#he was on a steamer headed for England

[aliosne]

Selfies ca. late 50s

[fayes-fics]

When The World Is Free: Chapter 5 - Sans Y Penser

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Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, WW2 AU.

Warnings: none really... mildly angsty situations, some flirting and interesting proposals.

Word Count: 2.9k

Author’s Note: Multi-chapter fic based on a request by the lovely @amillcitygirl! Please see the masterpost for a synopsis of this story. HERE BE PLOT. A lot of things happen in this one afternoon. Thanks to @colettebronte for beta reading. Enjoy!

Le Havre, September 1939

The port city of Le Havre is bustling with travellers hauling suitcases and steamer trunks, all walks of life converging on this point of exit. You weave through the crowds from the train station as a trio, headed for the bright red awnings of the company sailing to the USA. Benedict and Eloise hang back as you approach the ticket window. 

“Name?” the brusque man in the booth opens with a crisp American accent.

“Y/n y/l/n,” you smile politely.

“You are not on the manifest,” he sighs after a pause to scan down the paperwork, impatience colouring his tone.

“But I must be,” you frown, “I was given this here…” 

You push your ticket under the window, clearly marked with today’s date. 

“Fraudsters,” his economic response.

“But… they were from your company? Outside your offices in Paris? And wearing your company livery? They… They said I could bring forward my sailing date from August to today. They took my original ticket and gave me this! It looks the same!” Panic rises in your voice with each sentence, dread churning behind your ribs as you realise you have likely been duped. 

“I'm sorry, ma’am, but that is not a valid ticket,” is his monotone reply.

“Oh god. What can I do? May I buy another ticket now?!?”

His responding laugh is a loud bark, “Hah! Ma’am, we are booked up for weeks in advance. There is a long line every day of people hoping for last-minute availability,” he signals to a line of weary-looking, luggage-laden folks under a makeshift shelter.

“But I….” you feel your eyes watering and dread in the pit of your stomach like you are falling down an endless chasm. 

“Ma’am, please step aside; I need to ensure valid passengers can board this ship…” he warns in a tone that is wholly without sympathy.

With a weak nod, you stumble away, back towards Benedict and Eloise. As you draw closer, their faces are a picture of concern, realising something is amiss. As you tearfully recount what happened, Benedict seethes, and Eloise wraps her arm around you, looking pained. 

“I’m going up there. This is unacceptable!” Benedict grits out, righteous indignation fizzing from his very being.

You have to hold out a hand to physically stop him. “It's likely no use,” you appease.

His ire deflates a fraction at your hold on his coat sleeve. “At least let me try, y/n,” he modifies after a few beats.

“Alright,” you relent, dropping your hand, “but I do not expect a different answer.”

You and Eloise cling to each other as you watch Benedict remonstrate with the same man and then a different one at the window. All the while, your stomach is in knots, equal parts fear and hope.

It's five or more minutes before Benedict returns to you, his face pinched.

“I was not successful,” he screws his mouth, looking away as if he cannot meet your eye as he says it. “They don't seem to care that criminals are posing as agents for their organisation,” he rubs his eyebrow in irritation. “I would report it to the police, but it's not their jurisdiction here, and it still does not solve our dilemma…”

“Thank you anyway…” you breathe, “for trying at least…”

There is a long silence as the three of you stand there, stupified by the conundrum before you. The chime of a clock on the harbour building breaks your thoughts.

“It's 3pm. Your sailing back to England is in less than an hour. You should go. You two leave without me,” you demure.

“NO!” they both exclaim in almost comic sibling unison.

“I’ll be fine, seriously.”

“I’m not leaving you alone here for god knows how long until there is room on a ship to America. You can’t be alone. This isn’t Paris; this is a port city. It’s definitely not safe,” Eloise rattles off, looking at you imploringly.

“She’s right,” Benedict concurs. “You were safe in Paris together before the war. You are not safe here. A beautiful young woman. You are a target for thieves or even worse. You cannot stay here alone.”

You try your hardest not to let Benedict calling you beautiful derail your whole thought train, but it’s futile. Your mind is scattered like a pile of wooden toy railway coaches.

“I... I could return to Paris?” You finally suggest after what feels like an eternity of buffering. “I could call to check for last-minute availability every morning. It’s only a couple of hours by train. I’ll be always packed and ready to go…” you argue, not as yet realising the naivety behind your own idea.

“Paris will be the first target for Hitler’s invasion,” Benedict says gravely. “It could be much worse to remain there…”

“So what am I to do? I’m damned if I do, and I’m damned if I don’t…”

“There is only one solution, and that is for us to remain here as well until you can secure passage out of the country,” Benedict shrugs.

“Agreed,” Eloise nods emphatically as you go to protest.

“There are many more sailings back to England, and tickets are easier to come by,” Benedict points out. “We can move our tickets up. At least by a few days until we can devise a plan.”

 “Wait… if there are no ships to America, why don't you come to England with us?” Eloise pipes up in a lightbulb moment.

“I have nowhere I could stay…” 

“Nonsense! You will stay with us at Aubrey Hall. Won’t she, Benedict?”

“Oh yes, of course. There are plenty of spare rooms,” he assures.

“Gosh, umm... Maybe? I…” you hesitate. The whiplash of the last few minutes and the generosity of their offer momentarily overwhelm you. “That's very generous of you. The problem is I don’t know for how long it would be, or even if I should. My parents only agreed to me living in Paris under the watchful eye of Solene. This… this is entirely other…”

You startle as Benedict places his hands on your shoulders, pulling your attention to his sincere expression. “Y/n, you need to worry less about what your family thinks and more about yourself - what you need and your safety. This is escaping impending war; it’s a completely different circumstance from how you arrived here. The decisions you make right now have to be selfish and unburdened by expectations. It’s easy for others to judge from the distance of safety. But look around you. This town is teeming with people clambering to leave the country before an invasion. We do what we have to in unpredictable circumstances to survive.”

“You sound like a soldier,” you murmur.

“It’s what my father was,” he replies, releasing his grip but not moving away. “As a very young man in The Great War. He was lucky to survive, being an officer away from the front lines, but he taught me many things before he died. And one was about always making the smart choice if you can see one, even if it feels uncomfortable. The smart choice here is to escape by any means necessary. We all know Hitler has his sights set on France, especially Paris, as the figurative and cultural capital of Europe. You must get out. You must come with us.” You are captivated by his hazy eyes as he speaks, your heart beating fast as his face and voice grow softer. “Please. I could not live with myself if we left you behind,” he admits in a much quieter tone, but the plea is no less impassioned.

You cannot help it. You stare up at him, transfixed. Stanley has never been so eloquent. Or indeed so invested in your well-being. 

“Alright…” your hesitancy soft, “but you must let me pay you for my ticket…”

His face seems to light up at your acquiescence. “One day… maybe,” he smiles.

And so that is what he does - leaves you and Eloise ensconced in a nice bistro overlooking the harbour with a large bottle of white wine as he walks over to the ticket office for the ferry company and swaps their tickets for a few days hence and purchases an additional ticket for you, steadfastly refusing to tell you the cost for it even for many weeks hence.

While you are in the ladies' room, Eloise strikes up a conversation with a young man in uniform at the adjacent table; you fondly roll your eyes as you retake your seat and leave them be. Your gaze, however, is never far from the window, to where Benedict last left your line of sight, somehow anxious for his return.  When he reappears, striding purposefully towards the cafe, your chest flutters hard, his coat swishing around his legs, his hat at an attractive slant. If there is one thing you swear you could spend a lifetime doing, it’s watching Benedict Bridgerton just… be. 

“Any luck?” you ask as he arrives and doffs his hat, taking a seat on your other side, throwing an exasperated glance at his little sister and the uniformed man.

“We are set to sail Thursday,” he smiles and signals for the waiter, ordering a glass of Beaujolais. “I also stopped in the post office to call Solene. She has said we can stay as long as we need to at her sister’s cottage a few miles from town.”

“Oh, that's wonderful news!” your shoulders relax for the first time in what feels like hours. “But wait, I remember she said there is only one bedroom,” you point out. “You’ve been sleeping on our sofa for days now… you deserve a bed. I’ll take the sofa…”

“No. Also, I’m not sharing a bed with my sister,” he shudders, “she kicks in her sleep!”

“Oh, thanks. So I guess you want me to have bruised shins, then??” You laugh with gusto, the ricochet day making all your emotions heightened, seemingly bouncing from one extreme to another. Right now, a strange bubble of joy at this lighthearted exchange.

“Not at all. In fact, I’d happily share with you instead to save your legs from the abuse!” 

You know it’s said in jest, the comedic relief of the moment evident on his face, but still, a shot fires in your chest at the thought of sharing a bed with him. You decide to make light of it, even as your heart quickens.

“How do I know this kicking is not a problem that runs in the family? And you’re way stronger than her!”

“You can tie me down if it would make you feel better!” he chuckles loudly. 

You flush all over, the very thought so beguiling yet scandalous. And yet you cannot stop your mouth running away with you, this flirtatious banter too tasty to resist, the wine you’ve been drinking far too quickly for the last half hour loosening your lips.

“I think you would enjoy that far too much, Mr Bridgerton,” you volley back, raising an eyebrow with a giggle.

His cheeks turn the most adorable shade of pink even as his eyes dilate rapidly, a corner of his tongue flicking out to pull his bottom lip under his teeth. It makes you want to sink your teeth right there, this impulse to be so physical with someone discombobulating. You've never had such errant, feral desires for Stanley. 

“You're probably right…” he rumbles quietly after a pause. 

You dare to hold his gaze even though you know it’s a mistake. This nightmare of a day makes you uncaring of propriety. He looks as wild as you feel inside, a glint in his eye that is at once permission and danger. 

“Theo here has been telling me all sorts of helpful information,” Eloise leans in, breaking the spell between you, a slight slur in her voice from her wine. 

Theo nods to you and Benedict. On closer inspection, he appears to be in a British soldier uniform. 

“I have to get back on duty,” he explains apologetically as he rises from his seat, “but I hope the information I’ve provided to your sister here will help.” He adds with a tiny salute.

You look surprised at Eloise as she just shrugs. You thought her up to her usual flirtatious banter, not researching. Benedict looks impressed too. You both, however, don’t miss the note he slips to Eloise before he takes his leave. Perhaps not purely intelligence gathering, then.

“Theo is helping process entry to Britain for foreign nationals wanting safe harbour. The numbers have spiralled since the war was declared.” She begins to explain when he is out of sight. “There is sadly a waiting list. But there are a few ways to skip the queue…

“Those being?” Benedict prompts before you can.

