#glass canopies london

[glazingworkslondon]

Everything about glass canopy installation in your property explained

Glass canopies are architectural structures that offer shelter and protection from various weather and external elements. As the name suggests these structures are made from glass and you will find these as an entrance or exit to a building...

Read more: https://topnewsblog.info/everything-about-glass-canopy-installation-in-your-property-explained/

[vox-anglosphere]

Founded in 1756, there has been a market at this site since the 1100's

Borough Market bustle

[brightlight-dazzlingeyes]

caught in the middle | charles leclerc

🎸 synopsis: After a rainy concert in London, you end up sharing burgers backstage with Charles Leclerc, of all people. tags: rockstar life, talks about fame & pressure (written in 2nd person but no mention of yn) | (around 2.4k words)

It’s one of those nights. You can feel the rain before you even hear it, the weight of it pressing down from the clouds, and you just know it’s going to pour. And it does. Hard. The London sky opens up as if it’s got something personal against you, and you’re huddled under a canopy behind the venue, watching as water cascades down. Everything’s soaked – the equipment, the crew, you – and the mood is tense, all nerves and curses muttered under breath because, of course, this is how the night’s going to go.

It’s not your first time here. You’ve played this venue before, two or three times over the years, and every time it feels a little different. A little bigger, like the walls have expanded to swallow more people, like the stage gets higher and the lights hotter. And tonight, it’s not just the rain; it’s a mess of last-minute technical problems. Something about the lighting rig not syncing up, and the sound checks running late because of a blown amp, and the stage crew rushing around to patch things together while you pace the green room, wondering if it’s all going to fall apart before it even begins.

Your tour manager’s in your ear, reassuring you that everything’s fine, but you’ve heard that line before, and it does nothing to stop the nervous twist in your gut. You’re too old for this kind of anxiety, you think. 25 isn’t even that old, but then why does it feel like you’re walking a tightrope every time you hit the stage? Like you’re one wrong move away from everything crashing down. You watch the rain from the window, and it reminds you of all the other times you’ve felt this way, every tour and every city bleeding together in your memory.

Something shifts. It’s hard to say when exactly it happens – maybe it’s when the crew finally gives you the thumbs-up, or when the rain lets up just enough for you to see the crowd gathering through the fogged-up glass. Maybe it’s the hum of the bass vibrating through the walls or the way the adrenaline suddenly kicks in, hot and electric. Either way, you hear them out there, the crowd – muffled cheers and a murmur that swells and dips, building anticipation, wrapping itself around your chest and squeezing until you can barely breathe. 

You don’t let yourself think about it too much. You go through the motions, pulling on your jacket, checking the setlist one more time even though you’ve memorized it, cracking jokes with the band like it’s any other night, and then it’s time. The stage manager is waving you over, and you take one last deep breath – just one – before you step out into the hallway that leads to the stage. Your footsteps echo, and the noise from the crowd grows louder. You can feel the heat of the lights before you even see them, hear the opening notes of the intro track rumbling through the speakers. You don’t look back. You can’t. 

Then the crowd sees you, and the roar that goes up is like nothing else. It’s everything, like you’re not standing on a stage but flying, unstoppable, and the rain outside doesn’t matter, the equipment issues don’t matter. Nothing matters except the music, the energy.

You start singing. You don’t even remember starting, but your fingers are on the strings of your guitar and the music’s pouring out of you, and the band’s right there with you. You can feel the floor vibrating beneath your feet, the beat pounding in your chest. It’s perfect, even in its imperfections – the missed cues, the notes you almost fumble but catch at the last second, the feedback that whines for half a beat before it’s smothered. The adrenaline burns through you until you can’t tell where you end and the music begins.

When you look out at the crowd, you wonder if they know what it costs, if they can see how hard you’re fighting to hold onto this, to keep the dream alive even when it feels like it’s slipping away.

You hit the chorus and they’re all singing with you, the sound so loud it’s almost deafening, and it’s like the world stops. You’re not thinking about the rain or the mistakes or the way your fingers ache from playing the same chords over and over. You’re just feeling it, the connection, the rush, the way it all comes together for just a few minutes.

You stumble off stage, still feeling the echo of the last note ringing in your ears, your chest heaving with each breath. The heat’s oppressive, and your shirt is damp with sweat, sticking to your back in a way that makes you want to peel it off. You’re half-drunk on adrenaline, on the sound of the crowd still buzzing through the walls, and you don’t even realize you’re smiling until someone hands you a water bottle and you chug it down in three desperate gulps, nearly doubling over from the effort.

The band’s all around you, slapping your back, bumping shoulders, shouting half-coherent things like “Killed it tonight!” and “Best show yet!” But you’re only half-listening, already thinking about the part that comes next. The part that’s always a little awkward, a little forced, where you shake the hands of strangers who got lucky or know the right people or just happened to win some contest. You try to give them a moment to remember, even when you’re exhausted, even when all you really want is a quiet corner to catch your breath. You take a second to steady yourself, push your damp hair out of your eyes, and head toward the meet-and-greet area, already pasting on that familiar, practiced smile.

They’re waiting for you when you get there, clustered in small groups, some with wide-eyed grins, some pretending they’re not as excited as they are. You go through the motions – handshakes, hugs, quick photos with flashing phones that make your vision blur. You ask them how they liked the show, where they came from, if they’ve seen you play before. You keep the rhythm going until your attention snags on someone standing a little apart from the crowd, someone you haven’t seen around before.

He’s got the kind of beauty that makes him stand out, even though he’s just standing there, hands in the pockets of a jacket. And you know him. Of course, you do – how could you not? It’s Charles Leclerc, the one and only. But you’re the rock star here, and you know how to play it cool.

You step forward, hand outstretched, because if you think too much about it, you’ll probably lose your nerve. “Hey,” you say, your voice a little rough from the show, from the yelling and the singing and the way the night’s adrenaline still hasn’t quite worn off. “Nice to meet you.”

His handshake is firm, warm, and he’s got this smile that’s just a little shy, like he’s not used to being on this side of the spotlight, which makes you feel weirdly better. Less alone. “Nice to meet you,” he echoes, his accent softer than you expected, “I’m a big fan.”

You almost choke. Me too, you want to say, because you’ve followed his career, but you don’t. You just nod, feeling your own grin stretching wider than it should, because it’s not every day you meet someone who’s famous in their world, too, and suddenly you’re a little self-conscious, wondering if you’re as cool as you think you are.

“Glad you liked the show,” you say, keeping it light, like he’s just another fan, even though he’s not. Not really. 

He laughs, easy and low, and you notice the way he shifts his weight, like he’s trying to find the right thing to say but doesn’t want to come off too eager. “It was incredible,” he says, and he sounds like he means it. “I’ve been listening to your music for years. This… this was something else.”

“Thanks,” you say, feeling your cheeks warm, and you hope he can’t see it in the low backstage lighting. “Means a lot, coming from you.” It slips out before you can stop it, and you watch his eyebrows lift, surprise passing over his face like he wasn’t expecting you to know who he was. 

The rest of the band finally notices him and they’re quick to be all over him. They’re his fans and unlike you, they’re not afraid to show it. They start asking about the car and which race is the hardest, and you just hang back, watching the way Charles lights up, giving them all the attention they’re craving.

The chaos dies down. The gear’s mostly packed up, the roadies are winding down, and you can finally breathe. The routine kicks in – the same one you always follow after a show because you need the familiarity to settle the adrenaline that’s still coursing through you. 

There’s a table in the corner of the greenroom piled high with burgers, fries, and the kind of greasy comfort food that’s become your go-to post-show ritual. Always enough for everyone – staff, guests, even the hangers-on who just happened to have a backstage pass.

It’s your thing, the one you look forward to when the crowd’s roar has faded and the lights have gone down. You grab a burger – double patty, extra cheese, because you’ve earned it – and motion to Charles, who’s still lingering near the door. “Hey,” you say, nodding toward the food. “You hungry? There’s more than enough.”

He hesitates, just for a second, then nods. “Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

By the time you’ve both got food in your hands and the staff’s scattered around the room in little groups, you find yourselves at the same worn-out couch in the far corner, away from the noise and the half-empty beer bottles littering the floor. He sits beside you, and you try not to think too hard about the way the couch dips slightly under his weight, the way the space between you feels strangely intimate now that you’re not surrounded by people.

You don’t talk for a while, just eat. He’s halfway through his burger when he speaks first, voice low and casual like he’s picking up a conversation you weren’t sure you’d started. “Do you ever get tired of it?”

You pause mid-bite, looking at him, surprised by the question. He’s looking at you like he’s not sure if he’s crossed a line. And maybe he has, but in a good way.

“Sometimes,” you admit, chewing thoughtfully. “Depends on the night. Some shows, it’s like I’m not even really there, just... going through the motions. Others, it’s everything I wanted since I was a kid, you know?”

He nods, his eyes dropping to the burger in his hands. “Yeah, I get that. Racing’s the same. Some days, it’s all instinct and adrenaline. Other times, it’s like you’re fighting just to stay in the car, like you’re not even sure why you’re doing it.”

You nod back. “Guess it’s hard to keep loving something when it feels more like a job than... whatever it was in the beginning.”

Charles looks up, and there’s something almost wistful in his eyes. “Yeah. But it’s harder to imagine doing anything else. Even when it’s rough.”

You get that. You’ve lived that – the way the music’s a part of you, the way you keep coming back even when you think you’re done. You take another bite, chewing slowly, letting the words sink in before you say, “Sometimes I wonder if I missed my chance to be something else. Like, what if I’d taken a different path, you know?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back against the couch. “Yeah,” he says eventually, voice quiet. “But then I think about the people I’ve met, the places I’ve been... and I don’t know if I’d trade any of it, even the bad parts.”

It hits you harder than you expect, because that’s exactly it – the good, the bad, the stuff in between that keeps you tethered even when you’re not sure why. You swallow, feeling a lump in your throat. “Yeah,” you say softly, staring at the half-eaten burger in your hand. “I think I get that.”

He shifts beside you, turning a little, and you can feel his gaze on the side of your face. “I used to think I’d have it all figured out by now,” he admits, and there’s a vulnerability there that makes your chest ache. “Like, when I was younger, I thought there’d be this moment where everything would make sense. But it never really does.”

You let out a breath, nodding slowly. “Me too,” you say. “I mean, when I was a kid, I thought I’d be this – ” you wave your hand vaguely, gesturing to the greenroom, the music, the life you’re living “ – and it’s great. Don’t get me wrong, but... I still don’t know if I’m doing it right.”

He laughs, a quiet, almost sad sound, and shakes his head. “I don’t think anyone knows if they’re doing it right. Maybe that’s the point. Just... keep going, even when you don’t know what’s next.”

There’s a silence that stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. You take another bite, and he does too, and for a moment, it’s enough just to sit there, side by side, caught between what you were and what you might be, both of you knowing you’re not alone in the uncertainty.

“Hey,” you say suddenly, breaking the quiet, “at least we get good burgers out of it, right?”

He laughs, and this time it’s real, bright, and warm, and you can’t help but join in. “Yeah,” he agrees, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Guess that’s something.”

And it is.

[stephensmithuk]

The Hound of the Baskervilles: The Problem

Yew hedges are pruned lots of European yew (Taxus baccata), a highly dense tree that can cope with heat, cold and pollution.

A wicket gate is a small narrow door built into a fence, wall or larger gate. You would often find them in city gates as they could be opened to admit pedestrians without incurring the time and security risk of opening the main gate.

Padlocks have been around since ancient civilisation, but the Industrial Revolution made them much easier to make and available to the masses.

Clogs were very popular in Britain at this point as they were cheap, strong footwear for industrial and agricultural workers. People danced in them and it is still a thing in Wales. One British expression for dying is "popped his clogs".

Waterloo was the main railway arrival point in London for ocean liner passengers disembarking at Southampton (a major port of arrival for them), with special trains being put on to meet the various liners. An express train in 1888 could do the journey from the Southampton Docks station in 2 hours and 10 minutes. The electrification of the line from London to Southampton by British Rail led to the closure of this station and nearby Northam in 1966 to passengers, freight services running a year longer. Passenger services were diverted to Southampton Central. The station's platform area is now a car park under the old glass canopy and the station building is now a casino, part of the Gentings Casino chain.

