#firegrate

[kmomof4]

A Mistress to No One Part 2 Ch5

We are back, y’all!!! Thank you all for your love and support of this fic!!! We have some hurt/comfort incoming, so get ready!!! I hope you enjoy the chapter and let me know what you think!

All the love to @hollyethecurious​ for whom the fic was written, @jrob64​ and @zaharadessert​ for their beta prowess, and @motherkatereloyshipper​ for her manips of Killian and Leroy and Astrid in the artwork.

Summary: Bastard Emma Swan enjoys one night of pure magic and romance in the midst of a life of drudgery and abuse- attending a masquerade ball and meeting aristocrat Killian Jones. 

Two years later, the same man she met on the best night of her life reappears, saving her from a dire fate in the process. Now, she must keep herself from falling in love with a man she can never have. But when that proves impossible, is there any hope for a happy ending between two people from such vastly different worlds?

Rating: M (smut in a later chapter)

Words: 6759 of approx 61,6K

Tags: Birthday Fic, Inspired by Benedict’s Story in Bridgerton, Smut

On ao3 from the beginning/current ch

On Tumblr Prologue Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4

New Tag List! Please let me know if you’d like to be added or removed.

@jrob64​ @teamhook​ @winterbaby89​ @hollyethecurious​ @xarandomdreamx​ @undercaffinatednightmare​ @the-darkdragonfly​ @stahlop​ @superchocovian​ @pirateprincessofpizza​ @tiganasummertree​ @anmylica​ @cosette141​ @motherkatereloyshipper​ @zaharadessert​ @jonesfandomfanatic​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @jennjenn615​ @allons-y-to-hogwarts-713​ @kymbersmith-90​ @booksteaandtoomuchtv​ @wistfulcynic​ @mie779​ @snowbellewells​ @lfh1226-linda​ @aprilqueen84​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @pirateherokillian​ @elfiola​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​ @justanother-unluckysoul​ @poptart-cat-78​ @myfearless-love​ @goforlaunchcee​ @searchingwardrobes​ @gingerpolyglot​ @gingerchangeling​ @djlbg​ @cocohook38​ @cs-rylie​ @thisonesatellite​ @donteattheappleshook​ @deckerstarblanche​ @veryverynotgoodwrites​ @wefoundloveunderthelight​ @fleurdepetite​

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

“We need a fire and dry clothes,” Killian declared, as he was interrupted by another coughing fit, “- before we catch pneumonia.”

“Of the two of us,” Emma replied, “I think you’re the only one in danger of contracting pneumonia.”

“Too right,” he agreed. He coughed again, doubling over at the waist, and Emma was torn between going to him and maintaining a proper distance right where she was.

“Mr. Jones?” she asked, getting more concerned by the minute. His coughing was getting worse and much more frequent.

“Just help me get the fire going before I cough myself into oblivion.” His voice was raspy and he seemed to barely get the words out.

Emma turned to the firegrate and easily got a blaze going. She’d certainly had enough experience with that as a household maid. In only a matter of minutes, they were both standing before it, their hands held out toward the warmth.

“I don’t suppose your change of clothing stayed dry, did it?” he asked, nodding his head toward her satchel on the ground in front of her.

“I sincerely doubt it,” she replied easily. “But if I stand here long enough, I’m sure I’ll dry out quickly.”

“I can find some dry clothes for you,” he offered.

Emma turned to him surprised. “You have women’s clothing here?”

He shrugged. “My sisters have stayed here from time to time and may have left some clothing here.” He turned his back to the fire when another coughing fit seized him.

“Really, Mr. Jones,” she began once he was over it, “It’s not necessary.”

“Nonsense,�� he replied. “Why don’t you start the furnaces in two of the bedrooms, and I’ll go see what I can find.”

“Which room is yours?” she asked as he started toward the stairs. She followed quickly, not wanting to be left in the dark.

“Top of the stairs on the right,” he informed her. “You can have any other you like.” He had to stop halfway up the stairs to cough; he held the banister tightly and Emma took the candle from him, not wanting him to drop it and burn the house down. She couldn’t help the fear she felt as it seemed to take him longer to get it under control.

“I’ll just stay in the servants quarters,” she told him once he stopped coughing.

“Absolutely not,” he wheezed. “You are not a servant here, you are a guest. And besides, the bedrooms have feather mattresses and goosedown coverlets.”

Emma knew she should remember her place, but the thought 0f a feather mattress and down coverlet was just too exquisite to turn down. She hadn’t slept in such luxury in years.

“Alright then,” she acquiesced. “I’ll… just… get your furnace going. Oh, wait. Won’t you need the candle?” she asked. “Let me just…” She turned toward his bedchamber and entered it, where she found an oil lamp on the nightstand. She lit it quickly and then returned the lit candle to Killian still in the hallway. He moved to another bedroom across the hall as she returned to his.

This time when she entered, she took the time to look around. It was lovely. Warmly decorated and furnished, very masculine in nature. The furniture was dark and heavy, with navy blue accents on the bedclothes. She found several items of a personal nature scattered about the room. She saw miniatures of his family. At least, she assumed they were his family when she spotted a man with blonde hair- his brother David, she remembered. Leather bound books lined the shelves and on the writing desk, a small bowl filled with- how odd, she thought- rocks.

She picked one up and examined it closely. It was the color of a robin’s egg with a ragged pink vein through the middle.

“I found that one on a hike,” his voice came from behind her. She jumped, ashamed to be caught unabashedly snooping.

“I’m so sorry,” she apologized. “I didn’t mean…”

He waved aside her apology as he came into the room. He tossed a long sleeping gown on the bed. “I’ve been collecting them since I was a child. Each one special in their own way. I found that one the day my father died.”

Emma gasped in dismay. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“I’m still sorry.”

He smiled sadly. “As am I.” He was wracked with another cough and he grabbed the post of the bed to keep himself upright.

“You need to get warm,” she said, turning to the furnace. She stood in front of it for several minutes, stoking the flames, until she was sure it wouldn’t sputter out. When she turned back to Killian, he was sitting on the bed, leaning against the tall post on the end, looking like death warmed over. She hurried to his side. “Are you alright, Mr. Jones?”

“Don’ feel so good.” His eyes were glassy and his voice was slightly slurred. If she didn’t know any better, she would have said he was intoxicated, but she’d been in his presence for the last two hours and he hadn’t had a single thing to drink in that time.

“You need to get into bed, Mr. Jones.” It was horribly familiar of her, but his health was at stake, so she wrapped her arm around his waist, placing his arm across her shoulders, trying to get him to move toward the head of the bed. He looked down at her and grinned, waggling his eyebrows at her.

“You coming?”

Emma snorted. “Now I know you’re feverish.”

His hand moved to his forehead. “Hmmm,” his brow furrowed, “I may be a bit hot.”

She felt his forehead herself. It wasn’t burning, but it certainly wasn’t cool either. “You need to get out of those wet clothes. Immediately.”

His voice was even more slurred when he spoke this time. “Yeth, I shuppose so…” His eyes were shut as she laid him back on the bed. He was so near the edge, she was afraid to move lest he fall right off onto the floor. His face looked positively white against the navy blue of the coverlet and Emma tried not to let the fear choke her. She’d never in her life had to care for someone who was ill with a fever. The closest she’d ever come was Mrs. Gold’s elderly mother who couldn’t walk.

“Mr. Jones,” she said, “Mr. Jones,” she said more loudly when he didn’t respond.

“Huh? What?” he asked, startled awake.

“You fell asleep.”

His face was incredulous. “And the problem with that is…?”

“You’re still in your wet clothes!” she exclaimed. “And I’m not strong enough to lift you more fully onto the bed.”

He tried to take a deep breath, but started coughing again when he did. He somehow summoned the strength to sit up, causing it to finally taper off. He tried to unbutton his shirt, but his fingers were still very wet and trembling. He sighed and let his hands drop.

“I… might need some help,” he said sheepishly, scratching behind his ear.

“Oh, dear,” Emma breathed. She reached for him, but jerked back again, uncertain. Steeling herself, she took a deep breath and started undoing his buttons. She concentrated fully on the buttons themselves, trying desperately to ignore the skin being revealed as she went. Once she was done, she looked up to find that he was asleep again. But at least this time he was fully on the bed and not about to fall off, and was raised up enough that she didn’t think he’d have another bad coughing fit.

Emma sighed. He didn’t need to sleep in those wet pants, either. Her eyes skittered to his face. He was well and truly unconscious and there’d be no waking him to get the pants off. So it was either sleep on top of the covers in wet pants, or she’d have to take them off herself and get him under the covers. Getting him under the coverlet wasn’t an issue. In caring for Mrs. Gold’s mother, she learned quickly how to change a bed with a person in it. But completely undressing Killian Jones was. Even unconscious, she was nervous, not sure she really should. But the depth of his cough was frightening. And the fever seemed to be just getting started. If he was going to have any hope of recovery, she needed to get him warm. And quickly.

She took another deep breath and determined that she would not look at his body more than was necessary to get his pants off and tucked into the bed. Thankfully, he’d taken his boots off downstairs, so all she had to get off were his stockings and breeches. She rolled down his stockings and draped them over the back of the chair in front of the furnace. She turned back toward the bed and pressed her lips together in a thin line. There was nothing for it. She had no choice.

She worked the coverlet out from under him so once his bottoms were off, she could immediately cover him, thus, hopefully preserving his modesty, and her innocence. The pants were still wet and so clung to him like a second skin. Her fingers shook as she got the breeches and his underwear removed, blushing furiously when she couldn’t avoid looking at him. Once she got them off of his legs, she covered him up, made sure he was comfortable and then left the room with the nightgown he’d found for her.

It was only about fifteen minutes later that she fell into the bed, asleep moments after her head hit the pillow.

It seemed only moments later that Emma shot straight up out of a dead sleep. Her eyes darted around the room taking in her unfamiliar surroundings. The fire in the furnace was very low and the soft gray of predawn seeped into the room. Was that a moan? She grabbed the candle off of the end table and ran across to Killian’s room.

