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aethelflaedladyofmercia · 5 years

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Mystery Science Theater 6000: The 1992 Screenplay

In the not-too-distant future, an angel and a demon sit down to watch a movie that probably shouldn't exist.

While they start out happily mocking the out-of-character moments and strange plot twists, one character in particular may be more than they can handle...

NOTE: Yup, this is formatted as a screenplay, originally written to be as close in style to Neil Gaiman’s original script...though the format actually turned out to be Tumblr-incompatible, so I’ve done my best to “recover” it.

FADE IN:

EXT. DEVIL’S DYKE – EVENING

Snow falls gently around a very comfortable COTTAGE. It is old-fashioned looking, perhaps Victorian; two-story, stone, with peaked dormer windows. It is nestled among the trees. The light from the windows is warm and orange.

Camera closes in on the window. We can see, through the TARTAN curtains, a very comfortable if eclectic LIVING ROOM. The furnishings are a mix of modern and old-fashioned, with everything appearing very lived-in and loved.

A figure in white and tartan sits on the sofa. This is AZIRAPHALE. He looks as comfortable and as loved as the sofa he sits on.

Camera pushes through the window and cut to –

INT. SOUTHDOWNS COTTAGE LIVING ROOM – EVENING

As we pan through the room we can see in more detail: angel figurines, potted plants, a few larger statues that probably have some story behind them, and many shelves of books.

There is a brick or stone FIREPLACE with a cheerful fire inside. Above the mantel is a large flatscreen TELEVISION. A figure dressed all in black with red hair is attempting to get a movie to play but such technology is baffling to everyone, including demons. This is CROWLEY.

Between CROWLEY and AZIRAPHALE is a large coffee table, also covered in books and a small green succulent. There is a bowl of popcorn, though AZIRAPHALE has already eaten more than half.

We can see the living room extend behind them into an open-concept KITCHEN and DINING ROOM. All three rooms appear to be made on different designs that do not blend together; perhaps the kitchen is silver, sleek and modern while the dining room has rustic knotty pine beams. The COTTAGE appears somewhat larger on the inside than it did outside.

More bookcases can be seen in every corner, potted plants in every window, and tartan accents throughout.

CROWLEY finally steps back from the television, remote control in hand. When he turns, we can see he has golden eyes with narrow pupils. A pair of SUNGLASSES is folded in a pocket of his jacket.

CROWLEY: Right, I think it will play now. Are you sure this is a good idea?

AZIRAPHALE: Certainly, my dear fellow. Over the past few months I have read many stories inspired by us. They are quite delightful fun!

CROWLEY: But how can they exist? How can people know the details? And how can there be a movie – based on what happened just this past summer – that’s older than Adam is?

CROWLEY walks back to the sofa, and drops more than sits next to AZIRAPHALE. He sprawls to AZIRAPHALE’s left.

AZIRAPHALE smiles at him softly.

AZIRAPHALE: Perhaps the events echoed through the time stream, inspiring humans in the past and the future. Such things are certainly possible.

CROWLEY: (Very sarcastic and scornful) Sounds ineffable.

AZIRAPHALE: Perhaps. Try to simply relax and enjoy the film, my dear.

Rolling his eyes, CROWLEY presses a button on the remote. The television comes to life.

As they watch, the screen fades to a PAINTING of the Garden of Eden, featuring traditional Renaissance depictions of ADAM and EVE and the apple tree; there is also an ANGEL in a white robe with flaming sword and a GREEN SERPENT wearing SUNGLASSES.

AZIRAPHALE: Well who are they supposed to be?

CROWLEY: That’s us in Eden, isn’t it?

AZIRAPHALE: Don’t be absurd. Why would you be green? Who are those – they look nothing like Adam and Eve.

CROWELY rolls his eyes, but there is no anger in it.

CROWLEY: That’s you with the flaming sword, isn’t it? So that has to be me. Garden, apple…

AZIRAPHALE: Sunglasses. Do you suppose you’ll have green hair in this film?

As they talk, the screen changes. As opening credits roll, we see more traditional artworks – a cave painting, an Egyptian fresco, the death of Julius Caesar, the discovery of America, a Victorian etching, and finally a 1920s photograph. In each, at the edge of the action, can be seen two figures – one in white, one in black and wearing sunglasses.

In the background can be heard the slide-click noise of a game of CHECKERS (or draughts) being played.

CROWLEY: Look, we don’t have to watch it. I certainly don’t. It got very bad reviews. We can just -

AZIRAPHALE: Oh, hush. Look, more paintings.

CROWLEY: (Disdainful) I did not go around Egypt dressed like that!

AZIRAPHALE: Yes, your outfit does seem to be rather lacking in gold. Is this supposed to be a museum? And what is that infernal clacking noise?

CROWLEY: Search me. Still trying to figure out why we’re photobombing history.

AZIRAPHALE: That isn’t how Caesar’s assassination went at all! And I was certainly nowhere near any ships sailed by that horrible Columbo fellow.

Despite his words, AZIRAPHALE appears to be enjoying the film. CROWLEY gives an occasional indulgent smile.

CROWLEY: The 19th century one almost looks like us. If I lowered my fashion standards -

AZIRAPHALE: Shh! It’s starting!

Despite this, neither shows any sign of ceasing to talk.

The title “GOOD OMENS” appears above two men playing checkers – one in white, the other in black and wearing sunglasses. They sit in an artwork-filled office at the BRITISH MUSEUM.

CROWLEY: Eh, not bad I guess. At least I look…almost cool. Trying way too hard.

AZIRAPHALE: Well, what are you doing at the British Museum?

CROWLEY: Playing draughts with you, obviously.

AZIRAPHALE: No you aren’t. That can’t be me.

CROWLEY: Of course it is. Look at those clothes -

AZIRAPHALE: Precisely. That jacket is absolutely filthy. Tsk. Besides, if I was at the British Museum, I would be eating that lovely cake from the café.

The first line of dialogue in the film goes to SCRIPT!CROWLEY, who is looking cool and angsty: “IT’S ALL GOING TOO WELL.” Dialogue continues as they talk.

CROWLEY: What sort of opening line is that? “…going too well.” Do I sound like that?

AZIRAPHALE: You do like to complain.

CROWLEY: About real, valid things. And not in clichés.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY realizes he is about to lose the game, and pulls the “what is that thing behind you trick.” When SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE falls for it, SCRIPT!CROWLEY moves a few pieces.

AZIRAPHALE: (Gasps with mock offense) Did you just cheat?

CROWLEY: You fell for it.

AZIRAPHALE:I told you, that isn’t me. You did! You cheated that poor fellow in a game of draughts. The cheek!

CROWLEY: Angel, who else would I have been playing against every week for six thousand years?

AZIRAPHALE: Certainly not me. I would have noticed you cheating.

CROWLEY opens his mouth, possibly to object.

AZIRAPHALE (CONT.): Don’t think I don’t know about how you cheat at coin tosses. And knucklebones. And Nine-Men’s Morris.

CROWLEY: (Scowling) Only because you cheated first.

AZIRAPHALE: It isn’t cheating to ensure the righteous triumph of good over evil. Oh, what are you complaining about now?

CROWLEY: Everything, I think. Boring? Did he say Earth is boring? Oy, get over yourself, you useless git. If you think you’ve got a better planet you’re welcome to it!

AZIRAPHALE: (Stepping over CROWLEY’s complaints without any real concern) Oh, who is this young lady?

Onscreen, the new arrival POLLY has addressed SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE as “Professor Aziraphale.” The real AZIRAPHALE’s face immediately falls, and he gives his double a scrutinizing look.

AZIRAPHALE: Well! I suppose not everything translated through accurately.

CROWLEY: Told you that was you. I can recognize genuine angelic smugness anywhere.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh, she appears to be my assistant! Though in that case she should be back at my shop arranging the cobwebs to keep people out of the poetry section.

CROWLEY: (With the air of one about to deliver some very distressing news) I think you…work at the Museum.

AZIRAPHALE: Crowley, you’re being absurd. How can I work here? How could this be my office? There isn’t a single book in sight. Just a bunch of paintings and you – you’re flirting with my assistant! Right in front of me!

CROWLEY: (Angry, muttered as a threat) He really does need to get over himself.

AZIRAPHALE: (A little alarmed at CROWLEY’s tone) Now, dear, try to remember this is all good fun. I promise not to take offense.

CROWLEY: I just… I don’t like his attitude.

AZIRAPHALE: Yes, this…character does seem to be in a perpetually sour mood. Pessimistic. Brooding, even. I can’t put my finger on it, but he seems a little familiar…

CROWLEY: A little – you take that back, Angel!

AZIRAPHALE: (Grinning like a bastard) They certainly have the scowl down. Now I just need to hear you say “it’s all going too well.”

CROWLEY: I’m not playing your sick mind games. And I’m certainly not going to say –

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY says “It’s all going too well!” Our CROWLEY does a full-body cringe, while AZIRAPHALE laughs as hard as he ever has.

CROWLEY (CONT.): (To the screen) Could you – just – STOP?! No one wants to hear your pathetic complaints – oh NOW what is he doing?

Onscreen, SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE and POLLY have continued through the back offices of the Museum, while SCRIPT!CROWLEY saunters through the galleries towards the exit.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY pickpockets a Museum patron, and tosses the stolen wallet into an unsuspecting passerby’s bag. A fight ensues.

AZIRAPHALE: (Still giggling) Oh, dear. It would appear he’s much more demonic than you. Cheating at draughts. Petty crime. Starting fights.

CROWLEY: He barely inconvenienced four people. That’s not clever - (To the screen) You’re not clever!

AZIRAPHALE: It think it was very neatly done. Better than that time you glued a coin…

CROWLEY: What is this a trial?

SCRIPT!CROWLEY, now speaking to himself, repeats “It’s all going to well.” This is at least the fourth time the phrase has been uttered. CROWLEY continues to cringe every time it is said.

CROWLEY: What is that, his catchphrase? (To the screen) Catchphrases aren’t cool, you self-absorbed toadstool!

AZIRAPHALE: (Pointing happily) Finally, something familiar! Look, dear!

SCRIPT!CROWLEY is ranting about the Garden of Eden as he approaches a beautiful black vintage Bentely. A TRAFFIC WARDEN stands nearby, writing a ticket.

CROWLEY: (Smiling) Yes! You, know, it’s actually nice that even in this weird, upside-down reality I still – NAKED BIMBO?! He called Eve -

AZIRAPHALE: (For the first time, distinctly uncomfortable) Er, I suppose…sexism is…demonic?

CROWLEY is temporarily at a loss for words, hands bunching into fists on his knees. Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY crumbles up the TICKET and throws it into the back of the Bentley, where several hundred more litter the floor.

Our CROWLEY leaps half-off the sofa, clutching at the sofa arm to hold himself back. AZIRAPHALE is rather alarmed.

CROWLEY: You disgusting excuse for a – don’t throw trash in my Bentley! Take some blessed pride in – oh, for SOMEONE’s sake!

CROWLEY drops back into his seat as angrily as possible, while SCRIPT!CROWLEY races off, leaving the traffic warden with a burning notepad.

AZIRAPHALE: At least he…drives like you?

CROWLEY is not amused.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh. Er. They’re back to me now. I’m sure this will be. Um. Entertaining?

CROWLEY is not playing along.

Onscreen, several WEALTHY MUSEUM DONOR TYPES are discussing a Renaissance painting that needs to be authenticated. They appear incapable of doing so without stating repeatedly that SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE is as intelligent as he is mad.

SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE takes one look at the painting and declares it a fake, as he is sure he would remember it if it were real.

AZIRAPHALE: That scene was…entirely superfluous! What on Earth was the point of – of any of that?

CROWLEY: (Still not happy) At least you sounded like yourself.

AZIRAPHALE: I didn’t sound intelligent at all! I sounded silly and…and mad, like some doddering old – oooh, don’t you START.

Onscreen, we see SCRIPT!CROWLEY park the Bentley and begin walking towards “THE HELLFIRE CLUB (Anthony Crowley Proprietor)”

CROWLEY: And this git again. Now where is he?

AZIRAPHALE: Is that a shop? Why do YOU get a shop while I wander around a Museum making unfounded proclamations about art?

CROWLEY: Angel, nothing in this movie makes any… The Hellfire Club?!

AZIRAPHALE: (Gleeful) Oh ho! That brings back memories.

CROWLEY: I don’t know what you -

AZIRAPHALE: Fais ce que tu voudras, my dear fellow.

CROWLEY: (Blushing furiously) I swear, I never once – wait, you DID?

AZIRAPHALE: (Realizing he’s overplayed) Oh dear.

CROWLEY: What were you doing at Sir Francis Dashwood’s little get-togethers?

AZIRAPHALE: I. Er. I had a perfectly reasonable – oh, look, you own a disco!

CROWLEY is in no way interested in the bar and dance club, which has black walls accented with red-painted flames; nor in SCRIPT!CROWLEY making more comments about hating humans. CROWLEY is, however, smiling again.

CROWLEY: Don’t try to distract me with that tacky monstrosity. I know what kind of reputation that Abbey had. I think you owe me a nice long story about –

SCRIPT!CROWLEY says his catchphrase again.

CROWLEY (CONT.): (Glaring glarefully at the television) STOP. SAYING. THAT.

AZIRAPHALE: Another time.

Desperate for a distraction, AZIRAPHALE leans forward, studying the film. It now shows the club at night, filled with intense music and dancing patrons, as well as scantily-clad waitresses in red with fake horns and tails.

AZIRAPHALE (CONT.): Good Lord, what are those young ladies wearing? And the music! Positively atrocious!

CROWLEY: I will definitely be asking you more questions later. Lots of questions.

CROWLEY glances at the screen. He shifts uncomfortably, pulling a little more into the corner of the sofa.

CROWLEY: Ugh. What is this place? Why would anyone think I would spend one minute in a hole like that?

AZIRAPHALE: As I said, it would appear you own it.

CROWLEY: It’s ridiculous. Cheap and tasteless, dark, crowded, everyone pressed against each other with no room to move…

All the time he is talking, CROWLEY’s voice gets lower, his shoulders more hunched.

AZIRAPHALE quietly reaches over to squeeze his hand. After a moment, SCRIPT!CROWLEY leaves the crowded dance floor, and the camera follows him to his office.

CROWLEY begins to relax, nods to AZIRAPHALE. AZIRAPHALE releases his hand, but does not move further away.

CROWLEY: (Clearly trying to steady himself) At least this office isn’t bad. This was the nineties right? Or maybe the eighties? I was pretty into the bland hotel look then. Can’t really remember why.

CROWLEY glances fondly around the COTTAGE, no part of which can be described as bland or minimalist.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY sets up several candles, lights them, and begins talking to the empty air.

AZIRAPHALE: Reporting to head office…by candle?

CROWLEY: Lucky bastard. (Shrugs) The ways Hell contacted me were more… intrusive, usually.