Yellow fever is a viral disease spread by mosquitoes. Most people get over it in five days or so, but 15% will get a second phase including jaundice (hence the name) with a 20%-50% fatality rate at that point. Africans were mistakenly thought to be immune to this when they had in fact merely acquired immunity via burying their dead close to their habitations with resultant mild cases among children. When these traditions were stopped by imperalists, they got it just as bad as everyone else. It is thought it came to South and Central America via the Spanish conquerors.

A successful, easily manufacturable vaccine was developed in 1937. A lot of countries now require some form of yellow fever vaccination, although precise regulations vary.

Shag tobacco is fine-cut tobacco used for self-made cigarettes i.e. roll-ups.

The Ordnance here refers to the Ordnance Survey, which I have discussed in the past.

Princetown prison is HMP Dartmoor, originally opened in 1809 for prisoners of war from the Napoleonic Wars and then the War of 1812. Closed in 1815, it was rebuilt in 1850-1851 to become a civilian prison; today it is a Category C (general population) men's prison.

[winters8child]

It´s been a long, long time

Chapter 26

“You’re going to do what?” I could hardly believe what I was hearing. Bucky and I sat on the small balcony of my hotel room, sipping our drinks as the long-awaited rain pelted down from the canopy, offering us a respite from the relentless heatwave. London was known for its rain, but this summer’s heat was almost unbearable.

“Zola will be on that train,” Bucky said, trying to sound casual about it. “It’s the only way to get close to him. It’s no big deal… I mean, I’ve always wanted to try ziplining,” he added with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“That’s insane,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “I should be there too… if it’s dangerous, I can’t let you do it alone.”

Bucky took a sip of his whiskey, his eyes sad but firm. “I already talked to Steve. You have to sit this one out. We can’t afford any mistakes on this mission. This is Zola we’re talking about.”

“I know… I know,” I faltered. “I’m just worried. You should know by now that’s what I do.”

He smiled gently, running his fingers over my legs where they rested on his lap. “Everything is going to be alright. We have a plan, and we know what we’re doing.”

I sighed and leaned my head on his shoulder. Bucky kissed my hair and rested his head on mine, and we sat there in silence, listening to the soothing rhythm of the rain.

“I would have liked having a family with you,” he said quietly, making me look up at him. “You and I, two kids, maybe three, a house in the suburbs with a white picket fence and a cat.”

His fingers intertwined with mine, and he gazed at me with a hopeful look. “Maybe if this is all over…” he trailed off, waiting for me to respond.

I was torn. The idea of a life with Bucky was beautiful, but there was still Steve and the complicated feelings I had for him. Bucky saw my hesitation and pulled back slightly, taking another sip of his drink.

“I love the idea of a family with you, Buck, but…” I started to say.

“It’s Steve, isn’t it? You still love him,” Bucky said, cutting me off gently. “I understand. But you’ll have to make a choice eventually. This can’t go on like this forever. It’s not fair to any of us.”

My hands balled into fists as the weight of his words settled over me. The thought of hurting either of them made me want to cry. “What if I can’t?” I whispered, tears welling in my eyes.

Bucky looked out into the rain, his expression pained. “Then I don’t see any of us getting a happy ending.”

He knelt in front of me, cupping my face in his hands. “If you want to be with him, then be with him. I know I’ve been gone for a while, and things have changed. I’ll be okay… maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in a month, but I will be okay someday. I love you, and I love Steve. I won’t stand in your way.”

Tears streamed down my face as I shook my head vigorously. “No, that’s not what I want.”

Bucky wiped away my tears. “We can’t always have what we want, doll,” he whispered.

We decided to go to bed well into the night. Bucky had started to head back to his room, but I asked him to stay with me. Lying in bed, facing each other, his hand rested under my shirt, tracing gentle circles on my back. It made me shiver, and he smiled that beautiful smile of his that always gave me butterflies.

I felt like we were on borrowed time, and I didn’t want to fall asleep. I scooted closer, resting my hands on his chest. “Come back to me,” I whispered, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips.

“I will,” he replied, hugging me closer and rubbing my back gently.

Sleep eluded me as the heat made it nearly unbearable. Bucky was already asleep, and I had to wriggle out of his embrace to avoid a heatstroke. The commandos were heading to the Swiss Alps the next morning, and I envied them—not for the mission, but for the chance to escape the scorching heat and feel the cool mountain air.

I crept to the little hotel kitchen, searching for a nighttime snack. The fridge was nearly empty, so I settled for a glass of milk. As I poured it, Steve walked in. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” I said, hoping to avoid making things more awkward.

Steve leaned on the counter, his eyes tired. “It’s alright. I’ll take some milk too,” he said with a small smile, grabbing a glass and pouring the remainder of the milk into it.

We sat at the counter, sipping our milk in silence. “Everything okay?” he asked, glancing at the empty glass in his hands.

“You should take me with you, Steve,” I said, my voice tinged with frustration. “I can help.”

“You know I can’t do that,” he said, putting down his glass. “It’s too risky. I’m responsible for the lives of our team, and bringing you along is more dangerous than it is helpful.”

“You’re making a mistake,” I said, my anger flaring as I slammed my empty glass down. “Excluding me like this… you know it’s wrong.”

Steve looked pained as I stormed out of the kitchen, ignoring his attempts to call me back.

I had fallen asleep sometime in the morning, just as the birds began to sing, announcing the start of the day. I pulled my pillow over my face to shield myself from the early sunlight, only to hear Bucky stirring beside me.

“Good morning, doll,” he said with a smile. “Sorry if I woke you up. I just have to get ready for the mission.”

“It’s already time?” I asked, hurriedly throwing on my morning gown. Bucky was already dressed in a blue combat jacket, his rifle slung over his shoulder.

We walked down together to where everyone else had already gathered. Steve looked more focused than usual, his gaze fixed on his shield. I hoped he felt at least a little bit guilty for not letting me join them.

“That dressing gown look is missing the head rollers and the pimple cream,” Falsworth joked, “and you’d scare off the Nazis with it!”

Bucky punched him playfully on the shoulder, eliciting a yelp from him. “I’m just saying, are we sure we can’t bring her along? She’s a bit crazy, but I’ve never seen anyone as brutally effective as her.”

Steve strapped his shield to his back. “No, and that’s an order. Let’s head out.”

Tired of the argument, I turned to Bucky and gave him a tight hug. “Be careful, Buck.”

He kissed my cheek and said, “Always am.”

I walked over to Steve and looked into his eyes, hoping he understood the gravity of the situation. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

I wished everyone farewell. Falsworth gave me a quick hug and a wink. “I’ll smuggle you in my backpack next time, I promise,” he said, making me laugh.

One by one, they filed out of the lobby and climbed into the truck waiting outside. And so, the waiting began.

Next Chapter

[simstorian-blog]

N O O K S T O N E

(CC List + Links)

World Map: Oasis Springs

Area: Bedford Strait

Lot Size:  20 x 15

(3-bedroom—3 double beds, 2.5 Baths)

Gallery ID: Simstorian-ish

Packs Used

Expansion Packs

Cats & Dogs

City Living

Cottage Living

For Rent

Get Famous

Get Together

Growing Together

Island Living

Seasons

Snowy Escape

Game Packs

Dream Home Decorator

Jungle Adventure

My Wedding Stories

Parenthood

Realm of Magic

Spa Day

Strangerville

Vampires

Stuff Pack

Vintage Glamour

Build Mode

Awingedllama – Simple Windows & Doors

Felixandre – Berlin Pt. 2 (Glass Double Door Short)

Peacemaker – Multi-Level Carpet

Peacemaker – Vaulted Ranch

Simplistic – Elegant Wallpaper (Crane)

Simplistic – English Watercolour Wallpaper (Donegal)

Sooky88 – English Country Wall Set (Plain)

Sooky88 – Victorian Floor Tiles

Buy Mode

Anye – Mertice Chair

Awingedllama – Fluffy Blanket

BlueTeas

Empire Snooker Suspension Lamp

Samara Sconce

Sheer Curtains

CharlyPancakes

Lavish

Munch (Fridge, Stove)

Cowbuild – Mont Blanc Chandelier

Felixandre

Colonial Pt. 2 (Tray)

Fayun Pt. 2 (Linen Armchair)

Florence Pt. 1 (Piano)

Gatsby (Orchid Vase 1 v2)

Gothic Revival (Victorian Bedframe)

Grove Pt. 3 (Painting B, Painting C Leaning)

London (Chandelier Short)

Harlix

Baysic (Packs Wardrobe Clothing - ALL)

Harluxe (AC Control, Light Switch, Mini Bar)

Kichen (Stool)

Orjanic Pt. 2 (Curtains)

Tiny Twavellers (Dino Lamp)

Harrie

Coastal Pt. 7 (Bench)

Octave Pt. 2 (Metal Fireplace)

Octave Pt. 4 (Light Switches)

Shop the Look 2 (Ceramic Side Table, Dining Chair)

Stockholm (Ottoman)

Ice Cream for Breakfast – Ruggable x Iris Apfel Rugs

Joyce – Simple Live #8 (Tofu Bar Chair)

KiwiSims4

Blockhouse Sectional BGC

Blockhouse Bookcase

Leaf Motif – Garden Cover

Lili’s Palace – Intarsia Bedding

Peacemaker

Alesund Sectional

Bowed Bedroom (Bench, Dresser, Furrow Pouffe, Ring Dish, Vanity Table)

Futura Living (Fireplace Medium)

Pierisim

Oak House Pt. 2

Oak House Pt. 4

MCM Pt. 5 (Hair Brushes, Hair Dryer, Hang Clothing, Straightener, Wig Collection)

Unfold (Dragon Tree)

Vera Bathroom (Bathrobe Functional)

Winter Garden (Old Rug)

Woodland Ranch (Double Bedframe w. Canopy, Nightstands, Table Lamp)

Woodland Ranch Pt. 2 (Hanged Dishrack)

Woodland Ranch Pt. 3 (Old Rug)

Myshunosun

Gemini Vase

Luna Slippers

Simplistic

Loloi Rugs (Part I)

Vincent Van Gogh

Vintage Silk Divider

SixamCC – Luggage Cart

Sundays

Kediri Pt. 1 [Ceiling Light, Throw Pillow (solids)]

POP! Pt. 1 (Throw Pillow II)

Sumba Pt. 1 (Pillow Set I)

Swell Pt. 1 (Mattress, Pillows, Throw)

Yarra Pt. 2, 3 (Bed Cushion Set, Duvet)

Syboubou – Wall Panel Mirror

The Townie House Project – Moderno Pouf Ottoman

TaurusDesign

Eliza Walk-in Closet

Lilith Chilling Areas Pt. 1 (SulSul Sign)

Tuds – Turn Lounge

DO NOT REUPLOAD MY LOTS.

DO NOT CLAIM THEM AS YOUR OWN.

DO NOT PLACE BEHIND A PAYWALL.

Tray Files: DOWNLOAD

[camillasgirl]

The Anointing Screen

The Anointing Screen has been designed and produced for use at the most sacred moment of the Coronation, the Anointing of His Majesty The King. The screen combines traditional and contemporary sustainable embroidery practices to produce a design which speaks to His Majesty The King’s deep affection for the Commonwealth. The screen has been gifted for the occasion by the City of London Corporation and City Livery Companies.

The Anointing takes place before the investiture and crowning of His Majesty. The Dean of Westminster pours holy oil from the Ampulla into the Coronation Spoon, and the Archbishop of Canterbury anoints the Sovereign on the hands, chest and head. It has historically been regarded as a moment between the Sovereign and God, with a screen or canopy in place given the sanctity of the Anointing.