“Having family relatives residing in Britain already or, top of the pile, being the spouse of a British national.”

You slump your shoulders. “I have no relations there. Uncle Robert was visiting, but he was already at sea returning to America when the war was declared,” you explain, wishing he had stayed a few weeks longer.

“I wonder if we can find any paperwork forgers around?” Eloise ponders aloud.

“Eloise,” Benedict's tone is one of brotherly warning and disapproval, “we will not be taking that route.” his tone striking a chord of finality.

“But… how else can we get her into the country without bending the rules?” she exclaims at him, frustrated, gesticulating.

“I’m thinking…” Benedict grouses back, rubbing his chin and looking deep in thought.

Eloise leans back in her chair and twists her mouth into a pout. She takes a swig of wine before twisting to you and casually making a suggestion that flips your entire being.

“You could marry this one,” she jokes, shrugging and gesturing at Benedict. 

Your eyes dart to Benedict and his to you. A tidal wave of a hundred different feelings crashing through you at once.

“I’ll do it…” he offers, quick and quiet.

“El, don't be ridic…” your denial, spoken over his, dies on your tongue as you process what he said. 

You can't help it, you gape open-mouthed at him. As does Eloise.

“You would?” you stutter.

He nods, mien sincere, but you could swear there is more, too, a rousing intensity.

“I was joking, brother,” Eloise frowns.

“It's the only solution that guarantees her passage out of France,” he argues, “that's the most important thing here…”

“But marriage? That is such a sacrifice… I could never ask that of you…”  you shake your head, even as your stomach feels like a rollercoaster.

“That's why I'm offering, so you don't have to ask,” he shrugs as if this is not a big deal. “It is not me who has to make the sacrifice. It is you who has an intended…”

Stanley.

Your face falls as you think of the consequences. Marrying Benedict, if only for escape, would wound Stanley beyond belief. Your father, both your parents, in fact, would vehemently disapprove. 

“We can annul it as soon as we get to England…” he assures.

“French marriages can be annulled, brother, yes, but in France. Not in England,” Eloise pipes up, ever the font of knowledge.

“Then I will grant you an immediate divorce,” he amends.

“I can't believe you are taking me seriously,,,” Eloise mutters, but both of you seem to ignore it.

“I’d still be a divorcee, damaged goods as my father would say…” you wince at the phrase but know it to be accurate in Long Island, as much as you hate it.

“I don't know how else to help you escape, y/n,” Benedict implores, slightly alarmed. 

“Keep thinking!” Eloise interjects hotly. “I won't have my poor best friend here shackled to a Bridgerton brother. She has done absolutely nothing to deserve such a sentence, however short.”

“Eloise!” you scold without thought, “don't be so rude about your brother! He's wonderful….”

You immediately flush with embarrassment as she looks at you suspiciously. You dare not even look over to the subject of your praise, but you can feel the weight of his stare.

“But umm yes, let's keep thinking…” you mumble, embarrassed, looking down and picking at your cuticles in your lap.

“I need a bloody cigarette,” Eloise pronounces, suddenly standing up, her chair scraping loudly over the tiled floor.

“Sister, you do not smoke,” Benedict frowns up at her, again with that air of elder sibling forbearance.

“Sometimes I do,” she shrugs, her tone defiant, “and this situation definitely warrants one.” She jabs her finger by her side to emphasise her opinion.

With that, she marches up to the bar and orders one but does not return to the table, shooting you both a look before heading to the wall outside and sitting alone, staring out at the horizon and taking deep draws.

You and Benedict sit in silence, heads bowed in thought for what feels like an age, only interspersed with small sips of wine. 

“I honestly can't think of another way out of this mess…” Benedict sighs, breaking the hush. “But I understand it's such an enormous decision; you need time to consider it.”

You are scared by how much your heart and mind are screaming, ‘I really don't, I will marry you,’ even if your gut churns with the idea of how you will explain it to everyone. You look up, and again, those blue eyes bore into yours. Sincerity, concern, empathy, and something that looks dangerously like desire. You could get lost in that look. Forever.

“I’ll do it…” you whisper, knowing you are playing with fire… and yet yearning to be burned.

Benedict taglist: @foreverlonginguniverse @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @truly-dionysus @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @desert-fern @starkeylover @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @amygdtjhddzvb @sya-skies @balladynaaa

[aheathen-conceivably]

🎶 Lost in the Light 🎶

After hours of trying to sleep, Zelda rose from her makeshift bed in her parent’s workroom sometime before dawn. She paused momentarily to ensure that Violette was well asleep and then headed to the front door of the cottage. Her feet still knew the path in the darkness as though it hadn’t been over a decade since she had last done this.

Stepping out into the night was almost like stepping back in time. The air swirled with the same sounds and smells that she had known her whole life, the same ones that she had always relied on to clear her mind and cradle her thoughts when she couldn’t sleep.

When she entered a clearing that she recognized from her youth she stopped to look up at the shivering leaves. Far too embarrassed to speak aloud in the silence, Zelda spoke in her mind, Poppa, I suppose if you are anywhere you must be here. Are you with Mother and Rosella? I would like to think so, to think that none of you are alone.

She stopped for a moment, hearing the morning birds begin to sing and taking a deep breath. There was no answer to her question. No sounds other than the songbird. As if refusing to admit her own perceived foolishness, Zelda quelled her disappointment and continued,

How is Antoine, Poppa? Can you see him? Can you hear him? It’s been so long since I’ve heard his voice. Over two months now, and Violette asks after him constantly. Even she knows that we should be home by now, that it has been longer than I intended to be here.

A momentary anger rose in Zelda’s throat, one that she had been stifling every day since she boarded the steamer. She told herself that she had considered staying in England for Violette’s future, for her safety and happiness; but she knew that her daughter couldn’t have that without her father.

No, she had considered staying here out of spite and fear, of keeping Violette away to make Antoine suffer for her loneliness. She was angry, inordinately angry that Antoine wasn’t there - that he hadn’t boarded a ship to come and find her as the weeks went by. But that was the thought of a young girl with young dreams, the type that had once wandered these woods with her mind full of romance novels and grand gestures.

Her years in New Orleans and the harshness of the world had tempered the girl she had once been; for Zelda knew that Antoine’s memories of the bloodshed of war here were blinding, and that her absence wouldn’t change the reasons he had stayed. It would only cause him to dig his heels in deeper and fall further into the trenches of his own mind. After almost ten years together she knew that she couldn’t pull him out, and that he had to want to let go before she could truly help him.

And she wanted nothing more than for him to let go, to experience the same freedom that she had felt in England, the unexpected lightness in her soul and her heart when she realized that she was no longer afraid of the things which once brought her so much pain.

For to her great surprise, she had borne every ounce of grief and memory without breaking. She had found an unexpected peace here that could perhaps bring more stability and security for herself and her daughter. Yet it was also devoid of the life and love she had found in New Orleans. For as much memory as was in this place, she couldn’t deny that it felt no more like home than after her father died. The strongest bonds to her family were now all truly gone, each of them nothing but memories amongst the leaves of the Bramblewood.

She knew that she could spend her days tilling the fields that her father had sown and attempting to replace the fulfillment that being somewhere ever-changing brought her. But it also meant the loss of her daughter’s trust and the love of her life; for despite his actions she did still love him, deeply, and wanted nothing more than to be with him. Although she knew what the safe choice was, her months here had shown her that the pain of being apart was even worse than the pain of being together and that she was at home with the family she had found in New Orleans.

Poppa, tell me please, what do I do?

[daidi-dragan-glas]

☞ “I do not fear man or devil; it is not in my blood, & if they can shoot any straighter or quicker than I, let them try it, for a .44 equalizes frail women & brute men, & all women ought to be able to protect themselves against such ruffians.” -- Ellen “Captain Jack” Elliot, Queen of the Rockies.

☞Today in History -- On today’s date 103 years ago, Friday, June 17, 1921, noted Old-West Anglo-American gold prospector & Indian fighter Ellen “Captain Jack” Elliott (1842-1921) met her earthly demise at the age of 78 when she died from the effects of “leakage of the heart” at the town of Colorado Springs in El Paso County, Colorado.

☞Requiéscat in Pace, Captain Jack Elliot.

☞The following text is an excerpt from the website of the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum in Oklahoma City:

Ellen Elliott Jack was born in New Lentern, Nottingham, England, on November 4, 1842. As a young girl, Ellen encountered a gypsy queen who foretold of a life of tragedy & treasures. Who would have believed these predictions would come true? Ellen met her future husband, Charles E. Jack, in 1860 whilst aboard the steamer, James Foster. Once married, Ellen settled with Charles in New York, but soon he left the city & became a Navy captain during the Civil War. While he was gone, Ellen gave birth to their first daughter & soon after the war gave birth to a son. Tragedy struck when both children were lost to scarlet fever. Later, Ellen had two more daughters, losing one to scarlet fever. It was not long after these deaths that Captain Jack died of an enlarged heart.

Ellen decided that she would head west & placed her surviving daughter in the care of her sister-in-law. She established a thriving boarding house in Gunnison, Colorado & began her search for treasure in the mines of Colorado. During one of her trips into the mountains, Ellen discovered the very profitable, Black Queen silver mine. The mine provided Ellen with happiness as well as heartache. Several men proclaimed their love for her, but Ellen did not return that love until she met a man named Walsh. It turned out that Walsh was a con man & he tried, & failed, to steal all of Ellen’s wealth.

Accomplished at handling pistols & rifles, Ellen had to use these weapons more than once throughout her life. The boom towns she traveled through required that she be ready to defend herself & face arrest for doing so. Of the numerous times she was arrested, Ellen was always justified in shooting the man or men who tried to steal, cheat, or kill her. Ellen spent the rest of her life prospecting in the Colorado area. It is said she always carried her pistol & her pick-ax with her no matter where she traveled.

☞The photograph, from a 1906 picture postcard, depicts Captain Jack Elliot, Queen of the Rockies, at around the age of 64 holding her British Bull Dog double-action .44 calibre revolver.

[asha1010101010v2]

wip wednesday—18/12/24

for @laneboyheathens , @somefishycat , and @stonemaskedtaliesin:

from hollow moon, empty room:

What Tina was quickly coming to learn about Newt was that, first, he had very firm boundaries, and secondly, while he was mild-mannered in every other aspect, he baulked at any attempt to cage or contain him. When asked about how he wanted to travel home to England, Newt had insisted on taking the steamer again. Yet the only one the Investigations Department could clear for his departure left in a full two weeks, leaving Tina both at a total loss and secretly feeling—feeling something that tasted oddly like possibility.