AZIRAPHALE: (Catching some of the dialogue) Ah, this is more like it. I believe you actually DID take credit for sitcom laugh tracks.

CROWLEY: Made that one up. The airline meals were actually me, though. Ugh. Backwards messages? Definitely the eighties. Worst decade since the fourteenth century.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY has just been told something that the audience cannot hear, but which makes him very nervous.

CROWLEY: Nh. Looks like we’re getting to it now.

Once again, SCRIPT!CROWLEY says “all going to well.” CROWLEY! Clenches his teeth and growls with frustration

AZIRAPHALE: (With a sort of desperate cheerfulness) Look! No more club! We’re at the park. That’s good, isn’t it?

CROWLEY: You’re in a good mood at least.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY and SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE wander through Hyde Park. It is a warm sunny day with children eating ice cream and people smiling.

The ANGEL and DEMON discuss morality. It is rather more simplified than the discussions CROWLEY and AZIRAPHALE usually have. SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE attempts to use the example of a young woman giving her ice cream to a child as an example of spreading happiness as the ultimate form of goodness. SCRIPT!CROWLEY has a few things to say about the young woman’s motivations.

AZIRAPHALE listens in horrified disbelief, until CROWLEY bursts into laughter, head thrown back.

AZIRAPHALE: I am an idiot.

CROWLEY: She dropped an ice cream – had a dog lick it clean – then gave it to a kid?

AZIRAPHALE: He said it was a good deed. In what universe does that constitute a good deed?

CROWLEY: That’s just – cartoonish, that is!

AZIRAPHALE: “The child was happy” – utilitarian nonsense. As if happiness alone were a measure of -

CROWLEY: What’s next? Is she going to burn down a kitten orphanage?

AZIRAPHALE: (Snapping at the screen) There is nuance to this, you naïve fool! You must consider the motive, the available choices, the ultimate ramifications of -

CROWLEY: (Gleeful) Ducks!

SCRIPT!CROWLEY and SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE stop to feed the ducks in the pond.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh, no, don’t talk about that pointless painting again. (Angrily at the television) We don’t know it was a forgery! It might have been misattributed!

CROWLEY: Yes. Or our Angel might have just wandered off from the painter he was supposed to be observing and joined a cult for a decade.

AZIRAPHALE: I told you there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for that which I will divulge at a later time.

CROWLEY: When you’ve had time to make it up, you mean. Oops, there goes the duck.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY has fed bread to a DUCK, and the DUCK has promptly been submerged.

AZIRAPHALE: (At the same time as SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE, in precisely the same tone) Really!

CROWLEY: Oh, what? They hold their breath and I like it when they pop back up.

AZIRAPHALE glares at CROWLEY, folding his arms sullenly. He turns his glare back to the television as SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE says “It’s all going too well.”

AZIRAPHALE: Don’t you start.

As they walk out of the park, SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE asks what is bothering SCRIPT!CROWLEY.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY refuses to explain, giving the angel the brush-off.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY dismissively says “I can’t tell you that.”

CROWLEY: Tell him.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY calls SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE “the opposition.”

CROWLEY: Tell him!

AZIRAPHALE: Crowley dear…

SCRIPT!CROWLEY angrily states “You’re an angel, I’m a demon…” CROWLEY immediately leaps from his seat, preparing to charge the screen in a rage.

CROWLEY: Don’t you bloody start with that you piece of shit! Who the Heaven do you think you’re talking to? He actually wants to help you, and you shut him out? Get off your fucking ego trip and tell him -

AZIRAPHALE: (Alarmed) Crowley!

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY says they’ve known each other a long time, and SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE reminds him, in a hurt voice, “six thousand years.”

AZIRAPHALE is visibly pained by these words, but they seem to freeze CROWLEY in place. AZIRAPHALE reaches for CROWLEY’s hand, pulls him back towards the sofa.

AZIRAPHALE (CONT.): My dear… It’s alright. You don’t need to be upset. It’s just a film.

CROWLEY: It isn’t -

AZIRAPHALE: Yes. It is. The story may sound like us, the lines are certainly uncanny. But this never happened. We never said these things, not like this. It isn’t real.

With great reluctance, CROWLEY sits again. He can’t quite meet AZIRAPHALE’s eyes, but holds AZIRAPHALE’s hand in both of his.

AZIRAPHALE (CONT.): And…I’m sorry. That I wasn’t always honest with you when -

CROWLEY: (Finally looks up) No. This isn’t about you, Aziraphale. I mean it is, but. You needed to keep yourself safe. If that meant lying to yourself, even lying to me – I don’t care. You did what you had to do, and you never have to apologize for that.

AZIRAPHALE: Trust is a two-way street, and I -

CROWLEY: No. I know what Heaven does to angels who – who ask questions or have doubts. You told me what you could and that was enough. But it was different for me. And I always told you everything.

AZIRAPHALE: Perhaps it’s different for him? Perhaps he needs to keep secrets to be safe?

CROWLEY: Now you sound naïve. Trying to find the good in everyone.

AZIRAPHALE: Not everyone.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE’s wounded puppy-dog look has done its job, and SCRIPT!CROWLEY promises to tell everything the following night. Our AZIRAPHALE smiles.

AZIRAPHALE (CONT.): See? He is going to tell me. Maybe there’s some hope for him yet.

The film abruptly cuts to club again, music and dancing in full swing. CROWLEY releases AZIRAPHALE’s hand, retreating into the corner of the sofa again, arms crossed tightly.

Onscreen, a fabulous if flaky red-haired woman is celebrating riotously with a group of friends. There is something undeniably familiar about her sense of style.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh, who is this, er, charming lady?

CROWLEY: I think that’s Madame Tracy.

AZIRAPHALE: No! Well. Perhaps she’ll liven up his grumpy face a little.

MADAME TRACY and her friends are loudly drunk, in a bar full of loud drunks. SCRIPT!CROWLEY approaches to ask some questions. MADAME TRACY drunkenly explains that her crowd mostly have come because they think she’s rich, that she has just been paid by her “very important friend” who thinks she is “getting too old.” She was paid in cash.

CROWLEY: (Setting new records for sour expression) Why is he bothering her, anyway? Nosy git.

AZIRAPHALE: (Completely innocent) Perhaps he thought their party was going to well.

CROWLEY: Don’t you even –

Onscreen, a DRUNK MAN WITH TOO MUCH MONEY attempts to grab MARJORIE THE SCANTILY CLAD WAITRESS in an inappropriate way. She immediately trips, breaking glasses and spilling drinks. Possibly the music pauses in a dramatic way.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY leaps into action.

AZIRAPHALE: Sensing what is coming) Ooooooooooh!

CROWLEY: Oh no. No. I am not going to believe he’s nice just because he helps a waitress. Don’t even try to do that now because -

AZIRAPHALE: (Slapping CROWLEY’s arm in excitement) Look! He waved the muscle-bound bouncer away! He’s standing up to the drunk man!

CROWLEY: No.

AZIRAPHALE: He’s turning down a bribe!

As SCRIPT!CROWLEY confronts the unruly customer, CROWLEY hides behind his hand.

The CUSTOMER turns away, and SCRIPT!CROWLEY addresses him as “Sunshine.” At this point, AZIRAPHALE can no longer hold it in, and laughs until he falls off the sofa.

The CUSTOMER attempts to punch SCRIPT!CROWLEY, who easily catches his hand and squeezes it under crushing pressure.

CROWLEY: Oh, what the fuck?

The CUSTOMER completely subdued, SCRIPT!CROWLEY instructs the MUSCLE-BOUND BOUNCER to “show the gentleman out.”

AZIRAPHALE: (Still on the ground, laughing) My hero!

CROWLEY: Was that supposed to make us like him? Or make us think humans are arseholes? I honestly can’t tell.

AZIRAPHALE climbs back onto the couch, still giggling. Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY has gone into the restroom to stare moodily at the mirror.

AZIRAPHALE: Ah, but we were able to see the power of your fisticuffs!

CROWLEY: Shut up. See if I ever stand up for you again.

AZIRAPHALE: Oooh, next time I’m in trouble, you can come out swinging like a –

Onscreen, SATAN’s eyes suddenly fill the mirror in front of SCRIPT!CROWLEY, and an echoing, menacing voice calls, “CROWLEY.”

On the sofa, our CROWLEY flinches, and goes very still. His jaw is clenched. One fist has grabbed the pocket where he keeps his SUNGLASSES.

AZIRAPHALE slides closer on the sofa, until his shoulder is pressed into CROWLEY’s. The demon does not relax. AZIRAPHALE is watching CROWLEY, not the television.

AZIRAPHALE: Is this…what it was like?

CROWLEY: Close enough.

The scene is very brief. SATAN tells SCRIPT!CROWLEY to meet him in half an hour, at a location exactly half an hour away. A map briefly flashes on the screen to show the location.

AZIRAPHALE considers making a Google Quest joke, but senses this is not the time.

CROWLEY does not move, blink, or breathe until the eyes fade.

CROWLEY: I know it isn’t real. But it’s just…

AZIRAPHALE: I understand.

CROWLEY stands, runs his fingers through his hair, circles behind the sofa.

CROWLEY: Look, I’ll just. Popcorn. Do you want more popcorn?

AZIRAPHALE: Crowley. We don’t have to watch this.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY has run into MADAME TRACY, who is either asking for financial advice, or hitting on him. It is unclear. CROWLEY cannot bring himself to make a joke.

CROWLEY: This is…no. I’ll be fine. Just. I need a minute. What do you want? Popcorn? Ice Cream? Sushi?

AZIRAPHALE pauses the film just as SCRIPT!CROWLEY reaches the Bentley.

AZIRAPHALE: Probably not all three. Do you need me to come with you?

CROWLEY: (Trying to sound dismissive) Only if you want to.

AZIRAPHALE follows CROWLEY to the kitchen, taking the popcorn bowl, which is still about one quarter full.

The camera lingers near the sofa, so we only see them from a distance, speaking in hushed voices. As the popcorn pops, AZIRAPHALE places a hand on CROWLEY’s cheek, saying something indistinct.

CROWLEY covers the hand with his own and nods. Impulsively, he reaches out and pulls AZIRAPHALE into a tight embrace, and just as suddenly lets go, turning back to the popcorn as if to cook it by sheer force of will.

AZIRAPHALE bites his lips and reaches for CROWLEY’s shoulder, hand hovering for a moment, then lets it fall.

When the bowl of popcorn is ready, they return to the sofa. CROWLEY holds the popcorn while AZIRAPHALE tucks a tartan blanket over their laps. CROWLEY then places the popcorn bowl between them.

Throughout the next scene, AZIRAPHALE eats popcorn almost continuously, while CROWLEY picks at a few pieces.

CROWLEY: Right. Whiny git version of me meeting actual Satan. Let’s go.

The movie starts: the Bentley racing towards its destination through dark London streets.

CROWLEY (CONT.): At least there’s no Hastur and Ligur, right?

AZIRAPHALE: No Gabriel either. Count our blessings, I suppose.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY puts a cassette into the player. Instead of Queen, it plays a hard rock version of “Every Day” by Buddy Holly.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh! I like this song! Though it’s usually less…abrasive.

CROWLEY: You like – you are full of surprises today, Aziraphale. Where did you ever hear “Every Day”?

AZIRAPHALE: On a radio.

Onscreen, a POLICE CAR spots the Bentley and gives chase.

AZIRAPHALE: Aha, now your other self will face the consequences of his actions.

CROWLEY: Does he really seem the type to obey traffic cops?

Onscreen, the POLICE CAR’s engine gurgles, forcing it to come to an emergency stop. SCRIPT!CROWLEY is seen doing some ABSURDLY FLASHY MAGIC that was probably intended to look impressive, but the special effects have likely not aged well.

CROWLEY: As I said. He is not a nice demon.

AZIRAPHALE: Didn’t you once fill a police car’s engine with hedgehogs?

CROWLEY: I did nothing of the sort! I made the driver hallucinate hedgehogs in the engine. Same effect, no animals hurt.

The song fades out as the Bentley reaches its destination.

CROWLEY: Ah. Here it comes.

AZIRAPHALE: Are you sure…?

CROWLEY: I’m sure. Keep talking. It helps.

The Bentley arrives at an abandoned Abbey, walls broken and collapsed, ivy growing up the sides. It is as dark and spooky as a location can be.

AZIRAPHALE: Well. If the goal was to find the most cliché possible location, I believe they succeeded. All that’s missing is –

A swarm of bats flies out of the bell tower.

AZIRAPHALE (CONT.): - nothing, apparently.

CROWLEY nods. He holds a single piece of popcorn between finger and thumb, but doesn’t eat it. The other hand clutches his SUNGLASSES tightly.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY bursts out of the Bentley, terrified. His is late to his meeting, and his superior does not like to be kept waiting. SCRIPT!CROWLEY stumbles and falls as he runs, and from his sprawl on the ground looks up in terror at –

SATAN, a very attractive, confident businessman in a dark, fashionable suit.

AZIRAPHALE: Ah and there’s…does he really look like that?

CROWLEY: (Shrugs. Does not relax his grip) When he wants to. Something like that.

AZIRAPHALE: Ah. He looks… You know, he looks rather like Gabriel. Only darker clothes.

Everything SATAN says is intended to keep SCRIPT!CROWLEY off balance. He makes threats disguised as jokes. He is dismissive of everything around him. He gaslights. He moves in ways that leave SCRIPT!CROWLEY struggling to keep up.

From the sofa, CROWLEY is trying to find something to say, but the words escape him.

AZIRAPHALE: (Softly) He… Well. He sounds rather like Gabriel, too. It’s very…

AZIRAPHALE stops reaching for the popcorn. His hands twist in front of him, pulling at the well-worn edge of his waistcoat. He seems to sit straighter and shrink at the same time.

Then SCRIPT!CROWLEY blurts out “If you were thinking of transferring me somewhere a little more interesting, I wouldn’t say no.” This breaks the spell.

CROWLEY: What?

AZIRAPHALE: (Tentatively) Well, it would appear he truly is bored -

CROWLEY: No. No.

Onscreen, SATAN says “It’ll all be over soon.” SCRIPT!CROWLEY is delighted.

CROWLEY: (Throws his popcorn at the screen) You cowardly little shit! You brainless toady!

AZIRAPHALE: Crowley! We must make allowances for -

CROWLEY: No, we do not! How can you defend him? He wants the world to end!

AZIRAPHALE: He doesn’t. He wants to be somewhere more exciting, and his…superior is not being clear on what that means.

CROWLEY: (This has only made him more upset) More exciting? Where else could he want to go? What other planet has anything worth a damn? Wines or motorways or those – those stupid little robots that vacuum your house while the cat rides on it?

AZIRAPHALE: Or duck ponds. Or dinners at the Ritz.

CROWLEY: Exactly! But this – this fake Crowley…

Onscreen, SATAN mentions Alpha Centauri, and SCRIPT!CROWLEY eagerly jumps in to say “I’ve always wanted to go there.”