The Anointing Screen was designed by iconographer Aidan Hart and brought to life through both hand and digital embroidery, managed by the Royal School of Needlework. The central design takes the form of a tree which includes 56 representing the 56 member countries of the Commonwealth. The King’s cypher is positioned at the base of the tree, representing the Sovereign as servant of their people. The design has been selected personally by The King and is inspired by the stained-glass Sanctuary Window in the Chapel Royal at St James’s Palace, which was gifted by the Livery Companies to mark the Golden Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth II in 2002.

The Anointing Screen is supported by a wooden pole framework, designed and created by Nick Gutfreund of the Worshipful Company of Carpenters. The oak wooden poles are made from a windblown tree from the Windsor Estate, which was originally planted by The Duke of Northumberland in 1765. The wooden poles have been limed and waxed, combining traditional craft skills with a contemporary finish.

At the top of the wooden poles are mounted two eagles, cast in bronze and gilded in gold leaf, giving the screens a total height of 2.6 metres and width of 2.2 metres. The form of an eagle has longstanding associations with Coronations. Eagles have appeared on previous Coronation Canopies, including the canopy used by Queen Elizabeth II in 1953. Equally, the Ampulla, which carries the Chrism oil used for anointing, is cast in the shape of an eagle.

The screen is three-sided, with the open side to face the High Altar in Westminster Abbey. The two sides of the screen feature a much simpler design with maroon fabric and a gold, blue and red cross inspired by the colours and patterning of the Cosmati Pavement at Westminster Abbey where the Anointing will take place. The crosses were also embroidered by the Royal School of Needlework’s studio team.

At the Coronation Service, the Anointing Screen will be held by service personnel from Regiments of the Household Division holding the Freedom of the City of London. The three sides of the screen will be borne by a Trooper and Guardsman from each of The Life Guards, Grenadier Guards, Coldstream Guards, Scots Guards, Irish Guards, and Welsh Guards.

The screen has been gifted for the Coronation by the City of London Corporation and participating Livery Companies, the City’s ancient and modern trade guilds. His Majesty The King is a keen advocate and supporter of the preservation of heritage craft skills, and the Anointing Screen project has been a collaboration of these specialists in traditional crafts, from those early in their careers to artisans with many years of experience.

The individual leaves have been embroidered by staff and students from the Royal School of Needlework, as well as members of the Worshipful Company of Broderers, Drapers and Weavers.

As well as heritage craft, contemporary skills and techniques have formed part of this unique collaboration. The outline of the tree has been created using digital machine embroidery by Digitek Embroidery. This machine embroidery was completed with sustainable thread, Madeira Sensa, made from 100% lyocell fibres.

The threads used by the Royal School of Needlework are from their famous ‘Wall of Wool’ and existing supplies that have been collated over the years through past projects and donations. The materials used to create the Anointing Screen have also been sourced sustainably from across the UK and other Commonwealth nations. The cloth is made of wool from Australia and New Zealand, woven and finished in UK mills.

The script used for the names of each Commonwealth country has been designed as modern and classical, inspired by both the Roman Trojan column letters and the work of Welsh calligrapher David Jones.

Also forming part of the Commonwealth tree are The King’s Cypher, decorative roses, angels and a scroll, which features the quote from Julian of Norwich (c. 1343-1416): ‘All shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well’.

This design has again been inspired by the Sanctuary Window in the Chapel Royal, St James’s Palace, created for Queen Elizabeth II’s Golden Jubilee in 2002. At the top of the screen is the sun, representing God, and birds including the dove of peace, which have all been hand embroidered by the Royal School of Needlework.

The dedication and blessing of the Anointing Screen took place earlier this week at the Chapel Royal, St James’s Palace, where it was officially received and blessed by the Sub-Dean and Domestic Chaplain to The King, Paul Wright, on behalf of The Royal Household.

[saviorofdandysuits]

Catch You When You Fall

Photo by Jonathan Meyer on Unsplash

Rated: G - WC: 2569 - CW: Injury, burns, angst (oh, hello Crowley) -

Crowley slid into the Bentley’s spot across the street from A’s bookshop and cut the engine.  Cold spring rain hammered the roof and heavy, sharp drops teased the sound of rain on a canopy.

Or a wing.

A cream-clad figure bustled about inside the shop, dusting shelves and volumes with an ancient feathery floof. The Bentley’s windows fogged as Crowley watched the figure work from one end of the shop to the other, a pleased little smile turning up round, soft cheeks.

After a while, the angel moved closer to the window, a steaming mug in one hand and a thick, worn tome hugged close with the other. Then, settled at the big cluttered desk, all but the very top of the angel’s head disappeared, bobbing gently to the strains of some music from the old record player.

If it weren’t for the dark locks peeking out beneath the brim of Muriel’s hat, Crowley could almost convince himself the flash of platinum was really A.

A shop door to his right opened and Nina waved to him, her voice muffled and garbled by the rain. Ducking his head, Crowley pushed his sunglasses up closer to his face and gunned the engine to life. Crowley’s low growl matched the Bentley’s. He was a block past the traffic signal before he looked up again, Nina’s shrinking figure framed in the rear view mirror.

Crowley didn’t return to Whickber Street until the last lingering leaves hung wet and heavy with frosty rain. The sun had already set, long shadows on the street barely held back by the thin streetlamps. As he’d planned—hoped, schemed, if he were to be honest about it—most shops had already closed, Nina’s and Maggie’s in particular. Windows and doors shuttered, the block was quiet, empty. Dead.

All but A’s shop, at least. A. Fell & Co’s stood on the corner like a beacon. Bright, golden light spilled out beneath the half-drawn window shades, a soft lilt of strings permeated the muted streets. 

Crowley parked the Bentley around the other corner from the shop. Even with the shades mostly down, Crowley could still make out Muriel’s shoes as they passed close to windows. Their pace quickened into little skips as they passed what must’ve been near black squares from their perspective.

He stayed longer this time, waiting for Muriel to turn off the downstairs lamps and head up to one of the tiny rooms upstairs. He was interrupted again, though, this time by both Nina and Maggie slipping out from the pub, fingers intertwined. Maggie caught his eye as she held the door for Nina. She’d just opened her mouth and begun to step toward the car when Crowley shook his head and took off, driving north down the south-only street.

Crowley didn’t slow until he’d gotten out past the lights and noise and smell of London. He’d run out of petrol twice, miracling his way back up from the forlorn ‘E’ on the gauge each time. Eventually, the freezing rain eased, wipers squeaking against the dry windshield. Sucking his teeth, he yanked on the stick to stop them and lowered the windows.

The scent of sod and pine filled his lungs and after a few more miles, he reached the literal end of the road. Again, he cut the engine and lifted his glasses to stare out into the sky. The clouds had disappeared with the rain but even with the horizons cleared and miles from the nearest city, Crowley’s eyes could just barely make out the brightest of his stars and even those dimmed the longer he gazed up, seeking out his old favorites.

It didn’t stop him from trying.

One star, though, grew… brighter. And larger. Stupid, dumb hope bubbled in his chest and his hand shook as he pushed open the door and stood, watching a falling… something draw closer, washing out the rest of the sky in a bright white light. Nearer and nearer it came and Crowley began to pick out the edges of whatever bit of rock had jarred loose from the heavens and gotten caught in their little planet’s gravity.

It was irregularly shaped, not a solid, roundish mass like one would expect from a proper meteorite. Instead, it was oblong and jutted out at sharp angles, almost…

Almost like limbs.

The flaming object veered away from him just as it approached the treeline, smashing down into the woods ahead. Boughs snapped and crackled with the impact and smoke rose up from the forest a few hundred yards away. Crowley chased the light, half-running, half-miracled between the trees.

Bright white faded to yellow, then orange, and finally a faded red as Crowley crashed through the branches. Prickly leaves tugged at his hair and his jacket, snatching up glasses and his scarf. He left them behind and stumbled at the edge of a deep pit, surrounding tree trunks blackened with bits of fire licking at the underbrush.

The ground was too sodden to fully catch so the impact left a near-perfect black circle in the woods, tall evergreens standing guard a respectful fifty feet back from the point of impact. At the center of the circle lay a lump, smoke and ash picked up by the cold breeze and swirling around it. 

He stared for an impossibly long time, steam and smoke pouring up front the ground. Surely whatever had once been at the center was nothing more than a cinder.

But then the lump moved.

Crowley didn’t think. He just ran. He raced down the slope, skidding and tripping over the charred remains of felled trees. He stopped at the center and reached for the crumpled form at the center of the crater. “Aziraphale?” he asked. The catch in his voice had nothing to do with the burns the figure’s ember-hot body left on his fingertips.

The figure didn’t rise, but its eyes cracked open, revealing a pale, clear blue the color of the summer sky. Its burnt lips flaked, moving ineffectually around a raspy breath, a hissed, “Cro—” breaking through.

“Don’t try to speak, Angel.” Tears finally spilled down his cheeks. They evaporated before they could slide past his jaw. “I’ve got you,” he promised, tucking both arms beneath the hot ash settling around Angel’s body. Probably all that was left of his gleaming vestments.

A whimpered in his arms, wings hanging limp and burnt skin crackling beneath his touch. I know, I know,” he whispered, pouring as much healing as he dared. Up close, Crowley now saw it was far more than the burns. Angel’s formerly soft frame was now gaunt , belly sunken and his face a study in sharp lines and angles. Bony elbows and knees were the widest part of his limbs and he clung limply to Crowley’s jacket. Angel needed far more than Crowley could manage out in the middle of the woods. 

No point left to subterfuge, Crowley miracled them both back to the Bentley and settled Angel into the backseat. He looked so small. Angel didn't move, either, when Crowley covered him with his jacket, just curled in around himself, mangled fingers gripping the broken in leather.

Crowley didn't know how. Not yet, at least, but he was going to murder those bastards. Angel needed healing first. And there was one place they still might be safe from Heaven's wrath.

He climbed into the front seat as the Bentley started herself. “Hold on, Angel,” Crowley growled and slammed his foot on the accelerator. “I’m taking you home.”

There was no time as Crowley raced down the streets, the Bentley’s speedometer stuck at the edge of the dial. The front tires stuttered against a speed bump and Angel groaned from the backseat, pained. Good. Pain was good. Pain meant he wasn’t dead.

The sky was still inky black by the time he’d gotten back to London, peeling around the corner and stopping right in front of Angel’s bookshop. Angel held tight to his chest, he kicked in the door, absently repairing the lock as they passed over the threshold. Miracles fell from him as he carried Angel inside, the shades dropping down completely to seal them in, lamps flickering to life to light their path upstairs.

“Muriel?” he finally thought to call at the top of the landing, realizing late that they might be frightened by their entry. But the soft little angel was already awake, eyes wide and fixed on Angel’s form.

“Is that the Archangel Azir—”

“Not anymore,” he muttered and moved to Angel’s bed. Muriel shuffled to the other side and peeled back a corner of the soft cream-colored bedding. Bits of scorched feathers and flesh dusted the sheets as he laid his Angel down. He was still breathing.

Crowley knelt next to the bed, hands hovering over the broken form before him. He could save his wings, though they were likely to stay black, like his. Crowley had been strong when he’d fallen—was pushed— from Heaven. They all had been. That was the point. 

Angel, though… His fingers brushed over the sharp bones of Angel’s clavicle as he pulled the sheet up to his chin. Angel had not been. “I—” His voice cracked. “He—” Muriel scuttled around the bed and patted his shoulder. “We,” he croaked. “We need your help.” When he looked up, they met his eyes, gaze steadier than he’d expected. “Get Gabriel.”

“He’s with—” Muriel twitched but didn’t pull away at Crowley’s glare.

“Get them both.”

The curtains glowed with the first light of dawn when a small fly and a sharp intake of breath at the door announced Beelzebub and Gabriel’s arrival.

“For Heaven’s sake,” Beelzebub choked. The floorboards creaked behind him and, after a moment, the couple moved to the other side of Angel’s bed. “What happened?”

“He would’ve been cast into hellfire,” Gabriel said when Crowley glared at him. Even Gabrielle’s quiet voice boomed in the tiny room. “But this… this isn’t what—”

“You mean Heaven got it wrong?” he snapped, on his feet. It was only for a moment, though. Unconscious, Angel’s pull drew him close and he knelt, straightening the covers he’d mussed. Had enough of him rubbed off on the angel to protect him from Hellfire? 