Because they certainly had methods to make him leave immediately. The international Floo was there and waiting. Then again, the suitcase was an utterly unknown variable. In theory, Mr Scamander had used magic they were all roughly familiar with, only stretched into creative applications. But the desk jockeys scrubbing their way through passenger lists to make sure there were no conflict of interest wixen on board seemed uninterested in taking the risk.

Tina hadn’t argued too hard. If she was honest, doing anything in that building started to make her prickle with sweat, an awful psychosomatic itching in her armpits and feet both that made her want to bolt from the room.

It was unnerving. Turning up in places she wasn’t wanted. That had been her. Now her entire workplace, her entire home, felt like one of those places.

Even so, the revelation that Newt was staying made her lax with possibility as she wandered back down the street from the Woolworth Building, dodging the endless flow of pedestrians. That possibility made her buy three hot dogs from the stall, her wallet cramping unhappily, and head home with them bundled in her arms.

[divinekangaroo]

I keep seeing takes indicating T/G would have been living together for 2 years prior to their marriage. This has always bugged me because it would have been a social suicide at the time, a respectable women living with her lover? No way they would have risked it as Tommy was trying to climb the social ladder plus he would not have risked tarnishing Graces reputation? Her family would have disowned her and no one would have turned up for the wedding. Grace was fronting the "single mother and a grieving widow" until it was socially appropriate to remarry? Tommy also looked to set everything up for them to start living together - his trip to NY to bring her and baby back, the wedding, the new house - it just seem to fit that they would have stayed in touch but would have only got together maybe a few months prior to the confirmed wedding.

This was my take watching the show or maybe I'm missing something here. I remembered you addressed this vaguely in one of your fic. I know you do tons of research and I would love to hear your thoughts/facts on this subject :)

I had it in my head that Tommy didn’t see Charlie until Charlie was 6 months old, which was a 15 month duration from conception to Tommy going to New York to collect Grace and Charlie.  This would mean he and Grace only really had, let’s say 1 month pre-wedding honeymoon in New York together, and 6-ish months in Arrow House together prior to the marriage.  (6 months is long enough to float a new charitable institution...)

But, this time gap for me was motivated more by headcanon/thematic desire rather than well researched. I mean, thematically, I just *really liked* the idea that Tommy never saw any of his women pregnant with his children or their early lives (Zelda (Duke-17y), Grace (Charlie-6m), Lizzie (Ruby-3m)). 

There were a few other factors which might lead to the lag between conception and Charlie being 6 months old, but these are more floater thoughts or first perceptions than anything I've double/triple checked:

The biggest one: I assumed Grace went back to America with Clive the morning after Derby Day, because Tommy didn't get back to her in time.  Because she was probably a *minimum* of 6 weeks pregnant at that point, possibly 8 (had to miss two periods minimum; no pregnancy tests back then and cervix takes 6 weeks before it looks different to a gyno), she told Clive the baby was his on the steamer to protect herself on the assumption Tommy didn't want to proceed with her. (If this doesn't happen, and Tommy manages to catch her before she leaves, it's possible she could have physically left Clive then and lived the full two years or so with Tommy and just weathered the scandal.)

The simplest possible divorce (Grace accepts fault for committing infidelity) would be 6 months, however I assumed with an investment banker for a husband, that divorce would be very complicated, so let’s say an 18 month process.

Once Clive died, with no word of divorce mentioned, an uncomplicated estate settlement can also be around 9 to 18 months. (if Clive committed suicide on his own in America without a divorce processed, and Grace was in England, she would have had to travel back to America for settlement)

Back in the day, pregnancy was still fairly high risk, and medical advice cautioned against extensive travel during pregnancy, especially in the later stages, due to the potential discomfort, risks associated with the journey, and limited medical facilities on board steamers.  Given my assumption she went back to America, Grace was probably four months pregnant by the time she and Tommy agreed (via remote correspondence! every letter taking 10 days! phone calls with terrible lag and disconnections!) they would get married and worked out a disentanglement strategy with Clive, they decided to wait until the baby was born before starting any of these proceedings.

The risk of travelling with a newborn was similar, and recommendations in the day suggested waiting until they were older to deal with all the foreign bugs. So whatever kept Grace in America until Charlie was born, meant she had to stay until he was older anyway.

In terms of what did keep Grace in America until Charlie was born, rather than simply getting on the next steamer back to England at 4 months pregnant and dealing with all divorce etc remotely, I headcanon that:

Grace’s strategy was to wait until Charlie was three months old (so she could be fully supported in America) then admit the infidelity and process the divorce

Tommy agreed with her at face value, then promptly executed his own secret strategy, which was to find dirt on Clive and blackmail him into saying he committed the infidelity, and Tommy tried to push this as fast as he could; the quicker the divorce was processed the better, and as far as he was concerned, Grace could get on that ship at whatever point and he’d throw a bunch of doctors on with her if needed to get her there

Whatever Tommy found, whether he tabled it with Clive, whether Grace got emotional and told Clive everything, whatever it was: Clive committed suicide before Charlie was born.  This threw a spanner in Tommy’s ASAP-timeline because Grace then had additional reasons to wait in New York (until Clive’s estate settlement was dealt with, as well as Charlie being old enough to travel safely). In the meantime she was able to be supported by Clive’s money as a widow.  My irony headcanon: inadvertently, this pre-birth/pre-divorce suicide also left her with Clive’s fortune, and after her death, left Tommy with her fortune *gasp*.  For me this fortune-transfer headcanon is also thematically relevant – that whole “everyone Tommy touches” curse, but even as people die around him, all the time his net worth and assets increase. 

So yes – mostly headcanon and themes rather than anything concrete! I don’t think fear of scandal would have bothered Grace all that much. BUT, given how supportive her family actually were – they only picked on Tommy’s corrupt reputation with mild concern -- I can assume there was no hint of pre-marital infidelity or divorce.  Tommy was a dubious match, but there was no suggestion he and Grace committed infidelity, and no one seemed to blink twice about Charlie so would assume the family thought he was Clive’s and Tommy adopted him.  I also had the undercurrent Grace's family thought Tommy was marrying Grace (as another man’s widow/seconds, and taking on another man’s child) to socially advance himself, and they could reluctantly understand that coming from a man like him; they were satisfied enough with the match because he had his military record, he was firmly new money by then, and Grace was, after all, widowed and had a child, had no parents or sibs to support her (they were all uncles and cousins), was very happy with Tommy, and would have been difficult to convince to a different pathway/marry off again. So they acquiesed.

(On scandal -- Grace's whole profession seemed scandalous for a woman (?) -- I just don't think she would've cared all that much about a reputation for infidelity given she was basically prepared to sleep with men (Campbell's orders) as a spy. Society/family might have different opinions but I just didn't see it too much as Grace's motivational concern. In my head, Tommy was probably more concerned about that reputation landing on Grace (hence his scheme to have Clive take the fall) than she was.)

[scotianostra]

Edinburgh Park Heads

W S Graham.

Doesn't this one have great character? Or is it just me?

William Sydney Graham, known to his friends by his middle name, was born in Greenock, on 19th November 1918. He was educated at Greenock High School, leaving in 1932 to become an apprentice draughtsman before studying structural engineering at Stow College, Glasgow. In 1938 he won a years bursary to Newbattle Abbey College, which was very close to my High School in Dalkeith.. Sydney became interested in poetry, he initially looked to Joseph Macleod for mentorship around this time. He began publishing in the early 1940s, including a collection brought out by the great Glasgow printer and publisher William Mclellan, who did so much to encourage and promote contemporary Scottish literature.

According to Poetry Archive Graham was neglected in his own lifetime but his reputation as a major modernist romantic has been growing steadily since his death. The verse on his plinth is an extract from a longer poem, and as per usual I prefer another of his poems. And it is probably due to me having vivid dreams from time to time and trying to make sense of them. My dad has featured in some, and I had a difficult relationship with him, I think my two brothers will no doubt feel the same. However my dad tried to reconcile a bit during his later years, he was a great grandad to my sisters laddie, Stephen. He got on well with an ex girlfriend that I used to come up with when I lived in Somerset, she loved dancing with him at the club. Anyway the last line of the poem is what resonates most with me, or perhaps it is because he also spent some years in the South West of England, in his case it was near St Ives in Cornwell, anyway the poem is called To Alexander Graham, which I assume was his father's name.

Lying asleep walking Last night I met my father Who seemed pleased to see me. He wanted to speak. I saw His mouth saying something But the dream had no sound.

We were surrounded by Laid-up paddle steamers In The Old Quay in Greenock. I smelt the tar and the ropes.

It seemed that I was standing Beside the big iron cannon The tugs used to tie up to When I was a boy. I turned To see Dad standing just Across the causeway under That one lamp they keep on.

He recognised me immediately. I could see that. He was The handsome, same age With his good brows as when He would take me on Sundays Saying we’ll go for a walk.

Dad, what am I doing here? What is it I am doing now? Are you proud of me? Going away, I knew You wanted to tell me something.

You stopped and almost turned back To say something. My father, I try to be the best In you you give me always.

Lying asleep turning Round in the quay-lit dark It was my father standing As real as life. I smelt The quay’s tar and the ropes.

I think he wanted to speak. But the dream had no sound. I think I must have loved him.

[the-sloth-woman]

Under the Surface Chapter Four: Players

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

Part four of my Titanic Fic series! If you haven't read this before (or need a refresher, I know I did when working on this) I highly encourage you to check out the previous chapters! As always, thank you to @cattestfanciest for being my beta reader and for letting me bother him late at night when I have story ideas.

Words: 7122

Summary:  After spending the last few decades studying in England, Alrick’s father sends for him to come to America. They just so happen to book tickets on the RMS Titanic, unaware that they’re about to be part of one of the biggest events in history…

Lilly passed the afternoon before Alrick’s poker game pacing their stateroom. She had spent most of the day in a state of constant worry.  There was no conceivable way Alrick wouldn’t end the night without pissing off every wealthy man aboard the Titanic.  Sleeping with their wives was a low blow, but taking their money was the icing on the cake.  

She had thought of a thousand dangerous scenarios by the time dinner rolled around. Visions of guns, bullets, wayward forks, dinner knives, and holy water danced in her head. Some of these thoughts were utterly ridiculous- there was no possible way that John Jacob Astor was both a millionaire and an ordained priest- but she couldn’t keep these horrible thoughts from coming. At dinner, her hands were shaking so badly that she dropped her spoon in her punch romaine twice, earning her a glare from one of the ladies across the table. 

