#emori’s mailbox

[eemmoorrii]

The way you draw William afton fills me with happiness

He appreciates it :]

[shalotttower]

Pholcus phalangioides

Title: Pholcus phalangioides

Fandom: The Collector (2009). Can be read as an original inspired by the source, because I took some creative liberties.

Summary: There's a spider in your bathroom, it lives under the mirror cabinet and you a) don't want to kill it, and b) are too scared to touch it, so now you can either keep giving it one side eye after another, or ask your neighbour for help.

Word count: 4000+

Characters: Asa Emory x Reader

Notes: yandere Asa, spiders and insects descriptions, stalking, voyeurism of sort - Asa watches Reader without her realizing it, kidnapping, vague hinting on body horror, non-con touching, Reader is socially awkward. Asa is not 100% in-movie-character Asa (he actually talks lol), a huge chunk of him is based on my headcanons.

You have this problem - a spider problem, to be precise. Not that it's too big of a deal, but...it also is.

Spiders are generally okay.

They eat unwanted guests, like flies and mosquitos or even other spiders. Make cool webs, which is probably one of the most complicated forms of art, not to mention a mathematical pattern to it - a combination of radial and circular symmetry. The golden ratio in nature.

In general they're important for keeping a backyard ecosystem nice and intact.

But.

But there is a spider in your bathroom, right under the sink cabinet, with thin legs, a long body, and of course - eyes. Quiet, kept to itself, really chill spider who doesn't move much except to crawl around a little and sometimes look at you when it catches you looking.

It probably lived in hiding somewhere, before deciding that dark spaces weren't up to its standards anymore and making an appearance. You haven't swatted it away, caught it, struck it with a paper - mostly because you're not good at killing living creatures, and secondly because the spider isn't doing any harm, just observing your every step, and generally being present.

When you check your makeup bag, it watches. When you brush your teeth, it watches. When you close the cabinet door it wiggles and your heart goes "ee" as if someone shocked it with a static charge. This yellowish-brown witness of your everyday activities, silently approving and judging, lately makes you feel like a nuisance in your own bathroom. You desperately wish there was a way to make it move to another corner. A less centralized one, less straight in your face. Yet the thought of touching it makes you cringe inwardly; your mind conjures images of different scenarios involving spider-related unpleasantries - accidentally squashing it, or getting bitten and dying a slow, miserable death.

It's gotta go.

Because the more you see it, the more your brain tries to assign it human features. And the longer it stares, the bigger the chance it might grow a pair of lips to say "get out of my bathroom".

The thought comes to you in the morning while setting a breakfast plate on the kitchen counter. The house is quiet, all windows are open and you stare through one of them at your neighbour's fence. You rarely see him, though the parked car is always a giveaway of his presence. Emory, that's what the mailbox says, and he has a neat garden, not an extravagant type, but everything is carefully trimmed and arranged into simple patterns.

There's even a stone bench by a small tree. Does it actually get used on sunny days? Probably no. He seems like a loner, from what you've seen so far: tall and pale, with wire-rimmed glasses and still grey eyes. Very focused and put together, a turtleneck and dark trousers kind of Mister. Never waving when passing by, though he does glance sometimes - sharp and attentive.

Once you caught him leaning over a bush with back straight and head hanging low. Your stomach gave this funny, nervous twitch, like when a stranger tries to start a conversation in public. He looked your way and then resumed whatever he was doing.

"Whatever" appeared to be something small, sharp limbs and a shiny body. It looked like a beetle, stretched to an absurd degree, and the way he held that thing felt strangely intimate. The same way you'd cradle a baby animal in your hands, rubbing its forehead with a fingertip. Emory put it in a plastic box, sealed it, and went into his house, not sparing you another glance.

This particular memory - of long fingers and a careful grasp - is what makes you think that maybe, possibly, theoretically, he could handle one pesky spider for you. You've seen him with insects a couple of times after, no doubt Mr. Emory is one of those who glue bugs to display boards. The creepy friend in the bathroom must be right up his alley then.

Five minutes later the two of you are staring at each other in awkward silence. Bothering barely acquainted neighbours isn't usually high on your list of priorities, especially if said neighbours look like they prefer being alone. You know it's odd, you know it probably crosses some boundaries, yet here you are.

With a crease on his brow and a tight mouth, Emory isn't thrilled at this sudden visit. Maybe he was in the middle of something, or is just uncomfortable with people invading his space. In any case, you clear your throat.

"Good morning. I live in the house across the road. The white porch? With-"

"I know," it's a dry reply. Not rude, more matter-of-factly; his eyes are fixed on you with a hint of unsettling peculiarity which makes you shift from one foot to the other.

He's not pest control, you think. Or obligated to help in any way. Emory can tell you to kindly fuck off right now and close the door, why did you even come here? It's stupid and intrusive. You're almost ready to take it all back and go home, pretend like nothing happened and just deal with that spider yourself, when he speaks again.

"What do you need?"

He has a quiet voice, a very even direct tone that doesn't encourage small talk, but prompts answers. Now and without pointless filling.

"I know how it's going to sound," you start, cringing inside, "and apologize in advance for bothering you, but I had an impression you collect...bugs."

"Insects. Arachnids."

"Right. So I was thinking if you'd mind removing a spider from my bathroom. I don't want to kill it, but I can't- I can't touch it."

His gaze slowly shifts from your face to the house behind you. As if Emory has an x-ray vision, or a complete mental map of your household layout. Ha, this would be ridiculous. There's no apparent disapproval in his pale face, but something else, a different kind of assessment. Evaluation of how much it is worth spending time on someone with an overgrown lawn? His eyes return back and you feel pinned down.

The longer he stays silent, the more you wish for the ground to open and swallow you whole.

"If you can't I totally understand-"

"What kind of spider?"

It's your turn to stare. How are you supposed to know, you've never studied spider biology. It looks like any other common variety, except creepier because it refuses to leave its spot and stay in the sewer where it belongs. "I...light-brownish, with long legs. Thin? Slender," there's more you could add but any further description will probably make you sound like a total dunce who can't recognize basic arachnids. "Kind of big."

You expect a 'sure', maybe 'I'll be there shortly' or 'no'. What you get is Emory moving past you and walking up your front porch. The scent of laundry detergent and soap, very clean, hits your nose before you rush to open the door.

"Uhm. Second floor," you explain, awkwardly shuffling after him. For the first time since the day you moved in, you worry about what someone might see inside the house. As far as clutter goes, your place is acceptable, perhaps a few forgotten cups around and yesterday's sweater thrown on a couch. Surely, it's not too bad.

Emory, however, doesn't seem interested in the surroundings. The staircase doesn't even creak under his weight, despite the house being around a century old. He steps over the little border which always makes you trip if you walk too fast, like it's not there. Like the corner you often bump your hip into doesn't exist either. He navigates your home with effortless precision, an inward kind of certainty that makes your eyebrows rise. Maybe...the houses on your street have the same blueprint.

Either way, he walks into your bathroom without hesitation, turning on the light. You hover by the doorway, unsure: should you offer something to drink, ask him if he needs anything else or just step away and leave him to do his thing?

The spider is there, hiding under the cabinet, when Emory leans over to observe it. He's probably seen many different specimens, you think, and this isn't interesting at all compared to the ones who have an intricate design or unique behavior.

"She's a part of the Pholcidae family," Emory says suddenly. Just like that there's 'she', instead of 'it', and the spider twitches and shifts. "Daddy long-legs. Harmless."

He puts his palm up close to its back. At first, it seems startled, but after a moment slowly calms down, and moves a leg - left then right - getting familiar with his hand.

"Docile creatures," Emory continues, while the spider walks along the edge of his palm. No running around, no random leaps, stick-like limbs touch and probe him with curiosity, much like you'd study something new. "They stay in the dark, hide in the corners while feasting on smaller things. Your intruder is a useful tenant."

It makes you feel slightly nauseous, how nonchalant he is about holding something that prompts recoil on instinct.

"Do you want to hold her?" Emory turns to you and there's a faint, strange smile on his lips. It doesn't reach his eyes and makes him look like an alien who tries to mimic human expressions based only on observation. His pupils are so dark that you can barely tell the difference between the irises and the rest. They seem bottomless, absorbing all light, but reflecting none in return. You take one step backwards, shaking your head.

"I'll pass."

He keeps staring at you for what feels like forever before returning his attention to the spider crawling on his skin. Emory reaches into his back pocket for a small container.

"Are you not setting her outside?" You ask. "She...she doesn't look like, uh, a rare species."

Not that you're an expert.

"No," Emory closes the lid with a quiet click. "She isn't one. But I'm going to keep her."

And he does. The little captive spider rests at the very bottom of a plastic case when you send the man on his way and thank him for the help. Emory accepts it with a nod, no further words, and then there's only his back when he leaves. The morning air rushes in, crisp and fresh, smelling like grass, tree leaves and soil.

*

It feels like you blink, and three days go by. You still keep an eye on the bathroom cabinet by some sort of habit, however there's nothing out of the ordinary lurking there, no creepy critters and definitely no thin legs scattering in multiple directions. All is well, now you can brush your teeth, take care of business and even lean close without fear something might fall on your head.

It's just a spider. You googled it later, and how common it is around the continents should be a bit ridiculous. Keeping it might equal to going on a beach and picking the most unremarkable pebble you see; Emory certainly could find hundreds more Daddy long-legs wherever he pleased - parks, gardens or forests.

So...why?

The question gnaws at you, together with that smile and cold grey eyes hidden behind glasses' frames. The weirdest part wasn't the expression, it was how you couldn't read it. Despite the obvious display of human emotion, however misplaced and alien, it failed to reveal anything. The smile was there, and yet nothing broke through it, not amusement, nor politeness - or any kind of feeling whatsoever.

Your neighbour is odd.

Not necessarily scary, though there's a sense of mystery surrounding him, it makes you feel like standing next to an iceberg and only seeing its tip. Or you've just read far too many psychological thrillers and your imagination likes to conjure up the wildest scenarios, trying to turn each and every thing into something sinister.

Maybe you should just chill and get some tea, and stop being so dramatic about a guy who came over and politely removed a spider for you.

*

They're not a unique species. Not even remotely uncommon.

He taps the container gently with his index finger, making the spider move back and forth. She doesn't have venom, no poisonous chemicals to injure and kill. Hiding in abandoned corners she does, patient and careful, waiting to catch the wrong fly.

You're just like her. Nothing exciting. Not unique.

Your movement patterns are similar, concealed in a different package you're still predictable: getting home from work, cooking dinner, watching TV shows. Everyday routines.

Fear is a part of your nature. Awkwardness which comes with socializing: you shuffle when uncomfortable, avoid prolonged eye contact and don't like confrontation, he noticed this right away. A quiet type, keeping mostly to yourself unless you need something urgently; and then you rush, like a scared Daddy long legs. There's this shiftiness, an inner desire to be less visible, but also a yearning for recognition because the lack of it hurts. And he saw all those small things, catalogued them one by one, as you moved into his street and became a constant presence.

Asa has never thought about keeping something - someone - so mundane before. Never. He likes rare things, spectacular, and those collected in the basement, they all are, especially when he's finished with them. They're extraordinary, displayed under glass cases and preserved for eternity.

He doesn't collect common species. Daddy long-legs are abundant everywhere around him.

But.

There's the way you linger by the kitchen window during the morning routine, slowly sipping hot coffee. When your lips purse and eyes lose focus for a moment. Or how the corners of them wrinkle sometimes when you have a genuine, amused laugh. It's something like warmth. There's no label for the feeling - positive, negative or neutral, it just is, like one single, meaningless element in an ecosystem.

He shouldn't want someone so average.

And yet Asa watches from the corner of your living room, crouched on the floor by a plant.

You don't hear him, too invested in your personal bubble. Well, he had enough time to polish his craft and figure out how soundless he can be when moving through spaces, how much weight he needs to place onto soles to avoid creaking wood and floorboards.

It's interesting to see you interact with your environment, unaware of being watched. There's an invisible pattern behind each action, even if you think everything is randomized. The web you wove around yourself is cozy, and Asa follows its threads while you check the phone and frown at whatever notification pops up. He is considering. Contemplating this impulsive desire he has yet to identify.

Would it be worth it? Keeping you. Adding you to the collection and seeing what comes out of it, how far his usual approach might take him with you in the same conditions. You're just a face with features. So...ordinary. He wants to pick you apart and look inside to make sure it's not some strange sort of mimicry, camouflage of a different nature hiding something else entirely.

There's this vague idea how those features may feel when touched. He can recall them accurately, even when you've never stood too close. Asa watches quietly from his hiding place, memorizing a displeased mumble and then a frustrated gesture.

You seem so alive.

Those below who are frozen in time now were too, before Asa decided to give them a purpose and make something special and worthy of his attention. They were alive like you, but now they're something better.

What purpose you have remains to be seen.

Asa decides then.

A plain trunk is nestled in the corner behind a coat hanger, no fancy latch or keyhole needed, only an ordinary padlock. You'll fit in nicely, squeezed in the cramped space, it won't be the most comfortable experience, but it's not for long and then...then he can show you the room where others stayed before, and where you'll be next.

Asa looks around one last time: the front door is locked, blinds down, lights off - you get up from the couch and head upstairs, right on the dot. Your house is easy to navigate despite the darkness; Asa knows his way around it, having been here already more than once. A step after a step he follows the soft padding of your bare feet, and when the steps halt, he pulls out a cloth. It's a heavy kind of pleasure to be able to stand right behind and admire your nape, there's a strange sort of vulnerability to it.

Something raw and very exposed.

It takes only a few movements, he catches your yelp into one of his hands and holds it clasped tightly as you thrash. Your nails dig into the fabric of his turtleneck but fail to leave any marks. He's never tired of it, the initial fear of his specimens realizing that their secure habitats are ruined. He doesn't mind this fight for survival.

"Shh," Asa breathes into your ear. "Shh."

The struggle doesn't last long - you're not a fighter - and when your body goes limp, he picks you up. Your perfume is surprisingly light, a very sweet and pleasant aroma, not overwhelming at all like he'd expect it to be.

It's nice.

He puts you in the trunk, a boxy space barely big enough to fit you curled on the side, it's going to take around thirty minutes to reach the hotel and another three to put you in the right cell. You'll sleep the rest of the journey, which is fortunate for everyone. It's always easier to deal with a specimen if they're resting.

The lock clicks softly - it's time to go home.

*

Something runs down your cheek - a drop, a bead of sweat, a touch - and you blink, trying to make sense of it. The surroundings are unfamiliar, blurry shapes with undefined outlines that stretch and wobble before your eyes. Your jaw hurts, clenched so hard that teeth grind together, and it takes a conscious effort to relax.

Where...what?

The living room, a TV program, a soundless whisper that froze the hairs at your nape, then someone was behind you. You remember a sickly sweet smell, and after that nothing but a haze and the dark, and the sensation of being squeezed into a shape. Your legs feel numb, arms too, like you spent hours immobile in one position. Slowly the world sharpens back into focus, but instead of relief there's only dread.

You're in a room.

No bigger than a regular bathroom and void of any furniture beside a cot-like bed, a toilet in the corner and a sink. The walls are a bluish-gray with thin cracks, tiny fissures that create uneven lines from the ceiling all the way down to the floor.

And there's a man, observing you quietly through the thick glass.

You don't notice him immediately, too busy assessing your new location, and when you do the air feels heavier, difficult to move past your throat. He's wearing a mask. Black rubber or something, covering everything except his eyes. He presses two palms against the barrier separating you, the silence stretches into an eternity.

'Who are you? What do you want?' - these are kind of questions you should be asking, but they don't come out. You remain glued to the spot, counting the passing seconds by their painful tick-tock-tick-tocks. One minute turns into two, and he...just stares without moving a muscle in a beyond unnerving manner. Your gaze dips lower to check his clothes, perhaps find a pattern to identify this person later.

There's none. Everything is plain black, like a uniform made to be invisible - turtleneck, pants, even gloves and boots.

It seems that your silence somehow pleases him, because a few moments later he leaves without looking back.

You don't know how much time passes; there's not a window around, only a bare, stark bulb, yellowish in its brightness and casting unpleasant shadows all over the floor. Not a single sound. Traffic, voices of distant passersby or birds - all is absent and doesn't provide even a bit of understanding where the hell you are.

In the end, you...sit down on the bed and wait, because what else is there? Everything is eerily silent and very, very uncomfortable: this emptiness, the absence of noise, the endless ticking of an invisible clock. It's difficult not to cry, but you try your best, somehow it feels important to remain composed. There has to be a reason behind this. There must be one, and you repeat it over and over, like a mantra to soothe the nerves and present your mind with some semblance of logic: once you figure out what's going on, you'll figure out how to get out as well.

Pulling loose threads from your sleeve is poor entertainment, if anything, the strain of boredom and unease gradually grows into anxiety so sharp that you almost miss the sound of approaching footsteps.

He's back again, the masked stranger who stands in the doorway with hands clasped behind his back. A pair of light grey eyes is a splash of different color, but they are blank. They watch with distant curiosity of an animal trainer monitoring a newborn cub. The comparison makes something ugly squirm inside you. A part of you wants to make a run for it, the other keeps yelling that it would be immensely stupid.

One, two, three, four steps he takes into your cell. Your back meets the wall, the chill coming from its solid surface cuts right through the layers of clothing. Five, six. He stops only when there's less than arm's reach between you, then leans to brush away loose strands of hair sticking to your temples. Your stomach goes taut. This scent. Laundry detergent mixed with soap. The turtleneck, grey eyes, very collected kind of Mister.

A sickly shiver of revulsion shoots down your spine, making you curl tighter into a ball. Emory cups your jaw with both hands - they're cold even through the gloves material. This is too close, an unwanted and unpleasant violation of boundaries, and yet he continues to examine your face, like you're some sort of an object he can handle however he pleases.

Your cheek gets a light pat. Any theories about his identity stay unvoiced, mostly because you fear the reaction they might prompt. Something tells you that screaming is a bad idea too. 'Be quiet,' an insistent whisper says deep inside your skull, 'be still.'

His thumbs press to the corners of your mouth. "Open," he orders, and you can't not, even though the whole thing sounds and feels bizarre. "Wider."

There's a quiet click. A flashlight, of those small ones you can easily hold in one hand, shines right into your eyes, making them water from the unexpected brightness. "Don't bite or I'll remove all of your teeth."

It's a simple threat, delivered with such a calm tone, there's no need for yelling when words are that clear and straightforward.

He inspects your mouth, the edges of teeth and gums, your inner cheeks, and you let him, clenching your fists. There's not much you can do, at least that's what you keep telling yourself to ease the heavy, sinking feeling of powerlessness. Your mind chants 'too close' on a loop, urging to wiggle away; you stay. It's unclear what exactly he's looking for - dental or oral diseases, a sore throat, cavities, or the lack of them?

It lasts forever until he straightens back up and puts the light away.

"Good," Emory states. There's another pat to your head before he turns around to leave. "No biting."

The door panel slides with a soft hum, locking shut. And the silence, and the waiting, and the mind numbing monotony is back again.

[free-for-all-fics]

Part 4/7 💜📸📝

May 1936

Dearest Fanny,

Remember when I said I wanted to live like a cherry blossom? Cherry blossoms bloom within the grasp of death. With most flowers, the rot sets in…they fall… That’s the price of new life. Not cherry blossoms, though. They bloom beautiful, they fall beautiful. That’s how I want my life to be. To be beautiful and dignified for a fleeting moment simply by letting go of life. Daring to bloom knowing it won’t last, and so falling in vivid color. I wish I could live like that. I want to experience true beauty, if only for a moment.

I met someone who made me feel different. He showed me a whole new world, gave me hope. I honestly thought he could help me find a new me. I felt it with all my heart. But people didn’t understand us, didn’t want that from us. In the end, they took my hope from me. They took him away. People who can’t achieve beauty seek comfort in others. They fear anyone different. Hate them. Try to tear them down. I can’t take much more of this. Fanny, do you remember when we took apart all those abandoned mailboxes and birdhouses and built Bug Town? I first peered into Mr. Emory’s fascinating cases of beetles and butterflies at the age of six, in the company of Father. I recall my pity at each occupant, dead and pinned for display. It was no great leap to draw the same conclusion of ladies: similarly bound and trussed, pinned and contained, with the objective of being admired, in all their gaudy beauty. I’d go collect pill bugs and slugs and we’d put them in little houses, alive, and make up stories about their lives as we watched them until we got bored and released them back into the wild. Well, I went and set the whole thing back up. I even added new buildings. I just wish we could go back there. I wish I could keep building Bug Town with you. I wish you and I could run away together, Fanny. Just me and you... I just want to run to another place. A simpler, gentler place. A place of gentle pastels and beautiful, breathtaking, and perfect— Why do I feel like this? I’ve never felt like this before. It’s got to be because I lost that special person and the hope he gave me, right?

