#cruciform in shape

[katakaluptastrophy]

I'm always so divided between being mildly annoyed at crosses in TLT fan art and intrigued by the possibility that there is some kind of cruciform imagery in House religious iconography.

Because the chapel on the Mithraeum, in addition to wooden pews and lots of bone and many, many candles is "a plex cruciform window".

Which could just mean a large window with vertical and horizontal crossing bars, or that was the only shape that would fit between all the candles, but could also be John's idea of a joke...

[cryptotheism]

How did magicians back in the day make seals? Was there a science behind it or was it intuitive?

That's a really good question! The answer is extremely complicated!

When most people these days think of seals they think of goetic seals. But the terminology of "seals" actually comes from the idea of sealing a letter. Specifically, it refers to one of the many apocryphal versions of the story of Solomon and Ashmedai, in which king Solomon uses a signet ring with a special magical symbol on it to command demons.

Now, this is one of those biblical stories that people went absolutely nuts for. Jews, Christians, Muslims, damn near every abrahamic faith has their own take on the story, because let's be honest here it's cool as fuck.

But! The original story from the Tanakh doesn't refer to the seal at all, and focuses much more on controlling the sheyd with manacles inscribed with a secret name of God. The inherent magical power of names of God is a common trope in Jewish literature, but later versions of the tale also include greco-egyptian ideas about the inherent magical properties of language, forms, and mathematics.

So when we look at a contemporary English version of a goetic seal, we are looking at something with literally thousands of years of compiled knowledge behind it. I wouldn't necessarily call it science, or intuition, I would describe it as systematic, and narrative. Closer to how campfire stories are improved over generations as people tell and retell them.

Look at this seal of Belial:

The idea of the seal itself? That goes back to Babylonian Jewish ideas about written text having power to control supernatural entities. (Google Babylonian curse bowls if you haven't already.)

See how the letters are spaced? That's important. That goes back to neopythagorean ideas about regular polygons being fundamental building blocks of the universe.

The little crosses? Those are probably cruciforms! That's how you can tell Christians were involved at some point.

See how some of the lines of the seal end in little loops? That goes back to ptolmaic Egyptian ideas about magic. If the crosses are cruciforms, these are probably ankh-forms! You see shapes like that all over magical texts from the 2nd-6th century Mediterranean!

These symbols are the result of dozens of cultures and people and languages collectively yes-anding each other for literally thousands of years. They are DENSE with meaning.

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Scrub My Brain With Bleach - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Vi pays the price for snooping...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

As she moves to go, her foot catches something under the desk. It's a trunk, the wooden surface scuffed by frequent use. But the design's exquisitely ornate. The lid's inset with a mosaic of mother-of-pearl. It depicts a blue-haired sprite in a grove, a green dragonfly cradled in her palms. The motif is repeated in a band around the brass rim, where the dragonflies open and close their wings, their iridescent patterns shimmering as if in flight.

It reminds Vi of the folktales of Janna, passed into her tiny ear by Mom at bedtime. How the dragonflies were Janna's eyes, their luminous wings bearing the sparks of her magic. How they flitted through the old gardens of Oshra Va'Zaun, bestowing the Goddess's favor. How, should the light catch their wings just so, they'd grant a boon on a lucky soul.

And a kiss of fortune, upon their lips.

Jinx, Vi guesses, chose the box for its whimsy as much as its utility. She's plainly taken pains to keep it tidy. Despite the scratches on the varnish, its structure is solid, and its brass lid is freshly gilded. There's a padlock, burnished to a lustrous gleam, and a keyhole in the shape of a dragonfly's thorax. The key itself is a golden cruciform dangling off the chain that seals the lock.

For a moment, Vi wonders if the trunk is, in fact, a trousseau. Jinx hardly seems the type. Her idea of wedding finery would involve explosives more than lingerie—if she bothered to put anything on at all.

And yet the possibility's not as outlandish as it'd been while Vi was knuckling sleep-crumbs from her eyes in the guestroom.

The trunk is clearly a cherished possession. Maybe Jinx keeps her favorite jewelry here. Maybe she's got a cache of special grenades. Maybe she's hiding a skeleton. Or three.

Maybe Vi's a nosy, meddling shit.

But she can't help it. The trunk's so much like the hope-chest in Caitlyn's attic. Hers was a varnished lilac beauty, lined in rose-petal velvet, and neatly packed with sentimental relics. Her grandfather's bifocals. A pearl brooch from her mother's wedding day. Her father's favorite stethoscope.

And a threadbare pair of Vi's hand-wraps folded around a wispy strip of Caitlyn's panties.

Vi has teased her mercilessly over the last item. There was something so ticklish at the idea of the prim-and-proper Caitlyn Kiramman, with her fastidious manners and her blue-blooded airs, holding her very first fuck-me panties close to her heart—much less in the love-knot of Vi's grubby bindings.

"Just a memento," Caitlyn had squirmed, flushing scarlet. "Don't let it go to your head."

Vi smirked, thoroughly enjoying the display. "My head's the last place that's going, Cupcake. Never thought my wraps would rub shoulders with you skivvies. Let alone your granny's good silver."

"Oh, shut it!" Caitlyn snapped, flushing darker still. "If you must know, they're a reminder."

"Of what? How hard I rocked your world?"

"Not... precisely. I just wanted something real. To help me remember."

Vi was confused. "Remember what? I'm right here."

"I-I know." Caitlyn's lashes dipped. "But things could have turned out differently."

"How d'you mean?"

"That night. On the Bridge. It could have gone... terribly wrong."

"Yeah," Vi admitted, quieter. "But it didn't."

"Because of you."

"Huh?"

"Because you chose to come back." Caitlyn's eyes were shining, but earnest. "You chose to come back for me."

"It's not like you gave me a choice, Cait."

"But there was a choice." The sheen faded from Caitlyn's eyes. Only the earnestness remained. "You made yours. And I made mine. And I'd never have pictured it would lead to..." She trailed off, the flush creeping higher, except now the shyness was subsumed by an almost wistful wonder. "What I'm trying to say is: I wanted to keep a part of you with me. A part that's mine, and mine alone. So that if things ever went sideways, I could always remind myself: 'Caitlyn Kiramman, you took a leap of faith once. And it was the best thing you've ever done.'"

She'd looked at Vi then, and the naked emotion in her eyes was the sweetest torture. Vi's own face flamed. She was used to being the forward one in the flirtation game. To having the upper hand. Not being the one caught flat-footed and off her game.

"That's all the bindings are," Caitlyn whispered. "A reminder. Sometimes... even the craziest leaps can lead you home."

Against her will, Vi's eyes misted.

"Crazy leap, huh?" she managed, trying to regain her bravado. "Is that all I am to you?"

In reply, Caitlyn kissed her. Vi kissed back, a little roughly, just to prove a point.

When they parted on gasps, Caitlyn was smiling.

"You are," she breathed. "And I'd have you no other way."

They'd kissed, and kissed some more, and fallen into bed. But the shocky sweetness of the confession had never left Vi.

Not since.

Vi shuts her eyes, fighting the burn of tears again. In her hands, the trunk is heavy. The weight of a past. One that doesn't belong to her, not by a long shot. Whatever's inside is meant for Jinx, and only Jinx. Vi has no right to open it. Has no right, even, to be here.

Except there's a small voice in the back of her mind.

Wait.

Jinx's past, and the future, have always been tangled. Last night, the knot pulled taut, and her sister had nearly died. Vi had been dragged into the middle of it. So had the rest of the city. Maybe there's something in here that'll clue Vi in on how to unravel the mess. To keep Jinx from repeating her mistakes. From falling into the trap of believing her greatest failure was a childhood lapse that broke everything.

Or believing her only worthy gift is the power to fix it.

Maybe, just maybe, Vi can help.

The key fits into the lock with a delicate click. It turns. The padlock springs open. Vi lifts the lid. Inside are, in fact, mementos. But they're mementos of a life Vi's never seen. An eclectic mix of salvage, toys, and tools. Broken clocks, their innards dissected. Wind-up insects, their cogs and sprockets disemboweled. Half-empty canisters of spraypaint. A small cache of fireworks. A pile of old, dog-eared children's books.

Basically: a heap of shiny.

Vi recognizes her sister's magpie habit of hoarding glitter. The junk stuffed under Powder's bed was of a similar stripe: gears from Vander's old watch, diodes from garbage chutes, fistfuls of colored glass from the arcade, and a single, shiny golden gyroscope.

Vi's fingers touch the gyroscope, and the memory strikes her like lightning.

Ekko.

This was the gyroscope he'd gifted Powder, the twilit afternoon at the reservoir. The day he'd planted a smooch on her little sister, and stirred up a shitstorm when Vi caught them in the act. The day their world, tilting at precarious angles, had not yet gone sideways.

The day is gone, but the gyroscope is here.

Carefully, Vi lifts it out. She's stunned that it's survived the transition of past to present. The gold plating is untarnished. The mechanism is well-oiled. The tiny blue marble at the center, its facets winking, is still intact. As if, throughout the years, Jinx has treasured it more than all the deadly detritus in her possession.

Vi can't fathom why.

At the very bottom is a silk pillowcase. It's stuffed with mysterious flotsam. A small silver pendant shaped like a bird, its eyes made of tiny turquoise cabochons. A set of child-sized brass knuckles, the surfaces etched with a filigree of skulls. A plastic baggie stuffed with leaves, each one browned and crinkly with age.

And—what the fuck?

The curvature of a disquietingly sleek red object with a trigger that, when clicked, sets a row of gears whirring.