CROWLEY growls, and squeezes his SUNGLASSES so hard they break, pieces of metal and glass tumbling to the floor beside the sofa.

AZIRAPHALE: (Trying to soothe him) Come now, dear. When you thought it was over, you wanted to run to that same system.

CROWLEY: No. I wanted us to run. Not the same thing.

CROWLEY reaches out, gently cradling AZIRAPHALE’s face with his hand.

CROWLEY (CONT.): There’s only one…one reason I would want to leave this stupid, brilliant planet and all the terrible, clever beings that live on it. Not because I’m bored. Not even to save myself.

AZIRAPHALE: (Not sure what to make of this confession) Ah. That’s…I…(Glances at the screen) Oh, we’re missing Adam’s introduction!

CROWLEY: Hm?

CROWLEY turns to look at the television, his hand falling away. AZIRAPHALE’s eyes linger on him a moment longer, filing away what he’s heard to process later.

Onscreen, SATAN has manifested a basket that can only contain THE INFANT ANTICHRIST ADAM. He solemnly informs SCRIPT!CROWLEY: “Your job, Crowley, is to raise my son.”

CROWLEY: What?

AZIRAPHALE: (Genuinely excited) Oh! Is this one of the stories where we raise the Antichrist together? I love those!

CROWLEY: Wh – That’s – That’s a thing?

AZIRAPHALE: Oh, indeed! You’re always so good with children. It’s utterly charming!

CROWLEY: (This is all news to him) People think – what is that based on?

AZIRAPHALE: You being such a good nanny to Warlock, I believe.

CROWLEY: Eh, fair point.

AZIRAPHALE: (Practically giddy with anticipation) One look at the baby and he will melt, mark my words.

CROWLEY: Just because I get on with older kids doesn’t mean –

Once again, SATAN has offered SCRIPT!CROWLEY a promotion off Earth in return for his service, which the demon welcomes delightedly.

CROWLEY: And again. This absolute coat hanger has no appreciation for –

SATAN: (Said in the calm, matter-of-fact voice of one stating a fact, not making a threat) But mess up on this, Crowley. Mess up on this and the most pitiable pus-choked damned soul in Hell, in the deepest, fieriest pit of the inferno, undergoing the vilest torments ever devised will be laughing down his leprous nose at you. Because I’ll create a whole new pit, just for you. And no matter how bad anyone’s ever suffered in the past… You’ll have it worse. Do I make myself clear?

As soon as the speech began, CROWLEY’s mouth shut with a click. From the change in his posture and the way his eyes go wide, it is very clear that in his mind he is no longer sitting in a comfortable living room watching a movie.

At the end of the speech, CROWLEY nods, in exactly the same way that SCRIPT!CROWLEY does.

AZIRAPHALE: My dear…Crowley…are you – quite alright?

CROWLEY: ‘S’fine.

AZIRAPHALE: Crowley –

CROWLEY shakes himself, clearly trying to pull himself back together. He looks at the shattered pieces of his glasses, seriously considering putting them back on for the first time since moving into the cottage.

Realizing that AZIRAPHALE is studying his face, Crowley redoubles his efforts to look unaffected.

CROWLEY: No. Really. So – melodramatic. The – the “leprous” thing just – just put it all over the top. Nh. Far too wordy. Trying too hard to – to scare the audience.

AZIRAPHALE: We don’t have to -

CROWLEY: (Totally unconvincing) Look, baby Adam. Isn’t he just a precious little Lord of Darkness.

AZIRAPHALE: (Totally unconvinced) Yes. Very sweet.

CROWLEY: I bet stodgy Museum-You goes absolutely gaga for him. Probably says “toesy-woesies.” Or something even worse.

AZIRAPHALE: You think he’ll call, er, me?

CROWLEY: I would. First chance I got.

Onscreen, we cut to a CHILD’S BEDROOM, where a young girl is asleep in bed. Her room is almost painfully occult.

CROWLEY (CONT.): Oh, now who is this?

AZIRAPHALE: Stuffed alligator on the ceiling – witch doll – pentacles everywhere – oh, I know this one! This must be young Anathema! I do hope they explain about Agnes Nutter and the Witchfinders.

CROWLEY: Seems a bit complicated for this film.

AZIRAPHALE: Well. Obviously they will simplify a bit, but it’s all necessary to understand the Book.

CROWLEY: They’ll probably just have it show up without explanation. Seems more this movie’s style. Maybe a prophecy comic book or something.

ANATHEMA wakes up screaming. CROWLEY and AZIRAPHALE jump, spilling half the popcorn. They are more confused than afraid.

AZIRAPHALE: Did – did I miss something?

CROWLEY: Why is she screaming?

AZIRAPHALE: Did something bite her? A rat? A caterpillar?

CROWLEY: Did she realize what movie she was in?

ANATHEMA’S MOTHER comes in to try and soothe ANATHEMA, assuring her it was just a dream. ANATHEMA begins sobbing about the end of the world.

AZIRAPHALE: A…dream?

CROWLEY: Just…dreams? No book?

AZIRAPHALE: What does this film have against books? I haven’t seen a single book in nearly half an hour.

CROWLEY: Hold on. This is too weird.

CROWLEY pulls out his MOBILE PHONE – it is a sleek new smart phone, with more bells and whistles than he could ever use. He taps the speed dial and waits for it to pick up.

CROWLEY (CONT.): (Over the phone) Hello? Book Girl? It’s me. You’re not going to believe this…

CROWLEY tosses the blanket aside, circling around behind the couch towards the DINING ROOM as he talks.

We stay with AZIRAPHALE, who is gathering the spilled popcorn into a pile.

AZIRAPHALE: (Glaring at the television) I want you to know, I’m not mad, just disappointed.

CROWLEY: (Returning from the dining room)…right. Talk to you later.

CROWLEY hangs up his MOBILE and leans against the back of the sofa. He is too anxious to sit again just yet.

AZIRAPHALE: What did she say?

CROWLEY: “Stop calling me on my honeymoon.” What did I miss?

AZIRAPHALE: Madame Tracy – if that is Tracy – is upset because. Er. Her friends took a taxi without her?

Onscreen, MADAME TRACY is quite drunk, babbling to the BARTENDER about her past “I’ve slept with princes. I’ve bathed in champagne.”

CROWLEY: Good for her. The friends, not so much. Are these the friends that thought she was rich?

AZIRAPHALE: Yes? Most likely?

CROWLEY: Is she rich?

AZIRAPHALE: I’m not actually clear on any part of her story so far.

Scenes of MADAME TRACY gathering her bag and being escorted out by the BARTENDER are intercut with scenes of SCRIPT!CROWLEY racing his Bentley back towards the bar. ADAM’s basket sits on the front seat.

CROWLEY: Still hasn’t called, I see.

AZIRAPHALE: What is he doing, just leaving the child in a basket on the front seat! That is criminally negligent!

CROWLEY: I know! The basket goes on the back seat.

AZIRAPHALE: I beg your pardon?

CROWLEY: Yeah, if you have to swerve to avoid a lorry or whatever, the basket might flip over. On the back seat it has room to slide around.

AZIRAPHALE: (His parent!AU fantasies have taken a hit) Crowley! Are you telling me you drove around with a baby in an unsecured basket in your back seat?

CROWLEY: They only gave me a basket! What else was I supposed to do?

AZIRAPHALE: Miracle up a car seat!

CROWLEY: I – ah – nnh – glk – er…yeah.

AZIRAPHALE: And why is Tracy carrying a large bag of money?

CROWLEY: She did say she just got paid.

AZIRAPHALE: With a duffle bag full of…of ten pound notes?

CROWLEY: Is that a lot of money?

AZIRAPHALE: Quarter of a million, I should think. Ah, no, only half full. A hundred thousand, absolute minimum.

CROWLEY: And she said she wasn’t rich.

AZIRAPHALE: That bag must weigh at least two stone!

CROWLEY: At least we know she’s strong.

CROWLEY begins dialing his MOBILE PHONE again.

Meanwhile, onscreen, MADAME TRACY is trying to unsuccessfully to hail a cab, and has wandered away from the now-closed bar.

AZIRAPHALE: And now she’s leaving the money behind!

CROWLEY: Tracy! You’ll never guess. We’re watching a movie, and you’re in it!

Seeming to have finally relaxed, CROWLEY circles the sofa again, and drops back into the corner he had abandoned. AZIRAPHALE immediately begins settling the blanket over him, though he appears not to notice.

CROWLEY (CONT.): What do you…Oh, do tell. (To AZIRAPHALE, with a wicked grin) She says she was in several movies back in her 20s.

AZIRAPHALE: (Unphased) Yes, I know. She showed me some. Oh, here comes you again!

CROWLEY: Not that prick. (To TRACY, over the mobile) Not you. Ignore that. So this character that’s supposed to be you was paid a big pile of cash to…I dunno…wear diamonds and travel the world with some bloke?...Ooooooh. That makes sense…A hundred thousand? Mh. (To AZIRAPHALE) Sounds like she was underpaid.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY has picked up BABY ADAM to walk him into the club. It is incredibly awkward looking.

CROWLEY (CONT.): (Shouted at the screen) That is not how you hold a newborn! Support the head, you turnip!

AZIRAPHALE beams, having recovered some of his parent!AU joy.

CROWLEY (CONT.): (To TRACY over the mobile) No, this is supposed to be me, I guess. He’s holding baby Adam the way Aziraphale holds birds in his magic act.

AZIRAPHALE: (Annoyed) Look at that, he made the baby disappear.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY is now holding BABY ADAM behind his back as a surge of BAR EMPLOYEES make their way to their cars.

CROWLEY: Behind his back?! (To TRACY over the mobile) Look, I need to go. This is getting out of hand…I’ll text you any updates.

CROWLEY drops the MOBILE onto the arm of the sofa, where it will be in easy reach.

CROWLEY (CONT.): Shadwell says hello.

AZIRAPHALE: That seems unlikely.

CROWLEY: It was more like angry shouting from another room, but I think it was a greeting. How many people have walked past that bag of money without taking it?

AZIRAPHALE: Three? No, four. He must pay his employees very well.

CROWLEY: Did they say why he’s hiding the baby behind his back?

AZIRAPHALE: Er. It would seem he doesn’t want his employees to know about the child for some reason.

CROWLEY: Then why take him out of the basket? Wait, is he planning to keep Adam behind his back for eleven years?

AZIRAPHALE: My dear, I feel I am forced to concede that this alternate version of you is exceedingly stupid.

As they watch, SCRIPT!CROWLEY puts BABY ADAM into the bag of money left behind by MADAME TRACY before he rushes into the bar to take care of business.

CROWLEY: No arguments here.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh dear.

CROWLEY: He…just left the baby.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh dear.

CROWLEY: He put the Antichrist in a sack full of money on the street and then he walked away?

AZIRAPHALE: That would appear to be the case, yes.

CROWLEY: Why not take the bag with him? Or –

Onscreen, a TAXI returns, and MADAME TRACY rushes out to grab her SACK OF CASH faster than SCRIPT!CROWLEY can react.

AZIRAPHALE and CROWLEY can only watch in horror as MADAME TRACY quickly picks up the bag and returns to the taxi.

AZIRAPHALE: (Immensely disappointed) Well. That settles that.

CROWLEY: Oh, that kid is going to be dead in a week.

CROWLEY picks up his mobile and quickly texts TRACY: “CONGRATS UR A MUM NOW”

AZIRAPHALE: Well. I suppose that gives us our lost Antichrist.

Onscreen, MADAME TRACY is trying to get the TAXI DRIVER to bring her home, but realizes she doesn’t know what country she lives in. Finally settles for “One of those nice little seaside towns. With a pier.” She then falls asleep.

CROWLEY: Somehow this is even more unlikely than what actually happened.

CROWLEY texts ADAM next: “TRACY IS UR MUM NOW I DONT MAKE THE RULES”

CROWLEY: Speaking of, why was Hell’s best plan to have the Antichrist raised in a bar by this smoldering trash fire? Satan said – repeatedly – he wanted the boy to be extremely but nonspecifically evil, but Turd-face there is just whiney and…mean.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!CROWLEY is pacing in a clear panic. CROWLEY is unimpressed, but AZIRAPHALE softens.

AZIRAPHALE: Look at him. Poor dear is so distressed.

AZIRAPHALE glances over to CROWLEY, remembering how he reacted to SATAN’s threat. CROWLEY scowls at his mobile phone, though he has run out of people to text.

AZIRAPHALE (CONT.): Well. I’m sure he’ll think of something. Or call me and we’ll think of something together. As we always do.

CROWLEY: (Looks up with a fond smile) With you resisting every step of the way.

AZIRAPHALE: It keeps things interesting.

They look back at the television in time to see SCRIPT!CROWLEY begin systematically drinking everything in the bar.

CROWLEY: What? That’s it? He’s already giving up?

AZIRAPHALE: (Rapidly running out of optimism) He’s had rather a frightful day…

CROWLEY: Stop defending him. We’ve all had hard days – all he’s got to do is track down a bloody taxi.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY summons a bottle of alcohol and pours himself a glass.

CROWLEY (CONT.): (At the television, tensed to jump up again) That’s not going to help! Get your head out of your ass, call Aziraphale, get to work!

AZIRAPHALE: I’m sure…one drink first won’t hurt…or two…or…oh, dear.

CROWLEY glances at his MOBILE to see a new text from ADAM: “im not sposed 2 talk t u when ur drunk”

CROWLEY texts back: “NOT DRUNK. WISH I WAS.”

AZIRAPHALE’s mobile phone dings. He pulls out a very small, old-fashioned FLIP PHONE to find a text from ADAM: “how drunk is Crwly?”

AZIRAPHALE looks at the television, where SCRIPT!CROWLEY has drunk nearly ¾ of the bar’s contents. AZIRAPHALE texts ADAM: “svrl butts worth”

CROWLEY: I do not sing when I’m drunk.

AZIRAPHALE: No, you shriek off-key. And rant about marine biology and philosophy.

CROWLEY: I don’t rant, Angel, those are finely tuned arguments.

CROWLEY’s mobile buzzes as a new text arrives from ADAM: “how drunk is azriaphle???”

AZIRAPHALE: Well, whatever you wish to – oh, finally.

SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE comes into the bar. He has miracled the door unlocked and is confronting SCRIPT!CROWLEY about the extreme amounts of alcohol he has drunk.

AZIRAPHALE (CONT.): Here’s someone who will stop all your nonsense and get you back on track. Practically my job, really.

CROWLEY: When have I ever needed you to drag me out of a bar when there was work to do?

AZIRAPHALE: I seem to recall a certain occasion, on a Saturday, right before visiting an airbase…?

CROWLEY considers this quietly.

CROWLEY: I take it back. ‘S absolutely your job. Which is why this dipshit should have called you the second he got that baby.