A long time ago, when I finally got to accept my feelings for Jim, I thought everything was going to change. But every day was still just like every day. He was still a drifter. I was still his friend. When you live in New York, people expect things to stay the same. If anything changed between us, it could ruin Jim and everything around him. So that’s how it went: Nothing changed when my whole world burned. I kept teling myself maybe after I got into college, I’d be able to express my feelings for him. I let the fire in my heart eat through my soul and body. I called myself a coward. But I chose to keep what little I had to enjoy. I was a poor kid crawled up in bed. Poor? Do I really deserve that charity title? Am I really the victim of all of this? Finding myself is the key to finding others, to realizing that I can form real bonds, that I can end loneliness and embrace a better future. Seeking a connection with others is a sign of weakness. It’s running away. The strongest animals don’t form groups; they act alone, and need only themselves to survive. Those who betray themselves to fit into a group are pathetic. There’s no beauty in living like that. But... I don’t really mind. I just want someone to understand me… For those I love, and for those who love me… I want to keep moving forward…and never look back... I wouldn’t go back, to the way my life was before. No. No, I can never go back to that again. Remember the time when I said that I don’t want to be trapped anymore? I think I’ve finally found a way to escape. You’re probably thinking, “Nothing too drastic, I hope.” It is drastic. There’s no going back once I’ve done it, but that's what I want. No going back. So I won’t. I’m far nicer than I was before I went to Cascade, you know. Running away is running a way, running a path both from and toward. It is all a matter of perspective.

Fundamentally, some people, like Mother, misunderstand the desire to escape the flesh. It’s not about escaping decay, or that the heart or the brain is less mutable than the flesh (foolish). It’s about the changeability! It’s about customization! It’s about being able to open yourself up to new things and swap parts around! This was what my spirit longed to do, to wander in strange lands. It couldn’t stand being trapped in one body all the time. It had wanderlust. I get butterflies every time I wander beautiful places I’ve never been. Dr. Jaquith once described me as a butterfly. ‘You are like a butterfly, beautiful to look at but hard to catch,” he said, “yet in that utilitarian life a butterfly of the soul dies, for we need the sweet nectar of the flowers and the warm rays of the sun. The sweet words, the laughter, the silliness and the spontaneous hugs are as needed as the air we breathe.” The sad thing is, I think cold types like Mother need it too, that’s why they seek us and cling to our warmth until our fire is extinguished. “If travel is like love, it is, in the end, mostly because it’s a heightened state of awareness, in which we are mindful, receptive, undimmed by familiarity and ready to be transformed. A person susceptible to wanderlust is not so much addicted to movement as committed to transformation.” I am ready to transform, Fanny. These brick walls have been my cocoon for the years I needed their sanctuary, and I thank them. My eyes wander their rugged clay surface, their rosy color bright yet earthen. My hands feel the warmth of sun, imparted to them yet given back with a steady determination. Leaving home was never going to be easy, but it is part of growing, of moving onward into new challenges. It is so very bittersweet.

Luggage, to pack at this time, is bitter and sweet. Yet it is as the striking clock, hands move onward. When the time of change comes I can only embrace it and make the best of what comes next. Now that time has come again. It brings a sense of rebirth, of the coming of new adventures. It’s not even about wanting something badly, it’s wanting it more than death. It’s dying for something and being reborn. It is as if my heart and soul have climbed into their own luggage and buckled in as happy passengers. There is a time to stay. There is a time to go. I believe I am close to the latter. At a certain point I need to go wandering. My feet need to hit earth, again and again, that bone-filling drumbeat. I need the sky’s colored threads to tangle inside me, pull me somewhere new. Everything I was I carry with me, and everything I will be lies waiting on the road ahead. The road doesn’t rise and the road doesn’t sink, it’s me that does the walking. Every day it’s right there and I can ride it anywhere or sit here on this curb.

I’m leaving, Fanny. I’m sorry but I can’t stay. Sir John Talbot and I have broken our engagement. I wanted it to work, not for Mother’s sake, but for John’s. And, if I was older, maybe I could have made it. But I still have my youth and I can’t throw that away on him. I’m not the right woman for him, and he’s not the right man for me. It was a mutual decision, and came as a surprise to neither of us. We parted amicably, and promised that we’d still be friends and keep in touch. I’m relieved and very glad to know our friendship won’t suffer and that, despite our broken engagement, we haven’t truly fallen out. It feels like a weight off our shoulders, like the stars have aligned and the world has shifted back into place.

Now that things are going back to the way they were between us, I no longer feel dizzy and disoriented, like I’m living outside of my body. But something’s changed, in a good way. I can’t explain or describe it, but I can feel it. I hope John can feel it too. He’s a good man with an even better heart, but it still belongs to his wife. He’s so very lucky to have loved and been loved in return, to have his heart held by a woman who could really cherish it and keep it safe. True love stories don’t end in a wedding, Fanny, they end in a funeral. He had his love story and it had a happy ending, for a time. And isn’t he the lucky one? It is better to have loved and lost, than to not have loved at all. I don’t know if he’ll ever find another woman to love him, if he’ll ever make room in his heart for her in that way, but I wish him every happiness.

I’m so sorry, Fanny. I do love you, you know. It’ll be hard to go, to let you go, my last link with home. I know that I leave many things behind, but it is time to go towards a new beginning and go in search of my destiny. I don’t know what I’m going to find, but I’m sure it will be wonderful. Being the person I am, and feeling the way that I do, getting excited about going somewhere new can be terrifying. Of course it is, I get it! As much as I had always longed to be freed of my duties and obligations, being released from such bonds was as much a severing as an emancipation. Emancipation resulting in madness. Unlimited freedom to choose and play a tremendous variety of roles with a lot of coarse energy. I might be afraid of damn near everything at first, but I refuse to let it paralyze me. I won’t be the woman who cowers behind four walls, never taking chances. I am a world of uncertainties disguised as a girl, and I want to die like I’ve lived. I always wanted to be larger than life. If I don’t travel, I’ll regret it. My soul will forever be empty. Still, it’ll be scary and lonely…and half the time I’ll be wondering why the hell I’m in Cincinnati or Hungary or North Dakota or Mongolia or wherever my ambition takes me.

There will be boondoggles and discombobulated days, freaked-out nights and metaphorical flat tires. In the first few seconds an aching sadness will wrench my heart, and I know I shall be homesick for you…but it will soon give way to a feeling of sweet disquiet, the excitement of wanderlust. Still, living in this moment I realize that it is a transition that will live with me all my days. Yet I take these emotions with me, these memories of comfort and joy. I see the places we did hopscotch as kids, throwing down them stones, leaping in time to our rhymes. I see the road in the right here and now, these shoes feeling how the sidewalk pushes back softly, always supporting, never asking. And in that moment I hear it calling with its sweet song of other places, all of them connected by the breathing land that runs under that tarmac, under oceans and mountains. That’s how I know I’ve gotta go, go with the road, take her curves and junctions, pause at the red, go at the green.

I went to such great lengths to hide it, but I suppose I can tell you this now: I wasn’t a very good student. I wasn’t smart enough to just get by. I wasn’t focused enough in class. I rarely passed exams. I skipped assignments. I was constantly on academic probation. I can remember the complicated face Mother made when I told her that my college application was rejected again and that I didn’t want to go to school anyway. None of us were expecting them to approve an application of a dropout with a low grade point average. As much as I wanted to be, I wasn’t anything like Dad. Not that Mother would ever let anyone know that.

You and I always used to stick together, and then when we were in junior high... I would get into trouble here and there and our parents would always compare us. You were the good twin...and I was the evil twin, as I liked to say. Two halves to a whole, and I was the rotten half, they said. I kind of got this image. I totally played it up as if that’s what I had to be or something. But at the time, as Mother and Father were in the middle of their divorce that was neither smooth nor messy, but something in-between, I was already thinking of doing what Jim was accused of doing: selling all my belongings, maybe inventing a fake identity, sticking out my thumb, and hitchhiking to roam around the world to be with the other hippies and vagabonds who had dropped out of school and tuned in to their surroundings.

All I wanted was to live a life where I could be me, and be okay with that. I had no need for material possessions, money or even close friends with me on my journey. I never understood people very well anyway, and they never seemed to understand me very well either. All I wanted was my art and the chance to be the creator of my own world, my own reality. I wanted the open road and new beginnings every day. When no possessions keep us, when no countries contain us, and no time detains us, man becomes a wanderer, and woman, a wanderess. I know, in my soul, that a love for travel is a gift and not a hindrance. It feels like a burden when the bucket list is bigger than the bank account, but a thirst for more of the world is not something to apologize for.

Denying its presence feels like denying something good in me, something God put there. One learns most when one wanders the world. Experience teaches is such a lovely saying. Hypocrisy is something I have learned saturates every level of our society. I see it more now than I did then. At some stage I started questioning everything that I was being taught and turned against various aspects of my upbringing. Maybe I had my reasons and maybe I needed new ways to cope like Dr. Jaquith said. I needed pain, I needed blood. Pain is beauty. The more pain somebody has experienced in their life the more physically attractive they are. Judge me if you want, but I’m talking about my own body. My own catharsis. About marking myself with beauty instead of ugliness. Anger is a thing I channel into my passions, I make it my rocket fuel to create a better world. All those times I have lashed out, lost self-control… I’m so dreadfully sorry. I am learning from those past experiences - learning how to become more as our father who suffered so much and yet was calm and kind to all.

Jim was like Father, always pushing his limits. Well… It was more like he was always being pushed, but he was good at it. That’s why he naturally became a journalist, a travel writer, while maintaining a high for adventure, for exploration, for new experiences and the discovery of previously unknown wonders. Jim was the best chauffeur I could ask for. Seeing him all sweaty as he worked on a car triggered something tingly within me. Something that made me want to catch him behind his back and never let go. All sorts of feelings and thoughts were pumped restlessly into my brain with every heartbeat. It gave me a bad headache. A good kind of bad headache. I wanted it to stop. I wanted it to never stop. But as soon as Jim gave me that “Hello” all those headaches were washed away. It used to be the best prescription I could ask for. Take away the pain and let only the good things stay.

I don’t want to start talking shit about her already but how can I resist? Every time I got in Mother’s view, it triggered an obvious backbite. I had an... interesting talk with Mother. One you’re never going to need to have. Well, of course Mother prefers you over me. Why shouldn’t she? I’m ugly and awkward, and I always say the wrong things. I fly around throwing away perfectly good marriage proposals. I love our home, but I’m just so fitful, and I can’t stand being here! I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Fanny. I’m sorry about being as difficult as I am, my brain’s just…built wrong. There’s just something really wrong with me. I want to change, but I…I can’t. And I just know, I’ll never fit in anywhere. Why is it that I can’t be content to live a normal life? Why do I spiral into depression when I am away from the wilderness for too long?

I mean...you’ve known, right? Like... I’ve known. I’ve known ever since Father took us with him to Europe. Mother didn’t, I guess. But she saw Jim’s note, and the suitcase under my bed, and she asked, “is there something I should know about you and Jim?” Mother kept doing what she does best: digging into other’s secrets. She tried to use Jim’s ex-wife and four adult daughters against him, against me. But that backfired on her and blew up in her face when I told her I already knew all about Jim’s past. In that moment, I was proud to have rendered her speechless. It gave me great pleasure to watch her sputter, trying and failing to form words. I threw a wrench in her plans, just as she had thrown a wrench in mine. But here’s the thing. I was prepared for her to be mad, or disappointed, or start crying or something. But she was just in denial. “You're too young to know what you want,” “you and Jim are just good friends,” “you just haven’t met the right man...” “It’s a phase.” That's what I didn’t see coming. That she wouldn’t even respect me enough... to believe me.

Maybe Mother thought...thought that Jim only took an interest in me because I was just a “rich but clueless American girl” who was lonely enough to do anything for anyone who was nice to me. Jealousy is a strong creature. It quickly devoured her mind. Soon, anger took control of her, and it took control of me too. And she just needed someone to be mad at, someone to blame for her misery other than herself. Sadly, coping with her bitchiness wasn’t the hardest part of the day. Even after Jim left me, anger stayed. It devoured me whole. A phase, she called it. Well, joke’s on her, because she is in for one very long phase. I only stayed as long as I had because Mother suddenly contracted diphtheria and depended on us more and more. Manby, Uncle George, you, me…all of us. She was ill and getting worse. And there was you, Fanny. I didn’t want to abandon you and leave you alone in that great empty house with Mother. Even if I could’ve chucked everything— But Jim wouldn’t let me. Jim. Jim. What’s the feminine for his word? That’s what I am. I knew he had been married with children before, that he abandoned them, and I walked right in with my eyes wide open. I said he would make me happier. And he had.

But now my beloved Jim has gone away. He left on a train and hasn’t told me where he’s going. I’ve lost touch with him. He vowed never again to step foot on the territory of New York or Wales, wishing for me to be free of him so I could be happy with John. How was he to know we’d break our engagement? And though I haven’t lost everything - I still have you and Uncle George here in New York and Father in Berlin (God, I hope he’s safe. I pray for him every night), my beloved family who lights up my life - If I don’t go after him, it’ll only seal my fate of never seeing him again, and the thought is too much to bear. I lost him twice already, but I can’t survive it a third time. So now you will never see me again, for I am on my way Northeast, there to start the rest of my life. I will never return to the territory of New York, not even when my mother, whom I despise with every part of my being, has left this Earth - unless she changes her ways. But I’m not holding my breath.

Between saying and doing, many a pair of shoes is worn out. As of now, it looks as if I’m right about one thing, that Mother is never going to change. Even if she told me she understands my need to move out of the city, I don’t feel guilty for leaving her alone in New York. I hate to add to her unhappiness, truly. But she won’t change. Not until she’s happy again, at any rate. She’ll come around when she’s not lonely anymore, if by some miracle Dad comes home. But not before. Our parents smile from the old photographs, full of the promise of youth. Mother stands in her wedding dress, modest by today’s standards, simple and white. Father is the proud man holding the arm of his pretty bride, the sunlight reflecting from his unwrinkled face. That was before...before the illusion shattered. It was before his infidelity and her hypocrisy surfaced and came to a head. I want to see them smile like that again, to find that love hiding inside their aching bones.

Bravery is the sweet spot on a spectrum from cowardice to fool hardy. There are times when running away is that sweet spot, when it is the brave choice. It is all a matter of circumstance, trust your instinct on which it has arisen. This is the moment. It’s time to take matters into my own hands. I tell myself, you aready used up your last chance to change your mind about running away, Miss Skeffington. Get yourself together. if not for you, for Dad. Mother sought her refuge in London and abroad when she was ill, while I found a place in the great wide somewhere. And so I stepped over the divide between childhood and all that lay beyond. I won’t be defeatist and say it will be my last time in this house. I’ll be back. Someday. Maybe. For now, I cautiously regard home as a place I’m leaving behind in order to come back to it afterward. It’s selfish, but at the end of the day, that's what we are - selves. If we don’t look out for our own interests, there are plenty who’ll be more than happy to chip away at our core, piece by piece, until we forget what we ever wanted.

Although I do not have the time to convey my good wishes to you in the way that I would like, I hope you know that you have been the kindest of sisters and although you may not want to hear this after what I’ve done, I am very grateful to you. I am sorry to be leaving home like this after so many years. I know I’ve said it many times in this letter already, and maybe you’re tired of reading those two words, but I feel like I can’t say it enough. Please forgive me for running off and leaving so abruptly without a proper goodbye. As much as I would’ve preferred to have taken leave in person, the matter was urgent, and I had no time to wait for you to get back from your date with Johnny Mitchell. It was decided just that very day, and my boat was scheduled to set sail so soon, so I had to leave rather abruptly to catch it.

By the time you read this letter, I will be halfway across the world, on my way to India. There’s something Jim said in his letter…it might be a hint as to where he is. Or it might be nothing. But I have to try. Besides, it’s not just because of Jim that I’m going. It was a thought, that. Not to attach myself to a man, but to confront instead the open world, the wide fields of France and Spain, the ocean, anything. Not just to hitch a lift with the first fellow who looked as though he knew where he was going, but just to go. I haven’t told Mother or Uncle George this, but there’s an art exhibition in Delhi, and I just received a letter informing me that I have a place as one of the featured international artists! I’ll be able to present my artwork in front of hundreds - no - thousands of people!! It might actually be my crowning achievement. But once this is done…then what? Do I have it in me to come up with something even better? How much longer can I enjoy the fame and praise I get now? Is there despair and disappointment waiting for me right around the corner...? No point in dwelling on what ifs now. I’ve already booked my ticket and it seems too good a chance to miss, so I will be starting my journey there. I must go for the adventure.

Perhaps a slightly perverted adventure of questionable consent, but beggars like me can’t be choosers. I wish to study painting abroad. All I want is a chance to pursue my passions, and I hope that gives me enough to live on and time off for fun with family and friends. I want the kind of work-life balance that has eluded our family for generations. India… It sounds so far away and different. I like different places. I like any places that isn’t here. If Jim is not there, I don’t know where I’ll go after India, but I just know I’ll have to keep searching. For him, for myself… Even if it takes months or years, I will find him - and if and when we can prove to Mother that all we ask of her is her consent - nothing more - then, and only then will I come back home. No sooner than that. I could give up the search, it’s the easiest option. But I’m not going to give up on him so easily, just when the going gets tough. What would I achieve? Many sleepless nights holding regret of all I didn’t seek? That option will never exist to me. My dreams are far too real. Down the hard road I find my place in the world, the closest to home I’ll ever feel. I’ll look for Jim around every corner. I’m taking back my life, and it’s due to him.

It is important, I feel, to give thanks to what has been, for in doing so the future walks upon a clean pathway. You and Father and even Uncle George have always fought my corner and been my allies. Even when I was failing almost all of my other classes and eventually dropped out of school, even when I received rejection letter after rejection letter from countless colleges, you continued to encourage and support me in my pursuit of an art and photography career. You believed in me, always told me that I am talented in my own right, and I am forever thankful to you all for pushing me to pursue my passions, even when Mother didn’t understand and was against them. I would’ve given up without you, Dad, and Uncle George. Not just on my art and photography, but on myself entirely. I leave with thanks for your and their many kindnesses.

In a way, I will carry you all with me. You will be my muses, my inspiration, and I will represent you and the love I feel towards you all in my artwork. If I don’t make the papers, I hope to show you my artwork myself someday. Darling, forgive me and rejoice for my mind is made up. In time you will understand and my prayer is that you will always accept that this was my decision, my free decision. Who would have dreamed taking a semester off to visit landmarks in Switzerland would result in meeting the love of my life and chasing after him? Don’t worry, I’ll be careful. I know you must be so worried, but I will be safe and well. No matter what you hear, nothing is going to happen to me. I will be fine and Jim and I will be together soon, I promise. I dare not call home at the risk Mother may pick up the phone, but I’ll write you every week, though there’s no telling when my letters will actually make it to you with how erratic and unpredictable the post can be sometimes. I’d write you every day if I could. I need space, so I believe this time away could be good for me. Leaving is my form of self-protection. There is no other way to accomplish it, or to give myself a chance to recover. My leaving is not only a choice, but a duty.

Anyway, you know Uncle Fred is in Diamond Stud, South Africa, so I have somewhere to go if something goes wrong. You know how much he loves us as if we were his own daughters of his flesh and blood (Dad had to rein him in more than once lest he spoil us too much, especially on Christmas and our birthday. Remember our eighth birthday? It’s very funny to think back on now but, at the time, Mother and Father were mortified. The words “Simple” and “Small” are not in Uncle Fred’s vocabulary). He always used to say our invitation to come live with him over the summer was open, just to cable or call him beforehand so he could prepare a room. He has plenty of space, so I’m sure he would love to have my company, should I ever want to stay with him, if my travels ever bring me around to South Africa.

