blood relatives and 3 million nonblood relatives. Everyone knew each other’s business. Distant family members inquired about school, commented on my weight, and asked if I had a boyfriend. The only time it was “quiet” was when the Mahjong table came out, and the only noise you’d hear was the click-clacking of tiles.

But when I look back, I realize that we shied away from the important topics. Mental health was rarely discussed, but when it was, it was always in a negative light. At no point did any of my relatives tell me having a mental disorder, theoretically at this point, was unacceptable — I could tell by their hushed tones, and their quick dismissals, that mental illness was not an option.

I never questioned it. If relatives felt comfortable enough teasing me about my grades or weight, then surely they’d be ok with talking about mental health? The reality was not even close.

Most people know the stigma associated with mental illness. But there’s even more stigma within communities of color, and within Asian culture, it’s particularly bad. It’s like Russian nesting dolls of shame.

Scientific research shows the severity of mental health issues among Asian-Americans. Studies have found a few common causes — shame, fear, and avoidance, all of which have roots in the culture and the “model minority” stereotype. One could argue most people, regardless of race, are reluctant to discuss their mental state, but studies show Asian Americans are three times less likely than white people to seek mental health treatment. Another study carried out in 2011 showed that Asian Americans typically avoid mental health services because “opting to utilize such services requires admitting the existence of a mental health problem and may cause shame to the family if personal issues become public.”

For the first 27 years of my life, I kept my deteriorating mental health under lock and key for one straightforward reason: I was scared of embarrassing my mother. I believed I would be seen as broken or defective and bring shame on my family.

Any Asian person, especially women, will tell you about the pressures of growing up in many Asian households — the high expectations, the keeping up appearances, and the toxic model minority stereotype that continually hums in the background of your life. There’s an expectation to stand out for the “right” reasons — meaning good grades, a fancy job, high salary, good social standing, and having a husband or wife. In my family’s minds, having a mental illness can prevent you from achieving those things. And if you’re not achieving everything, then why are you even here?

Asian women in particular feel the need to prove themselves. Historically, we’re on the back foot since birth because Chinese families have long favored sons over daughters. Those attitudes have changed over time, but the feeling still lingers — we weren’t born the first choice, but we’ll work twice as hard to prove we deserve to be here. On top of all of that, we’re pressured by society (and Chinese culture) to start a family at a much younger age than men, meaning we’re on a shorter timeline to achieve anything. No wonder Asian-American women have a higher lifetime rate of suicidal thoughts than the general population.

My depression started in my teens. I didn’t think it was a problem: I assumed it was normal to feel low and isolated for long periods of time. From the ages of 13 to 18, I had several anxiety attacks. A few of my friends knew, but I rarely talked about it, and never to my family.

I managed to hide all of this from my mother, except for one incident when I was 17 and going through an incredibly low period. Like many people with a mental illness, I showed no visible signs of anxiety or depression. But I retreated into myself, finding it hard to communicate or perform basic tasks like showering or brushing my teeth. I knew I felt sad, but I didn’t know anything was “wrong.”

My mother became frustrated I wasn’t my “usual” self. And because there wasn’t anything physically wrong with me, she took me to the emergency room to see a mental health professional. I sat on a chair in a windowless room, my mother next to me, while a specialist straight up asked me what was wrong.

I refused to say what was wrong. My mother was in the room, and I didn’t want her to know. I could tell she was annoyed I wouldn’t talk, and even more annoyed she had to bring me in the first place. As my silence deepened, I remember her saying, “I don’t know what’s wrong with her, but her breath smells.” She was disgusted by me.

The specialist asked her to leave the room so he could talk to me in private. He said he couldn’t help me unless I told him what was wrong. I couldn’t. After hearing the disdain in my mother’s voice, I was too ashamed of embarrassing her. I didn’t want to let her down, so I said I was “fine” and left.

My mother and I didn’t talk about it again. And, unlike my grades, who I was dating, and my physical appearance, it wasn’t brought up at family gatherings. Maybe my relatives knew I was “down” and simply chose not to discuss it with me. Perhaps they just didn’t know how. After all, this stigma has been around as long as mental illness. At the time, I didn’t care; I was more interested in maintaining my reputation within the family than my mental health.

It comes back to this specific Asian brand of shame and pride. The shame prevents us from talking about it within the family, and the pride covers up the shame for those outside the family. According to an article by psychologist Ben Tran, this particular behavior has a name: “hiding up.” Hiding up is the act of both keeping your mental illness hidden from the community and not doing anything to treat the illness itself. It’s a dangerous combination.

The problem with “hiding up” is that the behavior became so ingrained that I continued to do it when I left home. By the time I went to university, my commitment to the cover-up was unwavering. Meanwhile, my mental state felt like it was tearing at the seams. I went to see a campus doctor — this time, my mom wasn’t there, and I told him as much as I could. He told me he suspected I was bipolar, but that I would need to see a psychiatrist for a proper diagnosis.