AZIRAPHALE smiles and pats CROWLEY’s hand.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY attempts to tell off SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE for breaking into his bar, gets confused, and winds up saying “Can I tempt you to have a little drink with me?”

AZIRAPHALE: Good Lord! Is that how he tempts me to drink?

CROWLEY: To be fair, it doesn’t usually take much.

Onscreen, SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE gives the “evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction” speech.

AZIRAPHALE: Oh, I sound like a self-righteous fool!

CROWLEY: Aziraphale, you once gave me this exact speech, almost word-for-word.

AZIRAPHALE: (Genuinely worried) Context, my dear boy. It isn’t fair to say such things when you’re too, well, addled to defend yourself. Did I come all that way just to insult you?

SCRIPT!CROWLEY has finally spilled the whole story to SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE, who has yet to say anything comforting.

CROWLEY: (Growling at the screen) You wouldn’t be in this bloody predicament if you hadn’t tried to be so blasted clever and aloof.

AZIRAPHALE: (Still quite distracted) I really think that version of me could be a little more sympathetic.

CROWLEY: No, this baboon’s ass is getting exactly what he deserves.

SCRIPT!CROWLEY knocks a table over in his excitement to offer to defect and rejoin Heaven.

CROWLEY (CONT.): Defect? Go back?

AZIRAPHALE: It’s a fair question. (SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE disagrees) Well it is! I can’t imagine this version of you has done anything more evil than tie his own shoelaces together.

CROWLEY: (Disgusted) I don’t go crawling back to Heaven. Not for anything. That’s not how I do things.

Just as they are both getting distressed, SCRIPT!CROWLEY announces that he put down THE INFANT ANTICHRIST for a second “and voom.”

SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE responds “Babies don’t voom.”

AZIRAPHALE and CROWLEY share a look

AZIRAPHALE: Voom?

CROWLEY: Voom.

AZIRAPHALE and CROWLEY pull out their phones and text ADAM at the same time: “VOOOOOOOOOOOM.”

They laugh, though not as openly or warmly as at the beginning of the film. There is still tension.

Onscreen SCRIPT!AZIRAPHALE convinces SCRIPT!CROWLEY to accept his help in finding the INFANT ANTICHRIST in return for a chance to exert a good influence on the child.

AZIRAPHALE: There, see? I’m offering to help. Everything is back as it should be.

CROWLEY: Except why are you asking me? It’s just…weird is all.

AZIRAPHALE: Perhaps in this universe, you are always in trouble, and I am the one always saving you.

CROWLEY: Is that how this works?

AZIRAPHALE: Must be. I’ve read stories where we are…reversed in different ways but I must admit, this is the strangest reversal I’ve yet seen. Look, I’m the one suggesting influencing Adam, not you.

CROWLEY: And that’s another thing – do we not know this is about the end of the world? You never even mention it.

AZIRAPHALE: That…would make sense. Although we also seem less attached to Earth. But, no, billions of people, I wouldn’t be calm about all that death.

CROWLEY raises his eyebrows, but does not remind AZIRAPHALE of how he reacted eleven years ago when AZIRAPHALE first received the news.

CROWLEY: But we’re talking about the Antichrist – what else do we think it means? What’s the point of influencing Adam to be good if not to avoid the end of the world?

AZIRAPHALE: My motivations do seem rather shallow. Have I no concern for the danger this plan would put us in? How would we even hide such a thing from our head offices?

CROWLEY: Angel. We’re just going to have to admit – they’re both idiots.

Despite having no plan for finding the INFANT ANTICHRIST, SCRIPT!CROWLEY says “how hard can it be?” Both CROWLEY and AZIRAPHALE groan at this.

AZIRAPHALE: No argument here.

The screen fades to black, preparing for a time skip. CROWLEY pauses the movie.

CROWLEY: I mean just…that arsemonger, that absolute walnut – how is that supposed to be me?

AZIRAPHALE: I hardly feel any better about that angel from the Museum. He’s daft as a bush and mad as…as…

CROWLEY: As an angel in an art museum?

AZIRAPHALE: “The child was happy” indeed. As if all of morality could be brought down to what feels good in the moment.

CROWLEY: Sounds more like something my side would have said.

AZIRAPHALE: Precisely! Oh, I know I shouldn’t expect nuance in a silly little film, but to make good seem so, so foolish -

CROWLEY: Probably just want that prick to look cool and clever by comparison.

AZIRAPHALE has been gauging CROWLEY’s levels of self-loathing throughout, and is not pleased with what he sees.

AZIRAPHALE: Really, dear, I know you dislike him, but he’s not so bad.

CROWLEY: Not bad? He’s sullen, and rude, and arrogant…

AZIRAPHALE: (Voice soft) That doesn’t sound like anyone we know.

CROWLEY: (Scowling) He cheats, he makes bloody moronic mistakes…

AZIRAPHALE: Still doesn’t sound familiar?

CROWLEY: And he doesn’t even try to fix those mistakes – blessed coward just gives up!

CROWLEY bunches his hands on his legs and stares at his fists. He knows perfectly well what AZIRAPHALE is getting at.

CROWLEY (CONT.): (Sighs) He’s…the worst possible version of me. All I can think is how much I must have hurt you, over and over, because I didn’t know how to just – be – nice.

AZIRAPHALE slowly runs a hand through CROWLEY’s hair. CROWLEY turns, leaning into it, but doesn’t meet AZIRAPHALE’s eyes.

AZIRAPHALE: My dear, my darling Crowley. Don’t even think such things. I know you would never hurt me, not on purpose, no more than I would hurt you. We’ve both made mistakes, yes. I had my turn as a self-righteous fool. I never knew how to trust you until it was almost too late. But that’s behind us now. We’re here, together. That’s what’s important.

CROWLEY: I can’t stand to look at him. How can you?

AZIRAPHALE reaches for CROWLEY’s hand, takes it in both of his, and uncurls it, laying fingers and palm bare. As he speaks, he punctuates each sentence with a gentle kiss on CROWLEY’s palm.

AZIRAPHALE: Because I love you. Even at your worst, I love you. Even when you cannot love yourself, I love you. And for the sake of that, I can tolerate a ridiculous parody of you without much pain.

AZIRAPHALE folds CROWLEY’s hand closed, as if to keep the kisses safe inside. He guides CROWLEY’s fist back to rest against CROWLEY’s heart.

With his free hand, CROWLEY cradles the back of AZIRAPHALE’s head and pulls him into a kiss, slow and infinitely tender. When they part, AZIRAPHALE rests his head on CROWLEY's shoulder.

CROWLEY: (Softly) I don’t deserve you.

AZIRAPHALE: Yes. You do.

CROWLEY: I love you. So much.

AZIRAPHALE: As do I, dear. As do I.

The camera pulls away, returning to the darkened window in a reverse of the shot we came in with.

EXT. DEVIL’S DYKE – NIGHT

It is fully dark now. The snow has begun to pile up all around the COTTAGE, but the warm orange light from the windows spills across the nearby snowbanks. In the sky above, brilliant stars are blazing.

FADE OUT.

THE END

#good omens prime #good omens fanfiction #good omens crack #aziraphale and crowley #ineffable husbands #good omens screenplay #1992 screenplay #mst6k #south downs cottage #my writing #aethelflaed attempts to be funny #with mixed results

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mcmansionhell · 6 years

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2018 McGingerbread Hell Competition Winners

Happy New Year, Folks! I’m pleased to announce the winners of this (past) year’s McGingerbread Hell Gingerbread House Competition!!

First off, I cannot find the words to say how much joy each and every entry to this competition has brought me. Every single one of the participants put their 100% best McMansion Hell face on and the results were charming, hilarious, and, if we’re being punny here, downright sweet. This may be the best idea this blogger has ever had.

Second, let me say that the when I say the competition was fierce, I mean, it was fierce. So much so that I drafted the fellow judgement of two of my favorite colleagues, my literary agent Caroline Eisenmann, and fellow architecture critic/Editor of Chicago Architect Magazine Anjulie Rao to help me narrow the 43 contestants down to 8.

Just a note: Last names of the winners have been abbreviated for privacy reasons. If you would like your full name to be published instead, please email [email protected] with your preferred name.

We’re going to start our line up with the 5 honorable mentions in alphabetical order, after which there will be a break to take those of you scrolling through this on the dashboard to the full article where the top 3 McMansions will be revealed.

Without further ado...

Honorable Mention #5 : Manoir de emporte-pièce by Anya D.

The judges were impressed by the whimsy, creativity and finely detailed execution of Anya’s house. Caroline summed it up best: “what else is a McMansion if not a bunch of smaller houses wrapped into one package?”

Anya writes:

Hi I'm Anya and I'm 12. I made my Gingerbread house from Gingerbread I mixed and baked myself. The house shapes came from a cookie cutter. It's held together with royal icing frosting I made. The shingles are almonds and the house off to the side is the dog house and has candy dog bones on it. The "lights" on parts of it are candy balls. I hope you like it!

Honorable Mention #4: AMAZING Custom Home with Quality Features by Sydney E.

The judges were impressed by the house’s fine craftsmanship, attention to detail (especially the peppermint columns, the gumdrop crenellations, and the chandelier in the back) and great sense of humor. Anjulie remarked: “Love the inclusion of the nuclear family.” What really had us in stitches was Sydney’s wonderfully rich description, especially this part:

“...You'll know you're living in the lap of luxury when you see the ENORMOUS GOLD CHANDELIER in the dining room. But it's the ROOFTOP PATIO with no discernible purpose or point of entry that will really set you apart from your neighbors. "Hey, how did you get up there?" they'll ask, but you're not telling (mysterious!). The landscaping will make you feel like you're in the countryside, in a sea of royal icing TURF GRASS (shown here, lightly dusted with coconut snow). The FOUR TREES on the property are either too far from the house to provide any shade (stately!) or extremely close to the house and actively obscuring at least one window (posh!). The entire house, the front walk, and the driveway are all bordered in royal icing ENGLISH IVY, which is definitely never going to be a problem for native plants (colonial!).”

Honorable Mention #3: Suburban Hobbit House by Jennifer K. & Cara M.

The judges were impressed by the difficulty of execution in Jennifer and Cara’s house, especially the dome, the cleverness of using almonds as cladding, and the hilariously barren “asphalt” lawn complete with soul patch. Kate remarked: “Pretty sure I saw this exact house in Bergen County, New Jersey.”

Jennifer and Cara wrote about their house:

Made of solid gingerbread in shape of skulls (had the pans), graham crackers, lots of icing, nuts, chocolate, a candy cane, grape tic-tacs, decorator sprinkles, butter-rum Lifesavers, fondant, Tootsie Rolls, and a loaf of rosemary bread. Round center mass house with back porch nub, two wings, a charming turret. We totally meant for it to look this way.

Honorable Mention #2: European Charme by Núria O.

The judges were very impressed with the fine detailing (such as the columns, balustrades, and front door), the crisp, clean execution of the design, and total commitment to the McMansion Aesthetic™ from front to rear, including the completely barren lawn.

Núria describes the house in finely practice Realtor-ese:

Beautiful gazillion-square-feet chalet featuring lots of personality and European flair. This cozy 4-bedroom, 10-bathroom cottage is made of sturdy construction-grade tan-beige gingerbread from top to bottom. Roof plates are structurally tinted, not painted, ensuring a durable color that will last until the last crumble is eaten. Windows glazing is made of gelatine sheets coated with black-coloured blueberry jam to ensure privacy as you lounge by the bay window or enjoy the views from the beautiful faux-balcony.

All doors are solid gum paste, with royal icing on all window frames as well as the balustrade. This home is ideal for entertaining, with its luxurious two-story entrance featuring genuine Spanish _neula_ columns with doric capitals, ornated pediment and a quaint half-tindered wall that gives true European _charme_. Utilities are housed in a lovely turret next to the service door. The garage accomodates two SUVs or six European sedan cars. The magnificent brown-sugar-paved front yard features icing plants and a signature landscaped crushed-sprinkle turf patch on cookie soil. The same type of grass was used in the large, sunny backyard which also has a patio area.

Honorable Mention #1: Existential Crisis on 34th Street by Caitlin R.

The judges were very impressed by the house’s clever use of different baking materials and attention to detailing, especially in the icing work. Kate was especially excited by the rounded gingerbread turret, and Anjulie loved the “Existential Crisis” detail and monumental marshmallow columns. The description had Caroline especially in stitches.

Caitlin describes the house:

This nine-bedroom mansion is made from the most exquisite of gingerbreads. Lovingly handmade from scratch, and crafted by local artisans, it's ready for your own sweet family. Grecian inspired columns impose your might on the neighborhood, while a pebble-clad tower with bay windows adds a touch of country charm. Architectural details include a 'stonework' wall and chimney, sweet dormer windows, and a luxurious back porch. A myriad of windows let light into this expanded historic house - the original building dates all the way back to 1982! Come by today, and soon you'll be calling this three-and-a-half story, Greco-Chateauesque Italian Revival Americana, 18,600 square foot mansion - home!

Now on to the TOP 3 PRIZEWINNING HOUSES!

It all comes down to this. It was stiff competition through and through, and the judges deliberated long and hard about who the top 3 spots should go to. Each house showed tremendous ability in craftsmanship, detailing, and McMansion Engineering. Without further ado:

Third Prize: Saccharin Sanctuary by Christa H.

The judges were wowed by the amazing craftsmanship and attention to detail present in Christa’s house. Caroline was impressed by the use of Cinnamon Toast Crunch as shingling, Anjulie loved the jellybean stone accents, and Kate found the use of sticks of gum as fake-stucco siding to be very clever. The execution of the lawyer foyer, turret, and appropriately nonsensical rear exterior put this house in to the third place slot.

Christa’s description, in perfect Realtorese:

This fabulous 1.5 story house features a gorgeous columned entry, double garage, show-stopping turret, and the picture perfect back patio. Built from the finest gingerbread and white chocolate... you can be sure that this house has a superior foundation that you can trust for years to come. Jelly Beans, spear mint Lifesavers, Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Double Mint gum among other award winning materials make this house’s curb appeal unforgettable! List Price: 🍬574,900 Est Mortgage: 🍬2,240/mo Listed By: Sugar & Space Reality®️

Second Prize: The Hundred Thousand by Louisa G.

The judges were blown away by, as they say, the sheer size of this lad. The monumentality of such a massive roof must have taken some serious gingerbread engineering, all while perfectly encapsulating McMansion Roof Culture. The engineering, clean execution, attention to detail (millions of nonpareils!!), and true, well, McMansion-ness of this house vaulted (ceiling) it into 2nd place.

Louisa describes the house thusly:

The Hundred Thousand has no equal. This 37-piece towering gingerbread edifice was baked and constructed over four days during the heat of an Australian summer, by an Australian and a Finn, using a Finnish gingerbread recipe. Inspired by Mt. Nub, The Hundred Thousand boasts a porcine screaming porch, eight ahoy-mateys windows, a royally-iced gable front that almost but not entirely obscures the front door, and palatial grounds landscaped with topiary sweets, all topped off with a soaring roof tiled with hundreds & thousands.