It takes a moment for Vi to recognize it as a vibrator.

"Shit," she says, and drops it fast.

It clatters back into the pillowcase, whirring. Vi switches it off, and knots the top tight. Her face smarts. She can't believe her little sister has a sex-toy. One she's seemingly designed to her own specs, judging by the unusual curves and polished contours and the silent-as-fuck mechanism meant to keep her old man from finding out.

Jinx, the Daddy's Girl. Jinx, the terrorist. Jinx, the sorceress.

Who, apparently, has been getting her rocks off.

"Goddamnit," Vi mutters. "I need to scrub my brain out with bleach."

[drizzleoftherain]

Liturgia

Chapter 1: La Corriente Que Nace De Esta Fuente

Pairing: Ava Silva & Beatrice

Ao3

Author's note: This story wouldn’t let me live my life so I guess it had to be done. There’s a playlist and a mood-board. I’m tired now and will sleep.

Beatrice would swear upon her death bed that meeting Ava that day was not in any way shape or form a monumental deviation in her life plans.

Had this moment in time been a carefully calculated move? No. This had been simple dumb luck and it horrified her. One moment they were being ignored at dingy small gigs and suddenly they were performing at Lollapalooza. Beatrice couldn’t even begin to understand what 110,000 people looked like. Much less hearing them sing back their music, the songs that she had carefully written and slaved over for years. And here they were, expected to just pretend like that was normal. Like it was just a regular day. She was sure she needed therapy. And a new manager. Definitely a new manager. Lilith needed a haircut. Did they all need haircuts? 

Her mind spiraled. 

All in good time. 

The green room was stuffy and the air felt heavy with anxiety and pre-show jitters that shouldn’t still be happening or at least this intensely. Thoughts went back to that crowd and fear started to bubble again. She looked to her fellow bandmates, each going through their routines, and her lips curved with a small smile that she hoped would calm their nerves. 

They were set to appear as one of two musical guests, not something she recalls happening often, but unavoidable given a last minute scheduling conflict and countless apologies from The Graham Norton Show production team.

They were The Cruciforms, England’s biggest rock band since The Beatles, or she would tell her grandmother that if ever asked. Silly little hobby and all. Their EP had sold inexplicably well, well enough that eyes were on them, many eyes and they had been ill prepared. The amount of attention in itself was difficult to explain, it was as if overnight everything had fallen into place, but not. The music industry was messy, confusing and borderline psychotic. 

“Do you think she’ll be nice?” Camila’s voice cut through her thoughts.

“Who?” 

A unanimous groan stretched throughout the cramped room. 

Right. 

Ava. 

The other musical guest. 

“Do you think we’ll ever get a chance to print our vinyls at the rate she’s going?” Lilith spoke up, hair in her face. She definitely needed thera— wait no she needed a haircut, but also therapy. 

Mary rubbed her forehead knowing full well where the topic was heading. “Don’t start, you’ll just get Beatrice going on a rant again.”

“I don’t know how much longer I can put up with musical statistics and artistic integrity.” Lilith stood from the couch and walked to the heavily lit mirror in an attempt to tame her unruly hair.

Beatrice scoffed, feeling slightly validated by Lilith’s comment. “I mean honestly out of everyone that could have possibly come today and overshadow us it had to be her. Does she even have to do this anymore?”

“Careful, your inner brat is showing.”

“When you’re in the party bum-bum-bumping’ that beat!” Camila sprung up, triggered. 

“Oh God no.”

“That sewer sluts a vibe! 

Internationally recognised!

 I set the tone, it’s my design and it’s stuck in your—”

Beatrice moved as fast as she could. One squeal later and Camila was restrained. She stared up, breathing through her nose as Beatrice’s hands held her mouth shut. The couch underneath them protested with the sudden movement.

“It has been a great year for pop music. I've gone back several months and can safely say we’re finally out of the dark ages that were the early 2010’s.” Yasmine, who had been rather occupied with her phone, spoke up. She was nose deep tracking charts or plotting to take them down. One or the other. Or both. “It’s not all Ava’s fault. Though her tactics are a bit questionable and borderline exploitative.”

“See! Yasmine agrees. She has over-capitalised music and for what. Is it any good? Probably not, just some over-produced crap that will sound dated—aaaaahhh!” Camila bit her. Actually bit her. “You bit me!”

Camila had managed to squeeze her way out of Beatrice’s grasp. “How dare you speak about our lord and saviour like this.”

“She’s clearly only popular because of all the features she has managed to grab.” Beatrice continued her tirade, rubbing her hand in soothing patterns. “That and the radio won’t stop playing her.”

Mary stared at Beatrice, patience clearly gone. “Okay, you’re starting to sound like a Reddit basement dweller. I have heard her albums, they’re great, she’s talented.” Her eyes bore into hers like an older sibling would to a misbehaving little sister. “Is it my cup of tea? No. I don’t drink tea, but I can at least admit she works hard.”

“You said you wouldn’t.” Beatrice wasn’t petulant, but they had agreed not to listen to the top 100, which meant Ava was off limits. Or at least she thought they had all agreed. Clearly Camila was a filthy liar and now Mary too. 

“I’m quite partial to Malamente .” 

“No, Lilith, not you too.”

“What about Bagdad ?” Yasmine perked up, suddenly very interested in the conversation being had. “The interpolation of the choir and Justin Timberlake’s ‘ Cry Me A River ’ is brilliant.”

Beatrice sat defeated. The betrayal. They shared meals together.

She was already thinking of ways to make them suffer during practice. They were only listening to greats from now on or so help her God. They can’t squander it, this opportunity only comes once in a lifetime and they were going to focus. She would plan their listening schedule; Bob Dylan, Bowie, good old Simon & Garfunkel, aaaaaaand she was boring herself. Bananarama…what. Too much. 

Knock- knock knock- knock

“It’s probably Vincent.” Lilith had somehow constructed her hair into a braid, who thought she had it her.

“Useless,” Beatrice muttered, putting some distance between herself and the door. She knew whatever news he was bringing was going to age her in seconds. They truly needed a new manager.

It was Camila who stood to answer.

“ Hi ”

Camila slammed the door shut. The Earth spun just a little faster. 

The girls all stared as she stood perfectly still, back to the door in a state of complete panic. “It’s…it’s…” she stuttered, with full blown realisation. 

“Who is it?”

“Vincent?”

“No.”

“Graham?”

“No.”

“Ava?”

Camilla raised her hands to her mouth and nose nodding slowly, “…yes”.

Mary basically pried her bandmate off the door. “Woman, for crying out loud let your fellow countryperson in.”

The door opened and there she was. Hands behind her back, with a smile that could probably make someone trip on a busy city street. And they were all staring.

Thud

Yasmine’s phone hit the floor and all eyes followed the movement as she scrambled to pick it up. All except for Beatrice who had for a second forgotten herself. An indescribable force. Ava was or looked younger than she was expecting. She wore an oversized white t-shirt tucked into her jeans, hair in a messy bun and no makeup to speak of. Beatrice breathed in once and looked down as if struck, but couldn’t resist a second glance. Brown eyes met hers.

Ava moved forward, awkwardly doing a small wave, “Hi guys…what’s up?”

“The ceiling usually, I mean if there is one, sometimes it could be sky, but I guess…that can also depend on the weather because there’s rain and clouds and pollen and…solar wind patterns can disrupt the Earth’s magnetosphere in a phenomenon we refer to as an Aurora.” Oh no, Yasmine.

Mary nodded along only for a second. “Ava, right? I’m Mary.”

“Hello,” She smiled brightly again, outstretching her hand for Mary to shake. 

“I once had a weird dream after listening to ‘ De Aqui No Sales ’.” Beatrice could see Camilla’s mouth moving but could only hope that she had misheard. 

“Oh?” Ava chuckled, her voice turned oddly raspy with mischief. “What was it about?”

“I don’t know. It involved my dead dog Mauricio and buñuelos.”

“¿Buñuelos? Me encantan.”

“Si, a mi igual,” Camila chuckled with so much admiration.

“This is Camila, she apologises for slamming the door on your face,” Mary said gently, who apparently had taken it upon herself to be the only normal person in the room. And without any prompting began to go around introducing everyone. “That’s Yasmine and her now very broken phone.” Yasmine half smiled half winced. “The one with the sour face over there is Lilith.” A quick salute. “And this is Bea-”

Beatrice doesn’t know what possessed her to walk across the room, but she found herself in front of Ava with a tentative hand outstretched, “Beatrice.” And the indescribable force was back, negating her own will as their eyes met again. Brown. Kind. Cute laugh lines by her eyes when she smiles.

“Beatrice.” Ava repeated dumbly. “Ava.”

Lilith rolled her eyes, “Oh, we know.”

—

“Ohh! Oh that is lovely!” Graham Norton’s voice resonated over the boisterous studio audience as he made his entrance. He waved his hands, “Hello everyone, hello! Good evening. You’re all so welcome to the show. It is Friday night and like your overpowering mother-in-law, I’m back! We’ve got a great line up to finish up the week with not just one but two musical guests. If you look over there singing for us later we have The Cruciforms , Europe’s latest obsession.”

The crowd erupted into delighted cheers as the girls waved back. They were now all wearing matching form fitting black suits with paired high waisted pants. Thin ties adorned their white button ups. 

Yasmine sat behind her drums twirling one of her sticks flawlessly in her left hand, Camila on keys, Mary with a funky bass, Lilith and her guitar remained perfectly still and Beatrice smiled from the center, microphone nearby.