I left the appointment feeling a mix of relief and terror: relief that I wasn’t crazy in thinking I was crazy, but terrified of making that phone call. I never worked up the courage to do it. It would take another eight years and a life-threatening situation before I’d finally receive a diagnosis for bipolar II from a psychiatrist.

I was 27 when I first tried to kill myself. I was admitted to a psych ward, then transferred to a psychiatric hospital. I was incapacitated my first day in the ward. One of the psychiatrists called my mother to tell her what happened. When I asked how she reacted, he said she was angry. The first thing she asked was, “Why did no one tell me?”

I was transferred to a psychiatric hospital in November. There, I called my mother to talk about Christmas plans; I’d booked my flights a couple of months earlier and was excited to come home for the holidays. She was curt on the phone. She said I couldn’t stay with her, making up excuses about the broken heating in the house. It quickly dawned on me that these were flimsy cover-ups for the real reason — she was ashamed and didn’t want me around. My mental illness had become impossible to hide from the rest of my family.

I ended up staying with a friend and her family for the holidays. I didn’t see my mother, nor did we have any contact during that time. There was a smattering of communication in the subsequent months that quickly petered out. Our relationship hasn’t been the same since. I realized I couldn’t have someone in my life who couldn’t accept my mental illness, even if that person was my mother. We’ve been estranged for over four years now, and my contact with the rest of the family is patchy at best.

To be clear, I don’t judge or blame my family at all. If anything, I empathize with them. I’m sure they’ve had struggles of their own that they’ve had to repress. Maybe they were scared. Maybe it wasn’t that they didn’t want to talk about it, but instead, didn’t know how. I have no idea what they’ve been through — not just because they refuse to speak about it, but also because I didn’t ask.

The stigma associated with mental illness is so deeply entrenched in Asian culture; it’s unrealistic to think people can change their minds that easily. But this pressure to hide our problems away has dangerous consequences. The shame is killing us — older Asian-American women have the highest rates of suicide compared to any other race.

If we want to see change, it needs to come from everywhere both big and small. In 2017, a new bill was introduced to reduce the mental health stigma in the Asian-American and Pacific Islander community through specific outreach and education. And while it’s promising to see changes come from the top, those of us who are living with mental illness can make the most impact. By continuing to share our experiences, we can give people the strength to come out of “hiding.”

Amanda Rosenberg is a writer based in San Francisco. You can find her work in McSweeney’s, the Establishment, Anxy Magazine, GOOD, Huffington Post, Quartz, and the Mighty. She’s an editor for Slackjaw and is currently writing her first book — a collection of essays on mental illness.

First Person is Vox’s home for compelling, provocative narrative essays. Do you have a story to share? Read our submission guidelines, and pitch us at firstperson@vox.com.

Original Source -> Hiding my mental illness from my Asian family almost killed me

via The Conservative Brief

[jenmedsbookreviews]

Views at Attingham Park

So last week I had a bit of a mini melt-down when it came to reading. Couldn’t get my head in the zone at all. I put it down to being more than a little bit tired (which I still am) but at least I have had a long weekend to pretend to get over it. I say pretend because in reality I’ve tried to be very active this weekend with a nive three mile walk in the deer/cow park on Saturday and then a mere seven miles or so up and over the Long Mynd on Sunday.

Cardingmill Valley In Shropshire

Now the canny (and local) will spot that the big loop walk around Cardingmill Valley is actually only a little over five miles, the rest of you will probably neither know nor care. However, Mandie and I took a slight detour while on our walk as we spotted a sign at the edge of a footpath which holds a key link to our ancestry and decided to go and take a little look.

Medlicott is a very (very) small hamlet in Shropshire, set back in the shadows of the Long Mynd, and part of the reason that Jen Med’s is Jen Med’s and not Jen Luc’s. Medlicott is a family name, my Nan’s maiden name in fact, and our ancestry can be traced right back to when the little village got its name way back in 1100 and something, when old Llewelyn de Medlicott (or Modlicott) was awarded the land by some King of some variety for doing something loyal to the crown-ish.

A wild horse on the Long Mynd

I do actually have all of the details, courtesy of one my Great Uncles who researched the family tree many moons ago. He was able to race our lines all the way back from my Nan’s family circa 1900, through to the 1100’s, but this is a book blog not ancestry.com so I’ll spare you. Still pretty impressive though and Mandie and I were thrilled to see the signpost. Unbelieveably, after forty years living in the county, this was actually our first time atop the Long Mynd so the first time we had ever been this close to Medlicott. We didn’t quite have time to make the walk this weekend, but we will go back sometime soon and make the trip all the way down the hill to take a look at what was once family land. We’ll probably try and pop over to Wentnor Church too which is the final resting place of many of our family from years ago. I know – pretty cool right?