So many hundreds & thousands were used that the builders ran out of material - causing the construction project to grind to a halt for almost ten minutes, until the Australian’s father arrived with more much-needed building supplies. The Hundred Thousand was fixed together using high-quality caramel, and is internally braced by two large gingerbread cross-panels. This fantastic abode required nearly 2kg of flour and eight eggs (provided by the Australian’s chickens) and was constructed as large as the oven would allow, measuring a whopping 40 cm across on the front facade, and nearly 30 cm high.

And finally, (DRUMROLL PLEASE)

First Prize: Casa de McGingerHell by Beth and Tina C.

From the moat, dome skylight, and lawyer foyer, to the rice crispy treat retaining wall, and chocolate rocks, this house, in the words of Caroline, was “truly next level.” The judges were blown away by the incredible attention to detail and clever use of different materials, specially the pretzel railing on the bridge, the marshmallow penguins, and we all freaked over those sugar glass and water elements. From the several different types of windows, bizarre massing, and three car garage, this house encapsulates the deranged opulence of McMansions in the sweetest way possible.

Beth and Tina describe their house:

Located centrally and literally dominating the entire living room, this McGingerMansion features over twenty handcrafted stained glass windows, a double sized garage, and three hand laid rock face walls! This gingermansion also has not one, but two incredible water features including a delightful frozen waterfall in the spacious backyard. Boasting several pre-decorated pine trees surrounding the property, this festive gingermansion showcases several dozen strands of lights and as well as a handful of charming wreaths.

The one hundred percent genuine pretzel log deck overlooking the backyard is the perfect place to entertain friends and family alike, especially during the holiday season! Standing at just over a foot and a half tall, this truly massive gingermansion has a total composition of just over twenty pans worth of gingerbread. Call now to schedule a tour today; this gingermansion won't last long! *Disclaimer: As required of us by law, we must disclose the presence of a minor pest infestation in the form of roughly a dozen cute, but possibly rabid penguins on the property.

On behalf of the judges and McMansion Hell, we would like to thank everyone who entered the competition for their amazingly wonderful houses, and for the funding from McMansion Hell’s Patreon supporters whose generosity made running the competition and supplying the prizes possible.

Stay tuned for this year’s new and exciting McMansion Hell features:

- The conclusion of the 50 states, starting with Virginia next week. - A series of essays on kitsch - Looking at McMansions decade by decades - McMansions in film and media - Updates on the McMansion Hell Book

If you like this post, and want to see more like it, consider supporting me on Patreon!

There is a whole new slate of Patreon rewards, including Good House of the Week, Crowdcast streaming, and bonus essays!

Not into recurring donations or bonus content? Consider the tip jar! Or, Check out the McMansion Hell Store ! 100% of the proceeds from the McMansion Hell store go to charity!

Copyright Disclaimer: All photographs are used in this post under fair use for the purposes of education, satire, and parody, consistent with 17 USC §107. Manipulated photos are considered derivative work and are Copyright © 2018 McMansion Hell. Please email [email protected] before using these images on another site. (am v chill about this)

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eirian-houpe · 4 years

Text

Beauty Compelled

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold

Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Grace | Paige, Maurice | Moe French

Additional Tags: Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, A Monthly Rumbelling (Once Upon a Time), Beauty and the Beast Elements

Summary: Years ago, Moe French endebted himself to the nobleman, Mister Gold. Unable to pay the debt by any other means, he promises his daughter, Belle, in marriage to Gold. Now, on the day of her 18th Birthday, the contract is to be honored, and Belle must go to her new home, Adelram Hall, and to meet her husband-to-be, Mister Gold, who has a reputation for darkness.

Read on AO3

Beauty Compelled

Such arrangements were supposed to be a thing of the past, so when her eighteenth birthday dawned, brighter and clearer than it had any right to do so, it was with a sense of dread in her belly that she greeted the day.

Since her father’s inauspicious return, so many years ago now that it would have been lost to her memory but for the jewel she wore on the ring finger of her left hand, the day had been a constant specter hanging over her. She had been unable to remove the ring since she had accepted her fate: to give herself to him, or for her father to lose his fortune and suffer the slow decline into destitution and death. Her guilt had driven her to agree, for how could she refuse when it was because of her that her father had trespassed, and incurred a debt which he was unable to repay, all for want of bringing her back a gift.

She sat with her father that morning. The mood was somber on what should have been a day of celebration, as they took tea with barely a word spoken between them. A letter had come that morning, and he slowly slid it across the table to her.

The paper was soft velum, the folds were crisp and sharp. The hand upon the front of the sealed missive was in looping cursive, in a deep red, almost black ink, and the seal on the back was made of heavy wax, and was layered, decorative, though to be decorated with a skull seemed more than a little disturbing.

“Aren’t you going to read it?” he father asked quietly, sounding almost as fearful as she. She took a deep breath, and then hooked her thumbnail beneath the seal, preparing to break it. Then she froze. Words encircled the grotesque image in the center, and she lifted it closer to her face to peer at them.

We know what we are, but not what we may be.

She frowned as she read them, and a slight shiver went through her, like a warning, or some kind of expectation.

“Belle?” her father prompted.

She shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, and tugged at the seal until it broke from the paper and she could unfold the letter, swallowing hard as she did.

The message was short, and to the point. It read, “Miss French, My carriage will call for you at 2pm, and my footman will escort you to your new home.” and it was signed with the same flourishing hand as the script on the envelope with a single name. Gold.

She felt her eyes fill with tears and fought not to let them escape as she slid the letter over to her father. She had agreed to this after all.

Her father read silently, then said, “So, he means to go through with it then.”

“Did you doubt that he would?” she remarked rhetorically. Gold had a reputation, after all.

The farewell had not been tearful. She would not allow it to be, and had followed the silent, tall, and gaunt footman to the carriage, and accepted his help to climb inside. The journey was long and taken on unsteady roads which, in spite of the modernity of the conveyance, still jostled her, leaving her as physically rattled as she was emotionally. It was coming on evening when the house came into view, it’s three towers of dark gray stone, loomed beneath the almost-black of the slate roof, one in the center, above the main door, and one either end of the enormous building. The house - almost large enough to be called a castle - stood at the end of a long, sweeping driveway that curved around either side of a well manicured lawn. It stood four storeys tall with many chimneys in the same gray stone, and many arched and dormer windows graced what she could see of the front of the building as the carriage came closer. It was imposing; intimidating.

All too soon the carriage came to a halt with practiced precision directly in front of the main doorway, and the carriage rocked slightly as the footman alighted, and came to hand Belle down and then to escort her inside, through a spacious vestibule and into the large open space that was the main hall dressed in marble, with statues and other artifacts adorning shelves and display cases, and waiting in the hallway was a young lady that could not have been much younger than she herself.

The girl was modestly dressed in a long, dark blue dress, with a white blouse beneath. As Belle was brought to a halt by the footman, the the waiting girl lowered herself in a deep curtsy. Belle swallowed, unused to such genuflection, since it wasn’t required in her father’s household.

“Welcome to Adelram Hall, My Lady,” the girl said. Her quiet voice held the accent of the low country, though it was well refined. “Mister Gold has asked that I attend you, show you to your room and help you get settled.”

Belle smiled at her as the girl rose from the curtsy, and said, “Thank you, and please… I’m no lady. My name is Belle.”

“But, Miss Belle, you’re to be Lady of Adelram hall,” the girl said, sounding perplexed, and Belle supposed she would have to get used to the honorific. It seemed that kind of household. The girl then turned her attention to the footman, still standing beside them, and said quietly, “Thank you, Mister Dove. You can have Miss Belle’s things sent up to her room.”

He gave a wordless bow of his head, and then a lower, more respectful bow to Belle as he turned from them, and left the two women alone.

“Should I show you upstairs, Miss Belle?” the girl asked then. “I could show you the Oak Sitting Room, and then when your things are brought up, I can help you to dress for dinner. Mister Gold has asked that you join him.”

“Of course,” Belle said, and felt a nervous flutter in her belly. She had yet to meet the man to whom she was promised and, if his letter and the house was anything to go by, she could not imagine he would be any less austere. She clasped her hands together to prevent them from trembling, and then said quietly, though she didn’t at all feel it, “I’m ready. Lead the way.”

The Oak Sitting Room was so named because it was entirely paneled in oak wood around the walls. Entry to the room was gained by a double door from the corridor outside, and at either end of the room there were two smaller doorways. Belle wondered where those other door led. Beside one of the two doors was a sizable fireplace, where a low fire burned already against the coming chill of the evening, and nearby the fire, an area carpet in rich browns and reds covered the wood paneled floor on which the rest of the furniture, tables and chairs, and desks for writing at, stood. Over the carpet, however, was a comfortable looking couch and high backed arm chair.

“Should I send for some tea?” the girl asked as Belle came to a stop after visually examining each corner of the room.

“Thank you,” Belle said, turning a smile the girl’s way, “I should like that… and… how should I call you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Miss,” the girl said and blushed slightly as she went to the bell pull at the side of the fireplace. “My name is Grace.”

“And do you…” Belle asked carefully, “… work here?”

Grace gave a soft little laugh. “No, Miss Belle, not the way you mean,” she said. “My father is a… business associate of Mister Gold, and his lordship is kind enough to give me a home while my father is away on their shared ventures… which is a often.”

Belle’s breath came out of her in a rush. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said in the midst of that relieved exhalation, “For a moment I thought…”

She shook her head at herself and then grinned at the other young lady, who was also shaking her head. “No,” she confirmed as though she could read Belle’s mind, “Mister Gold just thought you and I might be friends, that’s all. That we might each like to have a friend, and I… well I, for one, certainly should.”

Belle reached out and took hold of both of Grace’s hands and squeezed them tightly in her own. “I should like that too,” she said. “Very much.”

Grace beamed, and without letting go of Belle’s hands, drew her toward the couch, just as a maid entered the room carrying a tea tray, which she brought wordlessly to the coffee table nearby to the couch, setting the tray down first, before bobbing a curtsy.

“Will there be anything else, My Lady? Miss Grace?” she asked softly.

Grace shook her head, and Belle answered, “No, thank you.” The maid curtsied once more, and then withdrew, and Belle groaned softly as she turned to Grace. “I shall never be comfortable with all of this,” she said. “They’re behaving as though I’m royalty.”

“Here, you are,” said Grace simply. “Mister Gold, is lord and master here, and no matter how close some of us might become to him, it is well to remember that, and since they know you’re to be his wife…”

Belle’s belly clenched again as Grace’s words brought back, starkly, the reason she was hours away from her home, in a strange, grand house, filled with fine things, and people she did not know - though at least Grace was a flicker of light among it all.

Sharing tea with Grace helped to settle her nerves but a little, as Grace told her about her new home, and presently the two young women rose and Grace led her toward the other of the two doors, which led to her chambers, and told her that Mister Gold’s room was at the opposite end of the sitting room, by the fireplace. The thought took the ends of the knot in her belly and pulled it a little tighter.

Her room was opulent, with a large canopied bed with drapes of red and gold. In fact the entire room was decorated in the glorious color of sunlight, the floor length curtains at the three bay windows were a golden yellow with the same red and gold color valances as the bedspread and canopy. Even the skirts around her vanity matched the curtains and bed-skirts, the entire room was so well coordinated. Belle imagined that the morning sun would make the room light and airy indeed.

For the moment though, the curtains had been closed, and a fire lit in the hearth to warm the room for when Belle would eventually return to it, her trunks had been unpacked, and a black evening dress hung up for her to wear to dinner. She supposed she would have servants after all.

As though Grace was once again reading her mind, the girl chuckled and said, “You didn’t imagine Mister Gold would let you do everything all by yourself, did you?”

It seemed to Belle to take an age to prepare for dinner, and Grace fussed endlessly at her hair to have it fall just right about her shoulders, but just as she feared the younger woman would make her late to dinner, Grace declared her ready, and prepared to lead her downstairs to present her to her intended.

“You’ll dine in the Breakfast Room,” Grace told her in a half whisper as they began to descend the stairs. “Mister Gold thought it would be more intimate for the two of you.”

“You’re not joining us?” Belle asked, feeling a sudden rush of panic tighten her belly, and Grace chuckled.

“Of course not,” she said, “There will be plenty of staff to see propriety maintained, and besides, you don’t want me twittering on when you meet him for the first time.” She leaned closer as if she were about to impart a huge secret and whispered, “I think you’ll like him. He’s not at all as fearsome as people think. You’ll see.”

Before Belle could answer they had reached the bottom of the stairs, and began walking toward a room from which she began to hear the sound of chamber music. Grace suddenly grasped her hand excitedly, and Belle started. Her nerves already frayed.

“Oh, he is playing the gramophone,” she said excitedly, “You are in for rare a treat!”

Belle blinked. She had heard of a gramophone of course, but her own family were far too old fashioned to have possessed such a thing, and she wondered at what it would be like to hear it properly instead of from a distance. Her silent question was soon answered, when they reached the doorway to what looked like a Salon, where electric lighting - also a commodity that was not so familiar to Belle, at least not in her father’s home - had been switched on, and the warmth of a fire in the hearth reached out to caress away the chills of the stone corridors and the staircase down which she and Grace had come.

As they entered, a man whom she presumed to be Mister Gold, came to his feet, and swiftly buttoned the front of his dress suit jacket as he turned to the ladies. Grace did not wait for the two of them to meet formally, and for the moment Belle was glad of that. The younger woman simply bobbed barely a curtsy and then almost rushed across the room to greet Mister Gold, standing on her tiptoes to brush a kiss to his cheek.

“Miss Grace.” Belle watched, the frantic beating of her heart subsiding just a little as he indulged Grace with a smile. “Are you certain you won’t join us for dinner? I can easily have Stiers set another place.”

“And get in your way?” Grace teased softly, “Absolutely not. I’ve already arranged with Mister Stiers, and Miss Bernadette to allow me to share supper with them.”

Gold made no comment on this, merely raised an eyebrow, and as if remembering something, released Grace’s arm, which he had been lightly supporting, and walked to the sideboard to retrieve a folded letter.

“A letter from your father came for you today,” he told her, offering it to her.

She took it with a smile, and threw what looked to Belle to be an impulsive hug around Gold’s chest, with a heartfelt, “Thank you,” and then pulled back, clutching the letter to her chest and withdrew almost at a run toward the door through which they’d entered, catching a hold of Belle for a moment and turning her around, almost full circle as she hugged her too. “Enjoy your dinner, Miss Belle,” she murmured as she did, and then was gone leaving Belle standing almost with her back to Mister Gold.

“She’s quite the force of nature, is she not?” Gold’s voice washed over her, like a rolling wave, deep and with a fondness that belied his upright appearance. At his words though, Belle turned, back to him in time to see him picking something up from atop an untidy fall of papers on his desk, before he approached her, carrying it in his hands.