“Maybe I should go with you,” she said for the third time. “What are they going to do, throw me out? I’d like to see them try.”

Alrick sat at the mahogany table in their room rolling his cigarettes. He carefully measured out a line of tobacco onto the paper before tapping the excess away. “And make a scene? A proper upper-class lady would know better than to embarrass her husband like that.”

She frowned. “Then perhaps I could wear a disguise…” she paused in front of the mirror over the mantle. It would take some effort to bind her breasts down flat, but it wouldn’t be impossible. The biggest struggle would be to find masculine clothes that fit her. She had only packed ladies’ clothes in her steamer trunk for the voyage itself, everything else was in the cargo hold down below. 

A plan was beginning to take shape in her mind. First, she would have to sneak down to the cargo hold to get more of her masculine clothes, maybe even one of Alrick’s spare dinner jackets. Then, she would return to her stateroom, bind her chest, and don her disguise.  She’d have to get a hat to hide her hair. Then she could join the men in the smoking room and make sure nothing terrible happened to Alrick.

“But where to get a fake mustache this late in the evening…?” she mused aloud. 

Alrick snorted from the table. “Lilly, you’re being ridiculous. It’s going to be fine.”

“But what if it’s not?” she whirled around. “What if this is the one time that things go wrong and I’m not around to help you?”

“Then I can take care of myself,” he slid his new cigarettes into their pewter case and snapped it shut. “You’re acting like I’m incapable of protecting myself. I am a demon Lilly, I’m a lot more durable than you are.”

“I know!” She threw her hands in the air. “I know, I know. I just-“ she took a deep breath. “It’s my job to worry about these things.”

“Take a night off.”

She made a face. “That’s easy for you to say, you’re allowed to take breaks.”

He scoffed with indignation.  “I’m sure my father would say differently. Come,” he pushed out the opposite chair. “Sit with me, I’ll teach you to play poker”

“I don’t think I can focus on cards right now-“

“Sit,” the word was a command more than an invitation.

The table creaked slightly as Lilly slid into her chair. “Yes, Alrick,” she said, her toes already tapping on the floor.

“Good,” he withdrew a deck of cards. He shuffled them in quick, smooth motions.  “Are we playing poker or twenty-one?”

Lilly blinked. “There’s a difference?” 

He shook his head. “Your naïveté astounds me.” 

She huffed.  “It’s not my fault I don’t spend my evenings in shady pubs getting drunk with strangers.”

“Oh don’t get your corset in a twist, I’m only teasing,” he dealt them each one card facedown and another one faceup.  “We’ll start with twenty-one, it’s easier.  The goal of the game is to get as close to twenty-one as possible without going over.  Aces can be played as either one or eleven, so keep that in mind.”

Lilly frowned.  She picked up both cards and saw that she had a Jack of clubs and a five of spades.  “What if my cards don’t add up to twenty-one?”

“You’re not supposed to tell me that,” he chuckled and set the remaining deck to the side.  “But if you want more cards you tap the table with two fingers or tell me that you want a hit.  I’ll be the dealer, so you’re playing against me.”

She nodded and passed her two cards between her hands.  “Okay, then I want a hit.” 

Alrick slid her a two of hearts.  “Do you want another card?” 

“Um…” she furrowed her brow.  The two brought her total up to seventeen.  It was only four away from twenty-one.  Was that close enough?  

She glanced at Alrick’s card, a three of hearts.  “I think I’ll keep what I have,” she said, delicately folding her cards on the table.  

Alrick nodded and flipped over his other card. “Eight of clubs.  As the dealer, I have to play until I reach seventeen.  Right now I only have eleven, so-” he set the top card down, a four of diamonds.  “Fifteen, not quite.”  He withdrew another card from the deck and set it beside his stack.  “A six of clubs.  I’m at twenty-one exactly.”

Lilly turned over her losing cards with a  sigh.  “How is anyone supposed to win when they play against you?”

“You shouldn’t have played it safe,” he tapped his four of diamonds.  “If you had taken one more card you would have beaten me.”

“Yes, but how was I supposed to know that?”

“You don’t,” he grinned and began shuffling the deck again.  “Sometimes you have to take risks.”  

“But what if I  had gone over twenty-one? I would have lost.”

“Ah, that’s exactly how you can tell a good card player from a bad one.”  Alrick dealt them a new set of cards.  “Most men don’t play to win money, they play to keep themselves from losing.”

“That only works if you have a lot of money to lose.”

He shook his head. “You’re thinking about it all wrong.  Gambling isn’t that much different from playing a game of chess.  You want to play your opponent more than you want to play what’s in your hand.”

She frowned.  “But you hate chess.”

“Tch, I don’t hate it,” he rolled his eyes.  “I just don’t spend hours obsessing over it like you do.” 

She shrugged.  Chess was one of the few hobbies Lilly was allowed to have in her free time.  She didn’t often have anyone else to play with her, so she would map out matches in her head before even reaching the board.  Then she would analyze different moves that she could make and try to change the outcome.  “It keeps me busy.”

“I’m sure.”  Alrick leaned back in his chair.  “Tell me, how are you enjoying your vacation from your responsibilities this week?”

“What do you mean?”

“On the Titanic,” he gestured to their stateroom.  “It isn’t very often that you get to pretend to be an upper-class lady.  What do you think about how the aristocracy lives?”

“Oh.” she shifted in her seat.  “It’s very nice.  Everything on the Titanic is so lovely, and I’m lucky to be able to wear such nice clothes and eat such nice meals.”

He raised an eyebrow.  “Alright.  Now tell me what you really think.”

“T-that is what I really think!”

“Oh?”  He nonchalantly turned over his cards.  “Is that all it takes to make an aristocratic life worthwhile, loveliness?”

“Not exactly, I just-” she sighed at another losing hand before tossing her cards onto the table.  “If I complain I’m going to sound ungrateful.”

“Not to me you won’t.”

“But you’re the one who bought my ticket-”

“And?  I asked, that means I want an honest answer.”

She bit her lip.  “Well… I meant what I said about everything on the ship being nice.  But I never realized how… How little there is to do as an upper-class lady.” 

“To do?”

“Yes.”  Lilly crossed her arms over her chest.  “I hate to say it, but I’m just so… bored of upper-class life.  For example, I’ve already been to the library and the lounges.  There’s only so much time I can spend reading.  After promenading three times today I went to the gymnasium to see if I could flex my muscles, but two girls stopped to talk about how unladylike it would be to use any of the weights in there.”

Alrick threw his head back and laughed.  “Of course not.  Proper ladies wouldn’t be caught dead lifting weights or using a row machine.  They’re too busy judging everyone else around them.”

She wrinkled her nose.  “Maybe I’m not cut out for this upper-class stuff.”

“Of course not, you’re a servant.  But-” he waggled his eyebrows at her, “I guarantee none of the other fine young women on this ship will be able to hustle cards like you will.”

She blushed.  “You can’t say that until I can beat you.”

“Sorry Lil, it’ll be a cold day in Hell when that happens.”

“So I only have to wait for winter?”

He laughed again.  “Since when did you become this funny?  I don’t remember you being this witty at home.”

Her eyes flitted to the table.  She wasn’t usually allowed to speak this much at his father’s castle. “I don’t know,” she mumbled.  “Maybe your bad influence is rubbing off on me.”

“I like it,” he beamed.  “This ship is turning you into a whole different person, Lil.  I can’t wait to see what else you’ve been hiding from me.”

“Prepare to be disappointed,” she smiled half-heartedly and tucked a curl behind her ear.  “At my core, I’m very, very boring.”

“Oh yes, the most boring Nephilim I’ve ever met. Certainly more boring than the thousands of humans on this ship. I’ve met countless  humans in my lifetime and only one Nephilim, and somehow being over two-hundred years old makes you the most uninteresting of them all.”

“Okay, okay, I get your point. Don’t make me throw my cards at you.”

He held his hands up in the shape of a goalpost. “Make sure to aim away from my face.”

Lilly covered her mouth in an attempt to hide her sudden onset of giggles. It was so easy talking with the prince. She had known he was charming- there wasn’t a young lady in his father’s court who didn’t know that. But she had always thought Alrick’s ease with women came from one-liners designed to make them swoon at his feet. He could do that to her with no problem, but there was more to his charm than simple flattery. Alrick was easy to talk to. Laughing with him was effortless. 

She felt a warm buzz settle around her heart. For a moment, Lilly let herself imagine what it would be like to spend every night with him like this. She could see hours filled with laughter, secret smiles passed between the two of them like handwritten notes. The halls of the castle would feel less foreboding, less empty, with someone to wander them with. She let the fantasy carry her further under; imagining taking meals with him, swapping books in the library. She wouldn’t have to sneak around the shadows of the castle to watch him paint. No, she could live freely beside him, out in the open. As an equal.

The clock on the mantle chimed. Lilly jumped in her seat, fantasies dissolving into thin air.

“It appears my time has come,” Alrick dusted the stray tobacco from his pants and stood. He was still dressed in his dinner suit. The black velvet set off the crimson in his eyes, and for a moment Lilly felt as if she was looking up at a man made of solid smoke.

“Right,” she stood along, feeling awkward at the empty table. “I’ll be waiting until you get back.”

“You mean worrying until I get back.” He shook his head. “Lilly, I’m giving you an order. You are forbidden from sitting there and doing nothing while I play cards.”

The protest bubbled to her lips but he silenced it with one hand. “Do something. Get out of the room.  Go to the gym or the library. I don’t care about whatever it is, but you’re not allowed to sit there.”

She chewed her lip thoughtfully. “It might be a bit late for the gym, but I can always visit the Turkish bath.” 

He whined playfully.  “Without me?  Maybe I should skip the card games after all.”

Her face flushed.  “Alrick, they wouldn’t even let you into the ladies' bath.”

“Ah, but you’ll lend me one of your dresses for that, yeah? I’m sure I can squeeze into a corset for a few minutes.”

He was being a cad again.  “Go, go,” she practically shooed him out of the cabin.  “Before I kill you myself.”

He laughed.  “Like you’d even raise a hand against me.  Don’t worry Lil,” he gave her a wink.  “I’ll be back before you know it.”