“They’ll be performing their latest single ‘ Stuck ’, but first who are we meeting on my sofa tonight!” Graham spoke enthusiastically as he diverted his attention to the entry leading backstage. “Well this actress has decided to return to familiar shores, and is currently starring in the West End revival of Macbeth, put your hands together for Academy Award winner Olivia Coleman!”

All big smiles as the actress emerged waving at the crowd and giving Graham a warm hug. She took a seat clapping along as the host continued.

“Next up you may know him from this year’s box office hit Dune 2 and upcoming Bob Dylan biopic A Complete Unknown , Mr. Timothée Chalamet!” 

Timothée walked through the opening, small moustache and all. He shook Graham's hand before joining Olivia on the sofa.

“And our final guest needs no introduction. She’s our two time Grammy award winning neighbour, back from her record breaking global tour! Ava!”

The cheers somehow got louder as the audience absolutely lost their minds. Ava practically materialised wearing a long sleeved black Schiaparelli ensemble that resembled a matador chaquetilla vest with gold embellishments. Her hair now in long draping curls framed her perfect face. She glowed as the attention consumed her. Graham walked to meet her halfway giving her a big hug before helping her to the sofa. 

The show went through its finely structured style for a bit as Graham took several moments discussing everyone’s upcoming projects and accomplishments. They joked and spoke, Timothée and Ava already familiar with each other and Olivia just entranced by the overall energy that had taken over the studio.

“Right! It’s time for music. This band had a great year, they’ve already been announced as The Brit Rising Star for next year. Here performing their current single ‘ Stuck ’ it’s The Cruciforms!”

The audience cheered. The lights dimmed. Lilith’s opening notes queued them in. Yasmine followed. And suddenly they were all bouncing along as the lights focused and vamped up the atmosphere. Beatrice kicked her black chucks along with the beat of the song and reached for the standing mic. 

We talk…

Talk ‘til we’re blue in face

The words…

The words don’t resonate

Seasons…

They always seem to stay the same

Holding…on to things we said we would change 

Beatrice sang, her voice coming flawlessly through the studio speakers. She glanced at Camila as she sang into the mic joining her for the chorus, keys bouncing up and down under her fingertips.

I’m stuck, babe 

Stuck with nowhere to go

Because, babe

We’re just taking it slow

It’s overdue oh oh uh oh oh

Make your move oh oh uh oh oh

Stuck, babe

Stuck with nowhere to go

Their song came to an end and the audience cheered.

“There we go!” Graham joined “The Cruciforms, everybody!”

They waved, smiles all around.

“Come on over girls! Leave those instruments there and join us on the sofa.” They followed his direction, Lilith and Mary handing over their instruments to nearby staff members. They walked the curve of the stage over to the interview area as the other guests stood to greet them. “That was fantastic, thank you so so much.” 

Beatrice, the ever stoic leader was first shaking hands with Ava, Timothée and Olivia as Graham introduced all the members by name. The girls followed her lead and quickly everyone was acquainted. 

“That is such an ear-worm, truly fantastic job ladies,” Graham took his seat and everyone else followed suit. 

“Thank you very much.” Beatrice hoped her voice wouldn’t crack and betray just how nervous she was. 

“That single is from your EP, and it’s out now and is a thing of beauty,” He continued the praise leaving all the members shy and bewildered. “How do you all feel after the incredible year you’ve had? ‘ Stuck ’ was the biggest British single of the year.”

Beatrice looked around to her band members as she spoke, “I think we’re all just in a state of shock still, to be perfectly honest. We couldn’t have imagined the amount of traction or how much the song resonated with people.”

The guests nodded along basking in the pure happiness each of the girls was giving off. 

Beatrice had just realised just who she sat next to. Ava’s smile was immense as she listened along. “How did it feel listening to the song on the radio for the first time?” She asked, eyes meeting hers.

“I know this is going to sound absurd because surely band members are with each other every second of every day,” Beatrice chuckled, “but we all heard it at different times.” 

“It was surreal!” Camila added and everyone nodded in agreement.

“I think you have this idea or this hope for so long… I’m sorry I’m not used to this. I’m nervous.” Beatrice hesitated while taking a breath, the audience laughed. 

Ava tapped her leg in encouragement, “No one is.”

Beatrice smiled at the encouragement and continued, “when we all finally heard it together we were in a cab on the way to get dumplings and we almost caused our driver to crash.” 

Everyone laughed again delighted. The show continued with more of the same atmosphere and fun banter between Graham and the guests. They spoke about their upcoming European tour and promotional endeavours for the upcoming album. 

When the show was ready to wrap, Ava stood from her spot next to Beatrice and walked towards the stage, where her guitarist and a percussionist with a cajon waited for her. She sat on the chair between them, her demeanour shifted to a more sullen tone appropriate one. 

The lights dimmed and the flamenco guitar began. 

Qué bien sé yo la fuente 

Que mana y corre

Aunque eeeeeees de noche

Aquella eterna fuente está escondida

Qué bien sé yo donde tiene su manida

Aunque eeeeeees de noche

En esta noche oscura de esta vida

Qué bien sé yo por fe la fuente fría

Aunque es de noche

Aunque es de noche

Aunque es de noche

Music, Beatrice found, always had a way of burying itself down to her bones. She didn’t need to speak the language, she understood the emotion perfectly. And Ava, what could she even be nitpicky about, Ava was delivering every line with so much care and love. In that instance she couldn’t help but chastise herself. She had devalued Ava, just as much as any other popular artist. And for what? To seem knowledgeable and alternative?

The song shifted. The tempo increased, but Ava’s falsettos had merged so perfectly that Beatrice would have just assumed it was the same song until it wasn’t. Ava stood, the light now reflecting the change of mood and the room mutated rather intensely. 

Taggea'o tu nombre en la pared, eh

O El Mal Querer en Times Square, ¿o qué?

Driving speed limit DGT, eh

O quemando rue'a sin carnet, ¿o qué?

Vas a lo suave a lo kitty cat, eh

O muerdes si tienes que morder, ¿o qué?

Muerdes si tienes que morder, eh

Muerdes si tienes que morder

Beatrice looked around to her bandmates, all enthralled with what had just occurred. Camila was practically levitating, and she knew she wouldn’t hear the end of this today. Was Olivia Coleman dancing? Mary’s eyes met hers, see , she could hear her.

A palé, a palé, a palé, a palé

A palé, a palé, a palé, a

A palé, a palé, a palé, a palé

A palé, a palé, a palé, a-a-a

Fuck the greats.

—

“What the fuck was that?” Ava winced, as she was all but pushed back against the wall. The show staff were far enough not to hear or see. Her manager stood in front of her. She was still taller than Ava even in heels. “I thought we had agreed, they’re not ready to hear that. It’s not the right time.”

Ava felt small, but the rage had been building inside her for years, eating away at her. She needed this. A change in her sound had been a long time coming and no amount of begging and hoping was going to accomplish it anymore. Keep your eyes up. She reminded herself. 

“The audience enjoyed it, didn’t they?” Ava squared her shoulders. 

A dry laugh. “A decision like this can derail your entire career.” Her manager ran her hands through her wavy hair, “Who encouraged you?”

Ava shook her head baffled. “You think I needed encouragement? If you truly believe that you clearly haven't been paying attention.”

“I need to call Fermin and get this sorted before it gains any traction.”

“Emilia.”

Emilia turned, phone to her ear. “Hell–”

“We’ll call you back.” Ava's eyes were so intense that she was sure she was about to cry and she knew Emilia knew.

Eyes bore into hers, “Let me make something exceedingly clear to you. You are where you are because of all the hours I’ve devoted to making it happen. Not only do you continue to act like a child every chance you get, you also make no effort to hide it.” This time the shove against the wall was physical. “Who do you think contacts the media to hide all your little “mistakes”. Not to mention the rampant alcoholism that everyone ignores and puts up with.” Tears were beginning to well in Ava’s eyes. “Do you think it’s cute what you’re doing? Do you think it’s funny?” Emilia spoke calmly, completely stone-faced.“How fucking dare you?”

Ava couldn’t bear to raise her gaze to meet Emilia’s.

“Let me predict with 100% certainty what’s about to happen after we leave this building.” Emilia lowered her mouth close to Ava’s left ear, “You’re going to sneak out of your hotel room and you’re going to drink until you black out, and I’m going to find you in your bathtub tomorrow morning feeling sorry for yourself. And then we’ll leave this God forsaken country and never speak about this again.”

A noise from down the hall alerted them immediately. Ava could feel Emilia extracting herself. She gave a small glance in the direction of the noise, but couldn't make out what it was. 

Emilia’s eyes were furious as her gaze returned to Ava. “I’ll let the driver know we’re ready to leave.”

Ava watched as her manager made her way down the hall and into one of the green rooms. The same noise resonated across the hall again. She wiped her face as best she could, turning the corner and without realising, smashing straight into something solid.

Beatrice. 

Vest pocket tangled on the handle of the janitor’s closet. She would laugh if the circumstances weren’t pointing to the fact that she was sure the woman had overheard the exchange. And she knows that face. She sees her assistant make that face all too often.

“Why are you coming out of the closet?” Ava was nothing without her humour after all. 

A beat. Beatrice hesitated, Ava could see her eyes frantically searching for the proper response. “Well…you see I was just trying to find the–”

“The?”

Beatrice made an attempt to form words, but gave up several times. She struggled with the handle again, somehow she had managed to make it go further into her pocket.

Ava chuckled. A full on throaty chuckle. “Here. Let me.” Ava placed her hand on her arm and gently twisted the handle enough that it slipped right out. 