Though I know he’s of no blood relation to us, and it may sound terrible to admit, there were times when I did wonder if he was my biological father after all. When I was growing up, I felt a certain way towards him, like there was an invisible connection or kinship between us that nobody else could see. I can’t describe it, but I felt it. I felt I was more like him than Father. He’s unmarried but never had and still has no interest in ever settling down and taking a wife, just like me. While he’s no virgin and loves the company of young and beautiful women, he never thought himself a family man. He wasn’t cut out to be a father and would much rather stay the “fun uncle”. Just like how I never wanted and still never want to be a mother. I’d much rather be the “fun aunt”. He was and still is built of different stuff, cut from a different cloth, just like me. He’s free, living it up as a rich bachelor, unbridled by marriage prospects. I envied him for so many years because he had the kind of life I could only dream of. When you receive this letter, let my words be the butterfly and the envelope their cocoon. Though I leave home, our bond remains, traveling different pathways yet eternally connected. Know, too, that I miss you terribly, and always, always will.

Love,

Your sister xx

P.S. Enclosed is a picture of the vilest woman ever born.

May 1936

Dear John,

Wanderlust is the pretty onward road when the duties that kept one anchored are lifted. It is neither running from nor running to, yet a sense of easy adventure, a gentle curiosity, a growing inner peace. What an unfortunate time for the wanderlust to strike! Although we were friends first, we never really had time to discover the souls of one another without the rest of these strong emotions. Perhaps then we would have seen how our passions and purpose would always take us in opposite directions...unless one of us sacrificed who we really are...then what? How could there be a relationship if one of us became a shadow of our former self, or worse, a sort of annex of the other, or a fading echo struggling to find self-worth?

In the carefully scripted wedding rituals, I detected bad faith. I felt less like a bride and more like a person pretending to be a bride, the way a little girl might process through her living room with a pillowcase draped over her head toward some imaginary groom. I refused to take engagement photos because who would ever believe that we were spontaneously bounding through a field at sunset holding hands? Or kissing in front of a brick wall? Who was that photo for? It couldn’t be for us because anytime we looked at it we would know all the work that went into it: A long afternoon spent smiling to the point of jaw exhaustion.

In this breakup I won’t break up. I refuse to because I choose to seize this opportunity, this chance you have given me, given us, to live and love again. I choose to love again with full power because anything less would feel anaemic. In my pain I thought you close to an adversary or oppressor, yet in truth you’re drowning in a sea of your own uncried tears. How can a soul be healthy if you refuse to feel your pain? Over the past four weeks I forgot what it was to smile from joy instead of painting a smile upon my face for others, one that felt empty and wrong. The truth is, we were simply wrong for each other. It takes a lot of healing to feel a spark again, to have the courage to let it grow and burn...so you can be sure I’ll keep on walking, exploring, making a new life with others who spark and flame. So, remembering the good times, cherishing our laughter and smiles, letting the quarrels fade to nothing, farewell, be strong, for I loved you in my own way. Not as a wife or a lover, but as…

Your friend,

Miss Skeffington

May 1936

Dear Jim,

Not every road untraveled is worthy of the imprint of your soles. Some are best left that way, forgotten and erased by the passage of time. For every soul there is a road not traveled by others. There are times we are called upon to take the road not traveled, as a sort of scout, checking its safety, ensuring that it leads to someplace of greater love, than to stick to well-known routes. Such exploration takes a degree of courage, a pure seed of faith, and a complete determination to do what is right for others. For it is the road that your love and passion will call you to explore, it is the reason you were called into existence.

When your soles meet that road, regardless of the challenge, your soul will rise, igniting a fire within. You walk this road not for yourself, yet for the good of others, to make discoveries that bring greater health to your community, to creation, to mother nature. So, I hope you have the courage to walk your road when it is revealed to you. Yet when we find the entrance to new, untraveled roads, when the urge to travel them comes from the loving impulse, from the callings of the heart, when they echo the soul in ways that feel like home, I say we travel them together. Let us be explorers on these paths that lead to greater birdsong and the regeneration of nature. For this sense of love we are all born to seek, is real sense, real sanity, and our inbuilt navigation system.

Why won’t you see me? Why won’t you return a simple message? I miss you so much. You’d love India, I think, probably. The nature here is totally different than back home. I keep thinking about the story you told me, about Allegra and the first mate lost on a mysterious island where even the plants are out to get them…and then I think of them together, out there in the wilderness together…and I start thinking of you again… I lie here in bed and I can almost feel you. I’ve been trying to save it up for when we’re together again.

I haven’t done a good job, okay?! But I tried… The love letter is so underrated. It’s challenging to write a love letter, for when we do the soul is naked. They take courage to write and so are incredibly elevating to read; for to render yourself so emotionally naked is a profound act of love. Without knowing why or how, I found myself in love with you, this strange wanderer. While I won’t lie and say I fell in love with you the day we met, I fell for you harder than a slip on black ice. You were funny, always cracking jokes. You had me in stitches on every date. People flocked to you like you were the only light in the room, hanging on your words, buying you drinks and slapping your back. After a time I wanted more than the “happy guy” persona. I already loved you, and I wanted to get to know the man behind the punch lines. At first you distracted me with jokes and I followed each one, laughing down every blind alley.

Then one day Fanny asked me some things about you, where you grew up, what your parents were like, who your best friends were, and I froze. After six months I knew nothing about you other than your alcohol and bed preferences. Maybe I was just in love with the dream you were selling me: A life of destiny and fate, as my own life up until we met had been so void of enchantment. Those things - mystery, fate, enchantment - they are things that young people offer us as soon as we get close to them. And if we’re not careful, we can be seduced by, and drawn back into, the youthful world they preside over. The freedom of the open road is seductive, serendipitous and absolutely liberating. I sat with you, reached out with my open heart and invited you to reciprocate, to make that connection. But then I walked away and went back to New York. I had to protect myself from the pain of the emotions. I had to make some effort to get over you. Then, just when I thought I’d made progress on that, you came back. You came back on the exact day I was going to make a bigger effort to move on. So, that was that. The universe wants this. I want this. It feels like you want this too. I fell in love more deeply upon meeting you in New York, but I couldn’t say. I thought you wanted to be friends and that was all. It broke my heart. It was rough. But I’d take you as a friend than not at all. Love is that way. You stay, you do all the good you can for them while you do the best for yourself too, get on with your life, pursue your passions and talents...

Your goodbye letter is the boots upon my feet and the bag upon my arm, yet come the calling of the black heavens and stars, it is the bed I rest upon and the pillow that welcomes me to dreamland. So it’s a matter of time and patience, I suppose. I never met a lover before who made every other man appear as if he were a two-dimensional paper drawing, men who would melt in the rain and burn on the first rays of a strengthening sun. And this confidence in your soul, in who you were born to become, as the man who stands with me, is the finest love letter I can ever write. For words are only the crude tools of emotion and it’s my heart you’ve won. With you I’m both completely free and completely in a cage, though it’s a cage I want to be in, because I feel safe there. My imagination is free, my creativity and intellect have no frontiers, it peeks in glee at infinite possibilities for ideas and learning. My romantic love, however, has entered the cage, locked the door behind herself and put the key out of the bars. That’s that. I’m done. I’m yours. I’ve found you at last. When you left I was scattered to the winds. But now... I feel almost whole again. Wanna know how much I love you? I love you to the moon and back. I’m crazy about you. I’m lost without you… I’ve been lost a long time... Let’s go back to our small world, where I placed my hearts at everywhere you loved. Let’s go back. I’m coming for you. I’m coming. I’m coming for you, Jim. Hold on just a little longer. I know this isn’t real, but the pain sure is. I keep hearing a German man’s whisper in the wind. After weeks of trying to decipher something, anything… I heard the word “Wald”. A little elbow grease at the library turned up a German dictionary. Wald means “forest.” I’m coming for you. I’m coming. I’m coming for you, Jim. There’s just one thing left to do. Take me with you. Please. Please, take me with you this time. You won’t leave me again, will you? You can’t just shake up my whole world and leave.

All my love,

Your storyteller Xxx

You turned, headed for the stairs. You ran down a busy train station, pushing your way through a crowd of stevedores and waving families. But it was too late. By the time you arrived at the platform, the last call had been announced and the train had pulled out of the station. You stood there, panting, defeated, watching the train receding. But little by little you became aware of another presence standing close by. It was Jim. Shocked, flustered, you backed away. He followed closely.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Skeffington.”

“Mr. Masters.”

“I thought you might find me sooner or later. No one can keep a secret these days.”

“I knew where you’d be. It was hidden in plain sight in your letter. If you didn’t want me to find you, why did you write it? When have you condescended to hide from a woman, especially me?”

“Darling, you really shouldn’t have come.”

“I had to see you. I don’t trust you. I’m giving my regards to Chief Mahabu in person.”

“Well… You might as well know. There is no Chief Mahabu.”

“It’s all right. We’ll find one.”

“I don’t want you with me.”

“Please don’t. I liked you much better when you were blunt and natural. You’re such a bad liar, Jim. I’d never have got anywhere if I were as rotten a liar as you.”

“Don’t act as if you’ve made a great discovery, I’ve known it for years. It did not serve me well.”

“That’s why I’ve appointed myself your guardian. When we get to Los Angeles, I’ll make it legal. It’s a big world. Two can travel in it.”

“So what do you wanna do? Spend the rest of your life with tramps? Derelicts? No goods?”

“Sure. I’m a socialite and you’re a social climber.”

“No. I’m not gonna let you do it. It’s too lonely a life.”

“Not if we’re together, it isn’t.”

"You don’t even know where I’m going."

"I don’t care. I’d like to go anywhere. How can there be any adventure, any exploration, if you let somebody else - above all, a travel bureau - arrange everything beforehand? Is there really nothing I might say so you’ll take me with you?”

“I confess that…I was hoping that I might have a reason to take you with me, but congratulations on the celebration of your marriage. I saw the announcement in the papers. I’m very happy for you.”

“Oh, no! No! No, that’s…that’s Fanny. You remember my sister, Fanny! And Johnny Mitchell, actually. No, I’m… I’m not married. Please don’t go so far away. Not without me.”

“What? What about Sir John Talbot? He was your fiancé when I left.”

“About that... Jim, Sir John and I broke our engagement. We broke it the day you called me.”

“What? Why didn’t you marry him? Don’t you love him?”

“Not like we do. Not like us. He’s like you in many ways. Not your sense of humor, nor your sense of beauty, nor your sense of play. But a fine man, and a kind of refuge I thought I could never have. I thought my fondness for him might grow to be love or something like what we have. When my sister and I had to leave Berlin because of the Nazis and we parted for the second time, I didn’t think I’d ever see you again. We’d made our pact, and we were living up to it. Mother thought that, with my engagement, I would get over you, Jim. But when you came back, my feelings for you that I tried so hard to bury came back full force. They never truly left. But then you left again.”

“I couldn’t stay and watch you ruin yourself. I only wanted to stop you from throwing away your future.”

“May I remind you it’s my future to throw away.”

“You talk about the future like you’re flipping through a magazine. I asked you to marry that man and be happy. I didn’t ask you to go against your mother and tag along after me. But thank you for defending me and proving that you do care.”

“I didn’t know how much until she said those dreadful things. She thought the only way to break us apart was to show me what a deadbeat you were. I kept hearing the disgusting words she said, but at the same time, I felt something. A reminder…of how I felt when I fell for you. How it felt so right and terribly wrong. Screaming into my pillow never helped with making the feelings go away.”

“So you’re not angry with me?”

“No. Only with Mother. On the other hand, I thought she described the way you left me rather accurately.”

“If it’s any comfort, I’ve always regretted having let you go. I was a cad to make you care for me and then because of some noble sense of duty, to leave you to get over it the best you can.”

“Don’t blame yourself. Please, darling. John and I weren’t right for each other. But this? I know this is right. Just as I know we’ll regret delaying when we could have made it happen. You’ll regret it. I’ll regret it. ‘He who loves the most regrets the most.’ But we don’t have time for regrets now, Jim. Only love.”

“It’s different.“

“It’s not. Shall I tell you what you've given me? On that very first day, a little bottle of perfume made me feel important. You were my first friend. And then when you fell in love with me, I was so proud. And when I came home, I needed something to make me feel proud. And your camellias arrived, and I knew you were thinking about me. I could’ve walked into a den of lions. As a matter of fact, I did, and the lions didn’t hurt me. I’m reminded of a promise. Didn’t you say you would take me across the world and kiss me in one hundred countries before we die?”

“Let’s not live in a fantasy. Give it up. Give me up.”

“Is that an order? Jim, you should know by now that I don’t follow orders very well. Never have, never will. If we can’t be happy here, we must leave for a place that will accept our love.”

“But, my darling, is there such a place? Think... I can’t bear to see you hurt.”

“Let me tell you a story then. There once was a man named Sidney. He was a big explorer and naturalist who went all over the world. He did a lot of exploration on the Amazon. There was a lust of wandering in his feet that burned to set out for the ends of the earth. ‘On! On!’ his heart seemed to cry. Evening would deepen above the sea, night fall upon the plains, dawn glimmer before the wanderer and show him strange fields and hills and faces. Where? He wasn’t very close with his son, who was also an explorer. They’d only see each other by chance in weird remote places like Samarkand or Walla Walla. One day, he met a woman on his travels. She was a botanist, but was completely daft - she’d wear really bizarre outfits and she was one of the first women to ride on a steam train. He didn’t want her with him, and kept trying to push her away, but she kept coming back. Then he fell in love with her, and she with him. Together they roamed the world, two halves made whole. They never legally married, but it didn’t matter. They didn’t need rings or a piece of paper to tell them that they were husband and wife. To them, they already were. Now there’s a plant named after her, and a monkey they adopted that they named after him. That monkey became famous and went on to have many offspring. He has grandchildren and great-grandchildren that are still alive today.”

“The naturalist or the monkey?”

“Yes. Oh, you understand what I’m saying, don’t you? If our love has no home, let us spend our lives searching together! If I can’t have you, I don’t want anyone. So I beg of you again... Don’t send me away. Don’t send me back. I’ve come so far. Please, Jim. Take me with you. I promise I will make you happy. And I know you’ll make me happy too. Please give us a chance.”

“You...just won’t give up, will you? Of all the crazy...stubborn...foolish women...”

“Jim, answer me, please! I’m sorry. I don’t mean to have an outburst. I mean, give me your answer. Let us go to Africa with a sense our tomorrows are beginning. Please. Take me away. Take me to a place where we can be happy.”

“But if we run away together or elope, won’t I ruin your reputation? Won’t I be an anchor around your neck?”

“A very nice anchor around a very willing neck. Now, I know what I really want. Jim, let’s just not get married yet. You never wanted marriage anyway. I know that. Let’s just get out of here...and just see the world. Okay? All right? My darling,” you exhaled as he reached you, pulling you into his embrace and holding you close. You clung to Jim, the gentle thrum of your heart against his chest reinvigorating him after his long journey.

“I love you. I love you, sweetheart. I’ve been in love before. I won’t pretend that I haven’t. But I really do love you.”

“Then I’ll take that as a yes.”

“The trouble is, I’m not as simple as I used to be. My life is not as simple. I...just need to be sure I’m being realistic, not living in a fool’s paradise and dragging you into it with me.”

“I’ll still take it as a yes. Please take back what you said in your letter.”

“If you can stay by my side and have a full and happy life, I will. Will you have me?”

“With all of my heart.”

“But I have nothing to give you. My hands are empty.”

You took his hands in yours. “Not empty now.”

“It seems I missed my train. On purpose, darling. I couldn’t go - not yet.”

“When, then? When do you leave?”

“I don’t know. I truly don’t—”

“What do you mean? If you don’t know, who does?”

“You, darling. Only you know.”

He pulled you close and kissed you. You were thrilled. You pulled away.

“I intend to eventually go to Europe one more time, and I need a companion. How would you like to be the person I take?”

“I’d like that more than anything! I’m ready to travel...and you’re my ticket. To get away from that house, away from that life— Leaving has the sense of adventure, coming home to you however, would be my heaven.”

At that moment, you were interrupted by a whistle from a passing train. A train’s lights moved on the sheer curtains. Obeying an old habit, Jim checked his pocket watch - and smiled. “It’s a great day for the tramps of the world. They’re getting new blood.”

“How are we gonna start out? Under the train or in it?”

“This time in it. Just for the novelty.”

The emotion of your reunion sealed as a perfect photograph in your soul. Adventure grinned at you as a new friend, as an old friend, as if he knew the answer was yes before he asked. The ideas would come later, probably when you least expected it. The goal of your life was to tie adventure to your feet, stock memories in your pocket, hold imagination in your palms like fairy dust and sprinkle it on your tales. So you laced your boots and took a step onto the train. The backpack had broad shoulder straps that felt quite natural even with the weight added. With it you walked a little taller, felt the straightening of your back and your head rise a little higher. Somehow it was easy to carry, almost easier than having been free of it. The backpack had that well-loved look, the canvas of spring flowers showing signs of being washed many times. It took the form of your shoulder in the same way a friend’s hand might, gentle and warm. Your luggage hugged at your hips as if it was filled with future good memories. To the heart ready to travel, the backpack brought a frisson of joy. The backpack upon the compartment seat was the color of bright yellow petals, the sort of yellow that got brighter in the rays of the dayshine. It was a sort of bold, "Hello," something that was confident to glow in all weathers. It was the most welcome of sights, for it told of a new adventure afoot. Your luggage bags were plain and well loved, yet what mattered most was not your destination, but the journey. Your luggage bathed in the warm light that entered the window of the train, as if it spoke its contents of good times ahead. You took comfort as the bag hugged itself into your gentle form, the train rocking its maternal rhythm, anchored to centuries old rails. The train ride rocked you so gently as if you were a sweet babe in this carriage. Whatever was ahead could be a great challenge, and there could be tears, but it was your adventure to take and so you smiled.

Dear Fanny,

Here I am at the railroad station with a handful of other bypassers, about to board a train bound for who knows where! The only person who knows where we’re going is the conductor. I’ve found Jim and I’m feeling close to him as I’m back to traveling again. The road and the sky feel full of life. Wish me luck!

Love,

Your sister xx

Just before Fanny left, your mother suffered the ultimate humiliation when Edward Morrison, one of her old beaux, made what she at first believed to be a sincere marriage proposal, only to withdraw it when he began to suspect, incorrectly, that she was no longer wealthy. Without her husband, without her daughters, Fanny was left alone with her maid, Manby.

“Manby!”

“Why, Mrs. Skeffington. What is it? What’s the matter?”

“Manby. Manby. Don’t leave me.”

“Why, of course I won’t.”

“Promise me you’ll never leave me.”

“Of course I won’t.”

“You’re the only one I have left.”

“I’ll never leave you. Never.”

“You see. You see, I’m all alone. I’m all alone.”

“Mrs. Skeffington, wouldn’t you like to rest?”

“Yes. Yes, I think I would.”

“You’ll feel better after you’ve had a little rest.”

“You’re the only one I have left.”

Half a year passed. Not knowing who else to turn to, your mother made one last desperate plea to your sister, Fanny, who had moved out to Seattle with her husband, Johnny Mitchell, and, like you, went low contact with her.

“Fanny, please talk to your sister for me. Please. She hasn’t replied to any of my letters. This is no place for me. The men are cruel, and the land is cruel. I beg of you. I beg of her. I will do everything, anything, to make amends. If she will not take pity, ask if she truly wants to leave her family name to die out here in the dust? You’re our family’s hope now. Your sister is sick, a lost cause. I fear she has had her head turned and her hand claimed by that penniless charlatan, Mr. Masters. Please, say something to her.”

Fanny wasn’t going to defend your mother or take her side. However, though your mother was never particularly nice to her, or to you, she did bring you both into the world. So Fanny thought it’d be nice of her to write just one letter to you on your mother’s behalf, at the very, very least. Not just for her, but for you too. She thought maybe your dad would want it that way. Though Fanny couldn’t promise your mother that you’d listen to her appeals or entreaties, or be swayed into coming back to New York, she could try. And so that was what she did.

November 1936

Darling sister,

I am writing on behalf of our mother, but I do not think you will I miss you terribly, but it seems like Mother misses you most. When you left, Johnny and I went to a play and it was so late by the time it ended that we didn’t return home until the next day. I heard Mother and Uncle George talking. You ran away from home. You took all your things. And then I got your goodbye letter from India some weeks later. Mother still hasn’t opened hers. Though it’s been half a year, Mother is still hopeful that you’ll come home someday. She keeps telling Manby and the other servants that you’ll write to her or call any day now, that you’ll ring the doorbell and she’ll beat Soames to it and answer the door herself. But I had a feeling even then… I don’t think you’re coming back. Not anytime soon, at least. Your room is just the way you left it, though Mother and Manby have kept it impeccably clean for your arrival. Not a speck of dust or askew wall painting in sight. She’s never had much interest in cleaning or helping Manby before, but lately she’s been doing it almost obsessively. I can’t count the number of times she’s plumped the same pillow on the old chair you used to sit in. I think she does it to give herself something to do, to ward off her loneliness and the sad thoughts of you that come with it. She always seemed happy during the day, but at night, I often woke up because I heard something. It was Mother crying. She was always saying that she was sorry while Manby hugged her and tried to shush her with comforting words and pats on the back. I heard her crying even after she dismissed Manby and let her retire for the night. When she called me to ask for help, she was crying in her room again. I wanted to ask her if she needed help from a professional, but I think she doesn’t want anyone else but Manby and I to know. I’m worried. Should I talk to Dr. Jaquith about it? I know that come the morning, she’ll keep talking to herself and go on telling Manby that she’s going to personally make up the guest room for Jim to stay in, even if you come home on such short notice that she won’t have much time to do it.