As soon as she got there, she lit the candle from the fire in his furnace and then moved toward the bed. He was almost unnaturally still, so she watched his chest carefully, waiting with bated breath to see it rise. When she’d left him the night before, he obviously wasn’t well, but he hadn’t seemed at death’s door, either. She wouldn’t have left him, otherwise.

“Mr. Jones?” she whispered. No response. She crept closer to the bed, relieved to see his chest rise and fall. “Mr. Jones,” she said a little louder, leaning over him.

His arm shot out suddenly, knocking her off balance so that she fell against him. His arms immediately came around her, holding her tightly against him.

“Mr. Jones,” she screeched. “Let go!”

He started to thrash and moan, complete nonsense spilling from his lips. His embrace was like iron and she was amazed at his strength while in the grips of a fever. For he definitely was. Emma wrenched one arm free and touched his forehead with her hand. It was on fire.

He was suddenly still, and Emma was wiggling out of his arms when he spoke. “Kiss me.”

“What?” Emma’s eyes widened in surprise. His eyes were still shut and he was very still.

“Kiss me,” he said again, a touch of desperation in his voice.

Emma ran her hand along his brow- it felt even warmer than it had a moment ago- and murmured, “You’re just dreaming, Mr. Jones.”

“Kiss me!” he demanded, grabbing her upper arms, but his eyes remained shut. She could see his eyes dart back and forth behind his closed eyelids. It was truly a marvel to watch someone dream.

“Dammit, kiss me! Please,” he begged. She was about to explain to him exactly why she could not kiss him when the thought crossed her mind, why ever not? It’s not like he’d ever remember this.

She moved toward him and gently brushed his lips with her own. She ran her fingers along his brow. “I love you,” she whispered. “I’ve always loved you.”

He was still for a moment and Emma thought perhaps he’d fallen back into a deep sleep before he spoke again.

“Where’d you go?”

“I’m right here, Mr. Jones,” she assured him, pulling back from his embrace.

“Don’t leave me,” he begged.

Emma grabbed his hand and squeezed. Even his hands were hot. “I won’t leave you,” she promised, “but I must first go fetch a few things.” She let go of his hand and hurried out of the room.

Thankfully, most houses of the aristocracy were run remarkably similarly. Emma had no trouble finding fresh sheets to replace Killian’s sweat soaked ones now on the bed and a tall pitcher she filled with cool water and basin with cloths to try and cool him down. She may have never cared for someone with a fever, but when she’d been ill when she was a child, she remembered how refreshing a cool cloth on her forehead, neck, and chest felt.

While she didn’t think it was such a good idea to put the cool cloth on his chest, surely it would feel good on his forehead and neck. He didn’t move when she laid the dampened cloth on his forehead and she took that as a good sign. She dipped another cloth into the basin and raised his head just a bit in order to lay it across the back of his neck, causing the cloth on his forehead to fall to his lap. Emma could feel her cheeks heating up as she hurriedly grabbed it, felt his forehead again, then placed the cloth back where it belonged. This time his forehead was warm and a bit clammy. Not a combination she expected, but at least he seemed at least a little bit cooler.

He started to thrash again, mumbling something completely incoherent.

“Really?” Emma asked, trying to smile and failing utterly. “I’m glad you think so.”

He muttered something else.

“No,” she answered, “I’m afraid you’re quite mistaken on that count.”

He went still again.

“I’d be happy to revise my opinion, if you could convince me otherwise. Please don’t take offense.”

She was starting to feel quite foolish conversing with a man who was unconscious. Noting that he remained still, and that his breathing was no longer labored, she thought she might safely leave him for a moment to put her dry clothes back on and try and find them something to eat. She didn’t expect him to wake anytime soon, but if he did, he’d need to eat something to regain some strength.

She arrived back in his room about thirty minutes later, suitably dressed and bearing a fresh pitcher of water, some beef broth for him and a few small sandwiches for her.

She removed the cloths from his head and neck and felt his cheeks, his hands, and his chest to try and ascertain if the fever had broken yet. He still seemed quite warm, but not as blazing as he was when she awakened that morning. She dipped the cloths into the cool water again and bathed his forehead, neck and upper chest before covering him with a sheet. He was still, sleeping peacefully and so Emma helped herself to the sandwiches she brought up. It was nowhere near enough, but Emma didn’t want to leave him long enough in order to prepare something more substantial.

As Killian slept, Emma looked around the room. On his desk she found a leather bound notebook, opened it, and was shocked to find drawings. Quite good drawings, in fact. Had Killian done them? She looked in the corner to see his initials in a box. Emma was utterly charmed. She shamelessly flipped through the portfolio, too entranced to even consider how he’d feel about her looking.

The first several pages were of My Cottage- should I call it His Cottage?- details of the front door, with the portico covered with a tea rose vine, his bedroom, the window looking into the kitchen, and front parler.

 Then as she moved on, she found landscapes. Lush forests, babbling brooks she could almost hear meandering through the trees, a sunlit meadow filled with the most beautiful and perfectly pink roses she’d ever seen. A sunrise, a sunset.

Finally, she came to portraits. She guessed these must be sketches of his family. The older woman bore more than a passing resemblance to Killian and so Emma guessed this must be his mother. Right behind it was a portrait of a man. Not as old as the woman, but the resemblance to Killian was remarkable. Perhaps this was the father he’d lost so long ago? She kept flipping through the pages. She recognized David at once with his blonde hair. The next to last page in the book was a domestic scene. David was one of several people engaged in some kind of outdoor game. The fun and laughter on their faces almost made Emma laugh aloud. One of the ladies had her face screwed up in concentration as she made ready to hit a ball with a long handled club through a wicket. The scene made her sigh in happiness. Did Killian even realize how blessed he was to have been born into such a large and happy family?

She turned to the last page and gasped.

The final page, the final portrait, was her.

It was a full length portrait and he’d gotten every detail of the fairytale princess dress perfectly, down to the long gloves and the mask with the swan detail around the eye. Even her hair was exquisitely rendered.

Killian suddenly groaned and Emma hurriedly closed the portfolio, laying it on the desk where she’d found it, and moved over to the bed.

“Mr. Jones?” she asked. How she wanted to call him Killian. It was what she called him in her dreams, how she thought of him all these years. But it would be completely unacceptable for her to do so here.

“Mr. Jones?” She touched his arm lightly and his eyelids fluttered open. His eyes were still glazed with fever and he blinked several times. “Are you alright? Do you need anything?”

He turned toward her and squinted. “Emma?” he asked. “The housemaid?”

“Yes, I’m here,” she assured him. “What do you need?”

“Water,” he croaked.

“Right away, sir.” She turned to the fresh water pitcher and poured him a glass. He took it, swallowing eagerly. He grimaced and fell back on the pillows.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She fought the instinct to curtsy, he likely wouldn’t notice anyway. She touched his forehead, and while it still seemed rather warm, just the fact that he was awake and lucid made her think the fever had broken.

“Do you think you can eat something?” she asked. “I brought you some beef broth.”

“My throat is on fire, but maybe just a swallow or two.” He pushed himself up on the pillows and took the bowl she handed him. He took a sip, his eyes shutting against the pain of swallowing. Emma grimaced along with him. He took another deep sip and handed the bowl back to her. “Very good. Thank you.”

“Of course. Your fever seems to have broken. I think you’ll feel much better tomorrow.”

Killian chuckled, but it turned into a cough, although not nearly as deep as those from the night before.

“Not likely,” he said.

“Well, not recovered, definitely,” she acknowledged. “But I do think you will feel better than you do right now.”

“I truly can’t imagine feeling any worse.” Emma chuckled at his attempt at humor.

“Do you think you can scoot to one side of your bed, so I can change your sheets?”

He nodded and did as she asked. “That’s a neat trick,” he said once she’d finished.

She smiled. “Mrs. Gold’s mother was bedridden and I cared for her when she visited,” she explained.

Killian nodded. “I’m going back to sleep now,” he informed her, unnecessarily.

“Go ahead,” she told him. “I’ll be right here if you need anything. I won’t leave you.”

But Killian Jones was already fast asleep.

~*~*~

The rest of the day was spent closely watching Killian, only leaving him when she absolutely had to. He didn’t have any more of the vivid hallucinations brought on by the high fever, and his cough was much better, but she couldn’t help the fear that if she left him, he’d somehow have a setback. She kept the fire in the furnace going and repeatedly checked his temperature, just to make sure he really was better. He woke again briefly as the sun was setting and she was able to coax him to have a little more broth, before he fell asleep again.

Emma was torn between going back to her room for the night and staying right where she was in the armchair, keeping silent vigil over him. In the end, she stayed with him, bringing the coverlet from her bed to keep herself warm. In her mind, she justified staying with the thought that she wanted to be close by if he needed her.

She slept fitfully, not terribly comfortable sleeping in an armchair, but exhaustion finally took her sometime in the dark and silent hours after midnight.

Emma awoke, late morning sunlight streaming into the room, to see two faces staring curiously at her. The scream she released startled the strangers and well and truly brought not only herself to full wakefulness, but Killian as well.

“Wh- what?” he cried, thrashing a bit as he sat up to find they were no longer alone in the room.

“Mr. Jones,” the woman cried, turning to him on the bed. Emma looked at the man still staring, rather belligerently in her opinion, at her and then over to Killian still on the bed, being fussed over by who could only be Mrs. Miner.

“Who are you?” Mr. Miner asked, training his suspicious eyes back on her.

Emma swallowed hard before speaking. “Miss Emma Swan,” she introduced herself. She motioned to Killian on the bed. “I… he…”

“Spit it out, girl,” the man growled.

“Don’t torture her,” Killian croaked. Mrs. Miner continued to fuss over him, fluffing his pillows amid exclamations of surprise at his presence.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “We were visiting my sister on the other side of the village. If we’d known to expect you, we would have come home straight away.”