He came to a halt barely a step or two away, and held out a single red rose toward her.

“If you’ll have it,” he said quietly.

She smiled shyly, and reached out to take it from him, thanking him softly, before she realized she had not shown him the proper respect, and dipped into a deep and graceful curtsy. As she rose, it was to find that he returned her a low and equally respectful bow. She found herself surprised and it must have shown in her face, because he tilted his head a look of query in his eyes.

When she shook her head, uncertain what to say, nor trusting in herself to say… whatever it might have been with a steady voice, he chuckled and nodded, even as he held out his hand to her.

“Ah,” he said knowingly. “My reputation.”

She blushed more fiercely, and set her hand into his, allowing him to lead her across the room, closer to the fireplace.

“I didn’t mean…” she stammered, faltering as he shook his head again.

“No matter.” His voice was gentle, calm and almost without inflection, but when she looked up she saw a flash of pain and anger move across his eyes, as he said, “In my position I suppose it is only to be expected.”

“Your position, Mister Gold?” she asked, frowning as they came to a stop before the warmth of the fire.

“As the Lord of this Estate,” he answered, “And the lands beyond it, I’m certain there are all kinds of unsavory rumors spread about.”

“Oh,” she said, “Oh, I don’t think—”

“Am I unreasonable?” It took her a moment to realize he was not asking the question of her, but of the rumors themselves. “No, I simply expect that my tenant farmers and laborers honor the terms of our agreements, and pay their dues on time. Everything has its price, Miss French.”

She swallowed hard, tugging her hand from his, the tone in his voice sending tendrils of ice through her blood. The rumors she’d heard said that, yes; that he was a hard, but fair task master, but there were other, darker rumors; rumors of a stranger nature, that hinted on the hidden, the occult, to use the vernacular - dark magic.

“I understand entirely, Sir,” she said.

Her words seem to waken him from his tirade, his momentary lapse of propriety, and he closed his eyes for a heartbeat before offering her a soft, sad, smile.

“Forgive me, Miss French,” he craved quietly, and after a moment or two added, “I don’t know what kind of tales you’ve heard told about me, but as you have entered into our arrangement in good faith, and though we shall be wed, as our contract agrees, I promise you, my dear, that I shall command of you, nothing, and no moment, to which you do not consent.”

She swallowed hard, blinking at him owlishly, a fierce blush rising in her cheeks and she studied him. Rumors also spoke of him as disagreeable in form, a beast with no mercy, and yet, he had shown her nothing but gallantry and kindness since her arrival, and - her blush deepened - she certainly did not find his appearance in any way offensive. Quite the contrary, in fact. His high cheek bones, his long hair and full lips, and the depth of his eyes, their deep crystalline brown, like dark amber, drew her in; made her want to be in his presence… get to know him…

“Do you understand?”

At his softly spoken question, she realized she had made no comment on his promise, and it would be expected that she should say something.

“I,” she began, unsure of how to proceed, “thank you, that is most noble of you.”

“Hardly noble,” he said, his voice dry with cynicism, “I would simply prefer you to be happy here.”

He held out his hand again then, toward her left, the one that bore his ring, and without a thought to objection she placed her chilled fingers into the warmth of his palm.

“You are free here,” he told her softly, “to come and go as you please, so long as it is safe for you to do so and you go accompanied, either by Grace, or by one of the footmen if it is outside of the grounds.”

“I understand,” she said quietly, but inside her heart was pounding. Here was a man to whom she had expected to lose all of her free will, who was offering her a freedom that she had not even enjoyed in her father’s home.

“When I entertain guests,” he went on, “I would hope that you would attend our gatherings at my side as my wife should.”

“Yes,” she agreed readily, it was only fair, and why would she not want to attend such balls and soirees as she had heard were held at Adelram Hall?

“You will oversee the household management, and provisioning of our needs, as would be expected of the Lady of Adelram Hall,” he said, and again, it was no less than she had expected, and had been schooled for as the daughter of a landowner after all.

“Got it,” she confirmed.

“Oh,” he added, as though he had just remembered something very important, his face a mask of seriousness. “And once a month, when the moon is at its peak, you will accompany me to the basement to participate in my rites of dark magic.”

She gasped audibly then and pulled away from him so suddenly that she stumbled backwards into a round table by the hearth, dislodging a china tea cup, finely decorated with pale blue flowers, sending it tumbling to the Persian rug on which the table stood.

The color drained from her, and she felt a band of panic tighten around her chest, both at his words, and for fear of the damage she had done to the tea service, and stared at him in something approaching horror, only then noticing the slight twinkle in his deep brown eyes.

“That one was a quip,” he told her, “Not serious.”

She breathed out a nervous laugh and a whispered, “Right,” before she bent down to pick up the cup, biting her lip as she noticed the chip in the rim of the cup.

“Oh, my…” she said as she lifted the cup from the rug and began to hold it up for him to see. “I’m so sorry. It’s… it’s chipped. You can hardly see it…”

He approached her slowly, carefully, as though approaching a fearful deer whom he thought might bolt, lifting the cup from her fingers and cradling it for a moment.

“It’s just a cup,” he told her softly, as though confused, or somehow testing her.

“You’re… making fun of me,” she accused softly, as he set the cup back on the tray. He turned back to her then.

“Making fun, yes,” he said, “but not of you. Never of you. Simply mocking the rumors that I’m sure you’ve heard. I too have heard the things they say. That I’m a beast; A monster that revels in dark magic.”

“I’m so… sorry,” she said as she noticed that flash of that pain again, but then like a summer shower it was gone once more, and he shook his head, smiling.

“No, the apology is mine, my lady,” he took her hand, and she gladly allowed it, “Can you ever forgive me?”

“Of course,” she said, offering a smile of her own. “No man should have to endure to have such blatant stains cast upon his character, especially as untrue as they are.”

He gave her bow over their joined hands, and asked, “May I?” She nodded briefly, and he tenderly raised the back of her hand to his lips, to brush her skin with a soft, warm kiss that tingled over the whole of her, following the path of nerves through her body, like lightning seeking to ground.

She shivered and blushed anew as he slowly released her hand.

“Dinner will be a while,” he told her with regret. “I thought we might enjoy some music while we wait.”

“I should like that,” she answered, with a genuine smile. “Grace seemed quite taken with your gramophone.”

He chuckled then as he began to search for a record from the stack beside the player.

“Her father brought it to me,” he said quietly. “It is a treasured gift - for both of us,” he straightened up then, a disk in his hands, held carefully by the edge, and added with a smile, “For you too, I’d hope. A little Chopin, I think.”

She returned the smile, and nodded her accord, not so very well versed in the music of the classical composers to be able to recognize many, but not so ignorant either. Chopin was a favorite of hers. She couldn’t help but wonder if he somehow knew.

She closed her eyes for a moment, listening to the gentle strains of Raindrops Prelude, letting the piano sounds wash over her, until she felt a sudden heat prickle at her and wondering at it, opened her eyes to find him watching her, a quiet half smile on his face.

“Would you care to dance, Miss French?” he asked.

“Oh, I…” she began, about to refuse, but then, something inside her unfurled a little at the look of supplication on his face, and stepping toward him even before she knew what she was doing, she said, “I should like that.”

As she reached him he offered a low bow, and she responded in kind, a curtsy from which he raised her, lightly taking her into his arms, and beginning to turn with her about the open space in the Salon.

At first her hand trembled a little on his shoulder, and where their hands met she felt as if a tingling passed between them, only softly, but it made a strange feeling fizzle in her lungs, a tenderness and excitement that she would never have expected to feel from a stranger - and stranger he was, for all that he would be her husband.

Their movements matched the gentle nature of the music, the light piano tones guiding their steps, and she followed him with ease, and with delight. Then the music darkened, moving to a minor key with many crescendos. He tugged her closer, and she held fast to him. The gentle fizzle becoming an ache, a need to be subsumed by the music, by the man that held her, turned with her, pressed her close to move as one, his thighs parting hers to step, to move around the spaciousness of the room that yet did not feel large enough to contain them, and she became lost in him.

And then…

As if a dream, the power and energy that had possessed her, possessed them both, faded as the music turned again, to fall over them as the gentle patter of rain, washing them both clean, bathing them, blessing them together, and they came slowly to a stop, she breathless, and he…

“I rather fear I forgot myself,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” she whispered in return, and pressed a hand to his chest to feel his heart beat strong, fast, but slowing against her fingers.

#rumbelle #a monthly rumbelling #arranged marriage au #historical au

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isfjmel-phleg · 5 years

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Book 2: Chapter Five

Still rough, but here it is!

Edited for some wording issues and transitions between paragraphs 8 and 9.

Chapter Five

Amarantha had been kidnapped and brought somewhere in the middle of a moat.

Nothing about this situation made any sense, but she understood this one fact. She needed to escape at once. She didn’t know how—not even Hopeley had ever faced such peril—but perhaps some exploration would lead her to an opportunity. Ideally, she would find her mother first. If she were trapped here, surely they—whoever they were—had brought Edmara too. Where else would she be?

Amarantha ran out of the round room to the outer room’s door. She cranked the knob, which turned smoothly. They had not entirely imprisoned her.

But one could not explore and break out of a large stone building unprepared. So Amarantha exchanged her nightgown for a wool day-frock from her trunk (one of several her mother had sent a palace servant to the Melbray house to fetch), thick stockings, and her stout boots. They had reappeared, along with her clothing of last night, dry, brushed, and laid over the trunk lid.

Of course she couldn’t haul the trunk while escaping, but the satchel she could manage. She kept her sketchbook and pencils but removed the inkwell and most of the books, except The Adventures of Morrick Hopeley and Alis’s Travels in Peculiartie. Her reticule went in too, full of what was left of the gold monarch she had had to surrender to the man at the telegraph office. With the satchel slung over one shoulder and her coat draped over one arm, she opened the door.

A flash of light dazzled her. The door faced a tall dormer window masked in gauzy dust that still let in the morning sun. This overlooked a courtyard, surrounded on four sides by the white stone walls and towers of a castle. More windows peeked out from them, but none betrayed a hint that anyone lurked beyond. Not a soul walked the cobbles of that courtyard. Birds trilled atop the heads of smilingly appreciative gargoyles, unhindered by any sign of the din of human activity. Amarantha might as well have been alone in the castle.

She refused to believe that. The corridor stretching away on her left was only silent because her mother was still sleeping. Or had gone downstairs. Or would appear in the courtyard, face lifted to the sky, whistling that beautiful piece even she could never identify…

Knocking on the first door got no reply. Finding it locked, she trudged on to the next. It opened to reveal another long, dormitory-like room full of dust-sheeted shapes. A bag drooped at the foot of the sole uncovered bed, and a nightdress lay carelessly on the coverlet. These did not belong to her mother. The lady’s-maid’s, perhaps? Or were they the final traces of some other captive?

Not daring to investigate someone else’s belongings, she moved on. The corridor had ended in a corner, turning sharp right, and this intersection surrounded her with closed doors. One, diagonal to the dormitory, led to more corridor, unlit. Under the solitary door at the end peeked a crack of light broken by shadows, as if something stood before a window within. The creak of the floor as Amarantha stepped closer convinced her that the next door over looked more promising.

Inside this room, an exhausted gaslight guttered over a rusty claw-footed tub and sink and…see, this was important to find first, and now that she thought about it—

The steady drip of the sink’s faucet almost sounded conversational. Or was it a voice? No, it was gone. She had been alone for so long she was imagining things. But did imagination grow louder? Or echo? Someone was nearby.

Amarantha slipped out of the bathroom. Floorboards groaned from beyond a shadowy doorway tucked into the angle of the intersecting corridors. She held her breath and waited. Long, light steps were answered by heavy, plodding ones climbing a staircase. Snatches of words drifted up.

First, a young man’s drawl. “…where am I supposed to take…”

Then a woman’s clipped accent. “…southeast tower…course. Where…think?”

“Perhaps your…woke up?”

“…insinuating. I only…a little…help her…do any harm.”

“Might…beastly, though.”

“Nobody…you. Now get on…wanted in the dining room…”

He replied something Amarantha could not make out, and from below a door slammed.

Amarantha ducked back into the bathroom. She had heard the woman’s voice before. Gilsbrecht. The one who had put her to sleep with heaven knew what. Was she coming for Amarantha?

She couldn’t hear any more movement on the stairs. At least she had found a way out of the corridors, but Gilsbrecht could be lurking anywhere. If she put people to sleep for wandering into the wrong train carriage, what on earth was she capable of if she caught one opening doors in a castle?

Sitting on the edge of the tub, Amarantha reviewed her options. She could continue exploring the second storey, presumably alone, though the next corridor might reveal anything. Or she could slip downstairs and risk it on either of the other two storeys. Gilsbrecht could have gone anywhere, but castles were rather large, weren’t they? And if Amarantha stayed quiet and moved quickly, was she so likely to run into the lady’s-maid at all?

Gilsbrecht’s voice had grown louder gradually. That meant she had been coming up, and the silence meant she had left the stairwell. She hadn’t emerged on the second storey, so she must have come from the ground floor to the first storey. All Amarantha had to do to avoid her for now was to stay on the ground floor—from which it would be much easier to escape anyway.

Before she could talk herself out of it, Amarantha charged into the stairwell. It was a tower, with stairs winding in a close-looped spiral with white stone walls hugging it on either side. Two people could not have crossed without turning sideways, it was so narrow. She reached the first landing, eyeballed it lest Gilsbrecht await her at the doorway, and continued till a closed door told her she had reached the ground floor.

She had expected to emerge into another corridor, but before her spread a large room papered in a dark brocade pattern above gilded paneling that matched the parquet floors. Heavy burgundy curtains were open to a view of the moat and the forest beyond. An array of delicately painted china stood in cabinets beside glimmering crystal and silver, but Amarantha no more than glanced at these baubles. For in the center of the room, beneath a turquoise chandelier, was a long table, and around that table sat two young ladies—the Princesses of Lienne Amarantha had seen at a distance last night.

They were probably breakfasting, but sheets of newspaper were strewn over the tabletop instead of plates. The blonde one—Ayra or Ateva?—bent intently over an article, circling passages with a pencil and readjusting her spectacles, and the redheaded one was folding a page into a hat. Several completed ones piled up beside her. She said something to her sister in what Amarantha supposed was Liennese, but her sister, now gripping the pencil between her teeth like a pipe, growled something indeterminate and didn’t look up.

Amarantha was relieved the princess didn’t, for she would have been looking straight at her.

In a room full of exits—one to Amarantha’s left, another to her right, two across the room—none, except for returning upstairs, could lead her out without being seen by Gilsbrecht’s mistresses. Perhaps she had acted on their orders. Perhaps they had some dark purpose for holding Amarantha captive. They didn’t look like wicked people, but perhaps they hid it well, and besides, they were royalty. Who knew why anyone with a title did anything?