View at Pole Bank – the highest point on the Long Mynd

The biggest problem with walking up a very big hill is that at some point you have to walk back down it. Now it’s not the exercise that does me in – I can handle that. But I should probably explain that if there is one thing in this world that I am truly scared of, it is heights. Like all phobias, mine is severly irrational in how it presents itself. I don’t have the slightest problem with being high up, standing on top of a hill and looking out over a valley. I don’t have a problem making the craggy climb up the nice wide path to begin with. I do, however,  have the slightly less irrational fear of plummeting to my death, which is why I don’t like sanding on high bridges all that much, especially bouncy ones, can’t always walk to the edge of barriers, no matter how safe they are and can only go outside at the Empire State Building if I go out the North Manhattan side as South is far too windy and I am worried about being blown over the impossible to be blown over barriers that surround the viewing floor. Yes – I know. Irrational…

Now while the climb up Cardingmill Valley, if you go a certain way, is occasionally steep, with absolutely breathtaking (literal and metaphorical) views, it is also a nice wide path. What Mandie and I didn’t know is that the path down the other side, past Townbrook Hollow, is equally as steep but a lot less wide. And there are sections that you have to climb over really craggy bits of rock and round tree roots which doesn’t sound too bad – unless you have a crippling paranoia about plummeting to your death. With legs like jelly, I mostly walked, occasionally inched down on my arse, but ultimately tackled the impossible (for me) and made it to the bottom. Totally glad I did it but by god it was a long way. Very few people die on this route (to my knowledge) and I know the worst that could have happened was I ended up sliding down a fairly high hill a little way, but I still hated it. So, with a near constant soundtrack of ‘I’m going to die’, ‘I hate this’, ‘I can’t see round the corner – I hate this – I’m going to die’, ‘I can’t do this’ and ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid hill’, we made it down this from top to bottom (see path on the right)

From top…                                                               to bottom

along a path which was only occasionally as generous as this

but which was mostly steep bank or rock to the left and steep bank or drop to the right.

On the plus side, all of my protestations kept Mandie’s mind off the fact that she too hates heights, although she did on occasion nearly fall off the path from laughing at me so much.

We’ll be heading back again soon. The views were amazing.

The Wrekin and the sheep shelf

None of this was remotely bookish but it was a nice distraction on a sunny Bank Holiday weekend. All of this walking seems to have had an impact on my reading too as I’ve been way more productive. Waaaaay  more productive. Like a 250% increase in output. Yes folks – i read 3.5 books. Much more respectable than last weeks 1.5 i think.

Oooh. I lie. I actually read an apocalyptic type of book set largely in South Shropshire, only a stone’s throw from Cardingmill Valley so it was a bookish retreat after all. And we could see Stiperstones from the top which features in Mark Edwards’ The Lucky Ones so most definitely bookish. And yet, despite my assertions about my impending death, no apocalypse had occured by the time we left, which was a touch disappointing to be fair as it took ages to get out of the car park…

I got a little bit of book post this week. Three little bits in fact. One was my purchase of a signed copy of Yesterday by Felicia Yap from Goldsboro Books. I also got a copy of Payback by Kimberley Chambers from Harper Collins for helping out on a Readers Room survey and Nothing Stays Buried by PJ Tracy from Penguin Random House as I’m on the blog tour next week. I also received a lovely e-arc in the shape of Dead Lands by Lloyd Otis which again I’m on the blog tour for in October.

Purchase wise I have been very well behaved, mainly because I had already been pre-order crazy. I pre-ordered a copies of Silent Lies the forthcoming release from Kathryn Croft, The Secret Mother by Shalini Boland and All The Little Children by Jo Furniss.

You’re impressed with my restraint aren’t you? I can tell. As I’ve read three of these books already, it’s barely an increase in my tbr at all really …

Books I have read

Untainted Blood by Liz Mistry

An unmissable new crime thriller

In a city that is already volatile, tensions mount  after a Tory MP in Bradford Central is discredited leaving the door open for the extreme right-wing candidate, Graeme Weston, to stand in the resultant by-election. 

However, Graeme Weston is not what he appears to be and with secrets jeopardising his political career, he must tread very carefully.

Meanwhile, a serial killer targets Asian men who lead alternatives lifestyles and delivers his own form of torture. 

As DI Gus McGuire’s team close in, the deranged killer begins to unravel and in an unexpected twist the stakes are raised for Gus.

Are the murders linked to the political scandals or is there another motive behind them? 

DI Gus McGuire and his team are back and this might be their toughest case yet.

I’ll be sharing my review on this book later in the week. It’s the one I started during my London break last weekend but didn’t quite finish. Remedied that this week and very happy I am too. A great story set against a backdrop of racism and intolerance. YOu can buy a copy for yourselves here.