“It was a spur of the moment decision,” Killian informed them. “Found myself at a bad party and decided to leave.”

“What about her?” Mr. Miner asked, jerking his thumb in Emma’s direction.

“Oh, I was…”

“She was also there,” Killian interrupted, giving her a significant look. Emma cut her eyes to Mr. and Mrs. Miner before continuing.

“I wasn’t attending the party, I was a servant of the house.”

Mr. Miner’s eyebrows rose. “If you were a servant of the house, what are you doing here?”

Killian coughed lightly, catching everyone’s attention. “Can I bring you some more water, Mr. Jones?” Emma asked.

Killian shook his head. “Tea, please,” he rasped.

Emma jumped up. “I’ll get it.”

“I’ll get it,” Mrs. Miner said kindly but firmly.

“May I help with anything?” Emma asked, full of contrition. Something about Mr. and Mrs. Miner made Emma feel like a child. It was obvious they were used to running things around My Cottage and Emma responded to their authority without question. Mr. Miner was short and rather squat with Mrs. Miner several inches taller and thin, but they obviously cared deeply for one another, and Killian as well.

“A fine housekeeper I’d be if I couldn’t prepare tea.”

Emma couldn’t tell if Mrs. Miner was truly miffed or was just joking. “I didn’t mean…”

Mrs. Miner waved aside her apology. “Shall I bring you a cup?”

“Oh, that’s not…”

“Bring her a cup,” Killian interrupted. Emma glared at him, and he glared right back. He turned back to Mrs. Miner and gave her a smile that would have melted the ice of a lake in the dead of winter. “Would you be so kind as to bring Miss Swan a cup, as well?” he asked.

Mrs. Miner curtsied. “Of course, Mr. Jones. But may I say…”

“You may say anything you like when you return with the tea,” he promised.

She gave him a stern look. “I have a lot to say.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.”

She hurried out and Mr. Miner turned his gaze back on Emma. “Well?” he asked.

Emma wasn’t sure what to say. “Well?” she parroted, drawing the word out in question.

“What are you doing here if you were a servant of the house at this party Mr. Jones attended?”

“Could we please save the interrogation for when Mrs. Miner returns with the tea?” Killian asked, “Since I am sure she will just repeat all of your questions.”

“Of course,” Mr. Miner conceded. “She’ll be back in just a few minutes. And with breakfast as well. When we saw your horses in the stable, Mrs. Miner went to work on it straight away. She knows how you love your eggs, Mr. Jones. We just didn’t know there’d be two of you.”

Killian smiled weakly and leaned back on the pillows. “I do love my eggs,” he agreed.

“I’ll just…” Emma looked around helplessly before dropping a small curtsy and rushing from the room, explaining she would see if she could help Mrs. Miner bring the tea up.

“Once a servant, always a servant,” Mr. Miner commented. Killian couldn’t put his finger on exactly why, but for some reason, Mr. Miner’s statement irritated him. While they waited, Mr. Miner explained where they were and why.

“Molly had her baby- a girl,” he said.

Killian was truly pleased for them. “Congratulations.”

“If we’d known you were coming, we wouldn’t have stayed as long as we did.”

Killian waved aside his contrition. “It is of no concern. You had no reason to expect me, and every reason to be with your family for a few days. Emma has taken very good care of me since we arrived.”

“When did you get here?”

“Uh,” Killian mused. “Night before last, I believe. The night of the storm. I haven’t exactly been fully aware of what was going on since we got here.”

“Yes, that was the night before last,” Mr. Miner agreed, his brow furrowing even further than it already was. Killian was always amused when he thought of Mr. and Mrs. Miner. More divergent personalities he could hardly imagine, especially between a long time and happily married couple. Mr. Miner rarely smiled, tending to scowl instead, while Mrs. Miner had the sunniest disposition of anyone he knew, always smiling, always ready to help.

The ladies came through the door just then, bearing a splendid tea service and breakfast. Emma set the tray down as Mrs. Miner fussed over Killian, pouring his tea, and filling his plate.

Emma seemed content to fade into the background as he dug into his meal. He was famished. After he’d taken a couple of bites and a swallow of tea- he was really going to have to pace himself with his throat as sore as it still was- he caught her attention.

“Aren’t you going to eat anything?” he asked.

“Oh, w-well,” she stammered. Mrs. Miner immediately moved over to her and began fussing over her the same way she had done him. Killian’s lips lifted in a satisfied smirk as Mrs. Miner carried on and Emma blushed furiously.

“When was the last time you ate, girl?” Mr. Miner asked as Mrs. Miner dished up her plate. Killian knew Mr. Miner well enough to know that while his countenance was stern, he had a heart as big as London itself and that his question came from a place of concern that she’d been too busy caring for him to adequately care for herself as well.

“Um…” He could see Emma was flustered in the extreme and Killian suddenly felt sorry for her. She was a servant and wasn’t used to having anyone fuss over her. He knew that he’d been very ill indeed if he’d been essentially unconscious for thirty-six hours. As conscientious as she’d been in getting him into the bed, and what he remembered from his moments of lucidity, there was no doubt in his mind that she had neglected her own needs in order to care for him. “Sometime yesterday… I think…”

“As I said,” Killian interjected in between bites, “Emma has taken very good care of me since we got here.”

“And we are glad to hear it, aren’t we, Mr. Miner?” Mrs. Miner asked her husband. “But now that we’re here, you are a guest and you’ll be treated as such.”

“But…” Emma tried to protest and Killian couldn’t help but chuckle when Mrs. Miner pooh poohed them all away.

“Now, sit and eat,” Mrs. Miner said, laying the plate on the desk and all but forcing Emma down into the chair. “And not another word about it. I’m going to make up a room for her,” she said to the room in general.

“In the servant’s quarters, please,” Emma said.

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Miner replied. “As I said, you are not a servant here, you are a guest.”

“Do you need any help, my dear?” Mr. Miner asked. Killian smiled as he watched him. Mr. Miner’s face was as soft as it got when he looked at his wife. Not exactly pleasant, but just a little dreamy, perhaps. Tenderness and love shone out of his eyes, and Killian wondered if he’d ever find someone whom he would look at like that.

Mrs. Miner nodded, and they both hurried from the room, but not before Mrs. Miner told Killian to make sure Emma filled her plate again.

He ate slowly and kept glancing at Emma as they ate. He could tell she was trying to put on her best manners, but it wasn’t long after Mr. and Mrs. Miner left the room that she began shoveling food into her mouth. Killian could feel his jaw tick as he clenched his teeth. He did not like seeing Emma so hungry.

He felt protective over her. They had a strange little bond between them, not something he ever would have expected to occur between himself and a housemaid. He had saved her and she had saved him. Or at least, she had helped him recover much faster than he would have otherwise. If his fever had been truly dangerous, he’d still be fighting it now. But if she hadn’t been here, he truly couldn’t imagine what would have happened to him.

As he and Emma continued their meal, Killian’s thoughts again drifted to Mr. and Mrs. Miner’s relationship and Emma’s care for him. He vaguely remembered her caring for him- mopping his head with cool cloths, feeding him spoonfuls of broth when he woke, changing the sheets on the bed when his fever broke- but the recollections were hazy at best, more like dreams than anything. Suddenly Killian remembered a particularly vivid dream from sometime after they’d arrived.

It was her.

The mystery woman from his mother’s masquerade ball two years ago. It wasn’t a new dream, but he hadn’t had it in a while. He had begun to think that not having it for so long meant he was getting over her, finally. Apparently not. Perhaps his thoughts turning to her in the minutes before they arrived at the cottage triggered the dream.

And what a dream it was. Killian was no saint, and the dream reflected that. He remembered details- whispered endearments, running his fingers along her naked skin- and felt his member stir to life. His eyes cut over to where Emma continued to eat. He couldn’t afford to let his thoughts run away with him, not with her in the room.

“Get some more,” he told her. Emma stopped, her fork halfway to her mouth. “I can assure you, Mrs. Miner knows exactly how much food is on the tray, and she’ll blame me if it hasn’t decreased any by the time they return.”

Emma nodded and placed more eggs and bacon on her plate. “How are you feeling this morning, Mr. Jones?”

“Much better than when we arrived,” he assured her. “My throat is sore from all of the coughing, but I’m no longer chilled, and the cough itself has much improved. Thank you,” he said sincerely, after taking another bite and sip of his tea. “It was very kind of you to care for me.”

“It was nothing,” she said, waving aside his gratitude. “I did what anyone else would have done.”

Killian’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her self-deprecation annoyed him and it made him wonder if anyone had ever thanked her for anything.

“It may not have seemed like anything to you,” he countered before parroting the words she’d said to him the night they arrived, “but it was everything to me. I can’t imagine what kind of shape I’d be in right now if you hadn’t been here to care for me.”

Emma blushed, but she didn’t contradict him again.

“Uh,” he began, nervously, scratching behind his ear, “I didn’t do anything for which I need to apologize, did I?”

Emma nearly spat out her drink in shock. Her cheeks flamed as she remembered the single perfect kiss she’d pressed to his lips when he begged her to in the throes of a fever dream.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” he said. Emma looked at him and saw his face was as red as she was sure hers was. Even the tips of his ears flamed.

“What makes you think you might have done anything you needed to apologize for?” she asked.

“Oh, well…” he was scratching behind his ear again and Emma tried to tamp down her smile at his nervous tell. “Just a dream I had that I was afraid may have worked its way out of my head and into my members… er, my limbs… I mean, I was afraid I might have physically done something untowards… to you. I mean, I hope I didn’t. But if I did, I sincerely apologize.”

Emma’s heart pounded in her chest and she could only pray he was too embarrassed to notice.

“You didn’t, Mr. Jones,” she assured him. Killian looked extremely dubious.

“Are you sure?” he asked her. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?”