The first-class smoking lounge was only slightly more interesting after hours.  The walls were decorated with stained-glass windows, each one illuminated by an electric sconce.  Alrick paused before a window that depicted an old sailboat passing through layers of ocean waves.  He nodded once in approval.  He liked the new fashion of decorating saloons or pubs with stained glass.  Biblical or religious scenes were becoming less common, and it was refreshing to see colored windows be used in spaces other than churches or mosques.  Being forbidden from crossing church thresholds, Alrick hadn’t been able to appreciate its artistry until now.  Perhaps he’d have to learn how it was made and try making his own designs.

He left the window behind and began scanning the smoking room.  Stewards flitted around carrying trays of drinks to tables full of upper-class patrons.  The air was thick with the scent of cigar smoke and freshly opened brandy.

That was his target, something to drink.  There had to be a bar nearby stocked with alcohol.  There was no point in playing cards against humans if he couldn’t enjoy himself at least a little bit.  

A few of the other gentlemen nodded at him as he walked the perimeter of the smoking lounge.  He would have to return their greetings at some point, but for now, he was on a mission.  He had hoped to see an open bar in the back of the lounge with an easily-manipulated barkeeper but found no such luck.

Shit, he cursed inwardly. This was going to be a lot harder than he thought. 

He circled the back of the lounge and found an empty table.  A steward was at his side in minutes, as well trained as a dog.  “Good evening, sir,” he said.  He carried a small humidor on a tray and presented it to Alrick with a flourish.  “Can I interest you in any fine cigars tonight?  Or perhaps a glass of brandy?”

“Perhaps,” Alrick gave the steward a wry smile.  “I was wondering if I could have a look at your wine selection, actually.”

“I can list all of our wines for you, sir.  We have a particularly popular Piedmont red-”

“I’m sure you do,’ he cut the steward off, “But I’d like to see the wines myself before making a decision.”

The steward bristled a little.  “I’m sorry, sir, but passengers aren’t permitted in the crew’s stations. I’d be more than happy to read you our wine list, or perhaps offer you a sample.”

It took all of Alrick’s carefully cultivated self-control not to reach across the table and throttle the man.  “You misunderstand me.  I want to appraise the entire selection before making my choice.”  The steward opened his mouth to offer a stern protest but Alrick cut him off.  “I can see that nothing I can say will sway you.  Perhaps if I use another method of persuasion…” 

He withdrew a crisp twenty-pound note and flashed it to the steward.  Alrick had no idea how much money this man made in tips, but surely this had to be several times more than his ship’s salary.

The steward’s face changed in an instant.  “Of course, sir,” he beamed, quickly pocketing the money.  “If you’ll follow me.”

Alrick followed the steward to a small alcove at the rear of the room.  He once again wished that women were allowed in the smoking lounge.  It would have been much easier for him to charm a young stewardess into letting him see their wine selection.  She would taste better too. 

The steward waved his hand at the cramped wine rack.  “As you wish, sir.  Here’s our private selection of wines.  I could recommend a decent bottle of champagne, although I fail to see how I couldn’t have done so in the smoking room.”

Alrick gave the small storage a cursory glance.   The ambient noise from the smoking room was the only sound that passed between the two men.  He could hear the other stewards serving passengers cocktails.  It would be moments before someone intruded upon him, so he would have to be quick. 

He proceeded to pull two bottles of red wine from the top shelf.  He turned them over, not quite recognizing their labels.  “Are these any good?” 

“Of course, sir.  All the wine on the Titanic is of the finest quality.”

“Excellent.  I want a taste,” he pushed the wine toward the steward.  “Of both.”

Alrick could practically feel the steward’s indignation as he uncorked the first bottle.  He poured Alrick a small tasting glass and presented it to the prince without a word.  Alrick drank it and nodded once.  “It’ll do.”

“Sir, this is highly irregular.  I would be more than happy to bring you a taste in the lounge, but passengers are not allowed-”

Enough with this farce.  “Look here,” he instructed.  The steward glanced up, his unremarkable features twisted into a scowl.  Alrick imagined what he must look like to this servant.  A demanding aristocrat, probably one intending on sneaking bottles of wine to his cabin to feed his drinking habit.  What a pathetic caricature this human version of himself was.  A man so lost to his vices that he resorted to bribing stewards for drink.

No matter.  Alrick’s true intentions were for a far more noble pursuit. 

He snapped his fingers, giving the steward a jump.  He stared deeply into the man’s dark eyes, willing his mind to give way.  “You’re not going to make a sound,” he instructed.  Alrick used the tenor of his voice to tug at this man’s consciousness, pulling it free from his own train of thought.  Hypnotism wasn’t a difficult task for an immortal, but it required some finesse nonetheless. You wanted to nudge a human into doing your bidding, not into forgetting how to speak.

The steward’s face began to go slack as he fell under Alrick’s spell.  “You will speak of this to no one.  Make one sound, one peep, and I’ll kill you.  Understand?”

The man nodded wordlessly.  Alrick uncorked the remaining wine bottle and took a large gulp.  Human wine, like all human food, was tolerable by taste only.  Alrick could eat endlessly at a buffet and never sate the hunger that resided deep inside of him.  He could drink barrels and barrels of human wine and never feel drunk.  Both lacked the ingredient necessary to sustain a demon’s body.

Blood.

Moving faster than the human eye could perceive, Alrick grabbed the steward’s arm.  He brought the man’s wrist to his lips and bit down savagely.  Blood spurted into his mouth.  It was thick, rich, and tasted similar to cedarwood.  The steward unconsciously squeaked in fear.  His body was a prisoner to the control Alrick held over his mind, and he could do little more than watch helplessly as Alrick held the man’s bleeding wrist over the two open wine bottles.

Alrick waited until the bottles had been refilled with blood before pulling the steward’s arm away.  He licked the wound with his tongue, wrinkling his nose at the taste.  It was so ordinary, so… uninspiring.  Women tended to taste sweeter than men, and they were easier for Alrick to charm.  But even compared to the few other men that Alrick had tasted, this one was so bland.  Nothing like the blood that was waiting for him back in his stateroom, the scent that had been haunting his dreams for centuries-

But desperate times called for desperate measures.  

He swished one of the bottles and took an experimental sip.  The wine was improved by the addition of the human’s blood, but not by much.  This would pale in comparison to true demon alcohols.  True demon wine required decades to ferment.  Some varieties were made from the blood of virgins, others focused on young men.  It was all a matter of personal taste, of course.  This was by no means good, but it would get him drunk enough.

“Serve me glasses from these bottles only,” Alrick instructed, recorking the wine.  “Only you are to touch this wine, and if anyone asks tell them it’s been saved for a special patron.  Do you understand?”

The steward nodded, his eyes unfocused.  Alrick moved to snap his fingers and remove the human from his hypnosis.  He paused, his other hand snatching to grab the twenty-pound note from the man’s pocket.  No use in paying the man when Alrick had done all the damn work.

He tugged the steward’s sleeve down to cover his wrist before leaving the servant’s alcove.  There would be a bruise and some distinctive marks, but he wouldn’t remember how he’d gotten them. 

A moment later he emerged from the servant’s alcove, the befuddled steward trailing not far behind.  Alrick could hear him adjust the sleeves of his uniform but he paid the man no mind.  He served his purpose, and with any luck, he wouldn’t remember their encounter whatsoever.  

“Mr. Rosenfeld!”

Mr. Christman sat at a small table under one of the stained glass windows.  He set his Murphy cocktail down and waved the demon prince over.  “There you are.  I’d thought that you’d changed your mind about this evening.”

Alrick took the opposite chair.  “Of course not.  I needed to take care of some personal matters before meeting you here.”  He waved to the steward he had bitten and the man dutifully brought him a glass of wine.  Alrick took a sip before turning back to Mr. Christman.  “Did you bring your sketches?”

The man turned sheepish.  He set a slim briefcase on the table and turned it towards Alrick.  “Are you certain you want to look at them?”

“I wouldn’t  have offered if I didn’t want to.”  He withdrew several pages of paper from the case.  Alrick flipped through them slowly, pausing to look over each one.  Each drawing was done in black ink.  “These aren’t bad,” he began.  “You have a good grasp of basic anatomy, although there are some parts that need work.  Do you have a pencil?”

Mr. Christman pulled one from the briefcase and handed it over.  Alrick began sketching over the existing drawing lightly.  “This is where the proportions should be,” he said.  “You have a very distinctive style.  It reminds me of those pictures in Penny Dreadfuls.”

“I know,” Mr. Christman sighed with disdain.  “I can’t seem to get rid of it.  Everything I draw looks the same.”

Alrick shrugged.  “That’s the mark of being an artist.  We hate our own work above all others.” 

“No, no,” Mr. Christman.  “That’s not true.  You may think that way, but my art is legitimately terrible.”

Alrick snorted.  “It’s not terrible.  You only think that because you drew it.”  He picked up what was arguably the best of his pieces.  It was a portrait of a woman looking over her shoulder, her black hair spilling across the nape of her neck.  Her lips were open in an expression of surprise, yet her eyes looked almost impassive.  As if she was putting on the expression because she was expected to.

He pointed to the drawing.  “If someone else had drawn this, would you still think it was rubbish?”

Mr. Christman shrugged, not meeting Alrick’s eyes.  “Probably.”

He rolled his eyes and set the drawing back in the pile.  That was the problem with humans.  They were too stubborn to see what was in front of them.  Alrick had seen it a hundred times.  He’d seen painters and artisans scoff at some of their finest works, works that showed true mastery.  Pieces that Alrick, in his endless amount of time to study, could never hope to equal.  It was eternally frustrating.  

He looked back at Mr. Christman’s drawing, his temper briefly flaring.  How was it that he could spend decades studying the lines of the human form and still be unable to make something as honest as this amateur’s work?  Alrick remembered sketching the human maids that his father employed in secret, swearing to cut out their tongues if they told Burai what he was up to.  He studied anatomy, composition, the balance of light and darkness. Painting, sculpture, charcoal, watercolors.  He could capture a young woman’s physical form perfectly, but none of the essence that made her a living creature.  His art was never bad, it couldn’t be bad after two hundred years of study, but it couldn’t compare to human genius.  

Perhaps the difference was fundamental.  Alrick wouldn’t ever be able to make anything as beautiful or inspiring as a human could because he lacked a human soul. 

“If you truly despise your art we could dispose of it.”  His voice was cold.  “Toss it in the fireplace over there.  I’m certain it would make good kindling.”

“N-no,” Mr. Christman set his hand over the drawings.  His voice trembled as he spoke.  “I think I’ll hang on to them a little longer.”

Alrick blinked.  He shook himself a little bit, his temper dampening.  Fuck, he sounded just like his father.  The realization made him feel sick to his stomach, and he took a generous gulp of wine to force the feeling away.  “I’m only joking, of course.”