If you ever come home, Jim can use my room if he wants. I won’t be needing it anymore. You remember Johnny Mitchell, don’t you? One of Mother’s (former) admirers. I didn’t wish to be courted by someone who was still in love with Mother, but he assured me that he wasn’t in love with her. He and I were married shortly after, and we left for Seattle. Johnny opened a branch office there. Mother had no idea, just like she had no idea about you and Jim. She told me the same thing she told you, that I should’ve talked it over with her and that I hadn’t known him very long. But I’d known him for several months, as long as I’d known her. It’s funny in an ironic way. You’ve known Jim far longer than I’ve known Johnny, yet she didn’t put up as much fight with me marrying as she did with you. I wish I had been there the day you left. I knew that one day soon you would go and I wouldn’t have been able to stop you from leaving, but maybe I could’ve stopped you and Mother from having such an explosive row. Maybe I could’ve mitigated the damage done so you wouldn’t have had such a destructive falling out. I won’t try to justify Mother’s actions. I never approved of her meddling in your love life.

Besides your flighty nature, I can only guess that she was so hard on you and pushed for a “suitable” marriage because she thought if you were married, you’d become solid, grounded. I can only guess she chose Sir John not only because he was well-born with money and position (and an ancestral castle to boot!) but because you already liked him immensely and he was a dear friend to you, so she thought he’d make the perfect husband for you. She imagined his homestead in Wales should’ve been enough to cure your wanderlust, that the prospect of spending the rest of your life abroad in a European castle should’ve pleased you as much as it pleased her. But it wasn’t enough and it didn’t please you. There was something much greater you needed to feed your soul. Now you and Jim are both traveling for your own self-care and to feed your wandering souls…existing in other places so that you could remember who you are and then come home to yourselves. You used not to know where you were going, but you knew you would arrive, you knew there would be an end to the long, blind road. Mother didn’t suppose secrecy would have even occurred to you. Ironically, her being so hard on you is what drove you to it. It was also possible, her distaste for Jim was at least partially fueled by her own humiliating experience with her former lovers when she invited them over after her illness. Their declarations of having their breaths taken at her beauty, omnipresent smiles, and devoted facades had her fooled, until after she lost her beauty and she realized most of them had wives and children of their own, and none of them ever truly loved her.

Though she was wrong about a lot of things, she was right about one thing though, in a small way. Sir John would’ve made the perfect husband for you. But only on paper. Not in practice. He was a dear friend, but that’s all he was. There was no spark, no flame. You wanted a love match and she knew that, but she wanted an advantageous match for you and prioritized convenience over love. She tried to appease you with assurances that love would come later, that you’d learn to love him in time, but you knew that this was a lie. Your love and affection for Sir John would never bypass warm fondness, no matter how much you wanted it to. John knew this too, so you both did the admirable thing and called it a day before either one of you got hurt. You parted as friends. Though I didn’t have a chance to tell you in person, I thought that was very classy of you.

Beyond the trails and hikes, there was so much to explore, especially since you were into foraging. Due to the merciless unpredictability of nature when combined with people and their knack for losing possessions, it was advised that you keep a camera with you at all times so you could take photos of memorable sights. Looking back, I think that’s around the time your love for photography was realized. And look at you now! You became a great explorer just like I said you would be! I still remember when you used to take me “treasure hunting” when we were children. I still have our treasures safely wrapped up and put away. I’ve taken great care of them. Hmm, where should I put them? They might look nicer a little closer to the light. They will catch the light from my desk lamp so nicely. My shelves would look much more interesting with your treasures on display! Mother hid most of your discoveries away. I pestered her for weeks to let me bring some of your treasures out of storage when I moved out. Oh, I almost forgot! When I came back inside from searching for your treasures in the shed, Uncle George showed me some of Jim’s published articles that he came across and saved in the travel section of the newspaper! Who would’ve thought we’d have such a talented writer and journalist in the family? I also saw the article printed about you!

‘Her art continues to captivate the hearts of the young, so we reached out to her for comment. Keeping her eyes fixed on her new piece, Ms. Skeffington had this to say:

“All I’m doing is showing what these girls feel on the inside but can’t show on the outside. If any of them connect with a girl in the art, it’s probably because they’re experiencing the same thing.”

She added that the flowers she depicts on the young girls she paints bloom out of the scars they bear. The flowers represent the girls overcoming past traumas, or at least their desire to do so.’

I managed to read them all before Mother took them away and gave them back to Uncle George. Darling, it was fascinating! It almost felt as if I were there myself! It made me think about how I would have loved to go with you so we could’ve gone treasure hunting again like we used to. Even though I was so young I still remember our adventures together in Europe after the divorce. Would you like me to share my memories of them? Well, I’m going to whether you like it or not! We talked about some of them already. It seems like such a long time ago. You were incredibly excited about each one. You were so happy about them, showing them to me and Father, you didn���t stop talking about some of them for hours. I thought, how can my sister be so excited over some old broken pottery or a heart shaped rock or fallen antlers… But it wasn’t long until I understood. I remember you being so proud of each and every find, no matter how small. I remember the first treasure hunt you took me on. The day that started it all! We found a pair of old dog tags. Dog tags are usually fabricated from a corrosion-resistant metal. From the looks of it, that pair must’ve been quite old as they were already starting to rust and deteriorate by the time we found them.

Mother was so upset when we brought those dog tags home, wasn’t she? “Darling, that simply will not do! Regardless of its condition - buried, corroded, or damaged - a dog tag has value to its owner or their loved ones. We should try to locate the owner.” I think seeing those tags reminded her of Uncle Trippy. Then there was the time you brought home that creepy clay mask. You found it wedged behind a stone near the river as you ate your sandwich. It must’ve washed up at some point. It was cracked and chipped in spots, and was a ghoulish green color. The paint was worn away in some spots, revealing its gray base since it had been under the swampy water for who knows how long. Mother was so repulsed by it. She probably thought it was cursed or haunted. Mother took away all the knick-knacks that used to sit on those shelves. “They’re taking up space on the mantelpiece! Take them away!” Once Father moved them to his study, I remember us creeping in to take a peek at them. You tried to scare me with the mask by pretending to wear it and be a monster. Even if there isn’t a specific story attached to that mask, just the sight of it was still creepy enough that I wanted to take a photo to show my friends. Do you still wear the empty locket you found? Does it still hold that picture of us? I hope it reminds you of those adventures we had together when we were children, and how thankful I am for everything you’ve taught me. I’ve had to beg Mother to let me visit you, you know. But now that I’m an adult and a married woman, I don’t need her permission or her money. I shouldn’t worry you with that kind of talk. I know we’ll meet again someday. Now, you must tell me about your visit to Delhi!

Love,

Fanny xx

In response to Fanny’s letter, you surprised her with a phone call. Sticking to your vow, you, of course, didn’t call your childhood house on Charles Street, but the firm Johnny worked at. From there, you asked for him by name and, when he picked up the other line, he happily gave you his home phone number so you could call your sister.

“She’s counting on you to bring me home, isn’t she.” You didn’t make it a question.

“They all are,” she said quite honestly. “But they won’t hold it against you if your heart says otherwise. They—we—wouldn’t want you there if it’s not where you want to be.”

You looked back to the road just outside your window. “I appreciate that,” you said in a quiet but steady voice. “More than you know. More than I knew. Fanny, I don’t think I’d bear it if you tried giving me a piece of your mind. You wouldn’t, would you? Even though Mother asked you to?”

“I would not. I gave Jim my bedroom, and that’s enough.”

“Please don’t tell Mother I called you. I’m not ready to come back, Fanny. It’s too soon. The people in charge of the exhibition arranged for me to meet with Brady Mueller, the agent. Quite a young man for what he has accomplished. During our meeting, Brady asked me many things, as if he was interviewing me. The brief introduction tumed out to be hours long. However, by the end of it, he said he had everything he needed and would get things moving right away. He called to meet with me today. He has the papers ready for me to sign. He said that the location of the new exhibition has been approved. All we need is the down payment.”

“That’s great!”

“I have a good feeling about him. I’d sign the papers almost immediately if Jim wasn’t here to help me look them over first. After that, I’ll inform my accountant, Helen, to transfer the money from my savings, since I’ve saved up quite a bit of money just on my own. Brady has been a great help since I brought up the idea of an art gallery for the public. I’m not sure if things could have gone so quickly if it had been some other agent. I owe him that much. The art gallery will open in three months. I’m so excited about it!”

“I’ll bet! I’m excited for you and I’m not even there to see it! How’s it coming along?”

“We have received most of the artwork from the contributors and artists. All I need is to ask Margot if she would be willing to donate some of her paintings. If this exhibition succeeds, it would be good for me and for Jim. I haven’t felt this alive in a very long time. I have a purpose now.”

“I told you that you would find it someday. I’m glad that day has finally come. Not to sour or dampen your good mood, but have you given any thought to coming back?”

“Oh. That. As for going back home… I don’t know if I ever will. I want to, someday. But…as it stands now… My mind still hasn’t changed from what it was when I wrote you and Mother those goodbye letters. The truth is, I’m not ready to go home… Oh, sure, I’ll travel and go abroad again but future trips will not stretch toward infinity like this one. They won’t contain so many possibilities. Heading home is the full stop marking the end of adventure and the beginning of a responsible life. And despite months of traveling, I’m not ready to be responsible.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I’m going to stay and help this exhibit get launched, and then… I don’t know. I may stay here in this town another day or I may go on to another town. No one but you knows where I am, and I’d like to keep it that way for the time being. I don’t want Uncle George to worry, so as far as he knows, it’s just rainbows and butterflies here in India. Can you tell Mother to please just…stop? Just… Just stop. Good for her. She’s figuring her shit out. And that’s great. I’m really, really happy for her. But I’m…I’m tired. I don’t want to hurt anymore. And for some reason when I was with her, it just… It just hurt the both of us. So let’s just go our separate ways, okay? Just tell her to let me go. I’ll come back when I’m good and ready. I just don’t know when that’ll be.”

“Okay… I understand. It’s your life and you can choose how you live it. I’ll tell her you wrote me a letter saying that you still need space and to be left alone. And as for everything else… My lips are sealed. She’ll never know about this call. Take all the time you need. It won’t be easy for me, but it wasn’t easy for me either when your stay at Cascade was extended from two weeks to two years. But I survived our separation and sporadic in-person visits back then, in large part because of the frequent correspondence I sent to you. All the drawings, letters, and postcards I sent you helped me to uphold our connection. It tided me over until you could come home. I imagine it was much of the same for you. If we did it once, we can do it again. But that won’t make it hurt any less than before.”

“Thank you for understanding how much I need this, Fanny. Give Uncle George and Johnny my love. I’ll write to you.”

“I will. And I look forward to those drawings, letters, and postcards.”

“It’ll be painful, but we’ll make it through this, Fanny.”

“I know we will. You know as well as I do that we Skeffington women have a capacity for enduring.”

“You’re damn right about that. I love you. Bye.”

“I love you, too. Goodbye.”

“Mr. Martingale, urgent, sir.”

Mr. Martingale read the slip of paper. “Oh, put her on.”

“Mr. Martingale is ready.”

“Oh. Hello, darling. I was just thinking about you.”

“Oh, really? Have you missed me, Uncle Fred?”

“Well, I haven’t heard from you in a while. Not a phone call, a letter, or even a postcard.”

“Right… Sorry I haven’t been able to write or call you before now. My life has been…eventful…and it’s hard to make time for myself lately.”

“Oh, apology accepted, darling. You know I’m only teasing. I do love giving you a hard time on occasion. Did you get the postcard I sent you?”

“Yes, I got your postcard. Have you been having a pleasant holiday, Uncle Fred?”

“Very nice of you. But you and I both know you didn’t call me out of the blue to ask me how my holiday was.”

“…No. Sorry to interrupt your holiday, Uncle Fred, I’m giving you so much trouble, but—”

“Prerogative of a beautiful woman.”

“—we are headed to our next destination, Casablanca. And we know that’s close to you, so—”

“‘We’?”

“—who better to ask but you?”

“For how long?”

“For how long? That depends! It’s not generally known, Uncle Fred...but I’m very hard up. We’re running low on money…”

“I had no idea. I was under the impression that your father...”

“He did, but… Well, you see, he left most of his fortune to Mother and, well… All the best people make the worst investments.”

“That’s true.”

“Luckily I have a man I can trust to advise me. I should have returned to Diamond Stud a few years earlier, Uncle Fred. I could’ve used your advice. You would’ve been of immense help to me.”

“If you need money, all you need to do is ask. But you’re not in any trouble, are you?”

“No! No, nothing like that. Though we have come across some…unruly characters on our travels—”

“‘Our’?”

“—I promise I’ve been smart and keeping myself safe at all times. I’d never force you to testify in court for me or bail me out of jail. And while I appreciate your generosity, I wasn’t asking you for money. Just merely stating a fact.”

“You’re not asking me for money?”

“No. It’s not money that I want from you, Uncle Fred.”

“So you don’t want money, and you don’t need me to bail you out of a sticky situation. But you want something. So what exactly are you hoping to get from me, sweetheart?”

“It’s just…you said that your invitation to come visit or stay with you in Africa was always open. I was hoping that’s still the case and I could come stay with you? We’ve had a wonderful time in India and on the beaches of Barcelona. I think you would like the Gaudi architecture. It’s from a strange alien world—”

“Hold on. You keep saying words like ‘our’ and ‘we’. Who is ‘we’? Not you and Sir John Talbot, certainly? I followed the story of your engagement to him. Of course, the papers say one thing but the rumor mill says another. They do so love to contradict and misconstrue to keep people guessing as to who to believe. Both the papers and the rumor mill say a great many things, in fact. The papers say you called off your engagement, the bored housewives say you ran away from home—”

“That’s about the size of it. I wouldn’t trust either of them to get any of the details right, let alone all of them, but I can tell you both of those statements hold some truth to them.”

“And where have you been?”

“Oh, too many places to name in one breath. But I’ve had company. I’d be bringing him with me. I want you and him to meet properly, face-to-face.”

“I see. I’m not quite sure what you believe I am to do about your situation. You’re asking me to house a stranger, someone I’ve never laid eyes on before. And a man, at that! Well, plead your case.”

“Right. Uncle Fred, may I present Jim Masters? He’s my…partner. Say hello to my godfather, Fred Martingale, Jim.”

“Hello, Mr. Martingale. How do you do, Sir?”

“Very well, thanks for asking. Now, Jim, you can tell me truthfully, man to man. When my goddaughter said you were her partner, did she mean business partner or intimate partner?”

“Neither, but I lean more towards the latter. It’s a long and complicated story, Mr. Martingale. One I’m sure would be much better told in person. That is, if you’d be kind enough to let us stay. I’d like to meet you in person and put a face to the stories I’ve heard about you.”

“Oh, she’s told you stories about me, has she? She’s a very immersive storyteller, I’ll give her that, but nothing compares to hearing stories from the source. I have many more stories that she hasn’t heard yet.”

“I’d like very much to hear them, sir. And I have stories of my own you’d probably call fantastic, but they’d keep your attention.”

“Is that so? That would be very amusing. But tell me, what do you think of her?”

“What do I think of her?”

“If you’ve spent as much time together as you’re leading me to believe, then you must’ve formed an opinion of her. She said you’re partners, but you’ve all but outright told me you’re not sexually intimate, so tell me, what do you think of her? When you look at her, what comes to mind?”

Afraid Jim was about to fall into a trap, you grabbed the phone from him. “Uncle Fred, I assure you that we love each other very much. While I was deeply flattered by the attention of Sir John Talbot, I… I simply could not ignore my long-standing affection for Jim. You see, Uncle Fred, it wasn’t love at first sight for us, but it was love. What I mean to say is that love is surely the greatest force of all. Once Jim and I realized we were completely enamored with each other, nothing could stand between us. Not even, I’m sorry to say, the attentions of a good and kind man such as Sir John Talbot.”

Jim snatched the phone back from you before you could react. Before you could so much as ask what he was doing, he was already speaking impassionedly to your godfather. “Mr. Martingale, she’s correct in that it wasn’t love at first sight for either of us. There was attraction, certainly, at least on my part. But Miss Skeffington thought me presumptuous, arrogant, insincere. All fair, really. And I thought her a young lady barely out of leading strings. She was so much younger than myself, and so romance was entirely out of the question for both of us. But in so removing it, we found something far greater. We found friendship. You see, Miss Skeffington and I had been fooling all of Charles Street for some time. We had fooled them into thinking we hated each other…when really, all along, we simply enjoyed each other’s company so much we couldn’t stay away from one another. I’ve never been a man that much enjoyed flirting, but I’ve always very much enjoyed talking and storytelling. The trouble was getting somebody to listen, somebody to share with. But with her…Miss Skeffington…conversation has always been easy. She took chances. With every wall I built, she saw a canvas to be painted, a story to be written. Her laughter brings me joy. To meet a beautiful woman is one thing, but to meet your best friend in the most beautiful of women is something entirely apart. To answer your question, whenever I look at her, I’m a little overwhelmed by such beauty. She’s beautiful not just in her face and body, but in personality and spirit. And it’s with my sincerest apologies, I must say it took Sir John Talbot coming along for me to realize I didn’t want Miss Skeffington to only be my friend or traveling companion. I wanted her to be my wife. I still want her to be my wife. Not today, not next year, but someday. For twenty years I was lost, aimlessly wandering from place to place, without roots, without a home, without a purpose. But when she’s with me, when she holds my hand and looks at me with that “come and get me” grin, there’s no need for words. The sky's brighter looking at it through her eyes. Her eyes utter the sweetest love songs. Every time she turns around to face me, I know she’s singing only for me. I know I’ve found where I belong.”

“Well put, Mr. Masters. You are wise…or perhaps unusually lucky to understand friendship to be the best possible foundation a relationship, especially a marriage, can have. Even if that foundation should crumble as quickly as it was built. Put her back on.”

Jim handed you the phone. He couldn’t hear what your godfather said to you, but from your relieved smile and what you said next, he must’ve given in. It sounded to Jim like he passed the test.

“Oh, thank you, Uncle Fred! What? No, you don’t have to do that. Really, we can pay our own way. We will look for a cheap standby ticket and call you when we’re headed your way. Are you sure? We can manage on our own. We don’t need— Oh, all right. If you insist. You and I are the same. Once we set our minds on something, it’s impossible for anyone to change them. Sorry again for the short notice! Can’t wait to see you again, Uncle Fred! It’ll be good to be in Africa, for you and Jim to meet… Oh, I’m so excited! Right, you have a plane to catch early tomorrow. I won’t keep you any longer, then. Goodbye, Uncle Fred. And thank you again. I love you!” Once you hung up the phone, you turned towards Jim. “He’ll be up by plane in the morning so that he’ll be there to receive us. I tried to tell him he didn’t have to, but he’s insisted on wiring us the money to travel from Casablanca to Diamond Stud.”

“Well, goodbye, Captain Jorham. It was a splendid voyage and I enjoyed it.”

“Mighty smart navigating too. The last time I hit South Africa I was aiming for Charleston, South Carolina.”

“Oh, welcome. Welcome for the good Captain Jorham.”

“Hello, Mr. Martingale.”

“And this, I’m certain must be my goddaughter. Though you’re much taller than when I saw you last.”

“The last time you saw me, I was eight years old, Uncle Fred. I hit a growth spurt since then,” you laughed.

“And this must be…hold on, don’t tell me. it’s on the top of my tongue… Oh! Mr. Masters. Jim. Delighted to greet you.”

“Thank you. And thank you for giving us a place to stay, Mr. Martingale. I’ve never had anyone be so kind.”

“And how’s the enchanting Mrs. Jorham?”