Emma caught her breath at his words. Did he mean about this particular question? Or in general? Because couldn’t it be said that she was lying to him now by not confessing exactly who she was? The lady he’d taught to dance two years ago at a masquerade ball. The lady who, for two blissful hours, he’d seen and treated like an equal, not like the servant she was.

“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Killian narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not,” she replied, vehemently, her hands flying to her face. Her cheeks felt hot. She was definitely blushing.

“Oh, yes, you are,” he insisted.

“Well, if I’m blushing,” she said pertly, “it’s because of the nature of your question. Of course you didn’t do anything untowards.”

Killian grinned as the thought crossed his mind of why she might be blushing. “Oh, so are you blushing because you’re imagining what it’d be like if I had? Or if I did?” He couldn’t deny the surge of male pride he felt that she apparently found him attractive. And he had to admit, she was very attractive as well, even when she resembled a drowned rat the other night. “You know, you have a rather smart mouth for a servant.”

Now her cheeks flamed for another reason entirely. She had to remember herself when she was around him.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, no. Don’t apologize,” he urged her. “I find it, and you,” he added, “rather refreshing. Don’t stifle yourself on my account.”

“Oh, well, thank you.” She rose from her seat, her plate clean.

“Where are you going?”

“Well, now that Mr. and Mrs. Miner are here to take care of you, I should probably leave to try and find a new position. Somewhere.”

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Killian objected. “First of all, Mrs. Miner is making up a room for you as we speak, and secondly, I already told you I’m sure I could find you a position in my mother’s household in London.”

Emma gulped hard. She couldn’t exactly tell him she didn’t want to accept any position in his mother’s household in London, because it meant she would see him. And she didn’t think she’d be able to survive that kind of torture.

“And I truly appreciate that,” she told him instead, “But I’d prefer to stay in the country.”

Something tickled the edge of Killian’s mind- something about the way she spoke, a turn of a phrase, something he couldn’t put his finger on. He brushed it aside.

“We have a country estate. In Kent,” he informed her. “You could work there.”

Emma inhaled sharply. “You shouldn’t think of me as your responsibility.”

“I told you I’d find you another position, and I will,” he countered easily. “What else is there to discuss?”

Emma huffed under her breath. There was no use arguing with him at the moment. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Good,” he told her, laying his head back against the pillows. “Glad you see it my way.”

She looked around helplessly for a moment, not sure what to do with herself. Mrs. Miner had made it clear that she wasn’t a servant here, so she didn’t think the woman would appreciate her collecting the dishes and bringing them down. And she needed to get away from Killian before she did or said something she regretted. She couldn’t blame him too much. As a Jones, he was used to making decisions and commands and not having them questioned. But if he thought she was going to meekly come along and submit to him on this, he had another thing coming. There was no way under heaven she would work in his mother’s household.

“Now where are you going?” he asked, rising up from the pillow, the sheet covering him falling towards his waist. She cut her eyes away from him. He hadn’t left the bed since she’d gotten him into it two nights ago, and so was still as naked as the day he was born.

“I don’t know,” she replied.

He raised his eyebrow at her sardonically. “Really. Ok, then. Have fun with that.”

Emma’s nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply and her fingers closed around the spoon from her tea.

“Don’t do it.”

“Do what?”

“Throw the spoon.”

Emma pressed her lips into a thin line and forced her fingers to drop the spoon. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she informed him.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he admonished her. “You said you wouldn’t lie to me. You are dreaming of it right this minute. You just wouldn’t do it.”

Remember your place, remember your place, remember your place, she screamed at herself, suddenly realizing the spoon was back in her hand.

“My, my, my, what ever could you be thinking to look that adorably ferocious?” he asked. “Don’t tell me. I’m sure it involves my extremely painful and untimely demise.”

She loosened her fingers again, letting the spoon drop to the desk. He smiled smugly at her. “That was very mature of you.”

“Are you this charming with everyone, or is it just me?” she asked indignantly.

“Oh, only you,” he assured her. “I shall have to make sure you come to work in my mother’s household, for you do bring out my best, Miss Emma Swan.”

“This is your best?” she asked him in stunned disbelief.

“I’m afraid so.” Killian chuckled and Emma crossed to the door, intent on leaving.

“Oh, Emma?”

She turned toward him to find him smiling slyly, his eyebrows waggling at her flirtatiously. “I knew you wouldn’t throw the spoon.”

What happened next was entirely his fault. Because Emma had absolutely no control over herself. It was like she was watching the scene from somewhere up above the action. She saw this other Emma reach out and take the stump of the candle she had used in the night while she attended to him. This other Emma drew back and hurled the stump straight at Killian Jones’ head.

She didn’t wait to see if her aim was true, but was gratified when he laughed loudly and called after her.

“Well done, Emma Swan.”

Emma smiled.

~*~*~

Thank you for reading and sharing! A sneak peek will be up on Wednesday with the new chapter dropping next Sunday!!

[marylibra]

A truly beautiful and grand bronze and cast iron Adam style firegrate, one of a series made by the Carron Foundry to the same design 

With a beaded arched back radiating sunburst bars, elaborate Elysian scenes on the front and spandrels & slim tapering standards topped by elegant swagged urns above goats head masks. The fire basket with scooped radial bars, the cut apron centred with a delicately etched panel depicting a maiden with her pet lamb watched by an amorini. 

Scottish 

circa 1898/99

[steelroseforge]

This is as close to utopia in the workplace as I get, with @yarema_john , @philyarema in the 'LAB', a Picasso is cool, but imagine if you could've watched him paint it?! developing secret texture recipes! . . . . #firegrate#fireplacedecor#customfireplace#firescreen#interiordesigntrends#interiordesignernyc#betterhomesandgardens#blackandwhitedesign#modernfarmhousemonday#customhomedecor#kitchendesignideas#interiordesignaddict#designhunter#archdaily#metalsculpture#sculpture#contemporarysculpture#contemporaryartists#artcollector https://www.instagram.com/p/CM0ivUvD4To/?igshid=106c4jxxs1eyy

[quilleth]

My husband keeps asking me what I want for my birthday and I keep saying doors/ some kind of shelf covers for my doll shelf and fancy pens.

I am officially old. More than I already was.

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Monday 29 September 1834

7 5/..

12

No kiss fine morn[in]g F[ahrenheit] 59 1/2° at 11 1/2 – ready in an h[ou]r - br[eak]f[a]st at 9 1/2 in the blue r[oo]m - bef[ore] and aft[e]r

siding – fill my new dress[in]g r[oo]m clos[e]t w[i]th boxes brown carr[ia]ge cap-case etc. etc. – out at 11 35/.. - Mallins[o]n and 2

men and 2 boys finish laundry chim[ne]y and beg[a]n flagg[in]g bef[ore] n[or]th parl[ou]r wind[ow] and sett[in]g firegrate in n[or]th parl[ou]r

Ch[arle]s and Ja[me]s How[ar]th putt[in]g up doors at Whiskum cot[tage] in the morn[in]g and putt[in]g up tab[le]s at side of

and finish[in]g new china clos[e]t th[i]s aft[ernoo]n – Pickells and John tak[in]g up old setting oppos[i]te new c[oa]ch

h[ou]se door and cart[in]g away clay fr[om] th[e]re and bring[in]g sand for repav[in]g - w[i]th th[e]m all - fr[om] Whiskum

walk[e]d b[a]ck as far as Pump w[i]th John Oates – If I meant to get coal w[oul]d loose it right

169

1834

Sept[embe]r

Vc

+

fr[om] below (n[ea]r Tilley holm style I suppo[se]) - on[l]y ab[ou]t an acre to get where I talk[e]d of putt[in]g

the pit d[o]wn, ev[e]n if th[a]t w[a]s n[o]t gone § - c[oul]d n[o]t get mo[re] w[i]thout pump[in]g - ask[e]d wh[a]t sort of pump

own[e]d th[a]t perh[aps] a hand pump m[i]ght go 1/2 d[o]wn the pit - n[o]t m[u]ch of wat[e]r on the coal - recomm[ende]d

the men fr[om] a dist[an]ce th[a]t h[a]d been sink[in]g for Wilson, and w[oul]d  be at lib[ert]y in a m[on]th - s[ai]d all

I wish[e]d w[a]s to get the pit sunk – well th[e]n I sh[oul]d bind th[e]m to work doub[le] shifts (2 shifts)

per day - s[ai]d Mr. Rawson c[oul]d ver[y] well get Mrs. Machins’ coal - w[oul]d get d[o]wn to it by

th[a]t clough below Joseph Hall’s - th[a]t belong[e]d to Sammy Hall all of wh[o]se coal R- [Rawson] h[a]d b[ou]ght

d[i]d n[o]t kno[w] at th[a]t pr[ice] –

§ gone bef[ore] they (i.e. John Oates and Green and Hinscliffe and c° h[a]d an[y]th[in]g to do w[i]th it) –

saunt[ere]d ho[me] al[on]g the walk fr[om] the bot[tom] of it - ca[me] in at 2 1/2 – A- [Adney] h[a]d just h[a]d Miss Atkins[o]n

and h[e]r broth[e]r Ch[arle]s – and ab[ou]t 3 or aft[e]r ca[me] Mr. Plowes and Mrs. Dyson for 1/2 h[ou]r or mo[re] –

I kept out of the way, n[o]t, of course, being ask[e]d for by eith[e]r p[ar]ty - look[in]g ov[e]r old mus[i]c

ca[me] to my study at 4 3/4 - r[ea]d fr[om] p[age] 212 to 230 Boase - h[a]d 1/2 h[ou]rs’ nap - wr[ote] the ab[ov]e of

today till 6 10/.. – Mr. Sund[erlan]d here whi[le] I w[a]s out - s[ai]d he nev[e]r in his life saw A- [Adney] look[in]g

bet[ter] or so well - th[ou]ght h[e]r gett[in]g fat – she cert[ainl]y looks hap[py] and in excel[len]t sp[iri]ts –

out n[ea]r 1/2 h[ou]r - din[ner] at 6 3/4 in the blue r[oo]m - coff[ee] – A- [Adney] look[in]g ov[e]r Leeds Intelligencers all

today for bind[in]g – I look[e]d ov[e]r my drawers to see if I h[a]d any th[e]re – 1/2 h[ou]r w[i]th my fath[e]r and Mar[ia]n

and nearly as long w[i]th my a[un]t till n[ea]r 10 – A- [Adney] n[o]t in bed till 5 min[ute]s bef[ore] 11 - rubb[e]d h[e]r back w[i]th brandy 10

min[ute]s till 11 5/.. – fine day - F[ahrenheit] 59° now at 11 10/.. p.m. – the 2 sewers mak[in]g blue r[oo]m curt[ai]ns –