The honey brown eyes danced awkwardly from wall to wall before meeting hers. 

There was a breath and Ava began to understand that this was probably something Beatrice did often before speaking. A learned response she knew all too well. “Are you alright?” Beatrice asked, arms coming to her side. 

She waited for Ava’s response. Strange . Most people would have already walked away from what had just happened. Pretending. Always pretending. “Do you know Claridge’s?” She hoped Beatrice wouldn’t push.

“Do I know Claridge’s?” An inflection on the ‘I’.

“Meet me outside at ten.”

“What? Like, tonight?”

“Ten. tonight.”

Ava turned to leave.

“Ten?”

“Tonight.”

—

Beatrice is not in the habit of meeting up with world famous pop stars outside of bougie hotels, but she was in fact a big fan of a mystery and that’s what Ava was. A person like Ava shouldn't exist. The raw emotion and vocal talent she had just witnessed could not have come out of a five foot tall person that looked like that. 

Like what? Like sunshine? 

She physically shook the thought from her head and glanced down at the watch on her wrist. 

10:14 pm

This had to have been a joke. Why would she have ever thought that something like this could happen to someone like her. The doormen knew it. And she knew it. She didn’t belong and they were definitely going to call the Bobbies. She swiped through her phone a couple of times looking for the train schedule. She had time. She could still walk away without being charged for trespassing.

“Hi.” Beatrice was sure she caught some air. “I’m sorry about the wait, I had to do a bit of Mission Impossible–ling,” Ave smiled way too happy about her own joke. 

“I see.”

She looked at Beatrice for a moment, long enough to be noticed, that is, “You look slick.”

And it wasn’t a usual thing for Beatrice to care about her appearance. Her eyes looked down, suddenly vulnerable. She was wearing houndstooth trousers, slip-on-sneakers, a white cotton shirt and a black coat. And then she looked at Ava who was wearing the same outfit from the green room plus an oversized coat and heels, hair still in curls.

“Thanks.”

Ava began to walk.

Beatrice hesitated for a moment but followed after her. “Wait. Where are we going?”

“Looking for some nightlife.” Ava was quick on her feet, comfortable in her heels as they made their way down the cobblestone street. A feat that Beatrice herself has never been able to maneuver that well.

“A nightlife here? In Mayfair?” The only kind of night life in Mayfair was over expensive single-grape wine from wherever the fuck in France. 

As they walked they passed high end shop windows and luxury vehicles parked on the street. There were a healthy amount of people wandering nearby restaurants and bars, which calmed Beatrice’s nerves. After passing The King’s Head, Ava made a right with no signs of slowing down.

“You seem to know where you’re going.”

Ava slowed, taking pity on her. “I come to London a lot, usually to record.”

“That makes sense.”

“Do you like it here?”

“London? I mean, I was raised here, can’t complain.” Beatrice continued, “What about you?”

“Can’t say I stick around long enough to form an opinion.”

“I can show you around if you’d like sometime.”

Ava giggled, but didn’t look at Beatrice. “Maybe next time I’m in town.”

Beatrice wasn’t sure what it was about Ava that caused her to lose all sense of self. If it were any other Friday night she would be in her flat reading or listening to her latest record find. Only leaving if her bandmates had plans together or to have dinners with her parents. Was it because of who she was? No. Beatrice had already met her fair share of celebrities so this wasn’t that. Plus, she was never one to be around people like Ava. People that shined easily.

They stopped in front of white steps. She looked up at a simple black door with the number 46.

“Are we visiting someone?”

Ava didn’t answer, choosing to climb instead.“When we go in, don't accept anything from anyone. Don’t wander far from me and definitely do not speak to the staff more than required. They will know.”

“Sorry?” Ava knocked and after a few seconds the door was opened by a man in a tailored suit with an earpiece.

“Ms. Silva, good evening.”

“Good evening.” Ava grabbed her hand leading her inside.

 Past the entryway was a long hallway and a set of heavy doors. What the fuck was happening? 

“Good evening Ms. Silva, coats?”

Ava removed her coat, handing it over to a staff member behind the counter, then began to help Beatrice out of hers. 

“Thank you. Enjoy your evening ladies.”

Her hand was grabbed again as they passed through the solid doors. 

The building seemed to suddenly expand, the lights were dimmed and cigar smoke floated up towards strategically placed vents. Several men and women sat around chairs she was sure would cost more than her university education. The brown oak coffee tables held various drinks and if she looked close enough she could see old water marks left behind from years of use. As they made their way down the room she made out rows and rows of people chatting to one another or laughing. The music was jazzy and at a level where easy conversation could be had.

Ava didn’t pay much attention to their surroundings and was headed for the stairs. Her hand felt suddenly very clammy with uncertainty. And as they neared the steps she felt the bass of the music increase. 

Beatrice knew better than to get herself into a situation like this, so, why had a woman she had only met a few hours prior been so powerful. She was almost sure this was turning out to be some weird Ready or Not shit, where rich people kill for sport. And the funny thing was she knew this was how she went. All those years of repression and putting music first, all too be undone by a pretty girl with red lips. Her bandmates were going to kill her for this–well, she’d be dead, but they would definitely come to the wake and roast her.

They took two steps at a time and emerged into what was obviously a club. The lights bounced with the beat of the music as the people inside danced along, not acknowledging anything but the vibe and themselves. The bar stretched across the entire length of the left wall and several tables stood snuggly to the right, both hugging the dance floor. 

Ava walked straight to the bar, finally releasing her hand. Beatrice couldn’t see much apart from the pulsating lights hitting the walls due to how dark it was.

“What will you have?” Ava got close enough to speak into her ear.

“Huh? Sorry I was looking at the architecture.” 

Ava gave her a fond look then turned her attention to the bartender. “We’ll start with shots.”

“Oh, I don’t–I’m not—”

“Just try it. It’s a no pressure shot.”

Beatrice looked from the glass and to Ava. This was not a good idea.

By the time Beatrice had mustered a semblance of courage to even hold the shot Ava was already on her fourth. She watched her expectantly and the indescribable force was back. The liquor went down hard. She could feel it burning all the way down. 

“That was vile!”

“I bet!”

Ava looked at the crowd. The energy was feeding into her. “Dance?”

Beatrice wavered considering her options. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up.” She was hoping Ava wouldn’t question it. And when she didn’t Beatrice sent a small prayer to anyone who was listening. She watched as Ava made her way through the crowd needing no time to synchronise to everyone else.

“Anything else?” The bartender asked impatiently.

“Water, please.”

This was going to be a long night.

She had somehow made it through to Ava, who was now flushed red and perspiring, though it was not something that looked bad on her. She smiled the moment she spotted Beatrice and rushed to put her hands on her hips.

Oh, your gravity, your gravity

Your gravity, I will follow you

Oh, your gravity, your gravity

Your gravity, I will follow you

The bodies next to them bounced and swayed matching the rhythm. 

Head in the stars, I see you everywhere

I could never get away, get away (away)

In a hold, just take me anywhere

And I believe in what you say

—

Beatrice adjusted the body on her back again.

Yup, this had been a terrible idea.

She had only made it down two streets and her ankles were not complying. Ava was essentially dead weight at this point and she could feel a cool kind of liquid on the shoulder where her head rested. 

It was now 3 AM and she was having some major regrets. 

Beatrice wasn’t sure how much alcohol Ava had consumed, she had lost track at some point. She had begged her to have some water, peanuts, anything, but Ava had been hard headed and knew exactly what she was doing.

She bounced her butt up, catching Ava’s thighs again. At least it didn’t look out of place. Plenty of people had stumbled out and they had left a straggler a street behind who kept insisting he was Harry Styles.

Thank God for her sneakers or else this would have looked more like she was pulling a dead body. Oh fuck. Did it look like she was carrying a dead body? Her pace increased out of pure fear. This literally could not be happening right now. She was done for. Ava’s fans would kill her. They wouldn’t even question her. They would tear her apart limb from limb in some sadistic medieval torture session while chanting along to one of their idol’s songs.

She had by some miraculous stroke of luck made it back to Claridge’s. The two doormen from earlier watched her struggle the last few meters to the door.

“Hello there!” She sounded way too excited. 

“Evening,” one of the doormen greeted her unenthusiastically.

“Yes, hi. She–she’s a guest at this hotel and as you can–” she adjusted their bodies. The men looked between them, but showed no signs of letting her through. “As you can see, she is very much asleep.”

“What name is the room booked under?”

“Silva? Ava Silva?”

“There’s no such guest staying with us.”

Of course.

She readjusted Ava again. Hoping for some kind of pity. 

Ava’s hand appeared in front of her face holding a room key. “Oh! Well, there we go then. Excuse us.”

The door was held open long enough for Beatrice to slip inside. 

“You are…weird–weirdly strong,” Ava said a little slurred. 

Beatrice’s sneakers squeaked on the checkered marble flooring. The grand entryway was entirely too opulent for the amount of pain currently coursing through every inch of her body.

 She needed a lift. 

The night attendants watched them closely.

 She heard the distinctive ding and rushed to make it, but the doors closed.

She lowered her face to the console and pressed the up button with her nose. This had to be a new low even for her, which is saying a lot because she NEVER does anything like this. The most she would admit to is staying up all night during record store day and camping outside the vinyl store for hours. It took a few seconds and the other set of doors opened. She slipped inside taking a moment to balance Ava and herself against a wall.

There was a beep and the lift began to rise. 

“Did you just?”

Ava nodded against her shoulder.