His hand grazed charred skin and feathers. Protect? Barely managed to keep him alive, perhaps. Not much protection in that. Crowley’s shoulder felt cold and he cast his gaze around the room. The soft little angel was not to be seen. “Where’s Muriel gone?”

“Downstairs making tea.” Beelzebub winced when the crisp edge of Angel’s good wing twitched under the blanket, the scars from their own fall pulsing.

“‘’Ziraphale’d be proud,” he mumbled. He’d nearly gotten Angel’s right hand healed enough to hold, but he was losing steam fast and would need to rest before he dropped on top of him and undid all of his work. He stared at Gabriel again. “Aziraphale protected you, sheltered you from Heaven when you just landed ass-backwards in his lap.” 

“You both did.” Muriel set down a tray and poured four cups. After only a moment’s hesitation, they poured a fifth. “For when he wakes up,” they said with a little smile to Crowley.

“I didn’t protect him,” Crowley muttered, shaking his head at an offered cup.

They crouched next to him and frowned into her cup. “But you did. You lied for him—lied to me about Gabriel’s presence in the shop, and you used a miracle to hide him.”

Crowley finished sealing the burnt, cracked skin on Angel’s right hand and stroked the back of it. His ordinarily plump, soft hand was nothing more than crepe skin stretched over bone and sinew. They’d held hands for that miracle. “We did it together.”

Gabriel and Beelzebub were holding hands, hiding it, poorly, behind the edge of the bed. Crowley stared. Angel had buzzed with excitement when the two of them found each other. Again, he supposed. He cradled Angel’s hand in his. “Together. You lot. Together maybe you can—” His throat closed up before his hopeful words could slip through. The last time he’d had hope, the universe had not responded kindly.

Nodding, Gabriel held Beelzebub’s close to his chest and rested his fingertips on Angel’s shoulder.

“It’s worth a try.” Muriel nodded and, slowly, took Beelzebub’s hand. They offered her other to Crowley. “I… I found his books with stories in it—”

Crowley yanked his hand back. “You mean his diaries?” 

“Well…” Muriel at least had the decency to look shamed, their smile falling as they fiddled with the buttons on their collar. “I didn’t realize what they were at the time. I thought they were just books. But an awful lot of them were all about you and…” They blushed and looked away.

“I would love for you to help me…”

“ Smitten , I believe…”

“You can tell me all about it while we dance …”

Crowley traced the bas relief of tendons and veins that now made up Angel’s hand. Muriel seemed to have seen something they shouldn’t’ve. Did Angel maybe have a fourth reason to call him?

Left hand closed gently around Angel’s, Crowley grasped Muriel’s. Blinding white light exploded around the motley crew of ethereal creatures at the contact. Demon grasping angel, holding whatever in the Hell or Heaven or skies above the rest of them were, all centered around the latest—and perhaps the last— fallen angel.

Angel’s hand tightened around his, fingers growing plumper and stronger beneath his grip. “It’s working,” he grunted, the flow of energy coursing through him in the way he hadn’t felt since he was building the stars. The light traveled up Angel’s arm and over his body, shining through the blankets heaped on top of him.

After hours or minutes, the brilliance faded just as quickly as it had appeared, leaving violet bright spots in Crowley’s vision, ears ringing.

And Angel saying his name.

“Crowley? Crowley, can you hear me?” His voice was soft and weak and drenched with concern.

“Mm-mhm… Angel… I…” He blinked away the fuzziness and focused on Angel’s face. He was still far too thin to be healthy, deep heavy shadows ringing his eyes and tugging at his mouth and jaw. But there was a hint of a smile and the tiniest brush of color in his cheeks. “Aziraphale, yes.” He cleared his throat but Angel’s eyes wouldn’t leave him. “I hear you.”

Beelzebub made a little coughing sound and stood, pulling Gabriel up with them. “We’ll be downstairs if you need anything.” Muriel watched them move toward the door and only then released Crowley’s hand.

Angel took it and pressed Crowley’s hand flat against his chest. “I’m not an angel anymore, am I?” he murmured, low voice rumbling through Crowley’s palm. He tucked his wings on either side of the bed, feathers mostly sealed and laying flat. But raven black. “You’ll need to give me a new nickname, if…” He pulled back, lifting his hand off of Crowley’s as though he expected him to leave.

“You’re still my Angel,” Crowley said, avoiding his eyes. 

“Really?” Angel’s voice lilted up, thin but with a taste of its usual sweetness. “But I haven’t done the dance yet.”

“I’m a demon, Angel.” Crowley wouldn’t let go of his hand. “Not a monster . I’ll let you heal first.”

Angel sighed or maybe tried to laugh, and he squeezed Crowley’s fingers. “You… you saved me. Healed me.” He reached up then and traced the red scars on either side of Crowley’s eyes. “It’s what I should’ve done for you when…”

Crowley shrugged. “Knew you would have, had you could.” Muriel’s laughter flittered up the stairs and they both looked toward the door they other three had left cracked open. “There’ll be consequences for this.”

“I think they know that,” Angel nodded, eyes back on Crowley. He smiled, small and weak. But beautiful. “And we’ll all face them together.”

“Right you are, Angel,” Crowley murmured, curling closer to the bed, closer to his Angel. “Right you are.”

[mckiwi]

Christmas is Better Spent Together

Chapter Three: 1800

Read on AO3

Start << Prev < > Next

Rating: General Audiences

Categories: Gen, M/M

Fandom: Good Omens

Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley, Aziraphale/Crowley

Characters: Aziraphale, Crowley

Words: 797

7 times Aziraphale and Crowley spent Christmas together (and 1 time they didn't)

Soho, London, England - 1800

Crowley nudged the front door to the bookshop open with his foot, readjusting the tin of biscuits in his arms, “Hey, angel. It’s me. I got the biscuits you wan– woah.” He stopped and stared out across the shop’s interior. Festive decorations were scattered everywhere the eye could see. Garlands along each bookshelf. A red and green blanket was thrown over Aziraphale’s favourite chair. Candles lined the windows, casting flickering lights over the already serene room. Paper snowflakes were strung up between the shelves, creating a canopy over the walkways. 

“Hello, dear! Let me relieve you of these,” Aziraphale stepped forward and took the biscuit tins from Crowley’s arms and set them on a nearby table while the Demon remained fixated on the decor. 

His gaze eventually dropped to Aziraphale. The candlelight shone like stars in the Angel’s eyes. “You did all this?”

Aziraphale beamed, “I did, yes. Do you like it?”

Crowley made a noise of affirmation, “Looks nice. Would’ve taken a lot of work, I bet?”

“Oh, yes. I decided I wanted to do it all the human way. No Miracles involved whatsoever.”

“What made you want to decorate anyway? You’ve never decorated for the holidays before.”

“Well, I’ve never really had a place of my own that I could decorate. Not in the way I wanted, anyway. So, I thought, seeing as how this is my first Christmas as a bookshop owner, I should celebrate it properly. Hot cocoa. Festive treats. Decorations. All the likes of Christmas!” Aziraphale wiggled in that way he does when he gets excited. 

Crowley felt the corner of his lip curl fondly. “‘Festive treats.’ I suppose that’s what you wanted the biscuits for?”

“Thank you for bringing those, dear boy.” Aziraphale resolutely did not mention the three biscuit tins he had shoved in a cabinet before Crowley arrived. “Christmas would not be the same without them, right?”

“Right,” Crowley agreed, without really knowing what he was agreeing to. 

Aziraphale smiled nervously, “It’d be rather rude of me to send you back out into the cold after coming all this way. Perhaps I could make it worth your while? Pour us up a nightcap? Share these delicious biscuits you’ve brought me?”

Crowley pretended to think about it, “How could I refuse with that reasoning?”

The Angel lit up and went to fetch the wine. Crowley didn’t ask why Aziraphale already had two glasses readily available. Aziraphale poured them both a glass of red. Their glasses clinked. They drank as Christmas Eve rolled into Christmas Morning. 

—————

Crowley blinked blearily awake as consciousness slowly returned to him. “Good morning, dear,” Aziraphale spoke from somewhere in the room. Crowley propped himself up from where he was lying on the sofa. He didn’t remember taking off his glasses and setting them on the coffee table, nor how he’d ended up with a red and green blanket over his lap, yet here he was. He looked around the room and found Aziraphale tucked away in his armchair with a book. 

“Sorry, must’ve forgotten to sober up last night. Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.” Crowley rubbed at his eyes, still not fully awake. “What time is it?”

Aziraphale closed his book, “Oh, that’s quite alright. Seems like you needed the rest. It’s currently a quarter past ten in the morning.”

“I should probably go, then. Don’t want to take up too much of your morning reading time,” Crowley rolled into a sitting position, stretching languidly and grabbing his glasses to place back on his face. 

“It’s really no bother, Crowley, but before you go, I have something for you.” Aziraphale stood and trotted into one of the back rooms. 

Crowley stared after him, “wot?”

Aziraphale returned with a small box in hand and extended it out to Crowley. 

Crowley continued to stare dumbly at the box, not moving to take it. “This isn’t part of our arrangement.”

The Angel smiled, “It’s not, no. Giving gifts is growing popular among other Christmas traditions. I said I wanted to partake in the full Christmas experience, and I meant it.”

Finally taking the box, the Demon began to open it but cut himself off, “but I didn’t get you anything.”

“Of course you did! You brought me biscuits!” 

Crowley just shook his head and carefully peeled the lid back. Inside sat a beautifully crafted bow tie. The material was a deep black with some degree of shine to it when the light caught it just right. In the bow tie’s centre was a rectangular smoky quartz secured by a silver pendant. 

“Ngk– I… wh… I don’t know what to say. Thank you?” Crowley looked up at Aziraphale, confused yet enamoured. 

Aziraphale’s eyes crinkled in joy, “There’s no need to thank me. Merry Christmas, Crowley.”

“Merry Christmas, angel.”

[holdmeclosertinytaron]

RHW: Chapter One

Story Page / Playlist / Wattpad / AO3

Please read!! A/N: I am so excited that we're finally getting into the story properly now. You're really going to meet Taron and get a feel for Liliana, Evelyn and Jacob too which is so fun. This chapter means a lot to me for so many different reasons, but mainly because I have poured quite literally my soul into the flashback part of this. While there are a couple of differences and theatrics, the entire thing is real and still very raw so please be kind and read the trigger warnings. But without further ado, @brayndilyn and I would like to say thank you for the love on the prologue, and we hope you love chapter just as much!

Word Count: 6.4k

Warnings: Alcohol consumption, mentions of adultery, depictions of narcistic behaviour, mental health in children.

November 5th, 2021

Two and a half excruciatingly long years filled with hundreds of emails, a rigorous editing process, and the original publishing date being pushed back due to scheduling conflicts, all led up to this moment. The moment that she stepped foot into the venue and saw everyone there for her. 

It was all worth it. She had finally done it. Liliana could proudly say that she was a published author and for the first time since she pitched the book idea to Martin and Evangeline, the stress that she had buried deep inside her began to dissipate. 

For a moment, she could breathe again. Maybe it was the p

rosecco that had been thrust into her hand as she walked through the door. It didn’t matter. She was at her book launch and she could breathe. Even if it was just for a little while. 

She was finally at her book launch event, something she wasn’t sure would ever actually wind up happening, surrounded by everybody who had helped make the book an actual thing. Martin, Evangeline and Charlotte who stood chatting to one another and laughing about something Martin had said; Jacob who was chatting to book shop owners about book signings up and down the country; book reviewers who had read advanced copies of the book but who wanted quotes for their articles; other authors who worked with Between the Lines; her entire publishing team; and her best friend since university and editor all in one room. For her.  

Between the Lines had hired a beautiful room in East London for the event, and had decked it out perfectly. A canopy of fairy lights shone above everyone and small tables had been scattered around the room for people to stand at and chat. There were balloons everywhere and a white carpet that led from the door to the table at the very end of the room. 