[woollyslisterblog]

1834 April Wednesday 9th

6.30

12 o’clock

Dullish morn[in]g F 48° at 7 a.m ready in an hour-out-br[eak]f[a]st at 9.15 to 10.30 - told Mar[ia]n I th[ou]ght of giv[in]g Pears[o]n not[i]ce to quit (he does n[o]t want the land as he lets part to L[u]c[a]s Smith) and making the 5 far fields (about 14 div[isions?]) int[o] a lit[tle] farm-off to H[alifa]x at 10.35 -

down the O B to Mr. Parker's off[i]ce ga[ve] orders for advertis[in]g N[orth]g[a]te to be sold by auct[io]n and the stones in Jos[e]ph Hall’s land to be sold by tick[e]t . Determ[ine]d to have the Stump Cross Inn and that lot cont[ainin]g 23 div[isions] and 10 fract[io]n and the Staups house and build[in]gs - Mr Park[e]r to bid £3500 as far as, and Washingt[o]n to manage the rest – Ga[ve] instructions for leases : John Bott[omle]y’s , Pickell’s, and Empsall's – ask[e]d if I m[i]ght n[o]t as well let Carr be w[i]thout lease for the low land – perh[aps] n[o]t b[u]t to consid[e]r ab[ou]t it – s[ai]d if I took the land b[a]ck soon, or when Carr h[a]d m[u]ch improv[e]d it, I sh[oul]d th[in]k it right to let him value off (b[u]t I meant n[o]t to val[ue] the manure belong[in]g to it, on[l]y all ab[ou]t that that m[i]ght be laid on)- mentioned Isaac Green’s na[me] and bid of £8000 for N[orth]g[a]te - It w[a]s he who told Mr. Geo[rge] Whiteley that Mr Park[e]r h[a]d off[ere]d it for £6000 – hop[e]d I sh[oul]d ma[ke] Green pay d[ea]r enough -

called at the Greenw[oo]ds - told h[i]s wife to tell h[i]m ab[ou]t N[orth]g[a]te being put up for auction – look[e]d at firegrates at wh[a]t us[e]d to be Adam and Mitchell’s – ord[ere]d Crabbe’s technolog[ica]l diction[ar]y at Whitley's - last edition to be £3, published at £5.8.0 -

up the O B tho[ugh] at 12.30 – so[me] ti[me] with Mar[ian] - met Washingt[o]n on the spot at 2:15 and Mallingham ca[me] and we set out the Whiskum toll house - he then had [Whiskum?] and I with Pickles and his 6 men at the house - drip and water closet drain began then - a with Mallingham (first time of his coming since breaking off go Easter) his 2 men the latter under footing the house wall [?]. the terrace - George Hardie the onl[]y mason at h[a]d ret[urned] beg[an] that and footing [unreadable] - Manningham himself beg[an] hew[in]g cornice for N[o]rth r[oo]m chim[ne]y top –

din[ner] at 6.30 - 4 more rosewood paint[e]d cane-bottomed chairs came at 7 - from Greenwoods wr[ote] and s[en]t at 9, 3 pages and end and und[e]r seal kind let[ter] to ‘Miss Walker Hewarth Grange, York’ ment[io]ned the charact[e]r of James Clayton - good b[u]t as he on[l]y und[er]stood his bus[ine]ss as a count[r]y footm[a]n w[oul]d n[o]t gi[ve] h[i]m mo[re] than £20 a y[ea]r and if n[o]t satisfy[ie]d w[i]th that Miss W [Walker] to gi[ve] him up at once – b[u]t if satisfy[e]d to hireh[i]m- to tell h[i]m of going to the post ev[er]y night - if he left us und[er] 2 y[ea]rs w[oul]d ha[ve] no right to his gr[ea]t coat and no right on hav[in]g us at any time, to mo[re] than our suit of livery such or undress as I chose to give him -[recto] w[oul]d ha[ve] clothes giv[e]n h[i]m when I th[ough]t th[e]m want[e]d - Dress and undress hat and gr[ea]tcoat - fine b[u]t dullish cold day - cold wind - 3/4 h[ou]r w[i]th my a[un]t till 10.30 - F 46° at 11 pm -

Nesting prior to Ann’s moving in seems to be in full swing. Caveat I’m not sure I have interpreted the land terms correctly but since I’m limited to what material I have on my shelves at home I’ve made educated guesses. Any experts on Georgian land terms please help me out. Apparently I can find terms for every type of clothing they layered upon themselves and lots of fruity regency insults but technical terms for land law notsomuch.

[andimartretro-blog]

Cardew "Titan Flueback" teapot now in my stock at The Trading Post, Tytherleigh, EX13 7BE #cardewpottery #cardewteapot #boveytracey #quirkycollectables #quirky #fleamarketfinds #teatime #teapots #théière #tetera #brocante #ceramics #devonpottery #firegrate

[afraidof-thedark]

On this day in 1882 a farmer's wife who lived near Bridport, took a gamble with four pounds. She entrusted the money to two travelling women who claimed that they could treble money, and who asked for just a few shillings in return for their financial acumen.

They marked the coins with astrological symbols, and hid them. The farmer was having none of this and demanded to know where they had put the loot. Despite his wife's warnings that it must be left undisturbed until Easter Sunday, the farmer dragged the truth from her and discovered that the two strangers had stuck something up the chimney.

The something turned out to be a cloth-wrapped, pin-stuck smoked pig's heart stuffed with polished farthings. That was that: the spell was broken, and so the four pounds was never trebled. That is the non-cynic's way of viewing it.

Animal Hearts used as Folk Charms

Witches were once commonplace in Dorset, and the belief in witchcraft was never stronger than in the outlying villages and hamlets - such as Hawkchurch.

In 1884, one of its residents made an unusual discovery, for found lodged up a chimney of the farmhouse was a stuffed bullock's heart studded with thorns, pins, and nails.  

John Symonds Udal in his book

'Dorsetshire Folklore'

published in 1922 wrote:

"An interesting illustration of that to which Mr. Roberts alludes occurred some forty years ago in the parish of Hawkchurch, West Dorset, an account of which appeared in the Bridport News in March, 1884. A new tenant had recently entered into possession of a house in the village which had just been vacated, when it was necessary to displace what was thought to be a lodgment in one of the chimneys. The obstruction was got out, and was found to be neither brick nor stone, but a bullock's heart, into which was stuck a quantity of the prickles of the white thorn, some nails, pins, and other things. This bullock's heart, in exactly the same state in which it was removed from the chimney of the cottage at Hawkchurch, is now, or was, in the Literary Institute at Bridport, and was exhibited at the meeting of the Dorset Field Club at that town in July, 1889, when I myself saw it. It presented a very dry, shrivelled, and almost mummified appearance, evidently having been in the smoke for many years. A correspondent suggested that as the late occupant was a bachelor, possibly he might have used the " charm " to ward off the attacks of the ladies and to prevent " witches " from getting access to the house by means of the chimney! This correspondent is undoubtedly right in conjecturing that the obstacle in the chimney was intended to act as a charm, for a bullock's heart so placed was always considered by superstitious Dorset folk to be the most effective way of keeping witches or fairies out of a house, as it was by the chimney they were generally supposed to effect an entrance. More especially is the charm to be depended upon if the animal's heart (as in this case) be previously studded with prickles of thorns, nails, or pins, in the same way as Mr. Roberts mentioned with regard to pieces of bacon used for the similar purpose. In order to make the charm more efficacious, " maiden " thorns should be used ; that is, thorns that have been grown the same year in which they were picked.

The same paper in April, 1901, mentions a similar case as occurring at Shipton Gorge, which carries the belief in such practices in West Dorset up to the beginning of the present century.   It says :—

" A week or two ago the son of Mr. Fowler, sweep, of Bridport, while sweeping a chimney in one of the cottages in Ship ton came upon a curious relic of past days. He had reason to go up the chimney, and about eight or ten feet from the ground he found an old canvas bag, hanging or fixed in a cranny of the wall, and inside this was discovered, wrapped in paper, a hard and dried bullock's heart, stuck through and through with thorns and pins. This is the fourth heart of the kind found in chimneys in the neighbourhood within the last few years. This was one of the charms against the witch's spell in days gone by, and was hung in the chimney with the idea that the pins and thorns added torment to the witch and broke her spell."

The late Mr. Bosworth Smith, in his Bird Life and Bird Lore (1909), p. 366, spoke of the belief in the " evil eye ", and in the bewitching of cattle and persons, as still lingering on in Bingham's Melcombe and the surrounding villages. And he mentioned the practice of sticking pins into a bullock's or other animal's heart as still followed in that neighbourhood. But in the instance he there gave of this having been carried out only a year or two before, the " charm " would seem to have been used rather as a remedy or cure for the bewitching or overlooking than as a preventive against the spell being cast. In this case the heart, " bestuck with pins till it bristled all over with them ", was set before a fire ; and then " as it begins to glow and frizzle the power of the witch or wizard gradually diminishes, and when at last it burst with the heat the spell is broken and the witchcraft over."

A Bullock's Heart impaled with Hawthorns

At Wyke Regis, Weymouth, there once lived an old woman who was suspected of practising witchcraft, for it was believed she had overlooked a young girl. A gypsy informed the girl's mother to hang a bullock's heart stuffed with pins inside the chimney, which in time would break the spell. The mother did this and when the heart dried out, it fell into the fire and was burnt to a cinder. Later when her daughter recovered, the old witch was seen in a fit of rage claiming that some one had been meddling in her affairs.