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Nothing Stays Buried by P.J. Tracy

Nothing Stays Buried is the eighth book in P.J. Tracy’s addictive and internationally bestselling Monkeewrench series

There’s a search for a missing girl, and another for a serial killer: death holds all the cards . . .

When Marla Gustafson vanishes on her way to her father’s farm, her car left empty on the side of an isolated country road, even Grace MacBride and her eccentric team of analysts are baffled.

Meanwhile in Minneapolis, homicide detectives Gino and Magozzi have a serial killer on their hands – two women murdered in cruelly similar fashion, with playing cards left on the bodies. But one card is an ace, the other is a four – it seems the killer is already two murders ahead.

With both teams stumped, it slowly becomes clear the evidence is inexplicably entangled. And they have little time to unravel the threads: a twisted killer is intent on playing out the deck…

This was my first taste of the Monkeewrench team but it won’t be my last. Sadly one of the people behind the mother daughter writing team passed away, but her daughter has committed to carry on writing and I’ll be looking forward to reading more, as well as going back to read the first seven books when time allows. In this instalment cases surrounding drugs, serial killers and a missing woman all collide while the Monkeewrench team come face to face with their deadliest ever foe – Mother Mature. You can get a copy of the book here.

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All The Little Children by Jo Furniss

When a family camping trip takes a dark turn, how far will one mother go to keep her family safe?

Struggling with working-mother guilt, Marlene Greene hopes a camping trip in the forest will provide quality time with her three young children—until they see fires in the distance, columns of smoke distorting the sweeping view. Overnight, all communication with the outside world is lost.

Knowing something terrible has happened, Marlene suspects that the isolation of the remote campsite is all that’s protecting her family. But the arrival of a lost boy reveals they are not alone in the woods, and as the unfolding disaster ravages the land, more youngsters seek refuge under her wing. The lives of her own children aren’t the only ones at stake.

When their sanctuary is threatened, Marlene faces the mother of all dilemmas: Should she save her own kids or try to save them all?

Now this is a book I’ve actually had sat on my kindle for a while after the author contacted me in regard to the round the UK challenge I started at the beginning of the year. Being set in my home county I couldn’t resist and from the very beginning I was pulled straight into this apocalyptic mystery. It held me from first page to last and I powered through in just a few hours. This and Monkeewrench totally helped me find my reading mojo again. You can bag yourself a copy here and find out why.

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The Girl Who Came Back by Kerry Wilkinson

Thirteen years ago Olivia Adams went missing. Now she’s back… or is she?

When six-year-old Olivia Adams disappeared from her back garden, the small community of Stoneridge was thrown into turmoil.  How could a child vanish in the middle of a cosy English village?

Thirteen years on and Olivia is back. Her mother is convinced it’s her but not everyone is sure. If this is the missing girl, then where has she been – and what happened to her on that sunny afternoon?

If she’s an imposter, then who would be bold enough to try to fool a child’s own mother – and why? Then there are those who would rather Olivia stayed missing. The past is the past and some secrets must remain buried. 

An absorbing and gripping psychological thriller that will have you holding your breath until the final page.

Another read for a blog tour, you’ll have to wait just over a week for this review. I thoroughly enjoyed this mystery and trying to piece together what really happened to Olivia when she went missing all those years ago. You can pre-order a copy of the book here.

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Three and a half books. I feel like I’m back. Which is just as well as I need to read three books a week between now and mid November to hit my reading targets and be ready for the Christmas feature throughout the month. No pressure��

Blog wise another full on week. I’ve had some booklove, some reviews and even a cover reveal.

#BlogTour: The Ashes of Berlin by Luke McCallin

#Review: 99 Red Balloons by Elisabeth Carpenter

#BookLove: Mike Sahno

#CoverReveal: Shalini Boland & Bookouture

Review: All The Wicked Girls by Chris Whitaker

Reblog: #TheSister by Louise Jensen

Review: The Last Resort by Steph Broadribb

Review: Three Weeks Dead by Rebecca Bradley

#Booklove: CJ Harter

Review: The One by John Marrs

This coming week is another busy one. I’ve got blog tours galore this week, every other day, starting today with Witch Dust by Marilyn Messik. On Wednesday it’s my turn on the Nothing Stays Buried blog tour. Friday sees me sharing my thoughts on Untainted Blood and Sunday I finally get to set free my feelings on Richard Parker’s latest offering, Hide and Seek.

I’ll also be sharing a little more #booklove, this time with Claire Brown. Do hope you can join me.

Have a fabulous week of bookishness all

JL

Rewind, recap: Weekly update w/e 27/08/17 Views at Attingham Park So last week I had a bit of a mini melt-down when it came to reading.