Liliana’s breath caught in her throat as she saw it. Over a hundred copies of her book sat elegantly, inviting the guests to take a copy of the finished product home with them to read, or to gift. She descended the stairs and only then did she realise just how busy the event was. People stood close together chatting about the industry, their lives, and the book, and Liliana had to squeeze her way past. 

She got pulled into a few different conversations as she made her way to the table. Only one thing remained the same with each conversation. Every person she spoke to congratulated her on the book and told her how much they’d enjoyed the story. 

It was overwhelming to have so many people tell her how amazing she was and how great the book was. Everything started with a small seed of an idea and it had led to that evening. She couldn’t be any more proud of herself and she loved that everyone seemed to enjoy the book that she had poured blood, sweat and tears into. 

So many tears. 

When she finally managed to reach the table of books, she tilted the remnants of her first glass of prosecco down her throat in a last ditch attempt to stop herself from crying. Throughout the process of printing the book, she had refrained from looking at the finished product until the launch event. She’d insisted that she wanted to take it all in with everyone around her but in reality it was so that she didn’t pull it out of production. 

Even after two years of knowing that the book was happening and that people were going to read her story, the thought of people actually reading it made her insides twist uncomfortably. She had been far more vulnerable than she had set out to be and she worried that people were going to look at her with sympathy rather than anything else. She didn’t want sympathy. All she wanted was to tell children and teenagers that they aren’t alone in whatever they’re going through. 

The tips of her fingers ran over the title of the book, the words ‘Still Holding On’, raised off the page and shinier than the background. Her name sat proudly at the bottom. 

Liliana Esme.

She snapped a quick photo of the book and smiled to herself. Tears pricked her eyes as she stared at it. She was happy. Happier than she had been in a long time. Everything had started to fall into place and she felt like her life meant something. Like she was doing what she was meant to be doing. 

The room was exceptionally crowded when she turned back to look at everyone who had come out to celebrate with her. Martin, Jacob, Evelyn and a few other colleagues were at a table close by and they beckoned over to her. She let them know that she would be there shortly and Evelyn turned to her with a bright smile. Liliana breathed deeply and she mouthed a thank you to her friend who simply winked at her. 

The event was a big deal and Liliana had been a bag of anxiety for weeks leading up to it. She had bought multiple dresses before deciding on the sage green one she wore; she had rehearsed the speech she was supposed to make over and over again until it was perfect and she had told herself, and Evelyn, on multiple occasions that she wasn’t going because it was all too much for her and she was overwhelmed. 

Yet as she stood watching everybody socialise, she was so glad that she didn’t cancel. That Evelyn had talked her into not cancelling on everybody the night before. Everyone was there for her and nobody had said anything negative to her like her mind had told her that they would. 

Martin walked over to where Liliana was and wrapped a gentle arm around her shoulder, hugging her softly as she smiled at him. 

‘Our esteemed guests,’ he shouted into the room, tapping a spoon against his glass of prosecco to get everyone’s attention. ‘Can we all give a round of applause for our amazing author, Liliana?’ 

The room erupted into applause and Liliana couldn’t contain the smile that played at her lips. 

‘I remember Liliana walking into a conference room two years ago with these insanely detailed slides and she handed Evangeline and I both this folder with all of the information we could possibly want. I knew as soon as she handed me that, that one day we would be at her book launch. And here we are. Liliana has worked tirelessly throughout the process of her book. She came into the office daily and got on with regular work. But I would often walk down to the offices and find her writing or talking to Evelyn about the book and I loved it. We are so grateful to have you be part of our team, Liliana. Here’s to you.’ 

Everyone lifted their glasses in the air and toasted Liliana. Martin moved a few steps to the left and gave Liliana the spotlight. She smiled at everyone and filled her lungs with air before sipping her prosecco lightly. 

‘Thank you so much, everyone. I’ve practised this speech hundreds of times already. I practised it in the shower; in my head on the tube on the way to work; in bed before I sleep; when I’m cooking dinner. You get the gist,’ she chuckled. ‘This book means more to me than words will ever describe. I have poured the most vulnerable version of myself onto these pages and I have seriously lost count of how many times I deleted things and then rewrote them. I cried more than I have in years while writing this and I feel like if I had any tears left to cry, I would be a complete mess right now. Thank you so much for coming and joining me while I celebrate this new chapter of my life, pun fully intended.’ 

Another round of applause echoed throughout the room and people slowly started to go back to their private conversations. Liliana took a minute to really let everything sink in before she walked over to Evelyn and Jacob who were biting at the nail to hug her and let their excitement out. They pulled her into a group hug when she got to them and she chuckled loudly, holding them as tightly as she could. 

‘God this is all so overwhelming,’ she whispered as she looked around the room again. 

‘I am so proud of you,’ Evelyn said. ‘Like so incredibly proud of you.’ 

Liliana hugged her again and flagged down a waiter to get another glass of champagne. ‘Thank you.’ 

‘So,’ Jacob said after grabbing himself another drink, ‘I was talking to James Daunt and he said that he is incredibly interested in getting you on a couple of signings.’ 

‘James Daunt?’ Liliana asked. Jacob only nodded. There was a certain glint in his eye that she couldn’t work out though. ‘As in…the founder of Daunt Books and current CEO of Waterstones?’ 

‘See, Evie? She knows more about this stuff than you thought. Yes, that James Daunt. I’m going to meet with him on Monday and see what kind of things we can offer one another. But I have a good feeling about this.’ 

‘Jacob, I know we said that these things might happen but a book tour already? Surely it’s too early!’ 

Jacob nodded, and Evelyn motioned for him to say something else. Liliana looked between her two friends with furrowed eyebrows, waiting for one of them to speak up. 

‘Martin had a meeting earlier.’ 

‘Right? He always has meetings. This isn’t new information.’ 

‘No, it’s not. But the fact that you’re already stupidly close to being a Sunday Times Bestseller is.’ 

Liliana’s face dropped. ‘A Sunday Times Bestseller? The book doesn’t come out until tomorrow! How is that possible? I don’t. What?’ 

‘Preorders. It looks like your marketing ideas really paid off. Waterstones have a very limited supply that they can actually put in stores right now because of the number of preorders. Same with WHSmith. The chances of you getting the title is ridiculously high. And the fact that it’s a debut novel with these numbers is unheard of. It’s all Martin can talk about.’ 

Evelyn squeezed Liliana as she stared at Jacob. She couldn’t do anything but stare at him. Until a few people started to move away from the table closest to them and she saw the one person she hadn’t expected to see. She saw him. 

He was standing in the far corner of the room on his own with her book in his hand. She could see from where she was that he was tracing the title with the tips of his fingers in a similar fashion to how she had when she first arrived. Her heart pounded deep within her chest when she saw him.

‘Excuse me, you two. I just need to go and say-’ she paused and looked back to her two friends, ‘-hi to somebody.’ 

Each step closer to him echoed in her ears. The click of her heels against the wooden floor was the loudest thing she could hear. The closer she got, the more she could see what he was doing. He wasn’t tracing the title as she’d first thought. He was tracing her name and there was the smallest hint of a smile on his face. 

He’d changed a lot but that was to be expected when so long had passed. He’d grown a lot too. He was more manly and his shoulders were broader than she’d ever seen them. The sleeves of his navy blue suit jacket were tight against his biceps. 

Short stubble grew on the lower half of his face and a pair of gold framed glasses perched against his nose and Liliana broke out in a smile. She’d always told him that he needed them but he’d always brushed her off. He said he wouldn’t look good in glasses. He did. 

Even though his looks had changed, he still strongly resembled the boy she’d known all those years before. 

‘Taron,’ she whispered. Her voice was barely audible over the noise in the room but he’d heard her. 

He looked up from the book and Liliana could visibly see his shoulders relax ever so slightly. ‘Liliana,’ he said, almost as if he wasn’t sure that it was really her there. The same way she had when she’d seen him from the other side of the room. She wanted to reach her hand out and touch him, just to make sure. ‘Congratulations.’ 

‘I didn’t know if you would come.’ She couldn’t stop staring at him. He couldn’t stop staring at her. ‘I kind of thought you would have forgotten me. 

Taron’s face dropped and he shook his head. ‘How could I ever forget you, Lil?’ 

Lil. 

One word and her heart pounded harder than it had been before. She could remember the last time she’d heard the nickname fall from his lips. They were on a train platform making promises that neither of them would keep. 

The name only he was allowed to call her. Nobody who knew them both dared. There had been times when people Liliana had met tried to call her Lil but she had asked them politely if they minded not calling her that. And for the most part people just accepted her wishes and continued calling her something else. Those who tried to ask why were met with a ‘because I don’t like it’. She did like it. She loved it. But only when it was Taron calling her it. 

‘Can I give you a hug?’ He asked tentatively. 

Liliana nodded with a smile and sighed happily when her arms wrapped around his waist and he leaned his chin on her shoulder. He swayed her lightly but never pulled away. 

‘I don’t know why this feels so strange,’ he mumbled. ‘It feels so right but so…different? I don’t even think that’s the right word to describe it.’ 

‘I know,’ she said quietly. His arms tightened around her a little and her eyes fluttered closed. ‘But I guess that’s what fourteen years apart will do to us. It’s almost like we’re strangers again even though we knew one another so well before.’ 

‘Fourteen years?’ Taron asked as he pulled away, completely bewildered. ‘I’ll be damned.’ 

‘I try not to think about it,’ Liliana chuckled sadly. ‘It means we’re getting old.’ 

She tipped the remainder of her prosecco down her throat with an amused smile. The last time they’d seen one another, they couldn’t drink legally. Not that it ever stopped them. They’d moved on from alcopops at house parties in Aberystwyth to prosecco at major events in London. Taron joined her in finishing his glass, grabbing two more from the waiter who was walking past at just the right time.

‘You’re younger than me, Lil.’ 

‘By three weeks. That’s barely any difference! We’re both almost thirty-two. That’s just too crazy for me to even begin to think about.’ They both laughed, tapping their glasses together in a show of agreement. ‘Thank you, for coming tonight. It means a lot that you came.’ 

Taron nodded, holding a hand to her shoulder in comfort. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I can’t lie to you, I did think that maybe you had forgotten about me. It’s been so long, Lil. Too long.’

His voice was full of hurt and she tried her hardest to not cry in front of him. ‘How could I ever have forgotten you, T?’ He shrugged. ‘I’ve kept up with your life a little bit, big shot movie star. I saw the poster for Rocketman a couple of years ago on the way home from work. It was actually the day that I pitched the book. There was a queue outside the cinema and then I saw the poster. I was so proud of you. I am so insanely proud of you.’ 

‘I’m so proud of you, big shot author.’ He picked up the book that he’d placed on the table next to him and waved it in the air, earning a chuckle from his former best friend. ‘I’d say I can’t believe you finally did it but I can believe it. You were so set on being an author and now look at you.’ 

‘Did you read the acknowledgements?’ Liliana asked, motioning to the book with a tip of her head. ‘I think you’d like them.’ 

‘I read the dedication. It was really lovely. But who’s Matilda?’ 

‘My little sister.’ Taron’s eyes widened slightly and his head tilted to the right. He took a deep breath as though processing the news that she was a sister. ‘She’s ten now, and the reason that the book even exists.’ 

‘Is she here?’ 

Liliana blinked back tears and shook her head, pulling her top lip between her teeth as she twisted the stem of her glass between her fingers to distract herself from the fact that the only other person she would have wanted to be there couldn’t be there. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Taron said, holding his hand out. ‘I shouldn’t have asked.’ 

‘You weren’t to know,’ Liliana smiled, sniffling. ‘I’d have loved for her to be here but it didn’t work out. I really do think that you’ll like the acknowledgements, by the way.’ 

Taron flicked through the pages of the book until he saw the acknowledgments, opening it wider so that he could read them. He pushed his glasses up his nose properly so that he could see before he started to read. 

This book has been two decades in the making. I first thought of the idea when I was twelve, riding my bike on the streets of Aberystwyth with my best friend, singing at the top of my lungs. I let myself believe that I was going to lift off the ground and fly far away. And I did. To some degree. 