When they arrived at the correct floor Beatrice mustered all the strength she had left. She readjusted Ava and in one smooth motion used the wall to push them forward.

“Room?!”

“The–the door on the left,” Ava pointed down the hall.

Her legs were shaking. She needed to run into that room. The door clicked open and she rushed in quickly finding the bed and throwing Ava on it, who bounced a couple of times giggling as if Beatrice hadn’t just carried her for what felt like kilometers. There was definitely going to be murder tonight, and she would accept her fate at the hands of her fanbase.

“How could you be laughing!” Beatrice began, eyebrows cast down, anger suddenly blooming after tonight's events. “How could you just let yourself drink to the point of passing out? What if I hadn’t been there? How would you have gotten back here? Do I need to take you to the hospital? Do you need your stomach pumped?!” Beatrice took a breath. Her face was hot and she was sure, no, she knew, she had pulled one of her calf muscles. 

Ava was sitting upright watching her closely, her face was red, small strands of hair stuck to her forehead. Suddenly, Ava stood with yet another impressive display of heel sportsmanship, discarding her coat in one go and running to the bathroom.

She managed to make it to the toilet before retching and vomiting into it.

“Oh my God–are you okay?” Beatrice wobbled her way into the bathroom. Ava nodded weakly, giving her a thumbs up.“Here, let me pull your hair back.” Beatrice took the hair tie on her wrist, somewhat picking up Ava’s sticky hair off her face. Yup, that was definitely a chunk of something tangled in her hair. Ava’s shoulder shook with a giggle.“You look a mess and you are laughing?!” Beatrice couldn't help it, her shoulder began to shake as well.

They both laughed wholeheartedly or in this case deliriously. And then Ava began to retch again.

“N—” Beatrice could feel it. The need to join. It was all dry, but enough for her body to gag and compulse a bit in solidarity.

Ava threw up again and Beatrice wobbled out needing to get out of there before dry turned into not so dry. She looked around the room looking for a small fridge with hopefully some water inside. It was a miracle at this point that she hadn’t tripped on the amount of clothing littering the floor. The room she found was as chaotic as its inhabitant. 

Score.

She grabbed the sealed bottle and basically hopped on one foot to the bathroom. She kneeled down to where Ava’s head was in the toilet, handing the bottle over. “Please rinse out your mouth. Stomach acid is not good for your teeth.”

Ava did as she was told. She sat back against the bathtub, everything finally catching up to her. 

Beatrice had wandered back into the room, she removed her coat and let herself rest against the bed. Her bandmates were never going to believe her if she ever brought this up. This could not happen again. She wasn’t built for this. She was built for late night doom scrolling and hot cups of tea. This had filled her social quota for the century and in a moment of weakness imagined her life right now in a different reality. She could be a nun, transcribing old texts and doing a bit of bookkeeping. Yup, that she was made for.

The toilet flushed and Ava slowly emerged from the bathroom. She leaned against the door frame, removing a heel at a time.“That was close.” She fiddled with the button of her jeans until she gave up and pulled them down without any warning.

Ava was a terrorist.

Beatrice made no attempt to look away. What would the point have been? Ava had managed to top whatever she did with something else. Silky black underwear. Pfft. “Right. So, I’m going to go now.” She pushed off the bed and shoved her hands in her pant pockets, “I would like to say that it has been great, but it has not.”

Ava pulled the covers and slipped inside without paying her any attention.

Beatrice waited for any kind of reply, but when none came concern took over once again. Ava was lying so still that she could have sworn she had a cardiac episode without any kind of preamble. She stepped closer, lowering her face enough to hear some kind of breath. Soft, hardly there. She could see Ava’s chest slowly rising and falling in rhythm. The person before her now felt so small and fragile, without the carefully crafted mask she had wielded the whole day.

She unconsciously ran a gentle hand down Ava’s cheek, the force pulling her to do it was so strong she didn’t have the strength to fight against it anymore. Ava was okay. She was asleep.

Beatrice grabbed the bottle from where Ava had left it on the bathroom counter and brought it to the night table closest to Ava. With one final look to satisfy her worry she turned to leave, carefully putting her weight on her foot, surprised to find that it felt much better already. She closed the room door lightly behind her and as she reached the lift doors. A noise from down the hall alerted her. The same woman from before, Emilia, emerged from the room opposite of Ava’s. She scanned a keycard against Ava’s door, but before stepping inside, her face turned, making eye contact with Beatrice.

Her face was unreadable and for just a moment Beatrice feared for her life. She looked away, smashing the lift button a couple of more times. She heard the door close down the hall and breathed a sigh of relief as the lift doors closed behind her.

—

Beatrice had hoped that a Sunday morning run followed by a cup of coffee would bring her some kind of peace. The chilly Autumn wind hit her cheeks, turning them pink. She sat outside her favourite coffee shop, which was just a few minutes walk from her flat. The run had filled her body with endorphins and she was currently riding the ‘ nothing is absolutely wrong ’ train. 

The last few days had been a roller coaster and dare she say a shit fest. Vincent was not answering her calls or any of their calls and had apparently disappeared from the face of the Earth. Her emails were out of control with managers, producers, sponsors and basically everyone in the industry that wanted a piece of them.

So this, a simple coffee, she could do for the moment. She wasn’t going to think about what had happened with Ava last night. And she was not going to think about murdering Vincent.

Several undisclosed and heavy shopping bags were deposited on the table in front of her. The sudden action caused her to blink rapidly several times.

A woman stood there observing her closely. She wore brown high waisted pants with a cream turtleneck and an olive coat, “Beatrice Young?”

“…Yes?” She was hesitant to confirm.

“Suzanne De Fanti,” She took a seat across from her.

Why did that name sound so familiar?

She waited for Beatrice to speak, but when no reply came she continued, “I hear that you are in need of a manager.”

“Oh well, that’s— does everyone know that?”

“Yes.” It was direct and Beatrice liked that in a person. “I have taken it upon myself to reach out to several brands that meet the bands general aesthetic or as you young kids call it now ‘vibes’.”

“I can see that.”

“It seems you are a difficult commodity to get a hold of and I am here to facilitate that.”

Realisation suddenly hit her. “You’re THE Suzanne De Fanti? You’re a legend. I thought you retired from management a couple of years ago.”

The woman shrugged. “If I’m being perfectly honest, the industry was a bit stagnant.”

“And you’re back?” 

“I believe so.” She answered, fingers picking at something on her nail. I have plenty of connections and old friends. I assume everything is still exploitative and disruptive.”

Beatrice watched her for a moment. This was probably too good to be true. How does something like this even happen? Also, how did Suzanne even find her? 

“Where are your bandmates? I’d like to meet them so we’re all acquainted.” Suzanne had a way about herself and Beatrice knew to keep a bit of skepticism. 

“That simple then?”

“It can be. I assume you don’t speak for them.”

“No, I do not.” A breath. “What’s in it for you? A return to your former glory?” 

“Don’t misunderstand my offer.” She began, “In my years of doing this I have rarely seen such a reaction towards a musician much less a band. You’ve done well, but that can only take you so far in this industry. You need proper connections and someone with the experience to help you navigate it all.” Suzanne searched her face. “You want to hear the most useful advice I can give you? Quit. Quit now before it hurts. Because it’s going to get a lot more difficult from here on out. Yes, getting attention in itself is a feat, but keeping it? That takes work, and not everyone is built for it. Trust me. I have seen it.”

Beatrice shifted her eyes. The words cut a little too close. “Is that all you think it is for us?”

“No, but the way I see it is, eventually, you forget to think about why you started in the first place. And then the hurt sets in.”

Beatrice doesn’t have a response. She lets the conversation sit between them and thinks. Always thinking. Her bandmates were beginning to show frustrations with Vincent’s lack of initiative, they had been busy and tired, so tired. Suzanne could be the person they needed.

“We have practice in thirty minutes. I can give you the address to the studio we’re renting, you can come see us then.”

“Nearby?”

“Just a few streets from here. I was about to change and head over before…” Beatrice waved her hand around not needing to communicate what had just happened.

“Alright, we go now.” Suzanne stood pointing at the bags, “How fashion savvy are you?”

“I have been trying very hard not to be giddy over the Alexander McQueen logo.”

She smiled in approval. “Well, what are we waiting for?” She grabbed a few bags and left the rest for Beatrice to help with. 

Beatrice thought she was a speedy walker on most days. Growing up in London had ingrained a mad scramble mentality to grab The Tube on busy work days, but this was on another level. Suzanne walked with so much haste that it was like she was running circles around Beatrice and still pulling in ahead and her legs could only take her so far.

“Bea! Beeeeaaaaaaa! BEATRICE!” Camila screamed across the street from them, somehow spotting them on her way to practice.

Suzanne stopped before she did and it took all her self control not to topple over her. 

Camila crossed the avenue, catching up to them. “I can spot those little pigeon ankles from anywhere.” She looked from Beatrice to the stranger, before her eyes caught sight of the bags.

“Camila Delcán”

“Oh…wow that’s scary.” She paused, “Do we know this…very well dressed woman?”

“Hi Camila,” Beatrice greeted her, a fond look on her face. “This is Suzanne De Fanti.”

“The Real Housewives of Napoli?”

“...I don’t…what?”

Suzanne laughed and it was genuine. “Potential new manager,” She extended her hand to Camila who shook it with both hers.

“I have been manifesting this.” She said, way too happy with the possibility. 

Suzanne handed the remaining bags to Camila, “Grab these will you, I need to make a phone call.” She pulled a phone from her purse and pressed the screen exactly once. “Lead the way ladies.”