“Right,” even so, Mr. Christman tucked his drawing back into the briefcase, his voice missing its friendly cadence.

They sat in silence.  Alrick stared into the rim of his wine glass, his mood darkening by the second.  That overbearing old man.  This trip was supposed to be his chance to live without Burai’s constant scrutiny.  He was safe here from his father’s court spies, safe to act and do whatever he pleased.  But even now his father’s words found their way into his mind, twisting and turning his thoughts until they were no longer his.  

For a moment he pitied the steward under his mental control.  Was this what it was like to lose your own thoughts?

“Could I trouble you for a smoke?”

Mr. Christman’s question snapped him from his melancholy.  Alrick pulled out his pewter cigarette case and handed it over wordlessly.  The other man thanked him and pressed a new cigarette to his lips.  “I hope I’m not being too forward with this, but is your wife expecting you back any time soon?”

Alrick shrugged.  “I doubt it.  I told her to go enjoy herself this evening, although I doubt she’s doing much of that.”

“Oh?”

“She worries too much. Probably about me gambling away the family fortune.  Or conversely, stealing someone else’s,” a light smile touched his lips.  “She doesn’t know how well I can control myself.”

What Alrick didn’t say was that his self-control was nearly at its limit.  Part of the reason he agreed to gamble tonight was that sharing a small room with Lilly was driving him mad.  There was nowhere he could escape her sweet, tantalizing scent in that stateroom.  He could smell traces of her in the furniture, the carpeting, and even his own clothes.  It wasn’t so bad at the castle where he saw her perhaps once or twice an evening, but now it was insufferable.  

What he wouldn’t give to taste some of his Nephilim’s blood.  He thought it would be easy.  She liked him well enough, that much was painfully evident.  Alrick knew how to charm women into letting him near their necks.  He tried it on the first day of their journey, offering to let her share his room.  But she rebuked him!  She pushed away every one of his advances, her smell taunting him as she did so.  This was supposed to be his chance to do what he wanted with her without any repercussions, and yet she was what stood in his way.

Maddening.  He balled his hand into a fist under the table.  Perhaps he should just give in and attack her when he returned.  Alrick imagined himself returning after the game.  Lilly would be waiting for him at the table, her hair still damp from her bath.  She would rise to greet him and Alrick would return the gesture by knocking Lilly to the floor.  He would pin her fragile wrists above her head and hold her to the ground with his body.  Her red hair would fan out behind her head, a few curls coming loose from the fall.  She was strong, but she couldn’t overpower him in such close captivity.  He imagined himself clamping one hand over her mouth, just in case she was frightened enough to scream.  Then he would rip her cream nightgown away from her throat and sink his aching fangs into her.  Her blood would be hot, almost burning the inside of his mouth.  Finally, finally, he’d find some relief from the hunger that plagued him.  And she would taste… She would taste like-

He sighed inwardly, annoyed by his fantasy.  He had imagined what Lilly would taste like hundreds of times, yet he hadn’t the faintest idea of what the actual act would be like.  Thoughts like this turned his wine sour and only served to make his fangs ache. 

He knew his plan wouldn’t work in the slightest. She would probably be asleep by the time he returned to the cabin.  Besides, it wouldn’t be the same if he forced himself upon her.  Alrick wanted Lilly to want him.  He wanted her to wrap her arms around him and draw him in against her.  To willingly bare her throat for his fangs.  To need him as much as he needed to find his release inside her.  

He thought she did, but now he wasn’t so sure.

“Mr. Christman! There you are, we had been wondering where you had gone off to.”

Two men broke Alrick free from his mental torment.  The man who spoke was short- shorter than Alrick, and stocky.  He wore a bowler hat and had a thick mustache, like a walrus’s.  The other man had his hands thrust into his pockets, his eyes darting to Alrick as if appraising a rabid dog.  His features were unremarkable, a human head full of dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. 

If he noticed their apprehension, Mr. Christman did not acknowledge it. “Ah! Yes, so glad that you could have joined us.” He stood and eagerly shook their hands. “This is Mr. Thompson and Mr. Morris. Gentleman, I’d like you to meet Mr. Rosenfeld, I’ve invited him to play with us tonight.”

“He looks a little young to be playing,” Mr. Morris interrupted.

“Eternal youth is one of my better curses,” Alrick replied with a sip of wine.  “I only hope to look this good when I’m your age.”

Mr. Thompson let out a peal of laughter.  “You’ve picked up a sharp one!”  he said, clapping Mr. Christman on the shoulder.  He sat down beside him and called a steward over to freshen their drinks.  The other man twittered around for a moment, expecting Alrick to make room for him at the table.  When he did no such thing, Mr. Morris awkwardly sat between Alrick and Mr. Christman, looking extremely uncomfortable. 

Mr. Morris pulled a well-worn deck of playing cards from his pocket.  He began shuffling the deck in practiced motions.  “What are we playing?” he asked gruffly.  

“Big-two?” Mr. Chrismtan suggested.

Alrick blinked.  “I don’t believe I’ve heard of that one before.”

“You always want to play that,” Mr. Thompson chortled.  “It’s easy to learn, sonny.  Mr. Morris will deal out the whole deck, and we’ll take turns playing hands.  You’re not too green to have played poker before, right?”

Alrick opened his mouth, a sharp retort hot on his tongue.  He’d been hustling poker for at least half a century.  But he stopped, choosing to smile with mock innocence.  “Once or twice.”

Mr. Thompson laughed, his stomach shaking with the motion.  “Whoever gets the three of clubs starts.  If I had the three of clubs I could play it in a set of two cards, called a pair.  You can use pairs, three of a kind, four of a kind, and then there’s a special hand-”

“A straight flush?”  Alrick held out his empty wine glass.  The steward he’d enchanted was at his side in an instant, refilling it for him without a word. 

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Thompson raised an eyebrow at Alrick after the steward left.

“I tip well,” he explained.  Alrick sipped the wine, letting the blood coat his tongue.  “But do go on.”

“Must be remarkably well for that service,” he muttered, quietly enough that the other humans couldn’t hear it.  “But as I was saying, you play poker hands until you run out of cards.  The highest hand denomination takes the pile, and twos are played high.”

“I think I’ve got it, thanks.”  

“Good,” Mr. Morris dealt the cards unceremoniously.  His eyes did not meet Alrick’s as he slid the cards across the table. 

Interesting, he thought. 

Feeling the tension, Mr. Christman cleared his throat.  “Mr. Thompson owns a small gold mine out west in the states. He and I met the first night aboard and have been meeting to play poker every night since.”

“Yes, but I won’t shed a tear if you lose a bit of money tonight,” Mr. Thompson grinned.  “I’ve not quite forgiven the first night you beat me.”

“Fascinating,” Alrick said dryly. Why was it that as soon as men were alone together the first thing they ever talked about was business?  

“I believe I was only twenty ahead of you from last time,” Mr. Christman laughed.  “And Mr. Morris here is the heir to a railroad fortune.  He and his wife are returning home from a holiday, I believe.”

Mr. Morris grunted.  He took a sip of his drink and glowered at Alrick over the rim of his glass.  Someone must have pissed in his brandy, and it certainly wasn’t Alrick.

“And how did you meet Mr. Christman here?”

“Oh,” Alrick grinned impishly.  “He was flirting with my wife.”

“I-I was not!”  Mr. Christman spluttered.  “I was simply inquiring about her Sherlock Holmes book-”

“Isn’t that what they all say?” He rolled his eyes theatrically, earning another laugh from Mr. Thompson.  “I was planning on killing him for the infraction, but that wouldn’t have been very polite of me.”

Mr. Christman’s face was a bright shade of red.  He tried hiding it behind one hand, earning a round of laughter from the table.  Laughter from all the members but one. Mr. Morris’s eyes bored into Alrick’s face, his expression hard and unmoving. 

“Didn’t think you’d have a wife,” he grumbled, “With the way you came outta that room with the steward.”

The laughter at the table died immediately.  In a fraction of a second, Alrick realized why this man had seemed familiar.  He had been standing next to the woman he had taken to bed the first night aboard the Titanic.  Before he had been rudely interrupted by Lilly, she had mentioned something about being afraid of her husband finding out.  That he was a brute of a man.

Alrick smiled so widely at the realization that he almost laughed.  “Oh, that?  I was just making sure that he had my favorite brand of wine in stock.”  He avoided the man’s thinly veiled attempt to get a rise out of him and held out his wine glass.  It was refilled immediately.  “I made sure to get two bottles of it for myself.  You can try it of course,” he held the glass out across the table.  The blood gave the wine a slightly different viscosity than regular liquid.  “Although it may be too bitter for your liking.” 

Mr. Morris grumbled wordlessly.  Alrick returned the glass to his lips and took a peek at his cards.  It didn't particularly matter to him if he lost tonight’s game.  He’d already won against this man.  Besides, if he left early he knew he’d find Mr. Morris’s wife alone in her bed.  She probably wouldn’t object to Alrick climbing in beside her, promising to give her one good memory on the Titanic. 

His thoughts turned briefly to Lilly’s disappointment if she had found out.  The idea turned sour in his head and he banished it away.  What did it matter who he spent his time with?  She was turning him away, it wasn’t his fault if he had to find someone else who would invite him into their arms.  Besides, it was for a good cause. To humiliate this asshole sitting beside him.

Alrick deliberately lost the first few rounds of cards.  He made simple mistakes playing his high cards too early in the game.  It took him a bit to grasp the full strategy.  High cards were best played at the end of a round to gain the advantage of going first.  He could force the other men into playing their good hands early by letting out an ace or deliberately playing a low pair.  He didn’t allow himself to lose more than a hundred dollars, but he wasn’t playing it for the money.  He wanted to clean the table with Mr. Morris’s gruff face.  

He began baiting the other men into making foolish mistakes by being careless with his money.  Mr. Thompson was the first to fall for this trick, eagerly playing his high cards in an attempt to win Alrick’s stacks of twenties.  Alrick was nonplussed at his efforts, how could he be when he kept getting dealt all four of the twos in the deck?  Mr. Christman, on the other hand, turned out to be a formidable opponent.  While luck wasn’t on his side like it was Alrick’s, he seemed to understand the layout of the game better than anyone else at the table.  The majority of the money won was passed back and forth between him and Alrick.

“It would appear that you’ve brought a sharp to the table,” Mr. Thompson muttered under his breath.  His boisterous laughter dimmed with the increasing number of games he lost.  “If this kind of behavior continues, we may have to end our friendly game early.”