“She’s waiting for me on board. Well, God bless you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Goodbye, Fred.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

“Well, Mr. Martingale—”

“Pablo, My servant, devoted to me. He’ll help load your luggage into my car and drive us to my house. My house is yours, for however long you need use of it. We shall drink to the past, forget the future, and pleasantly live in the present. I have a million questions about Europe to ask you both.”

“Yes, but time is—”

“Oh, please, please, time is unlimited in South Africa. It’s always early in the day, and we still have plenty of time. I’m a gentleman of leisure, with a house full of servants and a charming disposition.”

“And an overwhelming power of persuasion,” Jim noted.

Uncle Fred laughed. “Yes. You’ll be glad I persuaded you, my friend. But wait till you see South Africa, my home.”

“I’m going to write to Fanny and Uncle George once we settle in.”

“An admirable ambition, dear, but quite futile,” Uncle Fred said as he took a puff from his cigar.

“Why?”

“Because the people running the post office in Diamond Stud have quit, gone away. There is nothing left of it but an old abandoned building. Empty. Nothing decorating the brick walls. You can probably have it, but who wants it? It’s only good for squatting. The nearest post office that’s still active is in De Aar.”

“Well, I shall have to go there, if need be.”

“Now let me see. Yes, you’ll need a bit of tailoring the first thing and then… Jim, did you hear me? Jim.”

“What?”

“I said you need compeletely new and different clothes. I shall arrange with my tailors to…”

Jim laughed, interrupting whatever your Uncle Fred was going to say. “You remind me of my aunt. The first time I met her, she thought I needed clothes too.”

“And did you?”

“As I recall, I was two years old and stark naked.”

The men shared a good, hearty laugh. Their laughter was infectious as you found yourself laughing too. Though you tried to cover your mouth with your hand to hide it, there was no missing or mistaking the mirth in your eyes, which gave them a special sort of sparkle in the sun’s light that could rival the world’s largest diamond.

Back in the United States, your sister, Fanny, received two letters in the mail from somewhere in Africa. A place she had never been. Who did she know in Africa? There was Uncle Fred, but why would he write her? She knew he loved her just as much as he loved you, but she was Uncle George’s goddaughter, not his. At first glance, the envelopes looked to the rest of the world as any other but, upon closer inspection, she noticed the envelopes came with airmail stamps. They actually bore several stamps from African countries that she would likely never see, and were easily a couple months old, having taken their time arriving at their destination. The long-awaited envelopes came at last.

Upon opening the first one, she recognized the handwriting immediately. It wasn’t a letter from Uncle Fred. It was a letter from you. The handwriting was absolutely yours, and so Fanny’s heart leaped for joy. You were a more seasoned traveler already than most she knew. She was trembling so hard from either nerves or excitement or maybe both that she had to sit down. Never before had Fanny read a letter so quickly in her life, her eyes darting frantically from word to word, trying her best to take them all in, but her eyes inevitably skipped around. She was so eager and somewhat anxious to know how you’d been getting along that it was difficult to be patient, to resist the temptation to just skip to the end.

March 1937

Dearest Fanny,

I was right about the hunch I had about Jim’s letter. I found him and, when I did, I told him, “I want us to pack up everything we can and get in the car and let’s just drive... until we find somewhere... for us.” And he asked me... if I could really do that. And I said yes. Yes! It’s been a few months since our travels started. We sure get around. At one time my material possessions fitted in one suitcase. Do you know that I have a story for each of these places I’ve been? Well, I don’t know if they’re all true…but they are my memories.

Jim and I are now in the African desert proper, and the heat is beyond belief. It can be so hot here come summertime, yet in truth it’s simply giving back what went in, finding balance as the dawn approaches, ready for each new day. Consider this place for a minute if you will. There is nothing but desolation outside, mountainous crags amidst endless waves of sand. It’s a place as blank as a sheet of paper. It often reminds me of the interior of a whale’s belly. It’s only an intellectual association, of course. But it’s just from the whale’s sordid interior that we scavenge to base for the most exciting perfumes. And that can turn we confused with desirability, with virtue, with great passion. It’s the place we had always been looking for. Flat expanses would call to me… These are the places where the desert is most itself: Stark, open, free, an invitation to wander - a laboratory of perception, scale, light - a place where loneliness has a luxurious flavor... Drifting across the vast space, silent except for wind and footsteps, Jim and I felt uncluttered and unhurried for the first time in a while, already on desert time.

Say, why are we here? I mean Jim, me, Uncle Fred, any of us? Why do we stay here in Diamond Stud? Simply because we’re infatuated. Yes. Infatuated. Plucking at the skirts of this woman, this desert, this heartless courtesan. But we…we stay here, eternally hopeful for some small glittering favor. Amazing place, this place here in the desert where the gems lie just a few inches below the surface, free, free for the taking. Were if not for certain unfortunate restrictions. When we first arrived in Diamond Stud, Uncle Fred had warned us of the dangers of the desert, especially the prohibited areas. He told us stories of different types of djinni that are rumored to have been encountered in the desert.

The ifrit is a djinni of fire and flame, a vengeance called upon a murderer, implacable, unstoppable, the death of cities. It rises from desolation, from broken lands, and its sign is a shining light. It scents the vitality of its victim and seizes them with its burning eye until all life is drained, as a spider husks a fly. A du'a al-mas'alah, a prayer of asking, and true penance is the only defense. There once were men who had taken shelter in the courtyard of a ruined fortress until the sun was lower. But when their bodies were found, their skin was so dry and wrinkled that they looked like dried raisins. The official cause of death was dehydration, but others say it was the Ifrit that got to them and drained them dry, leaving their bodies to overbake in the sun. Then there is the ghûl and the hatif. The ghûl is a base djinni, a thing of fear, of trickery and shadow, dwelling in the deep places of the world. When it scents human flesh, it digs through the sand to the world above to snare the unwary traveler. It is tricksy, speaking with the voice of men, leading its victims into harsh places, there to slaughter, devour, and drink their blood. It doesn’t always kill its victims directly. It takes delight in manipulating its victims, sowing seeds of doubt into its victims’ minds, instilling paranoia and turning them against each other until they’re driven to murder. Similarly, the hatif is a djinni of calling, the voice alone in the desert; the cry of one bereft and in need of aid. Yet this voice is bodiless and unfleshed, spun of air and dreams; it assails the weary and the beleaguered, luring them from their path and into the wilderness. There they may search in vain, lost and thirsty, until they are bone and dust. Many men have died gruesome and unusual deaths in the pursuit of diamonds or hidden treasure, and many bodies were never found, theorized to have been reduced to easy pickings for vultures and other wildlife or otherwise reclaimed by the earth. If the gunfire of the guards stationed around the prohibited area won’t get trespassers, the elements will. The desert, the mountains, and the sea are sisters, tenacious triplets of nature, and once they have you, they won’t give you back.

Uncle Fred has made us feel quite at home. He has taken Jim under his wing, treating him like an unofficial apprentice while we’re here. He has expressed his interest in business to Uncle Fred, who was impressed by his ability to demonstrate his competence in being both personable and persuasive. They’re both “deliciously unscrupulous” (their words, not mine), and have a mutual respect and admiration for each other. They have quickly become close friends and have been showing each other the ropes, trusting each other to divulge the secrets of their respective trades. It’s no surprise to me that they’d warm to each other so quickly. They have a lot in common. So much, in fact, that if I didn’t know any better, I would assume they were two halves of the same person. If I didn’t know either of them as well as I do, I wouldn’t be able to tell them apart! They’re a real Tom and Huck to start. Pretty ironic, huh. Uncle Fred has spent his whole life searching for diamonds when all along he has possessed something far more valuable - his uncanny knack for making friends. As for me, I felt bold on leaving Charles Street. I thought my life at home in New York was miserable, but after coming here, I realized I am blessed more than I could ever imagine. When I envisioned my trip, I imagined exciting adventures, exotic locales, a jet-set lifestyle. I never thought grief and doubt would climb into my backpack and come with me. I pictured someday standing with Jim at the top of the Sun Gate, looking down at Machu Picchu, without ever thinking about the steps it would take to get there.

Jim and I had previously been staying in Casablanca but, despite being a neutral zone, corruption and illegal activity ran rampant and it was anything but safe. While we were there, we witnessed a man get shot to death in broad daylight and everyone around us was desensitized to it, like it was just another Tuesday afternoon! And the French Prefect of Police, Captain Louis Renault, kept flirting with me and trying to get me into his bed despite me refusing him over and over and over again! He was nonplussed by Jim being right there! The nerve of that man! With the help of Uncle Fred, we made a plan and moved on within the month. A good thing we left when we did too, because, just a few days after our departure, I read in the papers that Nazis flew in from Berlin. I can’t bring myself to imagine what might’ve happened to me if I had still been in Casablanca and they discovered I was the daughter of a Jewish man! I’ve seen what happens to refugees. I’ve seen how a wicked and corrupt system has given one man the right of life and death over his fellow man. I’ve seen a man beaten, tortured, killed because he was unfortunate enough to have been born poor. I become quite melancholy and deeply grieved to see men behave to each other as they do. Not just in Casablanca, but in Diamond Stud too. Though Uncle Fred has done everything to shield me from it, I know it’s happening here, and I’m sure in other areas of the continent too. Nobody warned me about this part. This is the curse of wanderlust, when the postcard image becomes a brutal reality. While Africa is a large continent, and there’s many parts of it that are perfectly safe and incredibly beautiful, there are others that are not at all what I thought it would be. No. No, it’s more savage, brutal and cruel than I could’ve ever imagined.

I think… I think it odious and unfair that some people are so well off and others are so poor. And beyond Africa, everywhere on the planet, I find nothing but base flattery, injustice, self-interest, deceit and roguery. I often feel I cannot bear it any longer. I’m furious, and it makes me want to break with all mankind, though I know this feat is impossible. Instead, I channel my fury, my frustrations, and any and all emotions that lie in between into my art. It’s the only way for me to cope with everything that’s going on around me. To stop myself from getting crushed under the weight of the world’s suffering when it feels like everything is falling apart at my ears. To stop myself from going insane from overthinking. It’s not up to me to save everyone. It’s not up to me to save anyone. I know this is the truth, but it’s a truth that’s hard to swallow.

I confess I find Diamond Stud rough and strange, and myself strange in it. By now, Mother has probably received word from Uncle George or the grapevine of gossiping ladies that I’m in Africa with Uncle Fred, and believes that I am here for a brief interlude of sensational experience before succumbing to a matrimonial fate. And while there’s surely no lack of sensational experience of every kind available in such a city, I hope that any experience I gain here will strictly go towards my pursuit of becoming a better artist and photographer rather than becoming a wife, and that all events of a romantic or sensational nature will be entirely confined to Jim, or to a sketchbook, canvas, or photograph. I wanted to do something for the people here, something meaningful without ulterior motives of expecting glory or praise and, though I had no luck at first, Uncle Fred has found me an opportunity to teach children. Well, I did not expect opportunity to knock so soon.

My students are dear boys and girls. Some of them remind me of myself when I was around their age. How curious to grow up with no mother or father, and your own older brother or sister having to act as parent in their stead. At first I was only teaching children, but some of the adults expressed an interest in learning too, so that they and their children or younger siblings could do it together as a bonding activity. Now I’ve been teaching both children and adults how to draw, how to paint. Whenever anyone gets discouraged in their art, I reassure them about the importance of not needing to be technically proficient in an activity to enjoy it, that there’s no such thing as mistakes, only happy little accidents. That not everything needs to be clear or easy to comprehend, that there’s beauty in all art, even the most abstract. I never thought I’d ever be good at teaching or giving pep talks, but my words tend to lift their spirits right back up. It isn’t easy, the work I do. Nothing but broken souls around me, and the ones that aren’t broke are greedy. Bone-tired. Life here is hard, but meaningful. I’m doing my best to bring a little joy to the world, what with all the gloom.

I dreamt that we were soldiers, Jim and I. We were dressed as soldiers are, in combat camouflage, guns at the ready. It was nighttime and we stared up a mighty cliff face, yet as we tried to climb, the bullets came from all around. Together we fought them, shot dead each one, then resumed our task of reaching the higher ground. I found a coin, old and covered in dirt, the engravings worn and the head of the king so tarnished as to be stolen from view. I held it in my left hand, watching the mud dirty my skin. So close to my face the coin had the aroma of stale blood. I turned to my right hand and in the palm was a new spring leaf, crowned by a perfect sphere of dew, reflecting an image of my face, softened and relaxed. When I turned back to the coin, the image of the king had freed himself and journeyed over to the leaf, igniting the growth of strong roots and new foliage that reached for the sunlight, robust, virescent.

Maybe Heaven is helping me find my calling? With all that has happened these past few months, my wish to make a difference, no matter how small, might just come true. I must be doing something right, because I feel useful for the first time in my life, like I’ve given children and adults a spot of hope as they try to survive the dark days of the looming threat of war, and that must be a good thing. They need me just as much now as they did a minute ago. And I’ve never been needed before. I’m not sure how much longer we’ll stay, but I hope that, after we leave, my students will remember me fondly. Maybe some of them will still be around when I come back, whenever that day may be. It’d be nice to reconnect with them, see how they’re doing someday in the future.

I miss you by the way, if that wasn’t obvious. I sure hope this letter reaches you before Jim and I move on to Ouagadougou and Nairobi. The post can be unpredictable at times, but I haven’t received any letters from you for a while now. In case this letter doesn’t reach you in time, I feel I should tell you we’ll be going to Algiers afterwards, but I’ve already said more than enough about me and Jim. I want to hear about you and Johnny. I hope you both are doing well in Seattle. How is everything going for you over there? I miss you. I wish I was there with you. Did you find more rocks to skip across the water? I remember when we were children, we would go to the lake to practice. You were worse compared to me then, but now I can never beat you in a match. I’m so proud of having such a hard working sister.

Love,

Your sister xxx

The second letter was much shorter, as if it could’ve been a post-script message for the first letter, but was written separately and at a later date, which told Fanny that you had made a spur of the moment decision.

March 1937

Dear Fanny,

Don’t tell Mother or Uncle George just yet, but we were supposed to only stay in Africa for one more week’s time, but we recently decided that we’ll be extending our stay in Africa for another six months. There’s so much to see and do in this beautiful continent, we want to experience as much of it as we can by committing more than enough time to exploring it. The plan is to still move on to Algiers afterwards, we’re just putting it off for the time being.

Love,

Your sister xxx

In September of 1937, you and Jim left Africa and moved on to your next big adventure. Ever since you left home, months passed, then a year, then two, then two and a half. Nearly three years passed, with you, Fanny, and Uncle George keeping in contact by exchanging letters and postcards back and forth with an occasional phone call along the way.

September 1937

Dear Fanny,

We’re finally in Algeria, and the stories don’t do this place justice. It is amazing! I’ve never seen anywhere as busy as the market in Algiers. The smells, the flavors, the colors and, oh, the noise! Some other highlights:

History. - The colonization of Algeria was rendered difficult by the presence of a native population which already had its own civilization, and was nomad and warlike in its instincts. A start was made in the region of the Tell, and then the mountains and high plateau land were taken in hand. There has been a spontaneous flor of Italian and Spanish immigration, and a system of land grants and other concessions have attracted large numbers of immigrants from the south of France who have settled down well in the country. Between 1904 and 1914, 206,000 hectares of land had been settled, of which 91,200 were free grants.

Mines. - The country is rich in minerals, which, however, have not been thoroughly exploited. The chief mineral resource is iron, the exports of which in 1920 amounted to 1,114,438 tons, valued at 33,879,000 francs. There are large phosphate deposits in the Constantine Province, which exported 334,704 tons in 1920 to a value of 18 million francs. There are also copper, zinc, lead, and antimony mines. Coal deposits were discovered during the war, and the work of British and American prospectors in the Oran indicates the possibility of existence of oil fields of some size.

Native rights. - The valuable help given by the native population of Algiers to France during the last war led, as it did in other parts of the French colonial empire, to a wider recognition of the political rights of the native. A law was passed on February 4, 1919, conferring French citizenship on any native of Algeria who had either served in the French army or navy, was a landowner, farmer, or licensed trader, knew how to read and write French, or was the possessor of a French decoration.

I may have picked up a little something for you and Johnny. You never know your luck! I like this place a lot. The people here are nice to me. Bringing the polaroid camera I bought years ago during my camera-obsessed phase seems like a good idea now. I am wandering through this life of mine, writing snapshots of my life. For me, the real win was the photos I took of Jim (watch out for Miss Skeffington, the rising stalker!) We all carried bottled water and day packs. I brought my camera, but Jim didn’t bring one. He said he didn’t believe in taking photographs; he planned to store his memories in his head, an idea I found incomprehensibly radical. My impulse to record was almost on par with my impulse to travel. But Jim has got every sunset that he’s ever seen memorized. “The best traveler is one without a camera,” he said. Well, I’m taking tons of photos. We’ll have to spend so much time together in the darkroom!

Can you believe your own sister was recently standing face to face with a real mummy? The tour guide was telling us some of the legends surrounding the desert. They tell you to stick with the group on tours. There’s a reason for that. I can’t wait to see you back in the States where I can fill you in on all of my stories. As promised, I’ll save the best stories for next time we meet in person, but I’ll share one of legends with you now, just to give you a taste of what you have to look forward to when I’m back in the States.

In life there was Setyamutef, an Egyptian prince and the only living son of the Pharaoh Senusnet, after his wife had suffered multiple stillbirths and miscarriages. He had seen wonders most men only dreamed of. But when his son was born at midnight, breathing and healthy, he was instantly more precious to him than all the wonders of the ancient world. On that day, the people thronged the byways of the city. When the doors of the tower opened, the name of their new prince rippled through the crowd before him like dye into water. “Setyamutef, Blessed Setyamutef.” Senusnet’s own father died before he was old enough to really remember him, but he grew up with his older brothers. However, the ones who lived past infancy and childhood all died prematurely sometime after they turned eighteen, either from foul play or tragic accidents. He feared his son would share the same fate as his brothers, doomed to die before his time if he ever came of age. He had alchemists from all over Egypt summoned to the palace, and they all came bearing a litter on which rested seven crystal orbs. But despite their best efforts, the rituals and spells they performed on the infant prince all failed. Their combined power wasn’t strong enough. To achieve what he wanted, Senusnet would need a great deal of power. Power that mortal men couldn’t ever hope to possess. The power of a god. So he called upon Khoret, the Goddess of Youth, sometimes called the Mistress of Eternity or the Childlike Empress since her mind was that of an adult woman, but her appearance was that of a perpetual child.

She stepped down, bare-headed and bare-handed, dressed in a simple robe, and she walked amongst the people. Some cried out with joy, some wept openly, but they all kneeled before her as she passed. Behind her came Mnisiria, another childlike deity who had the body of an adult man but the mind of a boy, who was her consort and thought to be a protector of households and, in particular, mothers and children. When they came to the palace, the royal guards and the Queen and Pharaoh themselves knelt before them in respect. They heard Senusnet’s entreaty, but they warned him that there was a heavy price to pay for granting his son eternal youth since it wasn’t a gift that could be given freely to just any mortal, not even ones touched by the gods. Even the gods themselves were bound to laws and rules more ancient than themselves, put in place by an invisible but omniscient being or force that came into existence before them, in order to maintain an always delicate balance. The balancing act that was their eternal obligation was precarious. One misstep too far to one side and the consequences could be disastrous for humans. The Pharoah, desperate to save his son from dying young, didn’t heed Khoret and Mnisiria’s warnings. They fulfilled their end of the bargain, but took all of the Pharoah’s memories from when he was a child as payment, including those of his brothers. He wouldn’t discover until later that, because of him, his son would pay a much greater price.

Like Khoret and Mnisiria, he was cursed to be perpetually a youth and could never age physically or mentally past the age of eight, trapped in a child’s body with a child’s mind. During a tumultuous time period of his father’s reign which included a great famine from which many died, the prince miraculously discovered a source of food in the desert that saved his people from their suffering. A Sifar tribe was founded and, as a gift to the young prince for his act of bravery and heroism, they called upon Tairin, the Goddess of Growth and Harvest, to provide them with special seeds so they could plant a juniper tree to allow the prince to grow to be an adult and purge the desert of rot and infidels. Before he could grow to his full potential, he was stolen away in his cocoon by a rival tribe and brought to what is now Algeria. They wished to have the child elevated to godhood with their leader as his consort. However, regardless of how much blood they tried to share with Setyamutef, there was no response because Setyamutef had in fact stripped himself of his flesh and traveled to the Land of Shadow. This tribe opposed to the Sifar, the Nanaki, called Setyamutef the Childlike Emperor or The Child Who Cannot Die. They were a people that refused the call to Islam, for their own ancestor, Kanebti, a bringer of healing and fertility, walked the sand, and how could they disbelieve the evidence of their own eyes? There was fighting, as there always is in such matters, but the Nanaki were wealthy, and made their peace through trade in salt and meat.