And they were off again. Beatrice didn’t know what had possessed her, but somehow she was walking faster, eager to meet the rest of her bandmates. Camila kept pace next to her, she was hopping. They turned a corner and headed towards a three story building. Once inside they called for the lift and turned to look at Suzanne who had hung up and was taking in her sights.

“This won't do.”

“It was all we could afford and we’re still under contract.”

The lift arrived, doors grinded struggling to open.

“Stairs?”

“To our left but the lights have been out since August and the neighborhood teens hang out in there.” Camila offered, already stepping onto the lift alongside Beatrice. “I once found a boobless Barbie doll, it was so strange.”

“Hmm.”

They were all crammed in the small space as the sorry excuse for lift ascended. The metal rattled and further protested as the bass from the levels above amplified aggressive sounding drums and guitars. Beatrice and Camila looked at each other with concern as the lift’s door slowly opened to reveal the saddest looking loft imaginable. 

The three occupants inside continued their session. Lilith fiercely sing-screaming into the microphone while strumming her guitar. Mary casually just jamming with her bass and Yasmine too distracted on the drums to notice that anyone had arrived.

Wake up, wake up, wake up

We are appalling and we need to stop just watching shit in bed

And I know it sounds boring and we like things that are funny

But we need to get this in our fucking heads

The economy's a goner, republic's a banana, ignore it if you wanna

Suzanne looked around, slightly concerned with the safety of the loft as the walls shook and dust particles fell off the ceiling. The studio equipment was prehistoric and to be perfectly honest half of it didn’t even work anymore. There was a small couch by the wall behind the control booth and copious amounts of carpets. 

I don't like going outside, so bring me everything here

HEY! 

WOO!

YEA!

Mary was the first to notice their new guests, she gave Beatrice and Camila a small wave before walking towards the amps and shutting off their power. It took a few seconds for Lilith and Yasmine to realise what had occurred. 

“Guys! We have a new manager!” Camila shouted excitedly on her way to her bandmates.

“No…wait Camila,” Beatrice called out after her.

“New manager? I don’t remember us having a democratic vote about this? Beatrice?” Mary was always on top of everything.

“Suzanne De Fanti,” The older woman reached out for a handshake.

“Oh shit? It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Mary,” Mary shook her hand without hesitation.

“I know.”

Lilith and Yasmine now joined the rest.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Beatrice raised her eyebrow towards Lilith.

“I vote yes.”

“We should think about this together.”

“No, I’m done waiting around,” Lilith answered back unfazed. “I’m well aware of who she is and what she is capable of.”

“And I’m well aware of who you are and what you’re capable of.” Suzanne smiled. “Your mother and I ran around the same circles years ago, I’m glad to see that she wasn’t wrong about you.”

The girls all stood in silence.

“Yes”

“YES!”

“Yea”

“I like her very much,” Yasmine spoke last.

“That settles it then.” Suzanne crossed her arms, looking at them a little too close for comfort. “Haircuts, clothes, studio, and Levy.”

“Levy?” Beatrice asked, confused.

“Yasmin, I require information of all that has happened this year and leading up to it.” Their new manager continued, not bothering to answer, “I’ve been following along but I need to know what the media doesn’t know.”

“I’m on it. I’ve kept a spreadsheet of all our exploits thus far.”

Camila’s eyes bulged. “What! What exploits?”

 The lift doors opened just as weakly as before.

“Uh, so I was just verbally assaulted by a very off-brand Billie Eilish outside.” The man walked towards them. He was impeccably dressed, coat outlining his shoulders perfectly. 

Suzanne smirked. “Girls, this is Levy.”

Camila bounced in place. “Can we keep him?”

—

One Month Later

“I thought I already told you to stop biting your cuticles, you look like a sneaky little rodent,” Levy leaned over and whispered-yelled rather roughly into her ear.

Beatrice was so close so so very close to ending his life. 

A model squeezed between them scrabbling towards her fitting assistant. 

Beatrice’s nails came back to her mouth. 

How Suzanne figured out she used to do ballet was a mystery to her. She had never referenced it in any interview, heck, her bandmates didn’t know. Well, except for Camila, but she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t, right? Why, Yes, Suzanne I love fashion. Please put me on a runway show, it’ll be great for the group's image and reachability. And sure, Suzanne had been skeptical about her abilities, but a few contacts later and a runway coach from hell had prepared her to do just one outfit. She could do this. It was just walking. She walked all the time in straight lines, and not so straight lines. Plus, she had great stamina. 

Levy swatted her hand away. 

She glanced around the massive room around her. Everyone was running around like a bunch of headless chickens. Photographers, hair stylists, makeup artists, assistants of assistants, models in various stages of undress and Levy. The lights were so bright that she was sure it would leave an impression in her corneas. Everyone was yelling and somehow it was the weirdest dance she had ever experienced. Everything was somehow going according to plan.

She found a bit of wall to lean on and it lasted exactly one second before Levy pulled her off it. “You’re going to crease it! And I am not about to be impaled by Sarah Burton.”

“You try standing on these!”

“I would willingly sell my left nipple to do so.”

Admittedly, the dress and heels she was wearing were beautiful, but she would not give him the satisfaction of enjoying this one bit. The embroidered black lace hugged her torso perfectly, which flowed until it hit silk that further became undone with fine brushed textures. She was about to politely scream like a banshee and truly personify the dress she was wearing. 

Levy walked off to answer his phone. Beatrice was certain it was Suzanne asking how she was doing. And by the look on his face, he was not being very kind. She would give him an earful once he came back.

Everyone around them burst into cheers suddenly, even the models engrossed in conversation stopped to look over. A few photographers rushed forward snapping pictures as the person walked to the enormous wall that was the entrance to the catwalk. The person must be the musical number that was meant to close the show. There was a break in the crowd and Beatrice could only stare a little slack jawed. 

Ava. 

It was Ava. 

Her hair had been cut straight across her shoulders in a clean bob. She had fierce eye makeup just like Beatrice’s and wore a dress that resembled one of the earlier looks. With cascading translucent white silk chiffon that stopped just a bit past her bottom with beautiful sunray pleats. She nodded a few times to the assistants nearby as they handed her a microphone and put in her in-ears. The music shifted and Ava stepped onto the runway.

“Beatrice!” Levy was urgently trying to get her attention.

She saw the closing looks coming together in order. The stage assistant ran frantically towards her. “Remember. Do it just like earlier during practice. Follow 41. Remember the cameras are mainly positioned at the front.” She wasn’t much younger than Beatrice. “Once you’re back, be ready to head back out to close the show with the rest of the models.”

Ava’s voice echoed inside.

She nodded, purely by instinct as she was pulled towards 41. 

Me da miedo cuando sales

Sonriendo pa' la calle

Porque todos pueden ver

Los hoyuelitos que te salen

She and 41 were about to become so intimate.

41 stepped through onto the runway and a hand was held in front of her. Once that hand was down it was go time. There was no more deliberation. She focused on Ava’s voice. The arm came down and she was off.

 She had practiced with the lights on before. She knew how intense they would be, but nothing could have prepared her for the amount of eyes that were currently on her. On either side of the runway were rows upon rows of the fashion elite. All taking notes in order to be the front page article the moment the show was over. The flash of photographers set her on edge momentarily as she navigated the now very foggy catwalk. She spotted Suzanne sitting to her left, who gave a quick nod, but nothing more.

Cuando sales por la puerta

Pienso que no vuelves nunca

Y si no te agarro fuerte

Siento que será mi culpa

Ava must have noticed her somehow because she made eye contact and stumbled with her words for a second. She walked past, head forward. She was almost there, almost finished. The photographer's flashes intensified as she made it to the end of the runway giving them a quick pose.

Pienso en tu mirá, tu mirá clavá es una bala en el pecho

Pienso en tu mirá, tu mirá clavá es una bala en el pecho

Pienso en tu mirá, tu mirá clavá es una bala en el pecho

Ava sang into her microphone, her powerful voice coming through perfectly. They made eye contact again. Beatrice’s stomach jumped. Huh . That was definitely new territory.

The walk backstage was even faster.

She made it, careful to stand out of the way for the final looks to come through. Levy waved frantically, his smile genuine. The models around her began to line up for the closing parade and she followed suit. 

Once they were all ready the stage assistant lowered her arm and they all walked out to the runway. The feeling was indescribable, she was riding on the world's weirdest high right now. She was equal parts delirious and beyond elated. 41 had saved her life and she was eternally grateful. 

As she made her way back from the photographers she gave Suzanne a huge smile and then it was over. Sarah Burton walked past her eager to take her bows as the audience clapped enthusiastically. 

Levy crushed her in a big hug. “I was rooting for you the whole time, didn’t doubt you for a second!” 

“I feel really really lightheaded right now.” She leaned back against a table, dress be damned. She needed something to ground her. All of that stress for maybe 5 minutes of having to do it.

Everyone around her was celebrating how great the show had turned out. Some models weren’t even fazed, already taking their makeup off and pulling at their hairs, the assistants around them helping them out of their outfits.

Without meaning to her eyes sought Ava in the crowd. Something that she should have been more careful about because as soon as she found her she saw more than she bargained for. And sure this was a fashion show and she had spent the majority of the day seeing the human anatomy in ways she hadn’t before. One of Ava’s assistants helped her out of her dress while the other one held another outfit. It was quick. She could have missed it if she looked away, but her heart began to palpitate. 

Ava’s eyes met hers and held her gaze. It was seconds, but it felt like an eternity and she had the audacity to wink in her direction.