But I never forgot my best friend. 

Taron, I want to thank you. Thank you for being there for me through the darkest days and always believing in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. And thank you for never, ever giving up on me. I miss you so much and I hope that one day you’ll read this book and realise just how big of an impact you had on my life all those years ago. 

And to Tina. My second mum who loved me like her own daughter and showed me what it was to become a strong, independent woman. Without you, I wouldn’t know how to survive. Not only did you teach me what it means to be a great person, you also taught me how to love with my whole heart. If it weren’t for your love and your pride in me, this book would not exist. Thank you. 

‘You know she’s going to sob when she sees this, right?’ Taron chuckled through a sniffle, wiping his cheeks to remove the tears that had started to fall. ‘Thank you. So much. I missed you too.’ 

He grabbed her and pulled her into another tight hug, lifting her onto her tiptoes and burying his face in her neck. 

‘Don’t crease the dress,’ she giggled, wrapping her arms around him just as tightly. She felt secure in his arms and she smiled into him, letting herself feel like a child again, just for a short moment. ‘I meant it all. Thank you for never giving up on me. Your mum and you were family to me and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to thank you both enough.’ 

‘I didn’t do any of it for a thank you,’ he whispered into the shell of her ear, goosebumps rising on her arms and legs. ‘But you’re welcome nonetheless. And mum really is going to sob.’ 

‘I’m trying my hardest not to right now, I can’t lie.’ 

They pulled apart and looked at each other for a little moment. Taron wiped a single tear that had started to fall down her cheek with his thumb and smiled at her before they both turned to face the room. Liliana was still so overwhelmed by everything that had happened that evening but with Taron by her side, nothing felt as scary anymore. 

‘If only eleven-year-old me could see me now.’

November 3rd, 2000

‘And this,’ the guest speaker said as he changed the slide on the overhead projector, ‘is only a minor injury that I’ve seen thanks to the unsafe use of fireworks.’ 

The entire hall of year seven students groaned, and Liliana closed her eyes tightly trying her best to not vomit on the person in front of her. She hated fireworks at the best of times but when she saw the damage that they could do to people, she swore to never touch one, no matter how old she got. 

Taron turned towards her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side unnoticeably, not prepared to get told off by one of the teachers in the hall, nevermind getting asked multiple times by the other students if they were boyfriend and girlfriend. ‘You know that only happens when idiots get a hold of them, right?’ 

‘We’re eleven!’ She whisper-yelled. ‘They don’t need to show us this stuff. It’s not like we’re going to be stupid enough to actually use fireworks.’ 

‘I can give you the names of two people in our year group who would make you think differently,’ he whispered, motioning to the front of the hall. 

Liliana peered to the front left of the navy bleachers where the two ‘bad boys’ of the year group sat, accompanied by a teaching assistant who had, on numerous occasions already in the fifteen minute assembly, told them to stop talking and pay attention. 

‘But it’s not like I’m going to be setting any off tonight. Or ever, for that matter. My mum says we’re going to Aunty Rachel’s for a bonfire and I will be in pyjamas, playing on my Gameboy in the living room and eating my weight in bonfire toffee. I don’t want any part of bonfire night. I hate it.’ 

Taron chuckled but quietened quickly when Mr Charles looked up at the two of them. He turned his attention back to the front of the hall and Liliana followed his lead. Though she greatly regretted it when yet another disturbing image of an injury was shown on the large screen. Her stomach twisted into tight knots at the sight. She really hated bonfire night. 

As they were about to be shown the different types of fireworks, and no doubt the dangers that come with each, the door to the hall opened and their head of year Mrs Harris walked in and scanned the bleachers. Her eyes stopped at Liliana and she gave her a sad smile. 

Taron looked at Liliana in confusion and she could only shrug. 

‘I’m really sorry,’ Mrs Harris said quietly from where she stood, ‘but can I pinch Liliana Thomas please?’ 

Liliana stood up and started to move towards the steps in the centre of the bleachers to walk to her head of year. ‘Bring your bag with you, sweetheart.’

The room erupted in a group ‘ooooh’ and Liliana’s heart sank to the pit of her stomach. She would be the talk of the year group for the rest of the day and for the following week for sure. Taron passed her bag to her and gave her a smile. 

‘I’ll see you on Monday.’ 

‘See you Monday,’ she whispered. 

Mrs Harris ushered Liliana to be as fast as she could, and when she was within reaching distance, she placed her hand on her back and guided her out of the hall. They walked through to the reception area and Liliana’s heart pounded the second she saw her mum waiting for her. 

Her mum had tear stained cheeks and held Liliana tightly when she saw her. Liliana was scared and confused all at the same time, the knots in her stomach pulling tighter with each breath she took. 

‘Mum, what’s happening?’ She asked quietly.

  ‘We’re going to your Aunty Rachel’s house now. I’ll explain in the car. Thank you Mrs Harris, for letting me take her home.’ 

The head of year smiled sweetly. ‘It’s no problem. I’ll see you on Monday, Liliana. Well done in choir this morning, by the way. You sounded lovely.’ 

‘Thank you. I’ll see you on Monday.’ 

The walk to the car, despite only taking ten seconds in reality, seemed to take hours. Each step Liliana took got heavier, her feet dragging behind her like lead weights holding her down. Her uncle was in the car waiting for her and her mum with his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were an off white, yellow colour. It was a wonder that he could turn the wheel at all with how tightly he was holding it. 

‘Mum, what’s going on? I’m scared.’ 

Liliana fastened her seatbelt and pulled it tight against her middle, settling herself into the seat and staring at the back of her mum’s head. Eliza turned to face her daughter, only half of her face visible from the passenger seat of the car. The air in the car was thick and Liliana found it difficult to breathe. She opened the window a little and breathed deeply. The cold November air burned her nostrils but it was easier to breathe so she didn’t care. 

The car lurched forward but Liliana continued to watch her mum.

‘Your dad cheated on me,’ she confessed, sniffing loudly. ‘It’s why he wanted us to break up a few weeks ago. I had a feeling something was happening so your Uncle Tom took me to find out. I caught him with Carolyn this afternoon. I came straight here to pick you up so that he couldn’t. I don’t want you around her. Or him right now.’ 

Everything turned to slow motion around them. The fifteen minute drive felt like a fifteen hour drive. There was no music playing in the car as there normally was so Liliana was alone with her thoughts, the faint pounding of her heart in her ears the only sound she could focus on. Time didn’t feel real. One second they were at the school and the next they were on the main road headed towards town. But it felt like they hadn’t started to move. 

As she sat in the car with the world passing by around her, things started to make sense. Her dad was doing more plumbing jobs than he had been in a while, and on days when he normally wouldn’t. He would leave before she went to school and come home after she was in bed. He would often tell Liliana and Eliza that he hadn’t realised what time it was, or that his friend had cooked him dinner as a thank you for helping with the plumbing. He would hide the name of the person calling him, picking up his phone and running to another bedroom to talk. He was deleting messages when he sent them and he didn’t seem to pay attention to anybody else in the house. 

Everything seemed to slot together and Liliana couldn’t help but cry. It was all too much for her. She thought that her parents were madly in love with one another and that they would be together forever. That she would be one of the lucky ones whose parents didn’t divorce. They had spoken about maybe trying to have another baby, to give Liliana a sibling. But that clearly wasn’t going to happen anymore. 

Her dad had cheated and lost the trust of not only his wife but his daughter too. Liliana felt sick knowing what he had done, and the hurt that he had caused. 

Only three weeks prior he had told Liliana that he and her mum were splitting up because they didn’t love one another anymore. She had been heartbroken and cried herself to sleep that night, sobbing uncontrollably into her pillow thinking about a life without her parents together. The next day, when Eliza had gone to the house to see Liliana, her dad had a panic attack severe enough that he wound up in the hospital hooked up to machines to check the strength of his heart. 

Eliza had gone with him and by the time they got home late that evening, they told Liliana that they were back together and for three weeks, they acted as if breaking up never happened. But nothing had been the same since. 

They’d been on spontaneous trips at the weekend, visiting the zoo and a theme park, and travelling further north to see her grandparents whom she hadn’t seen in a while. But no trip could heal the wounds of having her emotions toyed with the way that they had been. She still cried herself to sleep most nights, and she’d woken up on a couple of occasions to an ambulance parked outside and paramedics talking to her dad. 

‘I don’t want to talk to him,’ she said as they got nearer her aunt’s house. ‘I don’t want to talk to him if he calls. Not right now at least.’ 

‘That’s fine,’ Eliza said sadly. ‘You’re old enough now to make your own decisions about that. You don’t have to see him until you’re ready. But even when you are, I’d rather you not be around Carolyn.’ 

‘I understand.’ 

Her dad didn’t reach out for a couple of weeks. To reach out would be to reach out to Eliza as Liliana had no way of communication other than through her mum. He didn’t know how Liliana felt about anything, or what she had been told, but clearly it couldn’t have mattered that much to him if he couldn’t be bothered to pick up the phone or visit her. 

And then one day he did reach out. He wanted to see Liliana, and Liliana wanted to see him. She hadn’t seen him for two weeks and she needed to see her dad. She cried when she found out that she was going to be seeing him but she didn’t quite know why. 

Eliza agreed to him seeing Liliana, but insisted that he come to the house to see her for an hour and that he leave Carolyn at home. He walked into the house with his tail between his legs, not looking at Eliza once. Liliana, who had been excited to see her dad when she knew he was going to be there, didn’t know how to react when he was actually there. 

She hugged him quickly before running to sit back on the sofa where she had left her Gameboy playing a game. It was an awkward visit. Neither she nor her dad knew what to say to one another. They didn’t really have anything to say to one another. Liliana wanted to know why her dad had cheated but he didn’t try to say anything so she left it, turning the TV on to watch something. 

‘Why are you keeping her from me?’ He asked Eliza when she had finished prepping Liliana’s dinner. He stood from the sofa to stand over her. 

Liliana cowered into the corner of the sofa, lifting her Gameboy to play as a way of distracting herself from what she knew would be a blowout argument which she didn’t want to hear. 

‘I haven’t been keeping her from you,’ Eliza replied firmly. ‘It’s Lili who’s said that she doesn’t want to talk to you right now. And I don’t blame her, either. After what you did to the two of us, I’m surprised she even wanted to see you today.’ 

‘Oh fuck off, Eliza. You’re always trying to get her to pick sides and you do everything to get her to pick yours. I’m so fucking glad I don’t have to deal with you anymore, you bitch.’

‘I’m the one trying to get her to pick sides? What about when you picked her up from school the day you kicked me out and you told her that we just didn’t love one another anymore? How about that? That wasn’t you trying to seem like the good guy? Get the fuck out of my house.’ 

‘Your house? That’s rich. It was my parents who picked it for us. MINE. I’m only letting you stay here because of Liliana. If it weren’t for her, you’d be homeless or living with your shitty mum.’ 

‘Get. The. Fuck. Out. Of. My. House. I’ll call the police if I have to.’ Liliana stayed frozen on the sofa with tears streaming down her face so fast that her eyes had started to sting. 

‘Look, you’ve made her cry now. How does that feel? Knowing you’ve made your own daughter cry?’ 

‘Don’t bring her into this. She’s scared because you started screaming. Now get the fuck out!’ 

Her dad walked to the front door and swung it open harshly, stepping outside and walking to his car. ‘You’ve not heard the last of me yet,’ he threatened as he unlocked the car and opened the door. 

‘I hope you wrap that thing around a tree and die, arsehole!’ 

Liliana sobbed into the sofa, more scared than she had ever been. It felt like a part of her had died inside. How would she amount to anything? She was destined for the same life her parents had, she could feel it. 

November 5th, 2021

The book launch had started to die down and slowly but surely, people were starting to make their way home. It was getting close to ten thirty and Liliana was less than sober. She smiled at everybody she saw and offered them a glass of prosecco. When they turned down her offer she offered a shot instead. Evelyn and Jacob had taken her to a table to keep her from dancing on top of one, but they both loved how carefree she was. 