For instance, the blonde one had not only noticed her but emitted a short honking laugh.

Amarantha froze, uncertain if she should speak first to a princess, especially a mad one.

“The little visitor from last night,” the princess said, in a flat voice. “Or rather this morning. Did you ever find what you were looking for?”

“No, Your Royal Highness.”

“What did you just call me?”

The redheaded one glanced up from her paper, wide-eyed, though her smudged fingers continued to tear a fringe around the hat’s brim.

“Your Royal Highness?” said Amarantha. Wasn’t that the correct one? Or perhaps the Liennese were Imperial Somethings?

“Nobody ever calls me that unless there’s a lot of fuss. It is technically correct, but I’m just Ayra.”

“But isn’t it rude, ma’am?”

“You will have to try much harder if you want to be rude to me. Slapping, for instance…”

“Oh, don’t embarrass her,” said Ateva.

“How? I can’t say she’s responsible for the most interesting event of the entire evening—the train has her beat there—but it was more entertainment than I expected from that lot. Brava, little girl, whoever you are.”

Amarantha introduced herself.

“Are you a relation of the Coregean royal family? I assume you’re Coregean; you talk as if you were.”

“Yes, ma’am. No, I’m not a relation. I’m Prince Elystan’s nurse’s daughter.”

“Ah. That accounts for it. And where are you off to?” She gestured to Amarantha’s coat and satchel. “I assume you are aware of the moat?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m going to find my mother and go home.”

“Really? That’s an option? Then I suppose you must know what on earth is going on?”

“I��I thought you knew,” said Amarantha.

“We only arrived yesterday, and I can never find anyone to talk Coregean politics with me. Couldn’t get a word out of Delclis about current events. So what happened last night?”

“I don’t know. Mother said we had to leave, so we got on the train and now I can’t find her. That’s all I know.”

“You don’t know anything about unrest in Loriston? That’s what they told us last night—we needed to relocate for our safety.”

“They should have just sent us home,” said Ateva.

“I know. I asked. The ports are closed, apparently.”

“I don’t know about any unrest,” said Amarantha. “Some of the grown-ups were talking at dinner about something they seemed worried about, but they didn’t want me to know. I think someone was…shot? Somewhere? I don’t know.”

Ayra’s face went white. “Not good. Are you sure you don’t remember? Somebody important perhaps? Not Sir Jowan Mitchett-Scorbrook—your Prime Minister? Or Alber Aldarice? Or Lord Rouncewell?”

Amarantha had never heard of most of those people. “Lord…somebody—not anyone I know. I’m sorry.”

Ayra sighed. “Honestly, do you Coregeans pay attention to anything? It’s difficult enough having to scour a paper from yesterday morning for any information, but if only I had a definite name…”

“Ayra,” said her sister severely. “It’s not her fault. How should she know? She can’t be any older than Josiah.”

“No, I suppose not. But if you would stop making those ridiculous hats and let me see the whole paper—”

“I told you. It’s the society pages and the unimportant parts. You’re not missing anything.”

“At a time like this, there are—no—unimportant—parts. If we don’t know what’s going on, anything could happen to us. We’re whom they come for first when there’s unrest, and Father could be—could be…”

“Anywhere,” finished Ateva, her forehead creasing deeper. Her fingers never stopped their frantic folding, undoing one job to repeat the motion.

“I don’t know where my mother is either.” Amarantha stepped in closer. “Have you seen her?”

“Wouldn’t know her if I had, I’m afraid,” said Ayra.

“Brown hair. Brown eyes. Taller than you but shorter than your sister. She has a black hat with a plain bow except she might not be wearing it now. She looks like a sigh.”

“Like a…how?” asked Ateva.

Amarantha shrugged. “She just does. Slate-grayish.”

Ayra shook her head, and Ateva said, “I’m sorry. We haven’t seen anybody but our maid since we arrived here. It was frightfully dark and we had to hurry in with all that rain.” She attempted a smile. “But I think there were other carriages that drove here, so perhaps she’s somewhere about? She wouldn’t be breakfasting with us of course.”

“But what if she’s not? Not here, I mean. What am I going to do?”

Ateva folded the last fold of the hat and set it on Amarantha’s head. “You can have some breakfast. Everything’s still over there.” She pointed to a mirrored sideboard loaded with steaming dishes. “And we’ll call for our maid and ask her about it.”

“No, thank you, ma’am.”

“You’re not hungry?”

Amarantha said she wasn’t.

“Well, I’ll ask Gilsbrecht to bring you a tray later.”

“No!” Amarantha half-shouted before she remembered her manners. “No, please. I don’t want to sleep again.”

“You do realize that you’re making no sense whatsoever, don’t you?” said Ayra absently, glowering at the newspaper.

“Gilsbrecht gave me water last night and I only woke up just a little while ago.”

Ayra peered at her over her spectacles. “So you’re saying that Gilsbrecht drugged you?”

Amarantha nodded.

“Oh, but she would never,” said Ateva. “She’s a treasure. I don’t know how I’d manage without her. She’s been nothing but helpful.”

“Well, it’s not impossible,” said Ayra, “but given my experience—it does seem unlikely. You might have just been very tired. We all were. I know I’d still be in bed if I weren’t—if Father— Oh, hang it all, I can’t think in here.” She wadded up the papers and stalked into the next room.

Ateva ruffled the fringe on one of her hats. “I wonder if they’d let me write to Father. Or telephone—do we have one?”

With a bang of the door, Ayra returned, scooped up the pile of hats, and left again. Gasping indignantly at this robbery, Ateva stormed after her.

Finding herself alone, Amarantha took the route on the other side of the staircase door.

A painting took up most of one wall of the next room. Amarantha approached it respectfully but on closer inspection, the hunting scene paid more attention to gory detail than artistry. A billiards table occupied the center of the room, attended by a rack of subservient cues.

Near the doorway of the next room, a pair of pianos met her, standing back to back, waiting patiently, as everything in this room seemed to. Scrolling burgundy and gold covered the walls and hung over the windows and sash-doors leading to an empty balcony. A fireplace whose white marble chimneypiece seemed to climb to heaven held its mouth open, ready for the taste of fire. Companies of tapestry-covered armchairs assembled here and there, arms wide open. Amarantha brushed past them quickly, lest they reach for her. She couldn’t waste time. Her mother wouldn’t be in the grand rooms of the castle.

The next door led to another darkly-papered and -paneled room broken out in a rash of antlers. A boar’s stuffed head glared glassily out from over a daring pair of chairs. Amarantha didn’t like to look at it too much—what if she saw it move?—but a quick retreat from this room was not so easy without a plan. It opened onto another tower staircase and another small dark corridor full of more closed doors.

A voice and steps from the stairs settled her on the corridor, but before she could disappear into it, the rustle of skirts sounded from the far end, around a bend. Amarantha made a dash for a tapestry at the far end of the room.

Scrunching herself as small as she could behind the cloth and holding her breath, she waited. A knob on the wall dug into her back as the steps thundered nearer and the skirt swept in. Their owners crossed paths and trailed off…

Amarantha couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She let it out stealthily and inhaled a sudden familiar smell. Smoky, plantlike, like her father’s pipe, but mingled with something heavier, stronger. And the last time she had smelt it so closely there had been warm arms around her.

Her mother was nearby.

Her fingers fumbled for the knob behind her, turned it, and she stumbled backward into a short corridor, heavily draped, with one door at the end. The smell was stronger here. With some struggle, she coaxed the door open.

A fire in the hearth crackled to welcome her to a high, round room hung with blue velvet. It sprawled everywhere, trailing on the floor, concealing the walls as if ashamed of them. Even the furniture was velvet-upholstered. The strong smell now crowded her nostrils. She had found the castle’s smoking room, and she wasn’t the only one there.

Perched on the sofa, in a red velvet dressing-gown, sat Elystan.

“Ah. Antavia,” he said. “I was wondering where you were.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You keep turning up everywhere I go. If I didn’t know you, I’d say you were following me. Popping up like a jack-in-a-box—jill-in-the box? Am I being haunted or did my mother send you?”

“I came by train. So you were there too?”

Elystan shrugged. “I went to bed as usual and woke up here. Isn’t it ripping? I’ve been waiting my whole life for something like this. Transported into another world in the dead of night for some grand adventure! But I was hoping I’d be— Well, I suppose the train thing makes sense too. You can’t prove it though, so I stand by my original theory.”

“If you’re here, my mother must be too. Where are you keeping her?”

“Keeping her? What is she, a china figure? I’m not keeping her anywhere. She hasn’t come at all today. I rang and rang, but all I got was some footman. Have you met him yet? He’s a scream. He asked me how I felt knowing that my morning coffee came delivered to me on the bleeding backs of the oppressed and debased, or something. And I said I felt just fine. Then he just sort of shook his head sadly and said he was afraid that would be the answer and did I want sugar too. Of course by then it was all I could do to keep the coffee from shooting out my nose. That man has a future on the halls; he’s positively wasting his talent here. Not that I’d ever tell him. He might leave.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know where my mother is?”

“What? Oh. No, that’s what I’m telling you. What is she doing? It’s not like her to leave me like this. I had to put this on myself, would you believe it?” He tugged at the belt of his dressing-gown. “It’s all over knots. I’ll have to wear it forever now.”

“Does it matter? My mother is missing and we have been kidnapped by mad princesses. This is serious.”

He brightened. “Ayra and Ateva are mad? I had no idea. Oh, now I really must talk to them. No wonder she wanted to jaw at Delclis. So are they mad as in they think they’re Queen Ellaset or a teapot or something? Or do they just collect lizards and only leave the house when the moon is gibbous?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. And it might not be just them. Their lady’s-maid drugged me on the train.”

“Even better! Did she chloroform you? I know all about that. From books. And reading. About other people being chloroformed. Fictionally. She’s probably a Liennese spy sent to bring down the Coregean government. I’m a hostage to be used as a bargaining chip with Delclis and you were brought along because you know too much.”

“That’s the problem! I don’t know anything! And if you’re not going to take this seriously, I’ll—I’ll—”

“What? Slap me again?”

Her face burned. “No. I’ll just escape without you.”

He crossed his arms. “What if I don’t want to escape?”

“Then suit yourself. If you can’t be helpful, I need to go.”

She was halfway out the door when he said, “It didn’t really hurt, you know. When you…” He gestured to his face. It hadn’t a mark on it.

“You might have mentioned that to your mother.”

“You seem cross.” He plucked a string from his tasseled belt and watched it unravel. “What did she say to you?”

Amarantha shot him a scowl that she hoped told him all.

“Look here,” he said, “about your father’s story—I don’t really care if you don’t tell me how it ends. So shall we call it pax?”

And he extended his hand.

#The Blackberry Bushes #my writing #Amarantha Melbray #and some other people whom I might tag later #The Blackberry Bushes Book 2

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impossiblepeggy · 5 years

Note

part 1; 19. Are you a fan of theme parks? part 2; 4. Do you think love at first sight is legit?part 3; 5. What was your first kiss like?part 4; 1. Favorite feel-good movie? 2. Favorite song from before 2005? 4. (as in crush and why) Favorite actress? 8. (as in crush and why) Favorite actor? part 5; 9. Be famous while you’re alive but forgotten when you die OR Be unknown while you’re alive but famous after you die? part 6; 7. Have you ever saved someone’s life? XD Warning, I wil be studying.

Part 1, question 19: Are you a fan of theme parks?

Yes, of course! :)

Part 2, question 4: Do you think love at first sight is legit?

Damn, that’s a tough question. I think it does exist but it only happened to me once, with someone I already knew from the internet. (I fell in love instantly once we met in person.)

Part 3, question 5: What was your first kiss like?

It was... strange. And wet. Honestly, it was quite shit. I was 12 and I didn’t know what I was doing.

Part 4, question 1: Favorite feel-good movie?

It’s hard to choose, but maybe Sherlock Holmes (the RDJ movie). Also, I have a lot more feel-good TV shows than movies (my favorite at the moment is Good Omens, of course).

Part 4, question 2: Favorite song from before 2005?

I have already answered this, right now it’s Your Song from Elton John.

Part 4, question 4: Favorite actress? (crush)

I have the biggest crush on Natalie Dormer! She is so beautiful and her voice and accent just... do things to me, lol. Also Hayley Atwell, Zooey Deschanel, Sophie Turner, Lucy Boynton, Felicia Day, and Emma Stone, because they’re all gorgeous, and make me wonder how I could ever think I was straight.

Part 4, question 8: Favorite actor? (crush)

TARON EGERTON AND DAVID TENNANT! They are so hot and they seem like genuinely nice people. Also Rami Malek, Chris Evans, Tom Hardy, and Harry Shum Jr. (especially when he’s wearing make-up as Magnus).

Part 5, question 9: Be famous while you’re alive but forgotten when you die OR Be unknown while you’re alive but famous after you die?

I would rather be famous while I’m alive, that way I could actually enjoy it.

Part 6, question 7: Have you ever saved someone’s life?

I don’t think so. That would be really cool, though. Perhaps I would finally stop feeling like my existense is meaningless and insignificant... #existentialcrisis

Thank you for asking all these questions, I’ve had so much fun answering them! :)

#ask #pixie-skull

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myhouseidea · 5 years

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Brook Green House is a project designed by Architecture for London. This mid-terrace Victorian house in Brook Green was reconfigured and extended to create a dramatic vertical space. An opening was formed in the floor at raised ground level, connecting the reception rooms with the kitchen and dining room below. A new douglas fir stair descends through this double-height volume, and the lowest three steps form part of the precast concrete work surface. Photography by Christian Brailey

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At raised ground floor the rear elevation is opened out entirely, with a glass box extension that overlooks the garden and floods the double height space with natural light. The extension at lower ground floor is finished with a natural Portland Roach stone with fossilised fragments. The stone continues to form the surface of the patio, which is accessed from the kitchen via a bespoke douglas fir framed sliding door.

A lens like projection tops the building in the form of a dormer to the rear of the property. Here, large expanses of glazing allow far-reaching views from the loft space.

The material palette was carefully chosen to create a sense of warmth and provide bright spaces throughout. Soap washed douglas fir floors and doors were supplied by a specialist firm in Denmark, these contrast with the cool grey tones of polished concrete work surfaces and natural stone tiles. Thresholds between rooms are highlighted with Carrara marble and brass accents.

Brook Green House by Architecture for London Brook Green House is a project designed by Architecture for London. This mid-terrace Victorian house in Brook Green was reconfigured and extended to create a dramatic vertical space.

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chasecampen · 6 years

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How Well Do You Know Southern California Architecture?

Just as Southern California is comprised of a melting pot of people from all over the globe, it is also home to a myriad of architectural styles. We’ve showcased 9 Southern California homes here. Can you name the style of each one?