Mr. Christman stopped winning quite so much after that.

Each time a new round began Alrick stuck his wine glass out for a refill.  His hypnosis on the steward didn’t waver, and he was faithful in making sure Alrick’s glass never ran empty.  He’d lost count of the number of glasses he’d drunk, but he knew the second bottle of wine was opened sometime during the latter half of the evening.  The steward was right, both bottles were decent.  They would have been better if his blood was more flavorful, but that was hardly the winemaker’s fault.

Alrick tossed his losing hand on the table, letting Mr. Thompson win a measly ten dollars from him.  His tongue felt thick in his mouth as he asked “S-shall we begin another round?” 

Mr. Christman rubbed the side of his temple.  “I think it’s about time for me to head in, gentlemen. I’d like to get breakfast tomorrow before service starts.”

“But the night’s still young,” Mr. Thompson had regained his good humor after Mr. Christman’s luck turned.  “Why don’t we play a different game?”

Mr. Christman smiled weakly.  “And let you win more of my money?  I think not.”  

He stood and stretched his shoulders.  Alrick watched him gather his briefcase before moving to stand himself.  The blood rushed to his head, and he grabbed the back of his chair to steady himself.  The table seemed so very far away, but the longer he looked at it the closer it seemed to get.

“Whoa!”  An arm was thrown over his shoulder.  He was tugged upright, his face swimming dangerously close to an empty cocktail glass on the table.  Alrick blinked.  How did that happen? 

“I think-” he began, the word ‘think’ getting caught somewhere in his throat. “That ish time for me to return to my shtateroom as well.”  Alrick grabbed handfuls of his winnings and stuffed them in his pocket.  “Goodnight, gentlemen.”

The arm that steadied him guided him to the edge of the smoking room door.  Alrick almost tripped on the way out, his hand flying out to grab the door jam.  Mr. Christman was beside him, and Alrick wondered if he’d gotten there before him.  

“Careful,” Mr. Christman hissed.  “You’re going to bash your head in at this rate.”

Alrick threw back his head and laughed.  “T-there’s nothing on this ship that could do me in,” he grinned.  “N’t unless s’mone got reeeeeally crafty with their fork.”

Mr. Christman rolled his eyes.  He helped Alrick stumble back to his stateroom.

“Y’know,” Alrick stopped.  He swayed against the door.  “You should shtop letting other men win.”

Mr. Christman blonked.  “Pardon me?”

“Mr. Thompson,” Alrick couldn't help but slur the man’s name. “You let him beat you f-four times!  Knock that shit off,” he wagged his finger.  “No- no one wants ta’ win if it’s jus’ given to them.  Takes the sport outta it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yesh you do!”  He hiccuped.  “Lilly does th’ same shit to me at chesh. I mean shesh.  Chess,” he spat.  “Sh’ thinks I don’ know, but I do. Ev’ry time.  So knock it off.”

Mr. Christman blinked at Alrick’s drunken intonation.  “Right…”

“I’m sherious!” He hiccupped.  “Tha’ man’s not worth loisin’ to anyway.  You’re better off winnin on your terms.”

Mr. Christman cracked a smile before guiding Alrick inside his stateroom.  “But Mr. Rosenfeld, I’m perfectly content to lose on my own terms too.”

[hellsitesonlybookclub]

Around the world in 80 days, Jules Verne

CHAPTER V. IN WHICH A NEW SPECIES OF FUNDS, UNKNOWN TO THE MONEYED MEN, APPEARS ON ’CHANGE

Phileas Fogg rightly suspected that his departure from London would create a lively sensation at the West End. The news of the bet spread through the Reform Club, and afforded an exciting topic of conversation to its members. From the club it soon got into the papers throughout England. The boasted “tour of the world” was talked about, disputed, argued with as much warmth as if the subject were another Alabama claim.

Some took sides with Phileas Fogg, but the large majority shook their heads and declared against him; it was absurd, impossible, they declared, that the tour of the world could be made, except theoretically and on paper, in this minimum of time, and with the existing means of travelling. The Times, Standard, Morning Post, and Daily News, and twenty other highly respectable newspapers scouted Mr. Fogg’s project as madness; the Daily Telegraph alone hesitatingly supported him. People in general thought him a lunatic, and blamed his Reform Club friends for having accepted a wager which betrayed the mental aberration of its proposer.

Articles no less passionate than logical appeared on the question, for geography is one of the pet subjects of the English; and the columns devoted to Phileas Fogg’s venture were eagerly devoured by all classes of readers. At first some rash individuals, principally of the gentler sex, espoused his cause, which became still more popular when the Illustrated London News came out with his portrait, copied from a photograph in the Reform Club. A few readers of the Daily Telegraph even dared to say, “Why not, after all? Stranger things have come to pass.”

At last a long article appeared, on the 7th of October, in the bulletin of the Royal Geographical Society, which treated the question from every point of view, and demonstrated the utter folly of the enterprise.

Everything, it said, was against the travellers, every obstacle imposed alike by man and by nature. A miraculous agreement of the times of departure and arrival, which was impossible, was absolutely necessary to his success. He might, perhaps, reckon on the arrival of trains at the designated hours, in Europe, where the distances were relatively moderate; but when he calculated upon crossing India in three days, and the United States in seven, could he rely beyond misgiving upon accomplishing his task? There were accidents to machinery, the liability of trains to run off the line, collisions, bad weather, the blocking up by snow—were not all these against Phileas Fogg? Would he not find himself, when travelling by steamer in winter, at the mercy of the winds and fogs? Is it uncommon for the best ocean steamers to be two or three days behind time? But a single delay would suffice to fatally break the chain of communication; should Phileas Fogg once miss, even by an hour; a steamer, he would have to wait for the next, and that would irrevocably render his attempt vain.

This article made a great deal of noise, and, being copied into all the papers, seriously depressed the advocates of the rash tourist.

Everybody knows that England is the world of betting men, who are of a higher class than mere gamblers; to bet is in the English temperament. Not only the members of the Reform, but the general public, made heavy wagers for or against Phileas Fogg, who was set down in the betting books as if he were a race-horse. Bonds were issued, and made their appearance on ’Change; “Phileas Fogg bonds” were offered at par or at a premium, and a great business was done in them. But five days after the article in the bulletin of the Geographical Society appeared, the demand began to subside: “Phileas Fogg” declined. They were offered by packages, at first of five, then of ten, until at last nobody would take less than twenty, fifty, a hundred!

Lord Albemarle, an elderly paralytic gentleman, was now the only advocate of Phileas Fogg left. This noble lord, who was fastened to his chair, would have given his fortune to be able to make the tour of the world, if it took ten years; and he bet five thousand pounds on Phileas Fogg. When the folly as well as the uselessness of the adventure was pointed out to him, he contented himself with replying, “If the thing is feasible, the first to do it ought to be an Englishman.”

The Fogg party dwindled more and more, everybody was going against him, and the bets stood a hundred and fifty and two hundred to one; and a week after his departure an incident occurred which deprived him of backers at any price.

The commissioner of police was sitting in his office at nine o’clock one evening, when the following telegraphic dispatch was put into his hands:

Suez to London.

ROWAN, COMMISSIONER OF POLICE, SCOTLAND YARD:     I’ve found the bank robber, Phileas Fogg. Send without delay warrant of arrest to Bombay.

FIX, Detective.

The effect of this dispatch was instantaneous. The polished gentleman disappeared to give place to the bank robber. His photograph, which was hung with those of the rest of the members at the Reform Club, was minutely examined, and it betrayed, feature by feature, the description of the robber which had been provided to the police. The mysterious habits of Phileas Fogg were recalled; his solitary ways, his sudden departure; and it seemed clear that, in undertaking a tour round the world on the pretext of a wager, he had had no other end in view than to elude the detectives, and throw them off his track.

[aroundtheworldwithphillyfogg]

Fogg and Passepartout leave London

(This is the fourth book post today. First post, second post, third post)

Having won twenty guineas at whist, and taken leave of his friends, Phileas Fogg, at twenty-five minutes past seven, left the Reform Club.

Passepartout, who had conscientiously studied the programme of his duties, was more than surprised to see his master guilty of the inexactness of appearing at this unaccustomed hour; for, according to rule, he was not due in Saville Row until precisely midnight.

Mr. Fogg repaired to his bedroom, and called out, “Passepartout!”

Passepartout did not reply. It could not be he who was called; it was not the right hour.

“Passepartout!” repeated Mr. Fogg, without raising his voice.

Passepartout made his appearance.

“I’ve called you twice,” observed his master.

“But it is not midnight,” responded the other, showing his watch.

“I know it; I don’t blame you. We start for Dover and Calais in ten minutes.”

A puzzled grin overspread Passepartout’s round face; clearly he had not comprehended his master.

“Monsieur is going to leave home?”

“Yes,” returned Phileas Fogg. “We are going round the world.”

Passepartout opened wide his eyes, raised his eyebrows, held up his hands, and seemed about to collapse, so overcome was he with stupefied astonishment.

“Round the world!” he murmured.

“In eighty days,” responded Mr. Fogg. “So we haven’t a moment to lose.”

“But the trunks?” gasped Passepartout, unconsciously swaying his head from right to left.

“We’ll have no trunks; only a carpet-bag, with two shirts and three pairs of stockings for me, and the same for you. We’ll buy our clothes on the way. Bring down my mackintosh and traveling-cloak, and some stout shoes, though we shall do little walking. Make haste!”

Passepartout tried to reply, but could not. He went out, mounted to his own room, fell into a chair, and muttered: “That’s good, that is! And I, who wanted to remain quiet!”

He mechanically set about making the preparations for departure. Around the world in eighty days! Was his master a fool? No. Was this a joke, then? They were going to Dover; good! To Calais; good again! After all, Passepartout, who had been away from France five years, would not be sorry to set foot on his native soil again. Perhaps they would go as far as Paris, and it would do his eyes good to see Paris once more. But surely a gentleman so chary of his steps would stop there; no doubt—but, then, it was none the less true that he was going away, this so domestic person hitherto!

By eight o’clock Passepartout had packed the modest carpet-bag, containing the wardrobes of his master and himself; then, still troubled in mind, he carefully shut the door of his room, and descended to Mr. Fogg.

Mr. Fogg was quite ready. Under his arm might have been observed a red-bound copy of Bradshaw’s Continental Railway Steam Transit and General Guide, with its timetables showing the arrival and departure of steamers and railways. He took the carpet-bag, opened it, and slipped into it a goodly roll of Bank of England notes, which would pass wherever he might go.