The entire evening had been a success and Liliana was on cloud nine. Jacob had continued to speak to different book stores and had got a list of the best ones he wanted to talk to the following week before he would present his ideas to Liliana. Even if he wanted to talk to her about it that night, there was no way that she would remember it. 

Every time a round of prosecco was walked around the room, she’d had one. If she still had some in her glass when another waiter walked by, she downed it and grabbed a fresh one. Evelyn had joined her for a little while but then switched to water so that she could make sure that Liliana got home safely. It was a forty-five minute Uber ride back to Liliana’s flat and at least one of them had to have some wits about them. And it was Liliana’s night so Evelyn forfeited her alcohol consumption, something that Liliana took as a need to drink for the both of them. 

‘God I’m so lonely recently,’ Liliana sighed, elbow on the table and cheek smushed into her hand. ‘It’s been like, god I don’t even know how long since I last went on a date or anything. It’s like there’s this fire in me and I don’t know how to put it out. 

‘You just need to get yourself out there, babe,’ Jacob laughed as he shimmied in front of her playfully. ‘When was the last time you got laid?’ 

‘I can’t even remember,’ Liliana groaned, fake crying. 

‘Hey, I have to get going,’ Taron whispered in Liliana’s ear, hoping to not interrupt the conversation. ‘I’m sorry to pull you away from your conversation.’ 

Liliana put her hand on his arm to steady herself. The room had started to spin a few minutes before and she found it difficult to stand up straight. ‘Oh, I’m glad you did,’ she laughed. ‘Jacob was about to suggest something crude and I’d rather not listen to it. I’m so glad that you came. It was really lovely getting to see you again.’ 

‘I’m so glad that you invited me,’ he replied. ‘Would it be too cheesy to get your number, if it’s changed since we last spoke, so that we could maybe sort out to meet again? I don’t want to go back to being strangers.’ 

Liliana smiled, letting herself lean against his arm gently. He smelled good. A lot nicer than what he used to smell like as a teen. ‘I’m so glad you don’t wear that Diesel cologne anymore.’ 

‘The one you bought me as a gift?’ 

‘Yeah, it smelled so bad.’ 

Taron laughed. ‘Nice to know you thought I smelled bad.’

‘I meant, you smell better now.’ 

‘Thanks, I think. Here, let me get my phone.’ 

He pulled his phone from his pocket and opened his contacts app, scrolling down to L and clicking on Liliana’s name. She noticed and couldn’t help but smiling, scrolling through contacts until she got to ‘T’. 

‘I wanted to text you when I saw the Rocketman poster,’ she confessed. ‘Took me a solid fifteen minutes to talk myself out of it.’ 

‘You talked yourself out of texting me? How come?’ 

Liliana shrugged gently. ‘I guess I was worried that you didn’t remember me. And then I realised that your phone number would have probably changed and it would have been far too awkward sending a random person a photo of the Rocketman poster telling them how proud I was that they’d made it big.’ 

‘Okay yeah that’s probably for the best,’ he laughed quietly. ‘Here, put your new number in here and I’ll text you so that you can save mine.’ 

‘Can you do it for me? I’m seeing double right now.’ 

Taron nodded, taking Liliana’s phone and sending himself a text. ‘Here you go. I promise I’ll text you soon, okay. Thank you for a great night.’

‘Thank you. I should probably head home soon to be honest.’ 

‘Make sure to drink some water, okay?’ 

‘I promise, T.’ 

‘Goodnight, Lil.’

[proofwhisky]

@joshosis gets a starter they didn't ask for.

ENOUGH COCAINE AND WHISKY to bring down a racehorse has only proven to be about 80% effective when it comes to erasing the memories of Joshua Washington from Thomas's mind. On good days he's able to go multiple hours, even an entire afternoon, without encountering something that inevitably calls the delicate lines of Josh's face to the surface of the murky waters that cover the majority of Tommy's psyche; without stumbling across some small, completely benign scent or sight or sound that sends him straight back to London three years ago.

Most of the time, though, Thomas wakes from his never ending nightmares with a gasp & a jolt & has to wait for reality to drape itself over him like a lace canopy dropped from a great height. Then his thoughts inevitably drift to those same memories he so desperately tries to ignore, to erase, to blot out or burn through with drugs & alcohol & sex.

His heart racing, his head pounding, fear coursing through his veins; he remembers a delicate hand resting against the curve of his jaw, fine lips brushed against his with the whispered promise, I'm here.

Then he bolts out of bed & reaches for his flask to remind himself that he had surgically removed that reality from his future, for better or for worse. Dwelling on all of it does nothing but make his heart ache so terribly that he genuinely fears he may die if he allows himself to feel it for too long.

Days & nights blur together, weeks & months floating by in an alcohol-&-sex-infused haze. The touch of others does nothing to help him forget the one he wants; they only serve to remind him of exactly what it is that he yearns for, exactly what it is he had left behind.

Mornings turn to afternoons, breakfast to business. Associates pass in front of him & leave once more. Money comes in. Money goes out. The work day ends. The Garrison opens. Tommy tries to drown himself in distraction & denial yet again, because, this time, maybe it will work. This time, maybe, just maybe, God will be merciful.

That'll be the bloody day.

Perhaps it's the routine itself that offers Tommy some strange sense of comfort. The same people in the same place every evening, the promise of the same empty conversations & drunken passion. The potential for lighthearted laugher with his brothers in the snug. The respect that other patrons afford him without him having to lift a finger. It's all familiar enough to be comfortable. A safe place to hide away from the bleak reality of his life.

That is, of course, until he finds himself staring at the bleak reality itself, standing at the bar with every ounce of charm & sorrow that he remembers from that stranger on a wicker chair in a London hospital three years ago.

Thomas stops short & drops his empty glass of whisky. It shatters on the floor, causing the low din of conversation to ebb & heads to turn in his direction. He doesn't care. He has to make sure that he isn't hallucinating, that this isn't just yet another dream where he reaches for Josh only to wake up just as he begins to curl his fingers around the other man's hand.

When Josh turns around & doesn't dissapear, when others seem to acknowledge his presence, when those deep, dark eyes widen in recognition of him, only then does Tommy finally speak.

"... Joshua ? " he says.

[witch-oftheflowers]

Welcome In~

Moon Knight Universe!

Jake Lockley x Morgana Aradia

TW: mention of sexual actions

Masterlist

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The night was gloomy. Rain filled the noise around those that went out. Pouring down as it was showering hard. The city of London was quiet for once.

The sound of thudding steps echoed out. A large man rushed down as he turned the corner towards a quaint bar. He huffed out as he hid under the the bars canopy.

He adjusted his flat hat as he grumbled under his breath.

"Pinché señora..." He sighs as he shook his brown leather jacket. Pushing the bar door open, the soft chime of the bell above rang as he enter.

Looking around his sharp eyes noticed how quiet it was. Compared to the lively atmosphere the bar had.

The bar was deep and dark in colors. Satin lined the walls, a dark purple to them. The floor shined with a oak wood. The little stage in the middle with the dance floor opened. Tables and chairs litter about in the organized chaos.

It had such a dark academia vibe to the bar. Along with the plants about, making it love with color. The lights were soft, a brown tone to the bar was added. It felt moody even if the rain outside was active.

Behind the bar stood a tall woman. Her thick kush hair swayed about. Her waves reminded him of the deep dark ocean. They whip and swayed behind her as she was making drinks and cleaning.

Her eyes widen as she looked up from her task.

"Jake! Come here bene bene" her voice was soft and comforting as she waved him over to the empty seat infront of her.

He begrudgingly crept over. Feeling annoyed with her attitude, especially since she was the one that called him.

"Stop it Morgana..." He said a bit hush as he sat in the seat. Taking his hat off and setting it on the counter.

She made him a quick glass, bourbon, on the house. She slid the ice filled glass to him as she hum. Her eyes flicked red as she smiled, her painted lips curled into a smile as she hums.

"Don't act like that... You know I have a great job for you." She teased him as she let a giggle out. He scoffed at her attitude again as he drank the glass.

"Bueno, sí... Necesitas a alguien con mis habilidades. Pero siempre actúas como si fuera un juego..." (Well yes... you need someone with my skills. But you always act like it's a game)

She scoffed a bit at his words as she yanked the glass from his hands. He blinked a bit as he sighs.

"Come on tell me about it. I don't have all day Miss. Aradia." His accent was thick as he held his hand out. She gently placed the drink in his hand as she hums.

"I need help getting some items for a..." She looked to the other patrons as she sighs.

"I need you to find these things for a ritual." She said so casually as she handed him a list of items. Their hands grazed the other, a bit of electricity shock the two of them.

Jake raised an eyebrow to her as he sighs. Looking through it as he scanned it over. Most of these things were from Egypt. Makes sense why she asked him. The only thing that threw him off was the last one.

Healthy male body

He smirked as he stared at her. Shaking the paper

"What's with the last one?"

"It says there what it is." She mused as she smiled at him. Eyeing him up and down a bit. Batting her long lashes at him

"But why?"

"Sex ritual..." She calmly said as she stared at him. He choked on his drink as he wiped his mouth clean.

"Mamas... You could of just asked me..." He teased and joked at her.

"Well I was hoping you would offer " she said as he stared at her a bit bewildered by her bluntness. He sighs, leaving a heavy breath out. His hands gripped his glass as he sipped another, finishing the dark drink.

"Fine I can do that. But my fee will be more."

"I'm fine with that. I need the other things first before I can do my service and pay you clearly. Any another questions Mr. Lockley?" She said, keeping her eye trained on him. She had such a dark aura around her. The bar it self did

Which made sense the bar was a hiding hole for those of the supernatural. Specifically for witches and warlocks. Such as the woman before him.

"Fine I'll do it. I'll be back in a few days time bues." He stood from his seat. Tucking the paper into his jackets inner pocket. His hat slid back into it's place on his head. Brushing his dark curls back as he stared at her.

Morgana stood back up straight. Her hands firm on her hips. Her chest pop out, a bit of pride in her stance.

"I'll be waiting for you, don't keep a girl waiting Jake~" her voice sounded like silk. Like it was coating to him and ready to bring him back to her. That was their interactions always. The sexual tension, the begging to be close to the other. It was like their souls and spirits were bound together.

"I won't make you wait long..." He ended it there. Walking off from her, leaving the one place he felt secure in.

Morgana smile fade as he left. The bell above her door rang. She didn't notice the man coming besides her, looking identical to her.

"Why don't you just tell him you like him hmmm?" The man said as he pinched her cheek. She swat his hand as she pouts.

"Adriana....Stop it. Hes just a good shag is all." She said, her cheeks glowing even on her deep tan skin. She huffs a bit walking pass her brother.

"I'ma take a break. You watch the bar" she stated to her brother. But she let a sigh out, feeling her emotions sky high.

It would be a week till he returned. And the two had another magical night. And her spell was a success. Besides the two left with bite marks and scratches on the other. Soft reminders of the other till they crossed paths again.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

AN: hope you all enjoyed! I love writing about how they interact and I adore themmmm💕🥺

[heavens-bookshop]

It's Friday, have a WIP snippet (GO S2 spoilers ahead)

London is loud over the lunch rush. The archangel Aziraphale wanders underneath the glass and steel canopy of Borough Market, weaving along stalls offering fish and cheeses and wonderfully fresh pastries. Every single seat in every little shop and cafe is full, and Aziraphale takes a deep breath of city air. He always finds the bustle soothing after the suffocating silence of Heaven.

Away from the vendors and the cathedral, he cuts through a small side street towards a greasy spoon that proudly boasts an all day breakfast for £7 on a chalkboard by the front door. No matter the time of day, the archangel Aziraphale knows there will always be a table for two available towards the back of the cafe. He settles himself in the plastic chair, orders two cups of tea, and waits.

Five minutes later, Muriel breezes through the door with a bright smile on their face and heads straight to Aziraphale's table.

"Hello, fellow human associate!" they say, pulling out their own chair. "I trust you've been finding this Earth weather terrible."

Aziraphale smiles tiredly. "Yes, quite."