1. Gamble House, Pasadena

2. Gloria Swanson Residence, Hollywood

3. Hancock Park

4. Guasti Mansion, West Adams

5. Lloyd Wright’s Samuel-Novarro House, The Oaks, Los Feliz

6. Stimson House, West Adams

7. Adamson House, Malibu

8. Hancock Park

9. Casa del Herrero, Santa Barbara

Photos courtesy of:

la.curbed.com | en.wikipedia.org | gamblehouse.org peacelabyrinth.org | adamsonhouse.org underthehollywoodsign.wordpress.com santabarbaraca.com/businesses/casa-del-herrero

Scroll to the bottom for the answers and description of each style of architecture.

1. Craftsman (Arts & Crafts)–Gamble House, Pasadena

Originating in England, the Arts and Crafts movement emphasized a unity with nature and prized handmade details over the cheap mass production of the Industrial Revolution. Distinguishing traits of Craftsman bungalows include low- pitched rooflines, gabled or hipped roofs, overhanging eaves, shaded porches, extensive woodwork, double-hung windows, and Batchelder tile fireplaces.

2. French Normandy–Gloria Swanson Residence, Hollywood

Loosely based on the architecture of 16th-century French chateaux in the Loire Valley, the Chateauesque style became trés chic in Los Angeles during the 1920s thanks to its fantasy appeal, aristocratic associations, and last but not least, advances in veneer cladding techniques that approximated the look of expensive masonry construction. Identifying traits include steeply pitched hipped roof lines, spires, pinnacles, turrets, gables, shaped chimneys, dormers, and round or gothic archways.

3. Neoclassical Revival–Hancock Park

Neoclassical architecture is characterized by grandeur of scale, simplicity of geometric forms, Greek or Roman detail, dramatic use of columns, and a preference for blank walls. It is defined by a commanding facade with a full height porch, its roof supported by classical columns. The columns are often fluted and the capitals are usually ornate Ionic or Corinthian.

4. Beaux-Arts–Guasti Mansion, West Adams

Seen in Downtown LA’s temples of finance, commerce, and law, Beaux Arts is a classical style characterized by Greco-Roman elements: columns, arches, vaults, and domes. The buildings were constructed with high quality materials such as limestone, while their interiors were dressed to impress in marble, mahogany, alabaster, terrazzo, bronze, and brass. Exterior embellishments include bas-relief sculptures and glazed terra cotta tiles.

5. Art Deco–Lloyd Wright’s Samuel-Novarro House, The Oaks, Los Feliz

Art Deco reared its lovely head in Los Angeles following the 1925 Exposition des Arts Decoratifs in Paris. Constructed of smooth-finish building materials such as stucco, concrete block, and glazed brick, Deco buildings have a sleek, linear appearance. Other identifying characteristics include a setback facade, reeding or fluting around doors and windows, stepped-tray ceilings, and lavish ornamentation employing ziggerauts, chevrons, and other geometric forms, intense colors, and Egyptian, Native American, and other “exotic” motifs.

6. Romanesque–Stimson House, West Adams

Romanesque architecture is characterized by round arches over windows and/or entryways, with heavy emphasis around the arches; thick, cavernous entryways and window openings; thick masonry walls, rounded (sometimes square) towers with conical roof; facades are typically asymmetrical; variable stone and brick façade. On elaborate examples, polychromatic facades with contrasting building materials. The style emphasizes the Classical Roman arch as its dominant feature.

7. Spanish Colonial Revival–Adamson House, Malibu

Became Southern California’s pre-eminent architectural style in the wake of the Panama-California Exposition of 1915-1917. To house the San Diego exposition, architects Bertram Goodhue and Carleton Winslow designed a campus of buildings that blended elements of Mission Revival, Mexican, Spanish Baroque/Churrigueresque, and Islamic styles. This unique concoction was a resounding hit, and soon homes with low-pitched red tile roofs, courtyards, white stucco walls with rounded corners, painted tile, wrought-iron accents, and arched windows and doorways became a ubiquitous sight.

8. Tudor Revival–Hancock Park

Meant to evoke a quiet country lifestyle and the picturesque cottages of old England, the Tudor Revival style is typified by an asymmetrical design that features steeply pitched roofs with front-facing gables, leaded-glass windows (often diamond-paned), arched doorways and massive chimneys as well as stone, brick or stucco exteriors with half-timbers gracing the facade — a mere decoration recalling the structural timbers that held up such houses centuries earlier.

9. Monterey Colonial Revival–Casa del Herrero, Santa Barbara

Several variants of Spanish-style architecture make a contribution to the unique flavor of our local landscape, one of which is the Monterey Colonial Revival. It is a mixture of Mexican, New England Colonial, and Spanish styles, Monterey Revival homes are two stories, and feature second-floor verandas with wood railings, plaster or thick stucco walls, and louvered shutters (though these are often fixed).

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neverwasmag · 6 years

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In the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, Canada’s railway companies built grand hotels along the routes of the country’s burgeoning rail network. Many of these hotels were built in French château- and Scottish baronial-inspired styles, rich in dormers, towers and turrets.

When air travel started to compete with the railways in the second half of the twentieth century, many of the hotels struggled. Some were closed and torn down. The ones that survived are now national landmarks.

Let us take you on a tour of the grandest of Canada’s railway hotels.

Windsor Hotel, Montreal

The original Windsor Hotel, seen from what was then called the Saint James Cathedral in Montreal, Canada, 1897 (McCord Museum)

The Windsor Hotel in Montreal, Canada with the North Annex completed, 1906 (McCord Museum)

The first of the grand railway hotels, the Windsor, embodied the commercial success of Montreal, then Canada’s largest city.

It took a few years for the hotel to become successful, but by the turn of the century it had become the center of Montreal’s elite social life. A fire in 1906 provided the impetus for an expansion, doubling the number of rooms. During their royal tour of Canada in 1939, King George VI and Queen Elizabeth stayed at the Windsor.

Grand staircase of the Windsor Hotel in Montreal, Canada, 1878 (McCord Museum)

Rotunda of the Windsor Hotel in Montreal, Canada, circa 1878 (McCord Museum)

Dining room of the Windsor Hotel in Montreal, Canada, 1878 (McCord Museum)

Another fire destroyed a third of the hotel in 1957. The damage was so extensive this time that the original building had to be torn down entirely. The Windsor continued to operate out of the North Annex, built in 1906, but the hotel fell into decline. It closed in 1981. The North Annex is now an office building.

Banff Springs Hotel, Alberta

The original Banff Springs Hotel in Alberta, Canada, 1902 (Library of Congress)

The Banff Springs Hotel in Alberta, Canada, 1929 (William J. Oliver)

The Banff Springs Hotel in Alberta, Canada, 1966 (Wikimedia Commons/Robeyclark)

The Banff Springs Hotel in Alberta, Canada, September 17, 2017 (Wikimedia Commons/Stephen Swift)

Located in the Banff National Park of Alberta, the Banff Springs Hotel has gone through several iterations.

The original hotel, which opened in 1888, was an Alpine structure adorned with stone accents, dormers and turrets. But it had accidentally been built the wrong way around, with its back to the mountain vista. Expansions were made in 1902. Only four years later, plans were drawn up for a complete overhaul. Walter Painter, the architect, designed an eleven-story tower in concrete and stone, flanked by two wings, this time facing in the right direction. For a time, the so-called Painter Tower was the tallest building in the country.

Dining hall in the Banff Springs Hotel in Alberta, Canada, November 13, 2010 (Wikimedia Commons/Adam Jones)

Back terrace of the Banff Springs Hotel in Alberta, Canada, August 17, 2013 (Gregg Jaden)

Hallway in the Banff Springs Hotel in Alberta, Canada, November 3, 2013 (Wikimedia Commons/James Levy)

World War I delayed the completion of Painter’s plan. It wasn’t until after a fire in 1926 had destroyed what was left of the original hotel that his two wings were finally completed.

Place Viger, Montreal

Old postcard of the Place Viger in Montreal, Canada (McGill Library)

Aerial view of the Place Viger in Montreal, Canada, 1921 (British Library)

The Place Viger in Montreal, Canada, March 21, 2014 (Wikimedia Commons/Thomas1313)

Killing two birds with one stone, the Place Viger in Montreal served as both a railway station and a grand hotel. Built in the Châteauesque style, inspired by French Renaissance architecture, it opened its doors in 1898.

The Viger competed with the Windsor Hotel. The first was favored by French-speaking elites, the second catered to Anglophones.

When the city’s commercial center shifted northwest in the beginning of the twentieth century, the hotel lost its appeal. The Depression forced it out of business in 1935. The railway station continued to operate until 1951. The building was then converted into office space. A highway was built next to it in the 1970s, straight through the historical heart of the city, making the whole area undesirable.

In recent years, the Viger and its surroundings have seen a revival. The building is now home to apartments as well as offices.

The Empress, Victoria

Postcard of The Empress hotel in Victoria, Canada, circa 1908

View of The Empress hotel in Victoria, Canada in the late 1910s or early 1920s (J.S. Horne)

The Empress hotel in Victoria, Canada, August 1930 (F.P. Keen)

The Empress hotel in Victoria, Canada, September 25, 2005 (Steffen Sledz)

View toward the Inner Harbor of Victoria, Canada with the back of The Empress hotel on the left, May 25, 2008 (Pat David)

The Empress hotel in Victoria, Canada, May 1, 2017 (Wikimedia Commons/Dllu)

The Empress hotel in Victoria, British Columbia, was built in the first decade of the twentieth century to accommodate Canadian Pacific’s steamship service, whose main terminal was just one bloc away. When Canadian Pacific ceased its passenger services to the city, the hotel was successfully remarketed as a resort to tourists.

The interwar years were the hotel’s heydays. Edward, Prince of Wales waltzed into dawn in the Crystal Ballroom in 1919. His brother, then-King George VI, and his wife, Queen Elizabeth, attended a luncheon at the Empress in 1939. Shirley Temple, the American actress, stayed there to escape kidnapping threats in California.

In the 1960s, it looked like the Empress might be demolished to make way for a modern, high-rise hotel, but local opposition thwarted this (diabolical) plan. Instead, the hotel was renovated.

Another renovation followed in 1989, when a health club and indoor swimming pool were added. The most recent restoration was in 2017.

Château Laurier, Ottawa

1912 view of Ottawa, Canada with the Château Laurier and Union Station on the right (Ottawa, Library Bureau)

The grandest of Canada’s railway hotels

The Château Laurier in Ottawa, Canada, 1916 (Library and Archives Canada)

The Château Laurier in Ottawa, Canada, 1947 (BAnQ Vieux-Montréal)

The Château Laurier in Ottawa, Canada, August 28, 2010 (Michel Rathwell)

The Château Laurier in Ottawa, Canada, August 15, 2015 (Wikimedia Commons/Red Castle)

Built in tandem with Ottawa’s downtown Union Station between 1909 and 1912, the Château Laurier was built by Canada’s Grand Trunk Railway, which later merged into the Canadian National Railways. The hotel was named after Prime Minister Wilfrid Laurier, who supported its construction.

Although it looks French from the outside, the interior of the hotel is more English or Scottish. Until a restoration in the 1980s, the lobby featured dark-oak panelling and a railed gallery overlooking the double-height space and trophies of the hunt.

An east wing was added in 1929, adding 240 rooms to the hotel. An Art Deco-style swimming pool and spa were added the following year.

The hotel was the place to be and be seen in those years. Richard Bedford Bennett, a native of New Brunswick, lived in the Château Laurier during his stint as prime minister from 1930 to 1935. The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation’s English- and French-language radio stations operated out of the hotel’s top floors from 1924 to 2004.

Given its proximity to Parliament Hill, the American Embassy and other government buildings, and the fact that it has hosted many political meetings over the years, the hotel is sometimes referred to as “the third chamber of Parliament”.

Fort Garry Hotel, Winnipeg

Postcard of the Fort Garry Hotel in Winnipeg, Canada, 1920 (University of Alberta Libraries)

Hand-colored photograph of the Fort Garry Hotel in Winnipeg, Canada, post 1920 (University of Alberta Libraries)

The Fort Garry Hotel in Winnipeg, Canada, post 1920 (University of Alberta Libraries)

The Fort Garry Hotel in Winnipeg, Canada, September 22, 2017 (Jessica Losorata)

Also built by the Grand Trunk Railway, the Fort Garry Hotel was the largest building in Winnipeg, Manitoba when it opened in 1913. The architecture was inspired by the Château Laurier as well as the Plaza Hotel of New York, which had been built six years earlier.

Canadian National Railways took over the hotel when it acquired the Grand Trunk Pacific Railway in 1920. The prominent John Draper Perrin family of Winnipeg bought it in 1979. It was later operated by a Quebecer hotelier. Now it is an independent hotel again.

Royal York, Toronto

The skyline of Toronto, Canada with the Royal York on the left, 1930 (Wikimedia Commons)

1945 advertisement for the Royal York in Toronto, Canada (BPL)

The Royal York in Toronto, Canada, August 27, 2007 (Lord of the Wings)

The Royal York in Toronto, Canada, July 30, 2010 (Udo Dengler)

The Royal York in Toronto, Canada, July 18, 2017 (Robin Stevens)

Lobby of the Royal York in Toronto, Canada, July 28, 2017 (Viv Lynch)

Built across the street from Toronto’s Union Station, the Royal York was the tallest building in the British Empire when it opened its doors in 1929. It was state-of-the-art. The hotel had ten elevators to reach all 28 floors. All 1,048 rooms were equipped with radios and private showers. Amenities included a concert hall and a golf course. Opening night, on June 11, 1929, was the city’s most exciting social event of the year.

The hotel was modernized in the early 1970s. The marble pillars in the lobby were covered with wood panelling, contemporary wall lamps were added and the rugs were replaced with carpet.

Some of these changes were reversed in the late 1980s, when the Royal York underwent a $100-million restoration. A health club and pool were also added. The hotel’s in-house nightclub, the Imperial Room, was converted into a ballroom and meeting hall.

The Bessborough, Saskatoon

The Bessborough Hotel in Saskatoon Canada, May 14, 1985 (The StarPhoenix)

The Bessborough Hotel in Saskatoon Canada, May 21, 2015 (Robert Linsdell)

The Bessborough Hotel in Saskatoon Canada, June 16, 2017 (Ted McGrath)

The Bessborough (or “Bess”) in Saskatoon, the largest city of Saskatchewan, was built by the Canadian National Railway in the early 1930s. Deliberately resembling a Bavarian castle, the hotel was named after the governor general of Canada at the time, Sir Vere Ponsonby, the Earl of Bessborough.

The Depression delayed the hotel’s opening until 1935. It was hailed as a sign of progress for what was still a relatively small city at the time. A railway hotel put Saskatoon on the map.

A $9-million restoration was completed in 1999 to return many of the hotel’s historical features.

A tour of the grandest of Canada's railway hotels, built in the late 1800s and early 1900s In the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, Canada's railway companies built grand hotels along the routes of the country's burgeoning rail network.

#Architecture #History

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