Mentioned in the 'Dorset Year Book 1942-3'. The Police station at Frampton, near Dorchester found a Bullock’s heart in their chimney.  

‘During the fitting of a new firegrate at the Police Station nearly forty years ago my mason dislodged a bullock’s heart stuffed full of pins’

At Marshwood, near Lyme Regis another bullock’s heart placed up chimney. J.B. Lang paper on ‘Charming of cattle’, '

Procceedings of the Dorset Natural. History. & Archaeology. Society. 91 (1969)'

"A farmer complained his cattle had been ‘overlooked’ and were all gradually dying off. He was told to take the heart out of the last animal which had died and push the heart, stuck all over with pins and nails, up the chimney so that the ‘overlooking’ would pass back again where it had come from."

Hermann Lea wrote in his paper on

'Some Dorset Superstitions'

published in

‘Memorials of Old Dorset’

by T. Perkins and H. Pentin, 1907, with regards to this strange folk superstition.

"In a case where the horses were dying from some obscure complaint, the victim was told to cut out the heart of the next animal that died and boil it in water containing sage, peppermint, and onions; when cold, it was to be stuck full of new pins on the one side, and on the other with "maiden" thorns ��� i.e., thorns of the present year's growth — picked by a maiden — woman or girl — and inserted by her. This done, it was to be hung up on a nail in the chimney of a neighbour — the one accused of being the witch."

[ate-the-lotus]

Excerpt from "Boy: Tales of Childhood" (Dahl)

All that Sunday morning we had been slogging away cleaning Carleton’s study, and then, just before lunch Carleton himself strode into the room and said, ‘You’ve had long enough.’

‘Yes, Carleton,’ the three of us murmured, trembling. We stood back, breathless from our exertions, compelled as always to wait and watch the dreadful Carleton while he performed the ritual of inspection. First of all, he would go to the drawer of his desk and take out a pure-white cotton glove which he slid with much ceremony on to his right hand. Then, taking as much care and time as a surgeon in an operating theatre, he would move slowly round the study, running his white-gloved fingers along all the ledges, along the tops of the picture-frames, over the surfaces of the desks, and even over the bars of the firegrate. Every few seconds, he would hold those white fingers up close to his face, searching for traces of dust, and we three Fags would stand there watching him, hardly daring to breathe, waiting for the dreaded moment when the great man would stop and shout, ‘Ha! What’s this I see?’ A look of triumph would light up his face as he held up a white finger which had on it the tiniest smudge of grey dust, and he would stare at us with his slightly popping pale blue eyes and say, ‘You haven't cleaned it have you? You haven't bothered to clean my study properly.’

To the three of us Fags who had been slaving away for the whole of the morning, these words were simply not true. ‘We’ve cleaned every bit of it, Carleton,’ we would answer. ‘Every little bit.’

‘In that case why has my finger got dust on it?’ Carleton would say, tilting his head back and gazing at us down the length of his nose. ‘This is dust, isn’t it?’

We would step forward and peer at the white-gloved forefinger and at the tiny smidgin of dust that lay on it, and we would remain silent. I longed to point out to him that it was an actual impossibility to clean a much-used room to the point where no speck of dust remained, but that would have been suicide.

‘Do any of you dispute the fact that this is dust?’ Carleton would say, still holding up his finger. ‘If I am wrong, do tell me.’

‘It isn’t much dust, Carleton.’

‘I didn’t ask you whether it was much dust or not much dust,’ Carleton would say. ‘I simply asked you whether or not it was dust. Might it, for example, be iron filings or face powder instead?”

‘No, Carleton.’

‘Or crushed diamonds, maybe?’

‘No, Carleton.’

‘Then what is it?’

‘It’s... it’s dust, Carleton.’

‘Thank you,’ Carleton would say. ‘At last you have admitted that you failed to clean my study properly. I shall therefore see all three of you in the changing-room tonight after prayers.’

[professortennant]

1300 words, g.  took the following line from the s2 finale and just put a hicsqueak spin on it: “When I was a young witch, we lit ceremonial fires and we were happy.”

Hecate remembers being young and cooped up in her dormitory as festivities for Halloween were underway in the Grand Entrance Hall. Holidays were nothing to be excited for in her world--too frivolous and carefree and a waste of time for any aspiring witch. 

When she was much, much younger she had enjoyed the rush of magic that had filled her during Halloween. Memories of sitting out in the garden with her mother, curled up in her arms and staring up at the stars as the Earth itself became imbibed with magic and wonder and spirits of the Goddess herself. 

But after her mother’s passing, the wonder and stars had been replaced with books and stern glances from her father. The magic, he said, was found in books and control and structure; not up in the stars. 

Up here, in the safety of her dormitory with her books and her father’s words ringing in her ears, Hecate reminds herself that Halloween is not for her anymore.

A brief, cursory knock on the door is the only warning Hecate has before Pippa Pentangle blows into the room, doughnuts with orange and black icing in hand, and flops down next to Hecate on her bed.

“The castle looks absolutely splendid,” she says, her mouth full of pastry. She polishes off the last of the doughnut and licks her fingers of excess icing. Hecate stares at her pink tongue sweeping out over her fingers and swallows hard, dragging her eyes away from Pippa and the temptation she brings. 

Hecate shrugs, returning to her book. “I’m sure it does. Shouldn’t you be heading for the ceremony?”

Pippa frowns at her, sitting up on the bed and covering Hecate’s hand with her own for a moment before pulling the book from her hands. “We’re heading to the ceremony, yes.”

She shakes her head, feeling awkward. Her disinterest in festivities is simply another thing that sets Hecate Hardbroom apart; is another thing that holds Pippa back from happiness. 

“No. I don’t celebrate Halloween. Not anymore.” She thinks of her mother again and pushes down the well of emotion that rises within her; pushes it down and away and remains in control. 

“Oh, Hiccup.” Pippa stares at her for a moment and then shrugs, settling more firmly against Hecate, side-by-side on the bed and waves her hand so quickly that Hecate misses it. Pippa’s book bag and another plate of doughnuts appears and, without looking at Hecate, Pippa rummages through her bag, plucks a book from the stack, and begins silently reading, munching on the fresh plate of doughnuts beside her. 

Hecate stares, open-mouthed. “W-what are you doing?”

Pippa arches an eyebrow and lifts the book a bit in her hands. “Reading?”

She shakes her head, still confused. “No. You were going down to the ceremony. You’re dressed for the occasion and everything.” It’s true. Pippa is wrapped in a black lace dress, mimicking a spider’s web, with sparkling pink and orange stars dotted across the bodice. She is a vision that Hecate will not forget any time soon. 

Pippa’s face softens and she nudges Hecate’s foot with her own. “You’re not going, so I’m not going. Besides,” she adds, laughing at Hecate’s open-mouthed expression, reaching over to hook her finger beneath Hecate’s chin and lifting to close Hecate’s mouth. “There is no Pipsqueak without Hiccup, remember?”

She smiles and returns to her book, hand absentmindedly reaching for another doughnut, leaving Hecate’s mind whirring and heart thumping. At every turn, Pippa constantly surprised her: approaching and befriending her and then constantly, constantly, above all else choosing her. 

Hecate thinks of her mother once more--thinks of the rush of magic and the wonder and the stars and the simple joy of being filled with magic. She thinks of sharing all of this with Pippa and her heart beats in double time, loud enough to drown out her father’s words of frivolity. 

She draws upon the extra charge of magic in the air for bravery (and perhaps she also draws upon the feeling of Pippa’s foot resting against hers and the warm, comforting weight of Pippa pressed shoulder to knee beside her). 

“Let’s go, Pipsqueak.”

Pippa’s head shoots up, brow furrowed. “Hecate, we don’t--”

This time it is Hecate reaching out, finger brushing over Pippa’s lips and hushing her, heat flooding her cheeks when Pippa blushes and stares at her with wide eyes. “Let’s go,” she reiterates, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed and modifying her dress with a quick sweep of her hand. The plain black fabric morphing into silky, patterned velvet that makes Pippa want to trace her fingers over and explore more thoroughly. 

Hecate offers her hand, palm up and waiting for Pippa to take it--hoping Pippa doesn’t see the slight tremble and shake of her hand. Grinning, Pippa stands and takes her hand, fingers tangling and palms pressing together. 

“We can leave the moment you’ve had enough, Hiccup, I promise.”

Hecate grins at Pippa’s excitement and allows herself to be dragged down the hallway next to a practically bouncing Pippa Pentangle, their hands still tangled together and Hecate can focus on nothing besides that. The party will already have been worth it now that she has held Pippa Pentangle’s hand. 

When they arrive in the Grand Entrance Hall, Hecate feels her breath leave her body. Stars--thousands upon thousands of stars--have been magicked to the ceiling, twinkling bright upon the crowds of students and teachers below. 

For the first time in a long time, with Pippa’s hand in hers and the stars above her, Hecate feels the spirit of her mother flow through her, filling her up with magic and warmth and love. 

Miss Foxglove, their Deputy Headmistress, welcomes them into the hall and ushers them to a nearby ceremonial firegrate, smoldering embers waiting for the blessing of witches and magic to ignite and welcome Halloween officially. Her mother had said it was because fire was creation and destruction, warmth and light that fends off the darkness and the first signs of true magic. 

Hecate and Pippa huddle around the firegrate, hands linked together, and waiting for the signal from Miss Foxglove to begin the incantation. Finally, once all of the students had filtered into the hall, Miss Foxglove waves her hand and sends a shower of red and orange sparks through the air, signaling it was time to begin. 

The magic wells up within Hecate quickly and powerfully--more quickly and powerfully than normal and with a start she realizes her magic and Pippa’s are blending, lending strength to the other’s spell. Pippa is staring at her, eyes wide and disbelieving, and Hecate knows she is feeling it, too. 