Even in his cocooned form, it’s said that Setyamutef has the ability to compel affection from others. Though originally thought to be a blessing and a sign of benevolence, this is referred to by his modern day followers as terrifying, as benevolence is not always synonymous with harmlessness. Perhaps this is why he is known as the most fearsome of all the Pharaohs and Princes who ever lived. Nevertheless, his tree where he once hibernated is known to provide shelter from the desert’s elements to those who are lost, but only to those pure of heart and free of ill intent. Anyone with a soul or heart that’s been blackened by greed or violence is said to be attacked by the tree, strangled to death by its branches and their bodies claimed by the desert, never to be found beneath the sand. Setyamutef is said to be awaiting for a promised mortal who is worthy enough to be his consort. He will guide them in the Land of Shadow, where he hopes to finally be reborn and manifest into adult form.

Though time has made it little more than folklore, perhaps there was once a real person called Setyamutef, a leader of his people. There’s a mountain named for him, and indeed his body may lie within or underneath it, hidden in the lost ruins deep beneath the surface. But it is speculated that there is more, much more, to that structure, wherever it may be. It is theorized that the deeper ruins are Roman in origin, and it’s there that archaeologists may find a mithraeum, set by the Romans to protect the gateway they seek. Once within...what wonders will those archaeologists see? While skeptics may chalk it up to hallucinations brought on by heatstroke, I think these are ancient memories of what truly happened in that place eons ago. Don’t most legends have some grain of truth to them? I don’t know for sure though. There are other, much older stories that have been conflated with his. Legends of the Gray Lady. The Sifar talk of their guardian spirit, a woman all in gray, who haunts the desert and protects their people against the specter of death. Perhaps the right word for the woman who walks the desert is goddess. She is a deity of healing, of succor in the wilderness. She has many names. People call her the Woman of the Tents, the Daughter of the Desert, or the Mother of Us All. She is wild and capricious; she cannot be summoned, but if her sympathy is roused she may choose to bestow her favor, giving of her body to quench the thirst of the dying, and guiding those who wander in the soft places. So people leave her gifts of desert flowers. There were also legends of a healer and weary travelers who were tested and saved by the Gray Lady as they struggled to survive in the desert.

But Jim and I stopped paying attention after the legend of Setyamutef. To be honest, the tour guide wasn’t the most talented of storytellers, and we eventually grew bored listening to him drone on and on. So we snuck off on one of the unmarked side paths while hiking in Chrea and got a little lost. Okay, a lot lost. For hours. I was running and deliberately lost my way. The world far off and nothing but my breath and the very next step and it’s like hypnosis. The feeling of conquering my own aliveness with no task but to keep going, making every way the right way and that’s a metaphor for everything. Wandering aimlessly, I love the thrill of unknown paths. I am a nomad. I am a wanderer. I am a drifter. Why do I keep on drifting? Yes, I wish I knew why? I am not aware of the reason myself. Why do I keep on drifting? I usually don’t mind getting lost, especially when I’m with someone I love. But I would be lying if I said I didn’t panic a little bit as it started to feel like we were walking for ever and ever and I couldn’t tell if we were getting any closer to where we started or if we were going in the opposite direction or, even worse, going in circles.

Luckily, Jim kept a cool head and right before the bus left, we found a trail, and came running down the path, soaked and covered in mud and sand from head to toe, shouting for the bus not to leave. The dirt was even packed under our fingernails, the skin around them raw and bleeding, and our shoulders ached. We knelt and plunged our hands into a cool stream we found along the way. The cuts stung like fire for a moment, and then cool numbness washed it away. Delay and dirt are the realities of the most rewarding travel. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and Jim and I find beauty in the thrown away and broken things, the morbid filth that glues together our world - the necessary decomposition that life must arise from. Still, I can only imagine what Mother would say if I called home and told her about this... “you didn't get in trouble like this before you met Jim!” but I don’t think she know-knows about us.

Mother thought too hard. It’s not like that with travel. We can’t work too much at it, or it feels like work. I eased into the idea of letting go of control and simply letting life take the reins. And when I don’t hold it so tightly, it doesn’t thrash against me so wildly. It calms to a trot and allows me to take in the scenery, experience love, and learn what is important in this world: People, places, memories - not things or perceptions. Jim and I have to surrender ourselves to the chaos, to the accidents. Travel, we agreed, was a litmus test: If we could make the best of the chaos and serendipity that we’d inevitably meet in transit, then we’d surely be able to sail through the rest of life together just fine. So far, we’ve done pretty well, minus the times we overslept and missed our trains. Keep walking, Fanny, for sometimes the detours may find you a door, a route opening into a pathway that you never knew danced inside the buried layers of your wandering soul. The unruly characters we sometimes meet though... I’m really afraid that’s a whole other story. Moral of today’s story: Stick with the group, Fanny. Stick with the group. The tour guide is there for good reason, even if he is dull as dishwater.

Love,

Your sister xxx

June 1939

Dear Fanny,

Our third “anniversary” is coming up. Three years of traveling together. Last year, Jim invited me to my favorite restaurant. It was a complete surprise, and I was so happy. Things had been so hectic, I thought he might have forgotten. After dinner, we went back to our room, but we couldn’t sleep, so we drove to the ocean and spent the rest of the evening taking a turn along the beach. We were walkers of the velvet night, we were lovers of the light and each floral blossom. Our well traveled soles were born to embrace each onward path and seek horizons others dare not gaze upon. Walking was our most beloved way of waking, to stride out each dawn bare soled upon the beach jetty. But seeing it at night… The water was so beautiful as the light from the moon shone down on it. We talked and we played as if we were teenagers in love. Sprinting across the sand, leaving sinking footprints, splashing into the froth of a wave, laughing at the spray, pressing oyster and seashells into the beach, making patterns in the sand…

I sat down in the sand while Jim talked to me about someplace he had been. Every time he looked back at me, I felt a surge of happiness inside. So I sketched him doing just that. Talking, smiling with his hands behind his back… It didn’t take too long for him to figure out that I was, in fact, not paying any attention to what he was saying. He stopped talking and began staring at what I was doing instead. The odd silence made me look up to find Jim with his eyebrows raised, eyeing my sketchbook. “You’re supposed to draw something that inspires you! That’s the only reason why we are here, my dear!”

“I know!” I held the pages up to my chest, hiding it from him as he began to walk to me, motioning for me to show him my sketch. “And I am doing just that. So leave me be!”

He immediately stopped, “I inspire you?”

I nodded, holding back a laugh. “Yes. Now, stand just as you were before I run out of inspiration. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“I wouldn’t dare dream of such things.”

Once I was done and had set my sketchbook safely aside, he flung his arms under my knees, and picked me up bridal style. He looked up at me and grinned, “Darling,” he said, “come and see what I’ve made for you!” The wanderlust crept up again inside me like a shooting star, a sudden, violent urge to escape disappearing into darkness again. I pushed down the afterglow and focused. I could not remember the last time I felt that carefree. Ultimately, I have come to think, travel teaches us about love. It teaches us that the very best we can do with our lives is to embrace the peoples, places, and cultures we meet with all our mind, heart, and soul, to live as fully as possible in every moment, every day. And it teaches us that this embrace is simultaneously a way of becoming whole and letting go. When the world has become a pencil drawing, a masterpiece on the easel of the creator, I await for it to fade to black and arise anew. It is as if the nightfall were the curtains closing, and the dawn were their opening each day, the birds singing on cue with their beautiful serenade. While others sleep through the dying of the light, my task is to remain awake and witness its rebirth, to see how the pencil sketch becomes the greatest of technicolor movies. As the blackness comes I calmly watch myself be erased, eyes open and seeing nothing at all. The only evidence of my being is the steady thump of my heart and the cool air in my lungs.

Love,

Your sister xx

August 1939

Dear sister,

So much has changed, even just since you’ve been away. And my twin sister being gone for three years doesn’t make it any easier. It doesn’t feel real. But I’m not going to let it phase me. I used to tell you everything, and if I can’t do it in person, because you’re off gallivanting around who-knows-where with Jim, I’ll just tell it to this letter. Just like I was talking to you. I love you and I miss you.

Love,

Fanny x

October 1939

Dear Fanny,

Do you remember when you first wrote to me to tell me of your upcoming nuptials to Johnny Mitchell? Though it took a while for it to make its way to me, when I finally received it, I was ecstatic to hear such wonderful news! Of course, it was announced in the paper, but hearing it from you was all the more meaningful. Though I missed you, I was glad you weren’t there to witness my embarrassing display of excitement. The sounds that came out of me were indescribable. In Jim’s words, I was like a little kid who had too much sugar before bed but, once I told him the reason for my giddiness and showed him your letter, he understood and let me have my moment to celebrate you and Johnny. By the time you received my next letter, I could safely assume you were no longer Miss Fanny Skeffington, but Mrs. Fanny Mitchell. I hoped my letter would reach you by the time you and Johnny got back from your honeymoon.

There were many things I could’ve said, but to keep things short, sweet, and to the point, all I said was something Uncle George once said to me about Jim, and that was that I only spent an hour or so with Johnny, but I could tell you with confidence that there was nothing really wrong with that man. I knew he’d love you and treat you right, as a husband should. Although you said you weren’t going to have a big wedding and were just going to get married at the registrar’s office, I still regret that I could not be there with you. But I had a gift sent to you, enclosed with a card that emphasized how much I love you and wished the both of you every happiness. It was no surprise that you got married before me. You were always the practical one. Do you remember the wishes we made when we were children? Yours was to get married and have a family of your own, while mine was to roam the world and meet new people.

Speaking of marriage… Neither of us are sure how or who brought it up first, but the topic of conversation turned to just that. Nothing particularly happened to push Jim and I to this decision, but we keep having our best conversations while the world is asleep, trying to find ourselves somewhere between dusk and the sunrise. We were talking about anything and everything, even things that were trivial and inconsequential. We reminisced on how we met. We laugh now when we talk about the beginning, how I fell out of a tree and practically into his arms that day in Wakeforte Park! Even if we had nothing important to say, it was lovely just listening to each other’s voices. Now we’re wide awake. Except this time, we think we know what we intend to say to each other. Fanny, Jim and I have decided that… Well, there’s no use trying to win Mother over. She’s too sensible, so we’re going to elope. We’ve decided! We are going to get married while we’re here. I’m ready. I wasn’t sure before about eloping, but Jim thinks that Mother will never come round until after the wedding. I hope you’ll be happy for us, because it’s what we both want. I was surrounded by doubters. Mother, her old friends and neighbors… The only way to silence them is just to get married and have done with it. You can’t leave everything up in the air indefinitely. At least that’s a decision. Uncle Fred once told us he could have a Bedouin ceremony performed and that he’d be our witness. We weren’t too sure of the legality of it, but Uncle Fred said he’d look into it. We’re just going to go to a registrar’s office, just like you and Johnny did. I’d love to tell you more about it, but it can wait until I’m back in the States. Registrar offices don’t allow personal vows and get you in and out within ten minutes, so we’ll probably come back at some point and renew our vows on American soil, just so we can make our wedding a bit more personal and be certain our marriage is legal in both Europe and the States. Things with Mother might be different by then. I hope it will be for the better.

Though we will still have separate lives outside of our marriage, our destiny is by each other’s side. When Mother organized my wedding to Sir John, I was very angry. But, with this year, I’ve learned that I’m ready, that I want to love Jim as a wife loves her husband. We’re best friends, kindred spirits, and we’ll soon be husband and wife. We’ll love each other, and while we won’t be attached at the hip 24/7, all 365 days of every year, we will always be there for each other when it really matters. As I finish penning this letter to you, the wind howls, but I am warm, cocooned under the blanket by the fire in Jim and I’s motel room. We smoked cigarettes until six in the morning and I listened as his words flowed; plans, hopes, dreams, fantasies, everything that we know is possible and impossible, but I know that it doesn’t matter, for we will be together throughout it all, and that is everything. Now I need to stop writing because I’m falling asleep on his chest.

Love,

Your sister xx

October 1939

Dear Fanny,

It’s so insane to me that most of the people you meet in life are just passing moments. You’ll know them for a brief period of time before they’re a stranger again and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it because that is just how it’s meant to be… Hardest part of life honestly. I don’t want to be a temporary moment or experience, I want to be with certain people forever. I realized that people, from new-made friends to life-long family, inevitably come and go in the composition of our lives, but that once they have appeared, they never really leave. And I realized too that the people we love - the memory of the people we love, their enduring, pulsing presence in our lives - is like those violins that street performers play. Every day, in one form or another, we take them out and play them, if just for a while. We become them, swooping, spiraling, soaring to the apex of our minds. We honor them and keep them alive - as they do us, intertwined. I welcome my journey with a strong heart. I stand tall and love the fresh air that comes from following this ever onward road. I stride in bold steps, feeling a sense of pride in each one. And this journey is not about a destination, nor arrival point or finish line... for there is no such thing. This journey is about the traveling, the traveling companions and the reason for the noble struggle. Friends come, friends go, often times I am alone, yet I have my compass, I have my path and I have two well clad feet each dawn.

The path doesn’t care about the terrain, that’s for me to deal with. The path is the path. So whatever comes I keep going. When I get knocked down I have to get up, because there’s no other way. I know what’s out there though, I know because the universe told me. It said, “just walk” and so I did. I still do. It says at the other end is peace, real happiness for everyone, and I gotta keep going even if the path makes me bleed. Sometimes it has, sometimes so much I just wanna stay down and feel the cold... then I remember why I started this journey and find my feet again. It’s lonely though, and I think some company would be nice if you can be brave enough. It’s freedom, it’s duty, it’s leading and following. I can’t promise comfort, but there’s plenty of stuff to kindle my soul and bring the sorts of smiles I thought only belonged to the stars. Jim and I have been going steady for many seasons now, steady in our hearts and souls, sailing quietly onward as ships together upon calm seas, sails always filled by onward breeze. So, as we love one another so much, as we can only see a future together, can we agree that the time has come to settle down, to accept that our stories are forever weaved.

Love,

Your sister xx

December 1939

My darling sister,

I hope this letter finds you well. How are things going? It’s been a while since I heard from you, so I decided to send another letter. You’re always in a different place all the time, so it’s hard to know your exact address. I hope things are going well. Just don’t get discouraged. I know things aren’t easy for you, and how hard it is to find an opportunity for this type of work. Your friends always ask about you. You should write to them too. I always hear them telling others how you took your car and set off on your adventure to chase your dream of being an artist. Oh, I guess now I know why you don’t write to them. I know you don’t want to disappoint them. Mother and Uncle George are fine. Uncle George misses you, and Mother doesn’t talk much about you. You know how she disapproved of your idea, but she loves you. And I love you too. Johnny and I are doing well in Seattle, but we miss you very much.

How delightful to hear you and Jim might elope! Other ladies might find it irresponsible and foolish, but I think it’s so romantic. We always used to say we couldn’t be any more different from each other, and that still holds true, but at least there’s one thing we have in common: Neither of us were ever attracted to the idea of a big, traditional white wedding with all the trimmings. Fashionable weddings reminded us too much of Mother’s extravagant parties and lost whatever appeal they might have had. To be with the one you love and exchange vows and rings signifying your love for each other only in front of someone with the power to bind you together under God… To share a kiss and sign your names on a piece of paper… To seal that bond no man can turn asunder in the privacy of a registry office… That was enough for Johnny and I, and it’ll be enough for you and Jim too, I imagine. All the rest of it - A church, flowers, a towering cake, and an overpriced white dress we’d only wear once… It all seemed so wasteful, just an excuse to throw money at something, to throw a party and be the center of attention to keep up appearances for people you barely know or don’t know at all. You must write to us and tell us of all your adventures! But save the best stories for when you see us again in person – soon, we hope! Your last letter got to me the day before we started riding the train back to New York, and I was reading it while on my way home! If you come home, we can read all our letters together and share our memories!

With love from your sister,

Fanny xx

As promised, you’d save the best stories for when you met again face-to-face. In the meantime, between 1936-1940, you sent both Fanny and your Uncle George snippets of stories in a trail of modest envelopes. Little more than tantalizing teasers for greater epics to be told and shared, yet their contents were always beyond expectations.

December 1937

Dear Uncle George,

Austria has been wonderful so far! Uncle Fred called, he wants me to get him a souvenir while I’m here. We’ll be going to many sites, among them Moosham Castle before we head back to Switzerland, and from there, the United Kingdom. It’s said to be haunted, so I’m expecting some good scares and mysteries!

Love,

Your niece xx

December 1937

Dear Uncle George,

So much for our skiing plans in Switzerland! We arrived here at Moosham Castle last night, just before a blizzard swept in! We didn’t get hit with the worst of it, but the mountain is completely shut down, and the surrounding roads are closed. I think Jim and I are one of the few guests who made it to the castle at all. The castle itself is private property, but there’s apartments and inns nearby and we were able to secure a room. The place is huge and old - and slightly creepy under the circumstances. You should hear this wind! What’s more, the owner is away on business. I tried to ask the caretaker how I could contact them, but he said he didn’t know. Doesn’t that seem odd? I couldn’t help feeling like there was something he wasn’t telling me. All this makes me a little nervous, but I’m determined to enjoy myself. I have big plans to explore the castle, once it opens again to the public after the storm passes and most of the snow melts.

I’ve been reading up on the castle’s history. The original owner must’ve been quite a character to have built such an extraordinary place. It’s filled with strange, dead-end corridors for one thing, and I noticed that one of the towers is totally different than the other ones. I heard from the radio that Switzerland is on high alert for any avalanches and search and rescue is on standby. I fear for anyone who may live in proximity. Avalanches happen so quickly…they’ll sweep you away and kill you in seconds, before you even realize what’s happening. There have been so many deaths and disasters in the past… Hopefully everyone close by was given ample warning and able to retreat to safer ground. Of course, Jim and I are safe where we are, but we may be stranded here for the foreseeable future, until the roads are cleared and safe to drive on again. Once the danger passes, I’ll have to save some time to meet Jacques Brunais, the French ski instructor, while we’re in Switzerland. Tell Fanny she’ll be the first to know if he'’s half as gorgeous in person as he looks in his photo. So Uncle George, I guess things never go quite according to plan! But at least this time, the culprit is just a snowstorm. I could’ve asked Matteo who works at the front desk to mail this letter for me, but I think it’d be best if I just hold onto it for now and send it at a later date. It is just as well, since the blizzard is preventing outside contact. Me? I’m still determined to mail this letter to you, then go out and enjoy this snow, once it’s deemed safe to do so. Talk to you soon! (I hope!)

Love,

your niece xx

August 1938

Dear Uncle George,

I’ve been taking some gorgeous shots while Jim and I are in France. Lush forests, endless hills, and a lake that I’m certain is hiding a couple of dead bodies. I was just joking when I first said it, but after talking to some locals, turns out the lake does have a myth surrounding it involving a dead body that may or may not be in there. The story goes that there was a French violinist and composer, Erique Claudin, who went mad after he was dismissed from the Paris Opera House. In a fit of fury over falsely believing his concerto was being stolen and plagiarized, he strangled a man to death. Acid was thrown in his face, permanently disfiguring him. To evade police, he ran through the Paris streets until he returned to the Opera House through the underground tunnels. Donning a prop room mask and a black cape, he assumed the identity of the Phantom of the Opera or the Opera Ghost, a mysterious figure that lived up to its title. While he was rarely ever seen beyond a silhouette or the end of a black cloak as he turned a corner, his voice was heard and his looming presence was felt. But the managers were skeptics. When he sent them threatening notes, they didn’t heed his warnings. When his demands weren’t met, he sabotaged stage sets, drugged the performers, and even murdered the prima donna and her maid. He kidnapped Christine DuBois, a beautiful singer who was his object of obsession. He caused a deadly diversion by bringing the crystal chandelier down on the audience and, in the chaos and commotion, kidnapped her. He took her down to his lair in the sewers where he intended to keep her with him forever, but she was rescued by police. However, the whole place was dilapidated and falling apart, on the verge of coming down. When the policeman’s gun went off, it caused a terrible rumble. The Phantom pushed Christine out of the way of the falling rubble, but was crushed to death. The policeman and Christine escaped just before the entire place caved in on itself.