[grandmaster-anne]

Court Circular | 29th March 2023

Hotel Adlon Kempinski Berlin

The King and The Queen Consort left Royal Air Force Brize Norton this morning for the State Visit to Germany. Their Majesties were received at the Airport by the Lord Parker of Minsmere (Lord Chamberlain) and His Majesty’s Lord-Lieutenant of Oxfordshire (Mrs Marjorie Glasgow). The King and The Queen Consort this afternoon arrived at Berlin-Brandenburg Government Airport and were received by His Majesty’s Ambassador to the Federal Republic of Germany (Her Excellency Mrs Jill Gallard), the Ambassador from the Federal Republic of Germany to the Court of St James’s (Mr Miguel Berger), Mrs Dörte Dinger (State Secretary of the Federal President’s Office) and Mr Till Knorn (Chief of Protocol of the Federal Foreign Office). The King and The Queen Consort drove to the Brandenburg Gate and were received by The President of the Federal Republic of Germany and Mrs Büdenbender. His Majesty inspected the Guard of Honour. The King and The Queen Consort, with The President of the Federal Republic of Germany and Mrs. Büdenbender, subsequently walked through Pariser Platz before departing by car for Bellevue Palace, Berlin. The King later attended a Sustainability Reception at Bellevue Palace and planted a tree for The Queen’s Green Canopy in the Palace Garden. The King and The Queen Consort were entertained this evening at a State Banquet given by The President of the Federal Republic of Germany and Mrs Büdenbender at Bellevue Palace. The following are in attendance: the Rt Hon James Cleverly MP (Secretary of State for Foreign, Commonwealth and Development Affairs), the Rt Hon Sir Clive Alderton, Mr Christopher Fitzgerald, Mrs Jennifer Jordan-Saifi, Mr Tobyn Andreae, Professor Charles Deakin, Dr Douglas Glass, Lieutenant Colonel Jonathan Thompson and Mrs Sophia Densham.

St James’s Palace

The Princess Royal this morning visited Adnams Brewery, Sole Bay Brewery, East Green, Southwold, to mark its One Hundred and Fiftieth Anniversary and was received by Mr Robert Rous (Vice Lord-Lieutenant of Suffolk). Her Royal Highness later opened the Centre for the Environment, Fisheries and Aquaculture Science’s new Headquarters, Pakefield Road, Lowestoft, and was received by His Majesty’s Lord-Lieutenant of Suffolk (Clare, Countess of Euston). The Princess Royal, Patron, Friends of Happisburgh Lighthouse, this afternoon visited Happisburgh Lighthouse, Lighthouse Lane, Happisburgh, and was received by Major General Sir William Cubitt (Deputy Lieutenant of Norfolk). Her Royal Highness later visited Elm House Temporary Accommodation, 55 Elm Road, Thetford, and was received by Mrs Melinda Raker (Deputy Lieutenant of Norfolk).

Kensington Palace

The Duke of Gloucester, Patron, Heritage of London Trust, this afternoon received Mr James Cayzer-Colvin upon relinquishing his appointment as Chairman. The Duke of Gloucester, Patron, Richard III Society, and The Duchess of Gloucester this evening attended a screening of “the Lost King’” at Windsor Castle. The Duchess of Gloucester, Honorary President, the Lawn Tennis Association, this morning received Ms Sandra Procter (President) and Mr Scott Lloyd (Chief Executive Officer).

St James’s Palace

The Duke of Kent, Patron, this evening held a Concert and Dinner at St. James’s Palace to commemorate the Ninetieth Anniversary of the London Philharmonic Orchestra.

[stephensmithuk]

The Bruce-Partington Plans

Published in 1908, this is one from the His Last Bow collection. The international context i.e. the growing tensions with Germany, should be borne in mind when reading this.

This is the second and final appearance of Mycroft Holmes in the canon.

This is our third Violet! ACD likes the name, clearly.

This video shows the development of the Underground over time. The 1894 map does not include some of the then "mainline" services, like the one going up to Epping and Ongar, that would be incorporated into the network later on.

The Woolwich Arsenal was a massive munitions factory and research site located on the south bank of the Thames. It peaked in size during the First World War and then declined after that. It ceased being a factory in 1967 and stopped being a military site in 1994. Much of the site has been redeveloped - the Eastern half becoming Thamesmead - or repurposed.

Both attempts at a museum on the site were short-lived, sadly.

Woolwich Arsenal station is today served by the Docklands Light Railway and Southeastern trains; the Elizabeth Line station at Woolwich is a 200m walk away.

The most notable cultural legacy of the site was its works football team. Originally called Dial Square on its 1886 foundation, it turned professional in 1891 (the first London club to do so) and eventually moved north of the river in 1913 due to financial difficulties. You may well be familiar with the club's current name - Arsenal.

Aldgate was one of the former gates of the London Wall and gave its name to the local area, but the gate is now completely gone.

Aldgate station is today the terminus of the Metropolitan Line served by the Circle Line; its platforms are under a glass canopy with gaps to allow for air to get in and smoke to get out. Pretty nice station, but not very convenient for anywhere major, as it's a bit of a walk to Fenchurch Street.

The London Underground is divided between sub-surface lines dug using a "cut-and-cover" methods (dig up street, build railway, put street back on top) with tunnel dimensions big enough for regular mainline trains and deep-level lines done by manually digging underground, with resulting smaller diameters.

A variety of "circle routes" operated on now-LU lines at the time operated by companies including the Great Western Railway. More info can be found here.

Train tickets at this time were generally small cardboard ones about the size of a thumb. You can find a history of London transport tickets here.

The Metropolitan Railway rolling stock at the time generally consisted of closed compartment carriages i.e. doors on each side with no link to other compartments. It was perfectly possible for a door not secured properly to come open and someone to fall out if leaning on it. The job of the guard and station staff would be to check all the doors were properly shut.

This also had safety implications for passengers, especially female ones late at night and women-only compartments existed because of this. The emergency alarm on British trains was fitted as a measure following the 1864 murder of Thomas Briggs, in such a compartment.

Closed compartment carriages remained present into the first-generation British Railways electric multiple unit designs. In 1988, a woman named Deborah Linsley was murdered in one, with an au pair being criticised at the inquest for not pulling the cord. Her murderer has never been caught. The remaining stock was withdrawn from late night service afterwards and marked with a red line on the carriage, shortly afterwards going entirely as sliding-door stock replace.

The Naval Estimates were basically the budget requests presented to Parliament for their approval, the Admiralty being its own department until 1964, when it merged with four other departments to become the Ministry of Defence.

The first attack by a submersible occurred in 1776 during the American War of Independence, with an attempt to attach explosives to a British ship by the American Sergeant Ezra Lee using a one-man vessel called Turtle. It and other attempts failed; the submarine's ultimate fate after the sloop carrying it was sunk is unknown.

The first successful sinking of a vessel by a submarine was in 1864, by the Confederate vessel H. L. Hunley on the USS Housatonic. The former was lost with all hands shortly afterwards. It was found in 1995, raised in 2000 and is now part of a museum.

Hugo Oberstein is mentioned in "The Second Stain", which chronologists generally put in 1888. The "vibes" putting it in the 1900s don't work in light of the ending of this story.

Various openings were built in the underground bit subsurface lines of the Underground for ventilation purposes; in fact a majority of the network is open-air. The deep-level lines relied on various ventilation shafts and air being pushed in the trains, with the result that many parts of the networks are today pretty warm in summer.

Gloucester Road station is today on the Circle, District and Piccadilly Lines, the last of these arriving in 1906 in two deep-level platforms. The most notable feature of the station is the disused platform with unusual temporary art installations on it.

Underground steam locomotives were fitted with condensing boilers to reduce steam emissions, but this did nothing to deal with the soot and conditions could be fairly unpleasant by any standards. The sub-surface lines would be gradually electrified from the 1900s; the deep levels had to be electric from the get-go.

Pierrot is a stock "sad clown" character from pantomime and comedic theatre. He still turns up in various guises today, including a notable turn in Cowboy Bebop.

The "certain gracious lady" who gives Sherlock Holmes the emerald tiepin is generally assumed to be Queen Victoria herself. She was reluctant to use Buckingham Palace following her husband's death in 1861 and conducted most of her official business out of Windsor Castle instead, becoming known as the "Widow of Windsor".

[boleynqueenes]

17. What’s something you’ve learned about while doing research for a fic?

I weirdly find research stuff useful in scene or train-of-thought transitions, by means of segue, and/or by means to illustrate or set a scene. I do SO much of it but it really does come in handy during the flow when you're stuck on a scene in particular, just consult my notes to see how can I relate something here to this and it unlocks.

So like this:

No, he is resolved, resolved to allow the snowy wind to allay his temper, collecting resolution with every step, let the walk do likewise, deciding strategy as he rounds the fountain in the courtyard, frozen over like glass, crows landing and twirling like ice dancers upon the first frost fair upon the Thames, the one he was told of during his very first history lessons.

Beaulieu had an absolutely stunning courtyard, and the fountain has been mentioned in both Thurley's works on Tudor palaces and Julia Fox's biography of Jane Boleyn. Honestly, so many details from that one I've used already for my current and future Beaulieu scenes, that book is such a boon.

So, as oft happens in the process, I will remember an article I read (this one, the history of frost fairs on the Thames) and then find everything I possibly can about them to see if some pattern or detail can be found that will connect it to the character, their current obstacle, their own memory. This one was serendipitous in that regard:

lest he forget, it was the same winter that this impertinent woman was born, that carts and carriages crawled across the crystal palace of the Thames, from Lambeth to Westminster, the last time London Bridge was falling down)

Everything that reminds you of something has happened before, in some form, etc.

My A/N is honestly becoming so overloaded that I am starting to link rather than add quotes like here for the above, but this one was this:

In 1515, too, carriages passed over on the ice from Lambeth to Westminster. At this time it is said the frost and snow were so severe that five arches of London Bridge were "borne downe and carried away with the streame."

So, December 1515-February 1516 counts as 'same winter' according to other Tudor books and articles I read that referenced this, if it was actually January 1515, well...it serves too well. Magpied that.

What else, learned about how rain was seen as an ill omen (kind of feels like that's playing against the odds in England, but whatever) in early 16c England, particularly as it aligned with significant events, and interestingly enough there was an absolute downpour recorded at both the christening of Arthur Tudor and, specifically, COA's coronation procession, one so severe she had to take shelter in the eaves of (another omen portending her future power struggle with Wolsey...?) a tavern called The Cardinal's Hat (revised so she was indoors because it gave me more latitude to set the scene).

Although of course I used that last one, and many other details from researching their coronation day (bolded below) to be an absolute sadist:

There, the loamy scent of ale colliding against the acrid smell of lye, there, in the kitchens was where the owners of the tavern had allowed their new Queen to dry and take refuge from the deluge that had drowned her in the procession. There, where her ladies were patting and wringing out her hair with bathsheets and making futile noises of consolation, futile noises towards praise of her beauty, still unmatched, even in this, they insisted, even like this, she had sobbed and sobbed with an acutely felt humiliation, as she does now. For she was always much on her dignity, especially after years of living denied the same, those widowed years… The collapse of her canopy drenching her with rainwater in the midst of her procession had been too much for her then, the shock of cold had rendered her outrage, then mortification, as surely it would seem to all she were the punchline of God's own joke, this abatement of pride. But Henry had come then, and he had been ready to bear the weight of her injured dignity, ready and willing and eager to bend the darkness off her with his lightness; her ready knight with the ready halo. Then, he had cried out, what is wrong? in that modest threshold, himself draped in crimson velvet and ermine, blinding in his jacket of raised gold, twinkling with ballas rubies, then, he had sank to his knees next to the grand chair that her manservants placed upon the dingy floor, upon the carpet they rolled out beneath, then, he had gathered her in his arms. It is ruined, she insisted, sniffling, and he had laughed lightly, and shook his head, rested his hand upon her cheek and beamed like the sun that had disappeared on their day. He had called it baptism by rainfall, and japed that she was truly an English queen, now, who could doubt it, and how the crown hardly needed to affirm the same, and kissed her face all over, as if he would vanquish every single tear.