The fire in their grate roars to life, springing higher and hotter than any other fire in the hall. But Hecate and Pippa only have eyes for the other, magic crackling in the space between their bodies and palms, the magic of Halloween flooding through them both and opening their hearts and magic to the possibility of more.

The hall of students quiets at the display of magic, but Hecate only has eyes for Pippa. She clutches at Pippa’s hand, overwhelmed and speechless. This, she thinks with a tinge of fear, is happiness.

Pippa shuffles closer, presses her body against Hecate’s and leans her head on Hecate’s shoulder, hand remaining tightly entangled with Hecate’s. “Happy Halloween, Hiccup,” she whispers. 

Emotion chokes Hecate then and she sighs, leans her head upon Pippa’s and closes her eyes, fighting tears back, the magic crackling beneath her skin and sparking a nearby candle. “Happy Halloween, Pipsqueak.”

[artdecoblog]

1 - Carron 'Ben' Enamelled Cast Iron Mantel Register Fireplaces. 1934 Pamphlet from Carron Co., Carron, Scotland.

2 - Carron "All-In" Combination Grate 1936. From Carron Company brochure: Carron "ALL-IN" Interior Combination Firegrate - Specially adapted for living rooms. (Cat. I.C.4) 1936.

3 - Carron Company. Vesper Stove 1937.

[autodidact-adventures]

Culinary History (Part 42): The Kitchen

The kitchen as a specific room is actually quite new.  In Pompeii, many familiar kitchen tools have been found, such as pots & pans, funnels, knives and sieves.  But there were no kitchens as we have them today.  For most of history, most households didn't have a separate, purpose-built room to cook in.

The Ancient Greeks did their cooking throughout the house, carrying portable baking ovens and terracotta braziers from room to room. Before the 300's BC, most Greek homes had no fixed hearth or kitchen.

The Anglo-Saxons did most of their cooking outside, especially during summer.  Smoke and smells disappeared into the air.  It would have been much more difficult during winter or in bad weather – they would have relied on bread and cheese a lot in winter.

Most medieval European cottages had a fixed indoor hearth, but the room that held the fire was used as a living room, bedroom and bathroom as well.  This was how the poor lived for centuries, and many still do.

Several of Adriaen van Ostade's paintings show the lives of Dutch peasants in the 1600's.  Grimy families cluster around a hearth, with dogs barking in the background, babies being breastfed, men smoking pipes, and pots & pans and baskets of clothes all over the floor.  It must have been very difficult to cook like this, quite apart from the smoke issue.

For most people, the kitchen inventions of the 1700's & 1800's had no effect on them.  From ancient to modern times, the biggest change was the enclosure of the fire in a grate.  Well into the 1900's, Scottish & Irish cottagers still cooked on a frying-pan balanced over a grate, next to the boots and laundry that were drying.

It was often worse for those who lived in tenements in the towns. Charlie Chaplin grew up in a tiny attic room with his mother and brother.  There was an iron bed for the three of them in the corner, and dirty plates & tea-cups were crowded on the table.  Charlie recalled the “air foul with stale slops and old clothes”.  Their cooking was done on a “small firegrate” between the bed and the window.

With a separate kitchen, you can distance yourself from cooking when you want.  In the Middle Ages, the rich had their kitchens built separately from the house, and thus they didn't have to endure the heat & smell of cooking, or risk the house being burned down if the kitchen caught fire.  The only problem was that the food got cold when being brought to the table.

In other large medieval establishments (such as convents), huge, high-ceilinged, stone-floored kitchens were built as part of the main house.  However, these kitchens were communal ones, like the Abbot's Kitchen at Glastonbury (England), an octagonal room with a hearth big enough to roast a whole ox in.

One room wasn't enough for the rich, though.  In the 1860's, a British country house usually had many rooms for various aspects of kitchen work.  The pantry or dry larder was for storing bread, butter, milk and cooked meat.  It had to be kept cool and dry, and no hearths could be built into the neighbouring walls.  The wet larder was for raw meat, fish, fruit and vegetables.  Larger houses had another game larder, with hooks for hanging the game from, and a marble dresser for preparing it.

Butter, cream and cheese were made in the dairy.  The bakehouse had a brick oven for making bread.  There would often be a smokehouse; and perhaps a salting room, for salting bacon and making pickles.  Pastry had its own room, with a well-lit table for making pies and pasties.

The worst room was the scullery, where tasks such as peeling vegetables, gutting fish, and doing the washing-up (using only boiling water, soap and dirty rags) were carried out.  A huge copper boiler provided the washing-up water; there were large stone sinks and plate-drying racks.  It would have smelled of stale food and greasy suds.  The floor was built at an angle, so the dirty water could drain off into a drain-tap.

The country-house kitchen could be quite a nice place.  Here, only cooking was done – none of the laundry, dish-washing and food storage that we use our kitchens for today.  It was usually a large room with a stone floor, measuring about 6x9m.  It had large windows and whitewashed walls, with doors leading to the scullery and larders.  A large wooden table in the centre dominated the room, with work-boards placed on it.

There was a dresser for utensils, and shelves for copper pans.  The kitchen had plenty of room for many people to work in – baking (oven), stewing (stewing stove), steaming (in a bain-marie) and roasting, for example.  Many kitchens had “Waste Not Want Not” displayed on the wall – a reminder that it was a place of work, and that the servants weren't to steal any food, because it wasn't theirs.

In the cities, conditions were worse.  The kitchen was often relegated to the basement, where it was dank and insects ran around.

In the 1900's, new middle-class kitchens were created and aimed at people who were going to be doing their own cooking.  They were neither the cramped, all-purpose kitchen/living rooms of the poor, or the servant-run kitchens of the rich.  They were hygienic, lino-floored, and used electricity & gas.

The biggest change in these kitchens was that they were designed specifically for the needs of the people who were using them.  Mrs. E.E. Kellogg wrote in 1893 that it was incorrect to think that any room “however small and unpleasantly situated is 'good enough' for a kitchen.”  Kellogg was part of a new scientific women's movement that worked to make the kitchen a “household workshop”.  She believed the kitchen to be the heart of the home, the key to the family's happiness.

[steelroseforge]

Another set of custom fire screen, bifold doors . . . #firegrate #fireplacedecor #customfireplace (at Steel Rose Forge) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bt38hGpBjkr/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=2gwq9zm2mhhx

[steenpaal]

LMS Stanier Class 5MT 4932 - Wikipedia

LMS 4932

44932 Arriving into Preston with the Fifteen Guinea Fellsman.

SpecificationsConfiguration: ​ • Whyte4-6-0Gauge4 ft 8 1⁄2 in (1,435 mm)Leading dia.3 ft 3 1⁄2 in (1.003 m)Driver dia.6 ft 0 in (1.829 m)Length63 ft 7 3⁄4 in (19.40 m)Loco weight72.20 long tons (73.36 t; 80.86 short tons)Fuel typeCoalFuel capacity9 long tons (9.1 t; 10.1 short tons)Water cap4,000 imp gal (18,000 l; 4,800 US gal)Firebox:  • Firegrate area28 1⁄2 sq ft (2.65 m2)BoilerLMS type 3CBoiler pressure225 lbf/in2 (1.55 MPa)CylindersTwo, outsideCylinder size18 1⁄2 in × 28 in (470 mm × 711 mm)Valve gearWalschaertsValve typePiston valves

LMS Stanier Class 5 No. 4932, British Railways No. 44932, is a preserved British steam locomotive. She is one of 18 members left of the famous Black 5 class which had 842 members constructed between 5 manufacturers. 44932 is also the only remaining member of the class which was built at the LMS's Horwich Works.

Overview

4932 was built in 1945 by the LMS at their Horwich Works – works no. 154. She was renumbered as 44932 by British Railways after the 1948 nationalisation of Britain's railways.

After completion at Horwich Works she was allocated to Blackpool Central's 24E Shed where she remained for nearly 6 years until January 1952 when she was transferred to Accrington near Blackburn. Further shed transfers were to follow throughout her career with British Railways including Agecroft - Greater Manchester, Leicester, Annesley & Derby. Her final shed allocation was Rose Grove's 10F shed where she was allocated to in both July 1965 & from March 1966 till her withdrawal in August 1968. Her final service life was just under 23 years.

Preservation

After being bought from British Railways for preservation she became a popular engine on the mainline between overhauls. She even in the early days of preservation wore Lined Brunswick Green, this wasn't a common livery for the class as most were always seen in black but some are thought to have been tried out in various shades of green at some points but this isn't likely.

44932 was owned by Peter Woods until his death as was kept at the Midland Railway Centre where a major overhaul was almost completed by volunteers in the period 1993-2001, It was expected to be in steam within 6 months having been retubed but delayed by Peter's decision to add air braking supplied by various bottles to be fitted between the frames. The volunteers became rather demoralised by this and began to work on 73129 and other locomotives under repair.

Acquired in 2008 by David Smith 44932 is now based at West Coast Railway's Carnforth base on the former British Railways 10A Motive Power Depot. The engine as of 2018 is undergoing another overhaul with plans to return to the mainline on completion, the engines tender is presently running behind 45690 Leander.

Fame in Preservation

In 2013 during the 45th anniversary celebrating the end of steam in August 1968, she took part in 2 special one off railtours, the first was on Wednesday 7 August working one of the Statesman Rail's Fellsman trains which was renamed for the occasion "The Fifteen Guinea Fellsman" which she ran in double headed form with sister engine 45231 The Sherwood Forester from Lancaster to Carlisle and back via The Settle & Carlisle line both ways, she even got to wear the famous 1T57 Headboard for the occasion alongside the regular Fellsman headboard.