The Phantom’s violin and mask were recovered many years later and are on display in a museum today but, after the rubble was cleared away, workers were both baffled and horrified. There was no body. A terrible chill went down their spines and the hairs on the backs of their necks stood up. They felt a presence with them. A presence they couldn’t see. It’s said that Claudin’s body is still down there, hidden somewhere. Maybe he survived the cave-in but, without hope, without love, without Christine, he drowned himself in his beloved lake where he once sought refuge, peace, and solitude. His body may be lost somewhere in the deep, inky black depths of the lake, but his spirit won’t rest, watching over his Opera House as a spectral spectator, a ghostly guardian.

The stories vary. Some say he’s friendly, a protector. A ballerina let her curiosity get the better of her and went down below and accidentally got lost in the underground caverns of the Opera House. She spent so long in the concrete labyrinth she was confused as to which path to take. She sat there all day, lost, figuring she’d never get out, when Erique just walked right through the walls. He stood and stared at the ballerina as he passed through. He smiled and beckoned her to come. “Follow me, child. I’ll show you the way back,” he said with one of his warm smiles. She wrapped her fingers into his cloak, her heart flooded with relief. She could have walked through them herself she supposed, but it was wonderful to have a guide. Others say he’s malevolent, a vengeful spirit seeking to scare away, harm, or even kill those that disrespect or otherwise desecrate his Opera House, his eternal resting place. I know it’s meant to be scary, but I couldn’t help but feel deeply moved by the tragic tale. I was sympathetic for Claudin. The poor man. I know the stories say otherwise, but I hope his soul is at peace.

Ghosts are one thing, but Jim and I have been following the story of Marie Antoinette’s missing diamond and journal ever since we stepped foot on French soil. During the French Revolution of the 1790s, Marie liked to frequent a particular tower in Chateau Rochemont. For her birthday, Louis gave her a tiara with a ruby, an emerald, a sapphire and a diamond in it. It was so extravagant that she refused to wear it, calling it her crown of ruination, as the French public was starving in the streets and it presented her as apathetic towards them. Marie had the tiara dismantled, with the sapphire and emerald sent to family members who lived in other countries and could thus keep the precious gems safe. She wanted the jewels to be returned to the people of France where they belonged, but she knew it couldn’t happen until the country had healed from the tumultuous revolution it was undergoing. We know she sent the emerald to her cousin in Austria, and the sapphire to her sister in Spain. However, Marie and the King were advised to take jewels in case they needed to bribe for their escape, so she took the ruby with her. However, they were still captured by Jean Le Bouef on June 25, 1791 and everything Marie had was taken. She then hid the diamond and her journal in a contraption, in a secret compartment underneath her tower that hadn’t been discovered until only recently, when a gang of diamond thieves attempted to steal both the diamond and the journal, but were thwarted by Auguste de Lancret, a museum curator and French Police when the heist was bungled.

Everyone in France, especially near Versailles, is resting easier, now that Marie Antoinette’s journal and her famous diamond are safe and sound. The journal and the diamond are going to be featured in a new Marie Antoinette exhibit in Paris. And it looks like everyone who contributed to recovering both artifacts will be rewarded! Those involved in the conspiracy are going to be charged with attempted grand theft. Juliette Blauschild, a French-born American author, historian, and museum curator, is thrilled because the French government has granted her permission to publish Marie’s journal in the US before it gets returned to France. This ought to help prove her theory about Marie’s character once and for all. Thanks to Auguste and his great-grandfather's efforts to find the journal, their family name is being celebrated all over France. Meanwhile, Auguste was showed the poem that his father, Jean-Luc, wrote him and he was relieved to know that his old man didn’t carry any hard feelings to his grave. All the talk shows want Auguste to tell his story on national television, but he keeps turning them down. I guess he doesn’t want to be famous or infamous. But, when Penelope Lane called and asked Auguste to be her business partner, he accepted! With her business sense and Auguste’s expert knowledge of the castle, I think they’ll make a great team! So, you know what they say Uncle George: “Il n'est jamais trop tard de changer l'historie.” It’s never too late to change history!

Vis ta vie!

Love,

Your niece xx

October 1938

Dear Fanny,

We are in the Chunnel! This is our second passage through the Chunnel! We’re on our way back from London, this time going to Brussels, Belgium. Sorry I didn’t write you on the way to London but I was too excited about the CHUNNEL!! London was great. I know you’ve always wanted to visit and I think you really should. You’d love it! If you and Johnny wanted to come back here as a family sometime I guess Jim and I could be convinced.

Love you!

Your sister xx

February 1940

Dear Uncle George,

Greetings from jolly old Wales. Although right now I’m not so sure about the jolly part. I’m afraid I come bearing bad news. If it were good news, I’d have telephoned. Jim and I have made an impromptu trip here to attend the funeral of John, Sir John’s elder son. He unexpectedly died on Monday following a hunting accident while on holiday in the Grampian Mountains of Scotland, where he was a frequent visitor. Poor John. He was only thirty-nine and they all knew the girl he was going to marry. I had rather a sad letter from Sir John a few days ago, announcing the death. In one of his passages, he wrote, “I dreamt last night I was in the park at Llanwelly, walking with John under the great trees, listening to the pigeons cooing in their branches. And when I woke, my eyes were filled with tears.” It was very moving. There were darkened spots on the parchment that smudged the ink. It’s a dagger in my heart to imagine Sir John, the charismatic community leader, who always held his head high with a stiff upper lip, crying while writing to me. Poor darling. He’s so unhappy.

A great part of living is expecting the unexpected. Considering our way of life, Jim and I thought ourselves masters of the art. We were living our once upon a time. Every day felt like a lifetime; every moment was alive. Our lips were for each other and our eyes were full of dreams. We thought we knew everything of travel, that we knew everything of loss. Ours was a world of eternal summer, until the autumn came. I’m so sorry for John’s loss. Grief is a journey, long and painful, but he doesn’t walk the road alone. Life is certainly a queer business—so brief, yet such a lot of it; so substantial, yet in a few years, which behaves like minutes, all scattered and anyhow. If humanity ever conquered mortality we would go, knowing that whomever we left behind we’d see again in the future. Time seems so infinite when you’re young…a month is an age, a year is a lifetime…it is a strange feeling, to realize how little of it one might have left. Our time on this earth is finite. It’s common knowledge, yet it’s a strange thing to realize and accept your mortality, to be confronted with it. It’s just one of those things you ignore. The days tick by and you just expect they will keep on coming. Until the unexpected happens.

That’s the thing about life; it is fragile, precious, and unpredictable. Each day is a gift, not a given right. However much you expect death, it’s still painful when it arrives. But that’s just it, we don’t know how much time we have. Jim and I are using ours to love. There’s nothing else worth living for, fighting for, or dying for. Believe me. We love each other, and we love our families, even if we’re estranged from them, above all else. The paradox of love is that to have it is to want to preserve it because it’s perfect in the moment but that preservation is impossible because the perfection is only ever an instant passed through. Love, like travel, is a series of moments that we immediately leave behind. Still we try to hold on and embalm against all evidence and common sense proclaiming our promises and plans. The more I loved him the more I felt hope. But hope acknowledges uncertainty and so I also felt my first premonitions of loss.

It took expensive train and cab rides to get here on such short notice. John sent us the money necessary to travel, and arranged transportation to and from the service. Jim and I are so grateful for his generosity. He doesn’t want anything more in return than our presence here. It will mean a great deal to him to have our support during this difficult time. We’re about to be picked up and dropped off at Talbot Castle, a huge, centuries old castle in the middle of a dark, foggy moor. Since Sir John and I are such close friends and care for each other deeply, (we were almost married, after all) he has invited Jim and I to stay for a couple weeks following the service. In his letter to me, he said the castle is too big for just him, Larry, and the servants, and that it’d be nice if he had an excuse to finally use guest rooms for their intended purpose: To house guests. All these years, they’ve just been collecting dust and he’s itching to air them out. He also said they’ve been having a really cold autumn up there and that there might be snowfall, so Jim and I should pack accordingly. “Usually if I’d wanted to freeze my backside off in the autumn, I’d have gone to Scotland. But lately, it’s been as cold as a bishop’s arse and twice as white, and London isn’t much better. I don’t mind saying it: I’m very disappointed,” he said in his letter.

But it looks like we lucked out and the storm didn’t reach here. There’s no snow falling. It’s a clean, crisp night. Just gone midnight. Feels like we’ve been here forever. Looking at it, this train station, this village is lonely and forlorn. We’re in the middle of nowhere. The station looks like it hasn’t been used in years. There’s not much here except a pile of luggage, including mine. I just dumped it there because it seemed like the right thing to do. The car should be here any moment. I’m surrounded by forests. The trees are completely bare in the winter months, but for now, the leaves are still clinging on to the branches for dear life in colors of orange, red, yellow, and brown.

It’s strange to think I was almost married to Sir John, yet I’ve never been here before. I should explore when I’m back from the service. I imagine there are plenty of forests in Wales to explore, full of treasures waiting to be uncovered in this mucky old moor. I’m reminded of when Tina and I went camping with Charlotte and discovered a moss-covered boot! I remember Tina bringing it up to her face to look inside…and shrieking in horror! “There’s a bloody rat in there!” she screamed! I used to love walking in the forests, going on hiking trails in Europe with Dad and Fanny and… Yeah. Yeah, maybe I’ll go walking in the forests when I’m back, if I can convince Jim to come with me. You should never hike alone. But we won’t stay out too late. Whether they’re to be believed or not, there are many legends out there about forests and the weird discoveries found in them. I was supposed to call the castle from the station to let John know we arrived here safely. So, there I sat, listening to the phone ring, waiting for someone to pick up. It wasn’t John, but his butler, Kendall, who told us that John’s gone! He’s been disappearing a lot lately, going on long walks without telling anybody where he’s going, but he always turns up before dark, so everyone leaves him alone to grieve in his own way. He left a note that suggested something terrible happens here in the moors at night, something about a wolf. The connection was getting really bad, and I could barely hear him, but I’m pretty sure he used the word “prowling” (or was it “howling”?) along with “dangerous” and “be careful”.

Accidents are one thing, but wild animals? Oh dear. I hope I know what I’m getting into. Do I belong to the city or the wilds? Am I human or animal? Am I sane or lunatic? Both? Neither? Yes. It’s nighttime, and although part of me is dying to know what frightened John away, another part of me is starting to feel a little uneasy. I can’t tell whether the uneasiness in my stomach is because of my grief, or because I’m a tad creeped out. Frankly, as beautiful as Talbot Castle is, I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this place. Uh-oh. I have to put this away because the car is here. I’ll let you know what happens when (and if!) Jim and I get back from the service.

Love,

Your niece x

[youraufildespages]

In my mailbox (484)

Voilà notre rendez-vous du dimanche! C’est le jour où je vous montre toutes les futures belles lectures que j’ai reçu durant la semaine. C’est parti! Chéri m’offre Nous sommes nés de la lune et des marées, et c’est à elles que nous retournons. Emory a beau être étudiante à Aldryn, la prestigieuse université de magies lunaires, elle ne possède que des aptitudes de Guérison assez basiques. Jusqu’à…

[jeremy-ken-anderson]

I obsessively searched art on Elfwood, but wasn't actually aware they had fiction.

FirstClass was the forum/shared mailbox system of Emory College when I was there and it was excellent for all kinds of flash fiction.

...Actually Keenspace might have it. I may have encountered Keenspace/Keenspot fancomics before I ran into my first fanfiction within FirstClass.

I recall the Power Rangers fancomic I read particularly because I didn't know the concept of fancomics then? So I assumed it was parody and read the entire series this dude had written waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it never did. He played the whole story straight. Pretty good art, too, certainly by Keenspace standards at the time.

[moronic-validity]

Slashers Ranked: Can They Drive?

-Billy Lenz: 4/10. Honestly, I think Billy could drive, I think he shouldn't (I think there are a lot of people who shouldn't drive though). Someone please record him road raging

-RZ Michael Myers: 0/10. Don't let him drive. Please? Please, he'll intentionally hit people for the fuck of it

-1978 Michael Myers: 9/10. Man stole a car and got out of Smith's Grove. Didn't crash it and didn't attract police attention. I'm impressed

-Lester Sinclair: 7/10. Really good driver, really shit car. It happens. I think he intentionally hits bumps too quickly because he likes to go airborne.

- Bo Sinclair: 10/10. Also a really good driver, really enjoys driving too. Absolutely babies his car.

- Vincent Sinclair: 2/10. Okay listen, there is a 1 in 3 chance he can't fuckin drive and I'm banking on it.

-Jason Voorhees: 0/10. I love Jason to bits, but our boy can't drive worth a shit.

-Brahms Heelshire: 4/10. This one is interesting because he has definitely never had to drive anywhere in his life, but also I believe he would've dicked around and driven around the grounds at some point in his life. He should never be allowed on roads with other cars, but he hasn't crashed

-Thomas Hewitt: 5/10. He's actually a pretty good driver, but Hoyt taught him how to drive so it gives him anxiety

- Bubba Sawyer: 5/10. Fairly good driver, not the best or worst. Drayton taught him how to drive and he immediately hit the mailbox. Has been a bit skittish since.

- The Largo Siblings: 0/10. None of them can drive. None of them have ever needed to drive. Why are you trying to make them drive.

- Graverobber: -10/10. He sucks as a driver and knows it. Drives anyway. Will flip you off as he cuts you off. Would for sure flip his blinker to signal going the other way.

-Amanda Young: solid 6/10. She's a good driver but gets distracted really easily. She's also the type to get out of her car at a red light if you pissed her off.

- Leslie Vernon: 3/10. Gives all of his passengers anxiety. He has never crashed a car, but he drives with his knees while texting and sometimes eating. Goes 10 mph over the speed limit and gets confused when he gets pulled over. He was just multi tasking, no one died.

- Charlie Hewitt: 5/10. Good driver, but will definitely merge over on top of you. If he's signaling, it's a warning, he's not asking permission to get into your lane. Gives me capital A Anxiety though. Road rages hard as hell.

- Drayton Sawyer, Young and Old: 10/10. He's a good driver and always has been. Is extremely safe behind the wheel and does his best to keep his driving record clear. He can excuse cannibalism and murder, but draws the line at irresponsible driving.

- Asa Emory: Also a 10/10 driver. He can't afford not to be. As long as he isn't using his car as a weapon, he's incredibly safe behind the wheel. He doesn't want law enforcement looking in his vehicle.

- Lawrence Oleander: -2/10. He will not drive please do not make him. He doesn't like driving. He walks everywhere.

- Strade: 9/10. Another shockingly good driver, for the same reason as Asa. The last thing he needs is law enforcement poking around his car. He lost a singular point for the lack of a handle in the backseat. Just throw the childlock dude.

[game2win]

Dear Emory: how are you fairing in all of this. I'd imagine you're not taking this, uh, well? Best of luck to you! Don't die or something!

Sincerely, Audience Participant

Emory takes the note from the mailbox with a worried look, reading it over.

EMORY: Do I look like I'm taking it well? I hardly know what's going on right now...!

They huff, crumpling up the paper and tossing it aside.

EMORY: I just want to go home.

[dollarstoreartsupplies]

Emotober Day 4: History, “I quit.” (Otherwise known as 'Dear Miss Michelle Hanlon it is my sincerest pleasure to accept you into the Derry, Maine school of being miserable, graduating class of 2019')

A Brief History of Derry, Maine is, in fact, not particularly brief, nor is it particularly historical. It’s nine hundred and forty seven pages of fucking bullshit.

They talk in depth about the Iron Works explosion, like the deaths of children is some fun factoid instead of insane negligence by adults who were supposed to protect them, and the murder of thousands of Native Americans like it’s something to be proud of, and, in a single, tiny, little foot note at the end of a chapter, that every twenty seven years (or so) a surplus of children just fucking disappear, isn’t that weird? Too bad we can’t do anything about it, oh well.

Not once does it mention that everyone who leaves forgets it’s very existence.

Not once does it mention that Beverly Marsh has been gone two years and Bill Denbrough has been gone one and neither have ever called like they swore up, down, left, and right that they would.

Not once does it mention that in less than twenty four hours Ben Hanscom is going to pack up her mom’s SUV and drive all the way to Ithaca, New York to move into her dorm at Cornell, just like Stan had boarded a plane enroute to Emory University in Atlanta yesterday, and Richie last week to UCLA, and Eddie last month for early move in to her NYU dorms before her mother could figure out where she was going.

And it doesn’t mention that by tomorrow night Mike will have lost all her fucking friends.

She’d known that was going to be the case, she had, but she’d still been holding out hope that maybe she’d be able to find something, some secret incantation or loophole, and everyone could remember again. That somewhere in the pages of A Brief History of Derry, Maine or the distinctly banned from the public library, just no one ever bothered to remove it from the shelves, Magic in Derry or Derry, Maine A Travel Guide, or the stupid pamphlets she’d taken from Derry’s shitty, closed-more-than-it-was-open historical society, there would be a way to make her friends remember her so they could be friends forever like they'd all promised, come back once the twenty seven (now twenty three) years were up as a unit, and life would be great.

But there’s nothing.

Just an empty mailbox and useless books and the encroaching horror of adulthood alone in a town that wants her dead.

The dent A Brief History of Derry, Maine leaves in her wall when thrown is sizable; nine hundred and forty seven pages wrapped up in hard-cover tends to outmatch plaster and wallpaper, but she’s angry and something is broken irreparably in her chest, so she thinks a momentary temper tantrum is well deserved.

(Privately, shamelessly immaturely, she’s almost pleased with herself. If everything in her fucking life was being decimated right before her eyes she might as well help it along. Its poetic; Ben and Bill would have liked it.)

She stops staring at her ceiling like it'll be able to fix this mystical, fucked up mess that is her life, eventually, to grab the book off her floor, not bothering to straighten any wrinkled pages before she jams it into her bookcase. And then, she stares at her desk like she's well aware it will make this mystical, fucked up mess that is her life even worse, and makes a very poor decision.

Hidden in her main desk drawer, under a notebook she’s never touched and a pencil case she’s only used twice and a tiny French-to-English dictionary she bought to help Stan and Richie pass their required language credit, is a hastily torn open envelope containing a well-worn letter, the sides of the paper pressed thin between fingers that have held it over and over and over and over again, sometimes to read it, and sometimes just as a reminder that it was real.

Dear Miss Michelle Hanlon,

It is my sincerest pleasure to congratulate you on your acceptance into the Rollins College class of 2000!

It’s well past decision day, the semester started a week ago. There’s no way she could have attended at this point, and she’d known that from the beginning, there’s a reason no one but herself and the admissions officers know she even applied.

It still hurts when she looks at it, though.

It’s still the thing that makes her finally start crying; sobs punching their way out of her chest, brutal and painful and still not horrible enough to properly demonstrate her grief for people who aren’t even dead.

Here’s the thing: Mike’s been playing this game with the universe since the day Beverly left with his Aunt and never called the way he promised to; this totally fucked race against time to guarantee she wouldn’t be alone until 2019 (and, god, isn’t that just incomprehensibly, impossibly far).

And sat on her bed, crumbling dent in the dry wall of her bedroom wall and the wasted potential of a college acceptance letter torn into a hundred pieces in her lap, Mike Hanlon quits.

She’ll start up again in twenty three years.

[slash-em-up]

The Collector/Asa Emory

Glove Kink: Asa x Reader

Lingerie Kink: Asa x Reader

Delicate Harbingers: Asa x Reader

Sanctuary: Asa x Reader - Christmas Special

Suspended: Asa x Reader

Collecting Canis Lupus Familiaris: Asa x Reader

In Sickness and In Health: Asa x Reader

Onero: A Collector Fic

Priceless (WIP)

Synopsis: Following directly after the end of The Collection, Arkin makes good on his promise to make the Collector feel ‘everything he felt’, with a little unexpected help...

Priceless Pt. 1

Priceless Pt. 2

Priceless Pt. 3

Re-Assessing Presuppositions (COMPLETE)

Synopsis: A dirty first-time pegging fic. Asa has some... ideas about bedroom power-plays that you break him of very quickly.

Re-Assessing Presuppositions Pt. 1

Re-Assessing Presuppositions Pt. 2

With Apologies to Necroscia Sparaxes (COMPLETE)

Synopsis: The new intern is making overtures to your boyfriend- you’re not having any of that.