The second assistant slid the dress on causing their gaze to shatter.

Oh God, can you make my heart stop?

Hit me with your kill shot, baby

I mean it so serious

God, can you make my heart stop?

Honey, with your kill shot, baby

I mean it so serious

[trivialbob]

Last year I complained of Prime drink mixes not mixing well in water. The powder clumped up. Some sips of the beverage were too watery, others had too much flavor.

Last year I asked my future daughter-in-law, a professional chemist, if there was something I could do to make the power mix better, giving me a more enjoyable drink experience.

Last year she was of no help.

Michelle and Matt are here now in the Twin Cities this week to celebrate Christmas early with us. Before they had even unpacked Michelle gave me my Christmas gift.

It is an Intllab Magnet Stirrer. This is the same type of mixer she has in her chemistry lab. The base has a spinning magnet underneath a metal plate. A cruciform-shaped, plastic-covered metal spinner sits in a beaker resting on the plate. When power is applied, the device stirs the liquid.

It works well. I am hydrated and have satisfied taste buds.

These are two of Matt and Michelle's engagement photos. They are getting married next year.

[sitting-on-me-bum]

CALANAIS STANDING STONES, ISLE OF LEWIS, OUTER HEBRIDES

For over 5,000 years—predating even Stonehenge—these enchanting stones have illuminated hearts and minds.

The circle of mystical megaliths is a muse for animated Disney film Brave.

Protagonist Merida is guided by will’-o-the-wisps to an arcane ring of stones, where her destiny is forever changed.

Cruciform in shape, this puzzling arrangement of menhirs has an esoteric essence, its pillars stretching towards the sky, as if wanting to make contact with the stars.

PHOTOGRAPH BY ACACIA JOHNSON

[jbfly46]

̲𝚄̲̲𝚗̲̲𝚒̲̲𝚟̲̲𝚎̲̲𝚛̲̲𝚜̲̲𝚊̲̲𝚕̲ ̲𝙸̲̲𝚗̲̲𝚎̲̲𝚚̲̲𝚞̲̲𝚊̲̲𝚕̲̲𝚒̲̲𝚝̲̲𝚒̲̲𝚎̲̲𝚜̲

Jensen’s Inequality:

If φ is a convex function and X is a random variable, then:

φ(E[X]) ≤ E[φ(X])

⸻

- Mathematically:

It formalizes the idea that the function of an average is less than or equal to the average of the function—a cornerstone in information theory, economics, and entropy models.

- Philosophically:

It encodes a deep truth about aggregation vs individuality:

The average path does not capture the richness of individual variation.

You can’t just compress people, ideas, or experiences into a mean and expect to preserve their depth.

- Theologically (Logos lens):

God doesn’t save averages. He saves individuals.

Jensen’s Inequality reminds us: truth emerges not from flattening, but from preserving the shape of each curve.

Cauchy-Schwarz Inequality:

|⟨u, v⟩| ≤ ||u|| · ||v||

- Meaning:

The inner product (projection) of two vectors is always less than or equal to the product of their lengths.

- Why it matters metaphysically:

No interaction (⟨u,v⟩) can exceed the potential of its participants (||u||, ||v||).

Perfect alignment (equality) happens only when one vector is a scalar multiple of the other—i.e., they share direction.

- Philosophical resonance:

Love (inner product) can never exceed the strength of self and other—unless they are one in direction.

⸻

Triangle Inequality

||x + y|| ≤ ||x|| + ||y||

- Meaning:

The shortest path between two points is not through combining detours.

- Metaphysical translation:

Every time you try to shortcut wholeness by adding parts, you risk increasing the distance.

Truth is straight. But sin adds loops.

This is why grace cuts cleanly—it does not add noise.

⸻

Entropic Inequality (Data Processing Inequality):

I(X; Y) ≥ I(f(X); Y)

- Meaning:

You can’t increase information about a variable by processing it. Filtering always loses some signal.

- Deep translation:

Every time you mediate the truth through an agenda, a platform, or an ego, you lose information.

This is a law of entropy and a law of theology.

“Now we see through a glass, darkly…”

—1 Corinthians 13:12

Only unfiltered presence (Logos) sees all.

⸻

Christic Inequality (Cruciform Principle):

Here’s a theological-metaphysical inequality you won’t find in a textbook:

Power - Sacrifice ≤ 0

(unless crucified)

- Meaning:

Power without self-giving always decays into corruption.

Only when power is poured out (Philippians 2:6–8) does it become greater than itself.

So paradoxically:

True Power = Power · (Sacrifice > 0)

[samstephens99]

How Long, Lord How Long?

This Sunday’s sermon still echoes in my soul. It centered on David’s anguished cry in Psalm 6: “How long, Lord, how long?!”—a question that feels intensely personal, especially when prayers go unanswered and breakthroughs remain elusive. Yes, those are real and valid heartaches. But as a leader, what hit me harder was this: I scanned the morning headlines and found myself weeping—not for myself, but for a world unraveling. I cried, “How long, Lord?”

We beg God to fix the mess—corruption, conflict, climate, crooked politicians. We demand heavenly reform. But then I hear God’s quiet whisper; And heaven replied—not with thunder or lightning, but with a whisper: “Let us start—with you.”“Excellent idea. Let us start with you.”

Not the response I was hoping for. Like the disciples in Luke 9:54, we often want fire from heaven. What we get instead is conviction in the mirror. Philippians 2 does not call us to demand reform in others—it calls us to be reformed ourselves. “Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus.”

Christlikeness is not a platform. It is cruciformity—a daily dying to our pride, opinions, and self-importance. Real transformation is not loud; it is often lonely. It is not staged for applause, but shaped in surrender.

Jesus changed the world not with protests but with pierced hands. He did not post slogans—He poured water and washed feet. He did not seek a throne; He bore a cross.

So next time you plead with God to change the world, prepare to be the starting point. He may hand you not a microphone, but a cross.

Because when Christlikeness is the strategy, cruciformity is the path. You want a new world? Be a new creation.

UNTIL THE NEXT… .

[389]

Stanley Szwarc’s Visionary Cross Purposes Stanley Szwarc (1928-2011), a Polish book keeper turned metal worker and then artist after arriving in the United States, gave no indication of being particularly religious, but he did like making crosses. A prolific creator of objects from scrap stainless steel, always demonstrating over-the-top imagination, Szwarc made hundreds of crosses, if not thousands. He produced jewelry, he made crosses to be hung on the wall, and he crafted cruciform objects with no apparent use other than to be carriers of his endless combinations of geometric shapes. Szwarc liked to say that no two of his objects, be they crosses, vases, key fobs or boxes, were alike. The evidence plainly supports that contention while demonstrating a virtuosic artistic vision that could not contain itself, always seeking out fascinating ways to vary the ornamentation, to create objects of surprise, delight and striking beauty. Szwarc was one of the great self-taught artists of the 20th Century.

[rainintheevening]

Hey all, would really appreciate prayers for my mom. Her back is in rough shape right now, she's in a lot of pain, and can't walk very well. They got a short extension on the insurance pay-out, so she can get back to seeing the osteopath she's been seeing, but probably not for long. God only knows where this is going.

Please pray for her, and me as I wrestle with trying not to shift into my old friend survival mode. I don't want to shut down, I want to stay open, I want to live cruciform. But it's hard.

[blueiscoool]

A 5th-Century BC Bone Scepter Discovered in Bulgaria

A unique bone scepter belonging to a Scythian warlord from the 5th century BC was discovered during excavations in the prehistoric salt production and urban center Provadia-Solnitsata in Northeast Bulgaria.

The Scythians were a steppe and semi-steppe people who arrived on the Danube in the seventh century BC. They entered modern-day Bulgaria, but there is no evidence that they fought the locals. There’s information that they had confrontations with the Thracians after the 5th century BC.

The archaeological team is led by Professor Vassil Nikolov. The scepter was found in a grave examined by Violeta Stoitsova and Kalina Samichkova.

Professor Vassil Nikolov told the Bulgarian News Agency (BTA) that Scythian graves are something very rare in today’s Northeastern Bulgaria are extremely rare, just four or five have been discovered so far.

The excavated pit is different from those found so far, Nikolov explained. The shape of the Scythian warrior’s grave resembles a boot, with a hollowed-out part. It was apparently excavated in later times, but people saw the skull and upper part of the man’s skeleton, which are missing today, and stopped immediately, explained Nikolov.

Respect for ancestral graves was very important for the Scythians. Anyone who damaged one of these tombs would have harmed the Scythians. Perhaps the people who dug the grave realized that the person lying there was an important Scythian and left the grave without looting.

Archaeologists have now found the bone scepter, which the researcher described as “an incredible achievement of the art of that time”. Alongside the human bones, they also found those of a horse, an iron knife, a small dog, and a turtle.

The Scythians had exceptional traditions in the art of bone carving. The sceptre is 39 centimetres long. The handle is made of two pieces of bone glued together. The connection between the head and the handle of the scepter is very precisely crafted. Seen from one side it looks like the beak of an eagle, but on the other, the ancient craftsman has carved an anthropomorphic image on which the beak looks like a hat.

The scepter is proof of the skills of their masters, Nikolov noted and added that it probably belonged to a military commander of a small military unit.

“Those found so far are usually cruciform, with an ornithomorphic (A figure in ancient art resembling a bird) upper part. Most often the craftsmen carved an eagle because this bird is part of the Scythian religious-mythological system,” Nikolov said.

By oguz kayra.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

"Do it again, Phil! That is so cool!" my brother, Byron, excitedly yelled.