Then on the Sunday of the same week 11 August, 44932 was given the honours of double heading once again with sister 45231 but she was this time tucked inside behind her sister. 44932 was covering for the unavailable 44781 which sadly didn't survive to preservation and it was suggested that she was renumbered for the occasion as 44781, but this sadly didn't happen. 45231 & 44932 were working the Carlisle to Longsight leg of The Railway Touring Company's "Fifteen Guinea Special" 45th anniversary train. Other engines that played roles in this special were a 3rd sibling engine no 45305 (allocated to the original train in 1968 but replaced by 45110) & BR Britannia Pacific no 70013 Oliver Cromwell.

Allocations

The shed locations of 44932 on particular dates.

First shed Blackpool Central, 24E Jan 1952 Accrington, 24A Feb 1957 Agecroft, 26B Oct 1959 Leicester, 15E Jan 1960 Annesley, 16D Jan 1963 Cricklewood East, 14A Feb 1963 Annesley, 16D 3 Jul 1965 Rose Grove, 10F 17 Jul 1965 Annesley, 16B Dec 1965 Derby, 16C Final Shed Rose Grove, 10F

[tipsycad147]

ALL HALLOW’S EVE

by Crooked Bear Creek Organic Herbs

Halloween. Sly does it. Tiptoe catspaws. Slide and creep. But why? What for? How? Who? When! Where did it all begin? “You don’t know, do you?” asks Carapace Clavicle Moundshroud climbing out of the pile of leaves under the Halloween Tree. “You don’t really know!” – Ray Bradbury, The Halloween Tree

Samhain. All Hallows. All Hallow’s Eve. Hallow E’en. Halloween. The most magical night of the year. Exactly opposite Beltane on the wheel of the year, Halloween is Beltane’s dark twin. A night of glowing jack-o’-lanterns, bobbing for apples, tricks or treats, and dressing in costume. A night of ghost stories and seances, tarot card readings and scrying with mirrors. A night of power, when the veil that separates our world from the Otherworld is at its thinnest. A “spirit night”, as they say in Wales.

All Hallow’s Eve is the eve of All Hallow’s Day (November 1). And for once, even popular tradition remembers that the eve is more important than the day itself, the traditional celebration focusing on October 31, beginning at sundown. And this seems only fitting for the great Celtic New Year’s festival. Not that the holiday was Celtic only. In fact, it is startling how many ancient and unconnected cultures (the Egyptians and pre-Spanish Mexicans, for example) celebrated this as a festival of the dead. But the majority of our modern traditions can be traced to the British Isles.

The Celts called it Samhain, which means “summer’s end”, according to their ancient twofold division of the year, when summer ran from Beltane to Samhain and winter ran from Samhain to Beltane. (Some modern covens echo this structure by letting the high priest “rule” the coven beginning on Samhain, with rulership returned to the high priestess at Beltane.) According to the later fourfold division of the year, Samhain is seen as “autumn’s end” and the beginning of winter. Samhain is pronounced (depending on where you’re from) as “sow-in” (in Ireland), or “sow-een” (in Wales), or “sav-en” (in Scotland), or (inevitably) “sam-hane” (in the U.S., where we don’t speak Gaelic).

Not only is Samhain the end of autumn; it is also, more importantly, the end of the old year and the beginning of the new. Celtic New Year’s Eve, when the new year begins with the onset of the dark phase of the year, just as the new day begins at sundown. There are many representations of Celtic Gods with two faces, and it surely must have been one of them who held sway over Samhain. Like his Roman counterpart Janus, he would straddle the threshold, one face turned toward the past, in commemoration of those who died during the last year, and one face gazing hopefully toward the future, mystic eyes attempting to pierce the veil and divine what the coming year holds. These two themes, celebrating the dead and divining the future, are inexorably intertwined in Samhain, as they are likely to be in any New Year’s celebration.

As a feast of the dead, this was the one night when the dead could, if they wished, return to the land of the living, to celebrate with their family, tribe, or clan. And so the great burial mounds of Ireland (sidhe mounds) were opened up, with lighted torches lining the walls, so the dead could find their way. Extra places were set at the table and food set out for any who had died that year. And there are many stories that tell of Irish heroes making raids on the Underworld while the gates of faery stood open, though all must return to their appointed places by cockcrow.

As a feast of divination, this was the night par excellence for peering into the future. The reason for this has to do with the Celtic view of time. In a culture that uses a linear concept of time, like our modern one, New Year’s Eve is simply a milestone on a very long road that stretches in a straight line from birth to death. Thus, the New Year’s festival is a part of time. The ancient Celtic view of time, however, is cyclical. And in this framework, New Year’s Eve represents a point outside of time, when the natural order of the universe dissolves back into primordial chaos, preparatory to reestablishing itself in a new order. Thus, Samhain is a night that exists outside of time and, hence, it may be used to view any other point in time. At no other holiday is a tarot card reading, crystal reading, or tealeaf reading so likely to succeed.

The Christian religion, with its emphasis on the “historical” Christ and his act of Redemption 2000 years ago, is forced into a linear view of time, where seeing the future is an illogical proposition. In fact, from the Christian perspective, any attempt to do so is seen as inherently evil. This did not keep the medieval church from co-opting Samhain’s other motif, a commemoration of the dead. To the church, however, it could never be a feast for all the dead, but only the blessed dead, all those hallowed (made holy) by obedience to God–thus, All Hallow’s, or Hallowmas, later All Saints and All Souls.

There are so many types of divination that are traditional to Hallowstide, it is possible to mention only a few. Girls were told to place hazelnuts along the front of the firegrate, each one to symbolise one of her suitors. She could then divine her future husband by chanting, “If you love me, pop and fly; if you hate me, burn and die.” Several methods used the apple, that most popular of Halloween fruits. You should slice an apple through the equator (to reveal the five-pointed star within) and then eat it by candlelight before a mirror. Your future spouse will then appear over your shoulder. Or, peel an apple, making sure the peeling comes off in one long strand, reciting, “I pare this apple round and round again; / My sweetheart’s name to flourish on the plain: / I fling the unbroken paring o’er my head, / My sweetheart’s letter on the ground to read.” Or, you might set a snail to crawl through the ashes of your hearth. The considerate little creature will then spell out the initial letter as it moves.

Perhaps the most famous icon of the holiday is the jack-o’- lantern. Various authorities attribute it to either Scottish or Irish origin. However, it seems clear that it was used as a lantern by people who travelled the road this night, the scary face to frighten away spirits or faeries who might otherwise lead one astray. Set on porches and in windows, they cast the same spell of protection over the household. (The American pumpkin seems to have forever superseded the European gourd as the jack-o’- lantern of choice.) Bobbing for apples may well represent the remnants of a Pagan “baptism” rite called a seining, according to some writers. The water-filled tub is a latter-day Cauldron of Regeneration, into which the novice’s head is immersed. The fact that the participant in this folk game was usually blindfolded with hands tied behind the back also puts one in mind of a traditional Craft initiation ceremony.

The custom of dressing in costume and “trick-or-treating” is of Celtic origin, with survivals particularly strong in Scotland. However, there are some important differences from the modern version. In the first place, the custom was not relegated to children, but was actively indulged in by adults as well. Also, the “treat” that was required was often one of spirits (the liquid variety). This has recently been revived by college students who go ‘trick-or-drinking’. And in ancient times, the roving bands would sing seasonal carols from house-to-house, making the tradition very similar to Yuletide wassailing. In fact, the custom known as caroling, now connected exclusively with Midwinter, was once practised at all the major holidays. Finally, in Scotland at least, the tradition of dressing in costume consisted almost exclusively of cross-dressing (i.e., men dressing as women, and women as men). It seems as though ancient societies provided an opportunity for people to “try on” the role of the opposite gender for one night of the year. (Although in Scotland, this is admittedly less dramatic–but more confusing–since men were in the habit of wearing skirt like kilts anyway. Oh well…)

To Witches, Halloween is one of the four High Holidays, or Greater Sabbats, or cross-quarter days. Because it is the most important holiday of the year, it is sometimes called “The Great Sabbat”. It is an ironic fact that the newer, self-created covens tend to use the older name of the holiday, Samhain, which they have discovered through modern research. While the older hereditary and traditional covens often use the newer name, Halloween, which has been handed down through oral tradition within their coven. (This often holds true for the names of the other holidays, as well. One may often get an indication of a coven’s antiquity by noting what names it uses for the holidays.)

With such an important holiday, Witches often hold two distinct celebrations. First, a large Halloween party for non- Craft friends, often held on the previous weekend. And second, a coven ritual held on Halloween night itself, late enough so as not to be interrupted by trick-or-treaters. If the rituals are performed properly, there is often the feeling of invisible friends taking part in the rites. Another date that may be utilised in planning celebrations is the actual cross-quarter day, or Old Halloween, or Halloween O.S. (Old Style). This occurs when the sun has reached fifteen degrees Scorpio, an astrological “power point” symbolised by the Eagle. The celebration would begin at sunset. Interestingly, this date (Old Halloween) was also appropriated by the church as the holiday of Martinmas.

Of all the Witchcraft holidays, Halloween is the only one that still boasts anything near to popular celebration. Even though it is typically relegated to children (and the young-at heart) and observed as an evening affair only, many of its traditions are firmly rooted in Paganism. Incidentally, some schools have recently attempted to abolish Halloween parties on the grounds that it violates the separation of state and religion. Speaking as a Pagan, I would be saddened by the success of this move, but as a supporter of the concept of religion-free public education, I fear I must concede the point. Nonetheless, it seems only right that there should be one night of the year when our minds are turned toward thoughts of the supernatural. A night when both Pagans and non-Pagans may ponder the mysteries of the Other world and its inhabitants. And if you are one of them, may all your jack-o’-lanterns burn brightly on this All Hallow’s Eve.

Source:

by Mike Nichols

Permission is given to re-publish this document only as long as no information is lost or changed, credit is given to the author, and it is provided or used without cost to others. This notice represents an exception to the copyright notice found in the Acorn Guild Press edition of The Witches’ Sabbats and applies only to the text as given above. Other uses of this document must be approved in writing by Mike Nichols.

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