With Apologies to Necroscia Sparaxes pt. 1

With Apologies to Necroscia Sparaxes pt. 2

War of the Neighbors (WIP)

Synopsis: Your asshole neighbor keeps leaving vaguely threatening notes in your mailbox - so obviously you need to start a prank-war with him.

War of the Neighbors Pt. 1

War of the Neighbors Pt. 2

War of the Neighbors Pt. 3

War of the Neighbors Pt. 4

War of the Neighbors Pt. 5

Demons (WIP)

Synopsis: On Asa’s 25th birthday a surprising call pulls him back into a terrifying world he’d managed to suppress- the sins of the father are visited on the son, and all that...

Demons Pt. 1

Demons Pt. 2

[sblogtrust]

Blue mailbox

#Blue mailbox how to#

#Blue mailbox Offline#

22 to allocate $25 billion to the Postal Service and ban operational cuts until after the election – a move the agency already said would happen. Public concerns reached the highest levels of government. The combination created a social media frenzy with #USPS as a top trending hashtag for several days along with #SaveTheUSPS and #USPSProtests. The photo was debunked, but it was shared more than 80,000 times and coincided with real news reports of boxes being removed.Ī damaged and out-of-service mailbox remains outside a store in Vienna, Virginia on Aug.

#Blue mailbox how to#

State-by-state guide: How to vote by mail in the 2020 electionįears about voter suppression centered on mailboxes in mid-August when at least one viral tweet purported to show a pile of them at a dump. States are expanding voting access in different ways, including offering ballot drop boxes, allowing people to drop off ballots in person, and in some cases extending the deadline for returning ballots. Now, the owner of a salon near the intersection said, seniors in a nearby building have to walk uphill several blocks to the nearest mailbox. In Upper Manhattan, the Postal Service removed a box for construction at Cabrini Boulevard and 181st Street. “The removing of mailboxes and sorting machines has a disproportionate impact on underserved communities, where the post office is really relied upon,” she said. They will grapple with the tough choice of voting in-person and risking illness or trying to navigate voting by mail, according to Capri Cafaro, a former Democratic member of the Ohio Senate who now teaches politics at American University. Seniors, those with disabilities and people with limited transportation often rely on collection boxes in their neighborhood for outgoing mail. Postal Service warns states: Some absentee, mail-in ballots may not be delivered in time to be counted “It’s a lifeline for a lot of people,” said Brett Max Kaufman, a senior staff attorney for the American Civil Liberties Union. “Why now? Why not wait until after the election?” said Bernard Fraga, associate professor of political science at Emory University. Some voting rights experts question why the Postal Service would remove any mailbox during a pandemic when more voters than ever are expected to cast ballots by mail. The Postal Service removed boxes during construction projects in Chicago, Philadelphia, and Wauwatosa, Wisconsin.Įven if this year's removals track with historical averages, 2020 has been anything but a normal year. Rusty bolts embedded in the concrete are still visible. In Eugene, Oregon, at least 21 are gone, culled from locations with multiple boxes that now have one or two. It was supposed to reopen this spring but still hasn’t.

#Blue mailbox Offline#

In Ashland, Massachusetts, four boxes in the post office went offline when the building closed after mold was discovered in the basement. Reporters found boxes had been removed on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood, Broadway in New York City and on 10 Mile Road in Southfield, Michigan. Reporters across the USA TODAY Network checked on 271 of those boxes in 20 states and confirmed that 186 were not there. On average, from 2010 through 2019, the Postal Service reports it removed 3,258 drop boxes a year. But between a pandemic, a presidential election and a president who is fanning the flames of suspicion that he’s sabotaging the Postal Service to suppress mail-in voting, Americans are now paying close attention to every cut the post office makes. The blue boxes have been disappearing for decades. In the meantime, across the United States, missing mailboxes had become a political hot button. They didn’t return until Aug. 21, the same day Postmaster General Louis DeJoy testified to a Senate committee about postal cuts. In all, more than 30 mailboxes disappeared from the city’s streets that day. In front of the offices of the Columbus Dispatch, part of the USA TODAY Network, a reporter asked the worker why he was taking the boxes. Protests after George Floyd’s death under the knee of a Minneapolis police officer had taken a destructive turn the night before. postal worker rolled through downtown Columbus, Ohio, in late May, stopping to hoist iconic blue mailboxes onto a flatbed truck.

[eemmoorrii]

Alan in a hotdog costume

bitches be mad cuz they can't compare

edit: fixed the coloring because my god my monitor is so fuckass

[rhythm86radio]

Reviews July 11, 2021

Reviews July 11, 2021

Once again we picked only the very best from the plethora of new music that landed in our mailbox… enjoy !! Mikki Afflick featuring Emory Toler “Like minded people” (Soul Sun Soul Music Promo) The latest offering from Soul Sun Soul Music, the awe-inspiring “Like minded people” by label head Mikki Afflick and vocalist Emory Toler,, is not to be missed. This super dope afro house track featuring…

[llama-head]

8 for the sims story thingie

Are there any plots or characters that have changed dramatically since you initially began writing them?

Jax. When I first decided to add Jax to the story he was uhhhh very different. Jax and Donnie originally still lived in Oasis Springs and Jax had wayyyyy more issues and was your quote on quote bad kid. Like smashing mailboxes, shoplifting, selling drugs, and just all around he had no spirit and no drive for anything. He was actually gonna be sent to Emory from Donnie after their original meeting after Emory blamed Donnie for Jax's bad behavior. Donnie basically said “Okay u try then.” But I took one look at his face and dropped some of it out. He still smokes and skips school but it isn’t the same as before. Some of his story (which hasn’t even BEGUN lol) stays the same, especially when he’s a YA. He was the only planned second-gen character that was planned ahead of time, whereas the others I was like oh let’s have a baby and wrote their stories as they grew up.

That was really long oop but thank you for the ask I appreciate it!!!!

[sangmer]

Good Ending

                                        Send “good end” for an ideal ending to their story

        Do you know     THAT feeling?        Persistent & nagging at your mind, attempting         to pull you back into those comfortable habits         with disastrous consequences—yes, that.         Siebold faded in and out of comfort admittedly         for the longest of time after his commitment to         find some form of peace.        Memories of TERROR and DELUSIONS formed         from fear and stress were simply that: MEMORIES.         It drove him to the position as Elite Four member,         and top chef of the region ( more arguably, the world );         a cannibalistic killer with need of psychiatric assistance         in the same right.  It was..not something Siebold         would ever be willing to talk about, and even the         illegal activities lay dormant on his tongue         towards all.         All there is was himself and the many canvases         strewn about his upscale Ambrette Town home.         Yes, he has become more serious in his ORIGINAL         passion, though continued to hold onto his culinary         heart. ‘Retired’ as a chef de cuisine, he merely         turned to privately training those interested in the         field. Siebold continued his duties as an elite four         member, but only because he had an apprentice to         someday replace his own seat, to leave Siebold         almost receding inwards, spending more time at         home than at work.        This was better, however; for his well-being, that is.         He has much more time to relax, in comparison to his         time at home being minute, and only 2 to 4 hours for         rest before beginning each day. Now, he had time for         vacations & simply watching the sunset from his         terrace. He speaks little nowadays, himself learning         to appreciate instead of needless criticism of the         world. There was also one more change vital to his         own healing: reconciling with what was left of his         family. Siebold was wary of visiting BOTH of his         parents, and it was the more recent of things he         had accomplished. His father’s grave, lonely         and flowerless; and his mother’s place of work,         where she confessed  SHE was the one sending         the anonymous letters personally to his mailbox         of supportive and motivational words.         It still speaks to him to this day, and it was like fighting         a sort of diluted ADDICTION. The habit of murder and         corruption brimmed from circumstance, that in which         was but a decision from twisted justice. Growing older,         he knew that things were handled in the worst possible         way, and he payed for it; but, there also that underlining         ignorance to the good behind it all ( his mother selling         off his father’s restaurant to two chefs thinking of making         a name for themselves, & even his mother eradicating         his father from this earth completely ). Now, there is         TRUTH, and moving past delusions of fabricated truths.         It was fine, this was fine.

[gordonwilliamsweb]

Trust, Fear and Solidarity Will Determine the Success of a COVID Vaccine

Thousands of letters stuffed with money flooded Jonas Salk’s mailbox the week after his polio vaccine was declared safe and effective in 1955. Everybody wanted his vaccine. Desperate parents clogged doctors’ phone lines in search of the precious elixir; drug companies and doctors diverted doses to the rich and famous.

Some of the first batches of the vaccine were disastrously botched, causing 200 cases of permanent paralysis. That barely dented public desire for the preventive. Marlon Brando even asked to play Salk in a movie.

Eight years later, with polio a fading threat, the first measles vaccines went on sale. Measles had killed more than 400 children the year before and caused permanent brain damage in thousands more. Interest in the vaccine was modest. Its creator, Maurice Hilleman, was never lionized as Salk had been.

“People felt, ‘What’s the big deal? I had measles; why does my kid need a vaccine?’ It was a very difficult sell,” said Walter Orenstein, an Emory University professor who headed the national immunization program at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention from 1988 to 2004.

When a coronavirus vaccine becomes available, will it be met with a roaring ovation, like the polio vaccine, or communal yawning, like the measles shot? Or some strange hybrid of the two? Americans’ trust in authority, affordable access to the vaccine and a sense of solidarity will determine the result, said Orenstein and other public health veterans and historians.

Perceptions of particular diseases — and vaccines — reflect the seriousness of the diseases themselves, but popular values, culture, human risk assessment and politics all play important roles. Acceptance of public health measures — be they face masks or vaccines — is never entirely determined through a rational balancing of risk and benefit.

We can see that in the history of national campaigns for new vaccines meant to vanquish a scourge. No disease was more feared in the mid-20th century than polio. With the possible exception of AIDS, no disease since has been as feared until the arrival of COVID-19.

The polio vaccine was one of the few the public greeted eagerly. Diseases like measles and whooping cough were familiar childhood afflictions. In most years they killed more children than polio, but polio, which put people in iron lungs and leg braces, was visible in ways that an infant’s death certificate, tucked away in a drawer, could never be.

Vaccines are often a hard sell, since they prevent rather than cure disease and seem scary even though they are generally quite safe. Since vaccines must be widely used to prevent outbreaks, successful vaccination campaigns rely heavily on trust in those who sell, recommend and administer the medicines. And trust in science, government and business has not always been in steady supply.

In the late 1800s and early 1900s, when public health laws were in flux, authorities battling smallpox epidemics would often send vaccinators out with police to enforce the jab. They’d enter factories where cases had been reported, lock the doors and frog-march the workers through a vaccination line. The workers’ resistance was not unmerited; the vaccine sometimes caused swollen arms, fever and bacterial infections. Vaccination could cost a week’s missed wages.

Authorities had learned their lesson by the 1920s, when the diphtheria vaccine came on the scene, as James Colgrove notes in his book “State of Immunity: The Politics of Vaccination in Twentieth-Century America.” Diphtheria was a much-feared killer of children, and publicity campaigns run by public health officials, insurance companies and charities sought to educate and persuade rather than coerce.

Polio terrified Americans, peaking in 1952 with more than 57,000 cases. In 1938, President Franklin D. Roosevelt, himself a polio patient, had begun a national scientific program to battle the disease, backed by millions of Americans’ contributions through the March of Dimes.

The result of this national quest, uniting government and the people, was Jonas Salk’s inactivated polio vaccine. It cemented a powerful post-World War II trust in the U.S. scientific and medical establishment that would endure for many years.

Social solidarity was also important.

Vaccines prevent the circulation of a disease among the unvaccinated via what scientists call herd immunity — if enough people are vaccinated. When a reliable rubella vaccine became available in 1969, states quickly required childhood vaccination, even though rubella was practically harmless in children. They wanted to protect a vulnerable population — pregnant women — to prevent a repeat of the 1963-64 congenital rubella epidemic, which resulted in 30,000 fetal deaths and the birth of more than 20,000 babies with severe disabilities.

The embrace of the rubella vaccine, as historian Elena Conis of the University of California-Berkeley notes in her book, “Vaccine Nation: America’s Changing Relationship With Immunization,” marked the first time a vaccine had been deployed that offered no direct benefit to those who were vaccinated.

Still, it took a combination of fear, solidarity — and coercion — for Orenstein and his colleagues at the CDC and state public health agencies to drive childhood vaccination rates for measles, whooping cough, rubella and diphtheria to 90% and above in the 1990s to assure herd immunity.

Shame was also a tool. Orenstein remembered testifying to the Florida Legislature when it was considering a tougher vaccine mandate. He showed them that disease rates were lower in neighboring states that had tighter mandates. It worked.

What’s different now? In a politically divided nation, trust in science is low and experts are distrusted, politicians more so. Childhood vaccination efforts are already beset by large numbers of hesitant parents. And efforts to fight the COVID epidemic in the United States have been clumsy and chaotic at best, leaving Americans to doubt the competence of their governments and institutions.

There is still fear. “Maybe I’m an old-fashioned fool, but I think that most people will welcome a vaccine, if the rollout is done right,” said David Oshinsky, a professor of history at New York University and author of “Polio: An American Story,” a Pulitzer Prize-winning history. “Most people are desperately afraid of COVID. A minority thumb their noses, many of them for political reasons. How will this change when there’s a vaccine that [hopefully] changes the health risk equation to some degree?”

Recent surveys show as few as half of Americans are determined to be vaccinated against COVID-19. Those numbers could change depending on a number of hard-to-predict factors, said Conis of Berkeley.

“A lot of people will be really eager to get it,” she said. “A lot will be hesitant, not only because of misinformation but because of a lack of trust in the current administration.”

When a coronavirus vaccine is introduced, it may be sold as personal protection, even for young, healthy people. But those who suffer most from the virus are usually older or sicker. An effective vaccination campaign may try to instill a sense of solidarity, or altruism, as well as a more general sense that without vaccination, the economy can’t get back on its feet.

“I’m not clear if people accept that solidarity,” Orenstein said. “People look more for what’s good for themselves than what’s good for society.” That said, the risk of COVID-19 to young people is “not zero. That’s one of the major ways to sell this, in a sense.”

This KHN story first published on California Healthline, a service of the California Health Care Foundation.

Kaiser Health News (KHN) is a national health policy news service. It is an editorially independent program of the Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation which is not affiliated with Kaiser Permanente.

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[stephenmccull]

Trust, Fear and Solidarity Will Determine the Success of a COVID Vaccine

Thousands of letters stuffed with money flooded Jonas Salk’s mailbox the week after his polio vaccine was declared safe and effective in 1955. Everybody wanted his vaccine. Desperate parents clogged doctors’ phone lines in search of the precious elixir; drug companies and doctors diverted doses to the rich and famous.

Some of the first batches of the vaccine were disastrously botched, causing 200 cases of permanent paralysis. That barely dented public desire for the preventive. Marlon Brando even asked to play Salk in a movie.

Eight years later, with polio a fading threat, the first measles vaccines went on sale. Measles had killed more than 400 children the year before and caused permanent brain damage in thousands more. Interest in the vaccine was modest. Its creator, Maurice Hilleman, was never lionized as Salk had been.

“People felt, ‘What’s the big deal? I had measles; why does my kid need a vaccine?’ It was a very difficult sell,” said Walter Orenstein, an Emory University professor who headed the national immunization program at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention from 1988 to 2004.

When a coronavirus vaccine becomes available, will it be met with a roaring ovation, like the polio vaccine, or communal yawning, like the measles shot? Or some strange hybrid of the two? Americans’ trust in authority, affordable access to the vaccine and a sense of solidarity will determine the result, said Orenstein and other public health veterans and historians.

Perceptions of particular diseases — and vaccines — reflect the seriousness of the diseases themselves, but popular values, culture, human risk assessment and politics all play important roles. Acceptance of public health measures — be they face masks or vaccines — is never entirely determined through a rational balancing of risk and benefit.

We can see that in the history of national campaigns for new vaccines meant to vanquish a scourge. No disease was more feared in the mid-20th century than polio. With the possible exception of AIDS, no disease since has been as feared until the arrival of COVID-19.

The polio vaccine was one of the few the public greeted eagerly. Diseases like measles and whooping cough were familiar childhood afflictions. In most years they killed more children than polio, but polio, which put people in iron lungs and leg braces, was visible in ways that an infant’s death certificate, tucked away in a drawer, could never be.

Vaccines are often a hard sell, since they prevent rather than cure disease and seem scary even though they are generally quite safe. Since vaccines must be widely used to prevent outbreaks, successful vaccination campaigns rely heavily on trust in those who sell, recommend and administer the medicines. And trust in science, government and business has not always been in steady supply.

In the late 1800s and early 1900s, when public health laws were in flux, authorities battling smallpox epidemics would often send vaccinators out with police to enforce the jab. They’d enter factories where cases had been reported, lock the doors and frog-march the workers through a vaccination line. The workers’ resistance was not unmerited; the vaccine sometimes caused swollen arms, fever and bacterial infections. Vaccination could cost a week’s missed wages.

Authorities had learned their lesson by the 1920s, when the diphtheria vaccine came on the scene, as James Colgrove notes in his book “State of Immunity: The Politics of Vaccination in Twentieth-Century America.” Diphtheria was a much-feared killer of children, and publicity campaigns run by public health officials, insurance companies and charities sought to educate and persuade rather than coerce.

Polio terrified Americans, peaking in 1952 with more than 57,000 cases. In 1938, President Franklin D. Roosevelt, himself a polio patient, had begun a national scientific program to battle the disease, backed by millions of Americans’ contributions through the March of Dimes.

The result of this national quest, uniting government and the people, was Jonas Salk’s inactivated polio vaccine. It cemented a powerful post-World War II trust in the U.S. scientific and medical establishment that would endure for many years.

Social solidarity was also important.

Vaccines prevent the circulation of a disease among the unvaccinated via what scientists call herd immunity — if enough people are vaccinated. When a reliable rubella vaccine became available in 1969, states quickly required childhood vaccination, even though rubella was practically harmless in children. They wanted to protect a vulnerable population — pregnant women — to prevent a repeat of the 1963-64 congenital rubella epidemic, which resulted in 30,000 fetal deaths and the birth of more than 20,000 babies with severe disabilities.

The embrace of the rubella vaccine, as historian Elena Conis of the University of California-Berkeley notes in her book, “Vaccine Nation: America’s Changing Relationship With Immunization,” marked the first time a vaccine had been deployed that offered no direct benefit to those who were vaccinated.

Still, it took a combination of fear, solidarity — and coercion — for Orenstein and his colleagues at the CDC and state public health agencies to drive childhood vaccination rates for measles, whooping cough, rubella and diphtheria to 90% and above in the 1990s to assure herd immunity.

Shame was also a tool. Orenstein remembered testifying to the Florida Legislature when it was considering a tougher vaccine mandate. He showed them that disease rates were lower in neighboring states that had tighter mandates. It worked.

What’s different now? In a politically divided nation, trust in science is low and experts are distrusted, politicians more so. Childhood vaccination efforts are already beset by large numbers of hesitant parents. And efforts to fight the COVID epidemic in the United States have been clumsy and chaotic at best, leaving Americans to doubt the competence of their governments and institutions.

There is still fear. “Maybe I’m an old-fashioned fool, but I think that most people will welcome a vaccine, if the rollout is done right,” said David Oshinsky, a professor of history at New York University and author of “Polio: An American Story,” a Pulitzer Prize-winning history. “Most people are desperately afraid of COVID. A minority thumb their noses, many of them for political reasons. How will this change when there’s a vaccine that [hopefully] changes the health risk equation to some degree?”

Recent surveys show as few as half of Americans are determined to be vaccinated against COVID-19. Those numbers could change depending on a number of hard-to-predict factors, said Conis of Berkeley.

“A lot of people will be really eager to get it,” she said. “A lot will be hesitant, not only because of misinformation but because of a lack of trust in the current administration.”

When a coronavirus vaccine is introduced, it may be sold as personal protection, even for young, healthy people. But those who suffer most from the virus are usually older or sicker. An effective vaccination campaign may try to instill a sense of solidarity, or altruism, as well as a more general sense that without vaccination, the economy can’t get back on its feet.

“I’m not clear if people accept that solidarity,” Orenstein said. “People look more for what’s good for themselves than what’s good for society.” That said, the risk of COVID-19 to young people is “not zero. That’s one of the major ways to sell this, in a sense.”

This KHN story first published on California Healthline, a service of the California Health Care Foundation.

Kaiser Health News (KHN) is a national health policy news service. It is an editorially independent program of the Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation which is not affiliated with Kaiser Permanente.

USE OUR CONTENT

This story can be republished for free (details).

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