I slapped another sheet of plastic into the frame, then flipped it over the heating element. While the plastic warmed, I put my chosen shape onto the vacuum bed. When the plastic began to sag, I flipped the pliable sheet of plastic on top of the mold, then pumped the vacuum lever like a wild man.

The suction drew the soft plastic tightly over the shape on the vacuum bed. I held the plastic in place until it began to cool. I removed the plastic sheet, separated it from the mold, and then trimmed the excess plastic from the newly formed object. I glued this newly formed piece (the top side of a tugboat) to the previously formed piece (the hull). I had made a floating toy boat to get my brother out…

[birgittesilverbae]

thinking of babea au and lilith forced to seek refuge in her childhood home with an injured bea.

lilith standing in the foyer, stooping to heft beatrice into her arms and she smells of ozone, of burnt-out matches. her hair smells of cedarwood.

the apparition of her mother looking shrunken next to a suit of armour, wineglass in hand, and beatrice only half-aware of anything (mostly aware of lilith’s warmth, her neck, her breath when she looks down as though afraid that beatrice will suddenly stop breathing) but struck by the thought that lilith must have found her silence somewhere. here.

the quiet she carries with her, and how when she laughs it feels like the air has cracks in it. beatrice craves that sound, but the foyer echoes. lilith’s childhood home is full up with silence.

lilith stands, ignoring the steady drip, drip of bea’s blood onto the tiles, how it smears the family crest. she stares at her mother over the wrinkling of bea’s brow, her soundless sighs committed to the tomb of lilith’s throat and she feels, for an instant, like she’s holding a flame instead of a girl.

holding a match for too long and begging it not to burn her fingers.

her mother says her name. that’s all; ‘lilith’ in her sepulchral tone, eyes roaming over the bloodied shape of beatrice cradled in her arms. all the bullet holes are gone, ringed by blood but incapable of harming her. there’s a handful of them sitting inside lilith’s pocket, digging into her thigh.

she doesn’t know why she picked them up, except perhaps that they were soaked in bea’s blood and she didn’t want to leave them in the alley where she dragged beatrice. where she listened to her in the dark hiccupping blood as mercenaries flickered past them in the street beyond.

lilith had to wrap her body around the cruciform sword. it glowed like a beacon. she manged it, mostly, but the light caught beatrice’s eyes. they caught on her pain as though on broken glass.

her mother stares as they trail blood over the parapet floor, the carpet, following after lilith as she lays beatrice down on one of the sofas. it’s more of a loveseat, really, and looking at it in the lamplight lilith is struck by a smaller, cleaner version of herself sitting cross-legged, a book open in her lap.

beatrice lies there, bleeds there. it’s mostly from her arm, where lilith watched a divinium-laced bullet strike her, spinning her back into lilith’s arms, blood erupting over her fingers. beatrice was already full of bullets, listing from the halo’s fading burn, but the sight of that unearthly blue light glimmering in her skin made lilith more afraid than she thought was possible.

somewhere between the family crest and the sight of beatrice dampening the sofa cushions with blood, lilith’s mother seems to find her voice.

she opts for Italian, which only makes beatrice’s lips twitch, and lilith has to fight back the insane urge to kiss her. not in front of your mother, fool!

this of course swiftly followed by, and why would it matter?

instead, lilith smooths beatrice’s hair off her forehead, ignoring the sweat and dirt that follows the sweep of her palm. “rest,” she commands, picking up the old version of her voice from the days when she used to pin beatrice to the mat in cat’s cradle and lean down close to say “yield.”

“where are you going?” out of spite, beatrice says this in Latin, which shortens it tremendously.

even with her mother’s eyes on her, lilith can’t help but dip down, darting a quick kiss to beatrice’s forehead. “just rest. i’ll be back.”

she dumps her duffel down next to beatrice, hoping and yes, maybe praying, that she has what she needs inside.

“what was that?” her mother says as lilith moves back out into the foyer. her body wants to tremble but she holds it still, moves to the staircase like a thief stealing into heaven.

her mother follows her with a string of complaints as she digs out clean clothes for bea (hers, old, trying to pay no attention to what she chooses).

lilith fetches warm water and washcloths, she tries to breathe. the response, when she asks after food, is “why on earth would I know what we have to eat?”

she carries it all back to beatrice, takes the first aid kit from her duffel. forced to cut through bea’s armour to reach the only intact wound. she makes herself listen to beatrice’s unguarded cries of pain as she takes the shards of divinium out of her shoulder. the halo flickers, gleams, replaces bea’s blood which is just as well.

there’s so much of it on her hands.

her mother hisses at her for ruining the furniture and lilith feels herself go still and quiet.

“you should be happy. aren’t you the one who told me that anything the halo touches is holy?”

bea slipping into consciousness just long enough to hear lilith say, “well, here she is; the holiest thing you’ll never get your hands on.”

her mother leaves. there’s the sound of an engine starting, a door slamming. then a better silence.

she bandages bea’s shoulder and kisses her properly, careful not to get any more blood on her face. “time for bed,” she mutters.

“can’t… don’t think I can walk.” beatrice is only half-awake.

“i’ll carry you.”

a hand on her chest, “no. just be here.”

lilith makes up a bed for them on the floor. she lights the fire with wet wood from the shed outside that spits as it takes the flame.

the next morning bea sits at the kitchen nook, wearing lilith’s old taekwondo hoodie, tracing the logo on the sleeve with her fingers while lilith burns their scrambled eggs

lilith, slightly chagrined, sets down a plate of overcooked toast and dry scrambled eggs. bea looks at her and it’s an odd expression. it’s the look she saves for the ocean, or for certain flowers.

they eat, bea tucking into her tasteless meal like she’s never eaten before, pretending she can’t see lilith looking at her with a sort of bleak fondness.

because bea’s hands are trembling as she holds her cutlery and she looks strange and small in lilith’s hoodie and a pair of old sleep shorts. they’re eating at the breakfast nook in the kitchen that her mother never uses but where lilith used to eat lunch (and dinner if her mother was at a party). it feels sacred to her, somehow. feels right to find beatrice sitting there.

bea makes a short noise of delight, noticing a big, uncoordinated ‘LILITH WAS HERE’ carved into the wood right at the edge of the table. she makes lilith scoot over next to her, points to it, then shamelessly takes advantage of their closeness to tuck both her hands into one of lilith’s sleeves so she has to eat left-handed. clumsily.

lilith rolls her eyes, but she laces her fingers through bea’s, and kisses her again.

[hieromonkcharbel]

Synopsis of Tonight’s Group on The Ladder of Divine Ascent:

Where are we in the spiritual battle? Do we understand the virtues that are generally most necessary in the pursuit of virtue? So often in our day, we approach the spiritual life in a piecemeal fashion, gleaning from the writing of saints things that speak to our own particular sensibilities. But are any of these things going to help us address the dominant passions that we struggle with?

We cannot be lazy in the labors of the spiritual life. We are blessed to be able to sit at the feet of the great elders and those who speak from experience. And yet, as with so many things in our day, we would have things come in our own time and in the way that we desire. Christianity overturns our perception of reality. What it means to love, what is truth, all comes into view only through the person of Christ. The shape of the Christian life is cruciform – always involving a dying to self and sin, and rising to new life in Christ. We must cast off the old man in order to put on the mind of Christ. Lacking discernment we may find ourselves being guided by the demons and settling into mediocrity or the embrace of selfishness and sin that merely is an aping of virtue.

[inevitableisopod]

Longswords and you, pt 1

So, to furtherance! the first thing im going to address is what i imagine will be of interest to the vast majority of people that actually want to read this blog, the longsword!

so, now what is a longsword? unfortunately, we don't know. the term longsword is a modern definition that is not necessarily indicative of historical perception, and as such it instead refers to a group of swords spanning approximately 4 centuries (first emerging in the 1200s, and being used right through the 1600s and slightly in the 1700s albeit with much diminished regularity), that differ in application and design, but never the less share certain characteristics, these being:

long double edged blades, usually 10 cm either side of a meter, but bare in mind this can very wildly

relatively long handles, easily taking 2, or even 2 and a half hands, ending in a rather pronounced lump of metal called a pommel

a long crossbar that forms the guard, giving the entire thing a roughly cruciform shape.

one of these basically

Unfortunately these rules are neither hard nor fast, but give the general idea!

Next i'll discuss its impact in modern western culture and usage!

May your edges stay sharp and your points true

[focusonarchitecture]

Day 18 — Royal Exhibition Building I

The Royal Exhibition Building is a UNESCO World Heritage-listed building in Melbourne, Australia, built in 1879–1880 as part of the international exhibition movement, which presented over 50 exhibitions between 1851 and 1915 around the globe.

The Royal Exhibition Building was designed by the architect Joseph Reed of Reed and Barnes architecture, who also designed the Melbourne Town Hall, the State Library of Victoria, and the Baroque style gardens.

According to Reed, the eclectic design was inspired by many sources. Composed of brick, timber, steel, and slate, the Exhibition Building is representative of the Byzantine, Romanesque, Lombardic and Italian Renaissance styles. 

The dome was modeled on the Florence Cathedral, while the main pavilions were influenced by the style of Rundbogenstil and several buildings from Normandy, Caen and Paris. The building has the scale of the French Beaux Arts, with a cruciform plan in the shape of a Latin cross, with long nave-like wings symmetrically placed east–west about the central dome, and a shorter wing to the north. 

In 1888, electric lighting was installed for the Centennial International Exhibition, making it one of the first in the world that was accessible during night time.

Photo: 2021