“You have forgotten nothing?” asked he.

“Nothing, monsieur.”

“My mackintosh and cloak?”

“Here they are.”

“Good! Take this carpet-bag,” handing it to Passepartout. “Take good care of it, for there are twenty thousand pounds in it.”

Passepartout nearly dropped the bag, as if the twenty thousand pounds were in gold, and weighed him down.

Master and man then descended, the street-door was double-locked, and at the end of Saville Row they took a cab and drove rapidly to Charing Cross. The cab stopped before the railway station at twenty minutes past eight. Passepartout jumped off the box and followed his master, who, after paying the cabman, was about to enter the station, when a poor beggar-woman, with a child in her arms, her naked feet smeared with mud, her head covered with a wretched bonnet, from which hung a tattered feather, and her shoulders shrouded in a ragged shawl, approached, and mournfully asked for alms.

Mr. Fogg took out the twenty guineas he had just won at whist, and handed them to the beggar, saying, “Here, my good woman. I’m glad that I met you;” and passed on.

Passepartout had a moist sensation about the eyes; his master’s action touched his susceptible heart.

Two first-class tickets for Paris having been speedily purchased, Mr. Fogg was crossing the station to the train, when he perceived his five friends of the Reform.

“Well, gentlemen,” said he, “I’m off, you see; and, if you will examine my passport when I get back, you will be able to judge whether I have accomplished the journey agreed upon.”

“Oh, that would be quite unnecessary, Mr. Fogg,” said Ralph politely. “We will trust your word, as a gentleman of honour.”

“You do not forget when you are due in London again?” asked Stuart.

“In eighty days; on Saturday, the 21st of December, 1872, at a quarter before nine p.m. Good-bye, gentlemen.”

Phileas Fogg and his servant seated themselves in a first-class carriage at twenty minutes before nine; five minutes later the whistle screamed, and the train slowly glided out of the station.

The night was dark, and a fine, steady rain was falling. Phileas Fogg, snugly ensconced in his corner, did not open his lips. Passepartout, not yet recovered from his stupefaction, clung mechanically to the carpet-bag, with its enormous treasure.

Just as the train was whirling through Sydenham, Passepartout suddenly uttered a cry of despair.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“Alas! In my hurry—I—I forgot—”

“What?”

“To turn off the gas in my room!”

“Very well, young man,” returned Mr. Fogg, coolly; “it will burn—at your expense.”

[ltwilliammowett]

Naval Presentation Sword with Belt, and Commendations, presented to U.S. Navy Rear Admiral Cadwalader Ringgold (1802-1867)

The sterling silver scabbard with gilt brass mounts inscribed "Presented to/Captain Cadwalader Ringgold./of the Frigate Sabine by the/Battalion of U.S. Marines through his gallantry.../From the Wreck of the Transport/Governor/on the night of Nov. 2nd. 1861″

Cadwalader Ringgold (1802-1867) was an officer in the United States Navy who served in the United States Exploring Expedition, later headed an expedition to the Northwest and, after initially retiring, returned to service during the Civil War with the rank of captain. While in command of the frigate Sabine on November 1, 1861, he effected the rescue of a battalion of 400 Marines from Maryland whose transport steamer, Governor, was sinking during a severe storm near Port Royal, South Carolina. In February 1862, he was a part of the search and rescue of the ship of the line Vermont which had lost her rudder in a storm. For these rescues, Ringgold received commendations from the Maryland Legislature and the U.S. Congress, along with a gold medal from the Life Saving Benevolent Association.

Promoted to commodore on July 16, 1862, he was sent (still on the Sabine), to cruise the Azores, Cape Verde Islands, the coast of Brazil and then back to New York in a search for the Confederate raider CSS Alabama from November 1862 to February 1863. In mid-1863, Ringgold's assignment was to search (again unsuccessfully) in the vicinity of Bermuda and then the New England coast for the bark CSS Tacony, another Confederate raider. For reasons of age, he was retired on August 20, 1864, and placed on the rear admiral (retired) list in 1866 (a promotion that was given to all commanders of squadrons). In retirement, he lived at 18 East Eighteenth Street (at Union Square) in New York City. Ringgold, who had never married, died of apoplexy (stroke) in New York on April 29, 1867.

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Monday 9 December 1833

1 ¼ pm

11 ¼

terrible night - tremendous window and rain could not sleep for the noise of these and the water dashing against my head and the vessel striking every now and then against the wooden breakwater - the wind still high and rain continued till just before I got up - so late, had no breakfast - washed a little the first time save dipping my hands yesterday - a turn or 2 on deck and then dinner from 2 20 to 3 20 - R.N. lieutenants  and midshipmen know nothing about managing vessels - the master always manages a man of war (i.e. works the ship) - the naval officers are only for frightening - all the steamers lost, were commanded by R.N lieutenants  or midshipman except the Erin (commanded by an East India company’s officer) which founded in the Bristol channel - our captain (Corbin) was on board of her the night before she sailed from the Thames - an E. Indian of 1400 tons had sometime before run against her and struck off 10ft. of her stern which had been temporary repaired for her to go to another voyage before being laid up for thorough repair - probably this temporary work had given away – 510 miles English from Hamburg to London – 64 miles from H- to Cuxhaven – 30 miles from C- to the sea – 600 miles from Harwich (government sailing packets with the mails every Saturday) to Gothenburg – voyage ordinary of 4 or 5 days – longest known in 3 weeks – worst weather often in the spring in April – 20 hours by steam from Gothenburg to Copenhagen – speaking of my liking to go to Iceland, the captain said the Copenhagen vessels were a long time in going – did not care how – best hire an English fishing smack, fishing for cod between there and Newfoundland in winter – accustomed to those seas – but having little to do in May June and July (there no night in Iceland) and he knew of a very nice one, the Sarah Mary, 60 or 70 tons, of Deptford, for £80 or £90 per month crew about 7 men – I should be as safe in  [?] as in my own house – should besides have to provisions to find for myself and servants and perhaps £10 or £12 to lay out in making the cabin comfortable – it might hold 4 or 5 ladies – but I should find myself and servants enough – In this way, for £300, in 3 months might [visit] the Orkneys, Zetland islands, Faroe ditto and sail round Iceland – the smack would come round for me to Hull, and I must allow her for time back to England if I was left anywhere else – Captain John P. Corbin always to be found at the general steam packet office 69 Lombard street London and would be glad to arrange for me about the smack or do anything for me he could – he knows a gentleman Mr. Seebright [Sebright] (son of Sir John Seebright [Sebright]) and now in Sweden whom he has also advised to hire a smack for Iceland instead of going in another way – only 2 steamers since they began to run on this station have put into the Texel because no coals there - we (the Columbine) can carry 75 tons of coal exclusive of cargo - took in 6 tons yesterday - in fine weather burn a ton an hour - in bad weather (because of resistance so great the engines cannot make so many revolutions) ¼ ton an hour (25 cwt. = 1 chaldron) - the Columbine draws 10 ft water - cost £22000 building - about 5pm the Harlequin (Captain Corbin’s elder brother commanded by) came into the roads from London and threw up a blue light to announce her arrival it being almost dark - the steward says the voyage from London here is generally better than from here to London because westerly winds prevail 9 months out of the 12 - walking on deck from 3 ½ to 6 - the deck wet and my shoes wet thro’ - looking at maps and reading a little - tea from 6 ¾ to 7 ¾ for our American gentleman passenger and I talked for the 1st time and the captain seemed more communicative – American money is dollars (=4/. English) and cents i.e. a dollar/100 – our Captain says our P. office must gain a great deal by this last arrangements (since last August) that the Rotterdam and Hamburg mails are conveyed by the steam company’s boats for £13000 a year for letters which used to be 10d. are now 1/8., and the P.O. saves the overland from London to Harwich, the packets at £1000 a year each from Harwich to [Helvoetshirs] and the overland from there to Rotterdam, and the packets from there to here (Cuxhaven) and the overland from here to Hamburg – tho’ now thro’ the interest of the corporation of Harwich there are 6 sinecurists (all Harwich men?) on board there steamers in the persons of 6 mail-guards at £100 a year each who have nothing in the world to do but take care of the mail-bags – nothing to do with the captains nor the captains with them – Before this arrangement the captains were allowed to bring letters, as ship-letters, at 2d. each (much paid then better than they are paid now) and were capable of taking care of these in an open and of perhaps ½ a million of property entrusted to them (for the mails often went without a single letter) but now that the government seal is put on the bags, there must be a man a guard on  purpose to take charge of them – on board the Kings’ packets (from Dover etc.) there is no guard – our captains’ salary is £160 a year and he finds his own provisions – the captains of the government packets have £500 a year – till ten years ago, the Falmouth packets were contracted for from the mercantile interest who built vessels in purpose conveyed the mails for 1/3 of the present expense and there never was an instance of a packet being lost – now that the government has taken this in hand and made it a naval establishment, 4 vessels (16 gun brigs – long vessels for speed, that have gone straight down and foremost) and all hands have been lost – our American has been in all the W. India islands except Jamaica, St. Croix (Santa Cruz, he calls it) the finest – St. Thomas’s likewise belonging to Denmark a free port – passage to America 30 guineas and thence to India £100 – Captain Corbin says we shall get from London to India for £100 after next April when the trade is thrown open – and says one may go in a merchant man from London to Cadiz provisions and everything found for £20 (packet passage from Falmouth £40)

say once a fortnight every voyage of the Columbine to Hamburg and back costs about £300.

crew = 21 at £50 a week wages exclusive of the captains’ £160 per annum

carpenter has 28/. a week and men 21/. a week – find themselves which costs them 5/. a week Don Pedro paid the company £50 a day for the use of each steamer

from 8 to 9 ¼ wrote all the above of today - fair this afternoon and wind abated a good deal this evening - some hope of better weather - F47 ½° now at 9 ¼ in my cool cabin - terribly rainy and stormy till about 1 pm today – our captain went on board the Harlequin – she left English land at five am yesterday – and was here at 5pm today i.e. in 35 hours – very heavy gale last night – saw the Sir Edward Bankes (that left Hamburg last Wednesday and that I was too late for) at 70 miles from England (from Lowestoff) yesterday – the chances are she will reach London – if she has not coal enough must return here or to Heligoland [Helgoland] where the steam co. has also a depot - wrote 13 or 14 lines more to M- (small and close dated tonight) saying we had broke from our moorings and lost our bowsprit on Saturday night (at midnight) etc - raining again now at 10pm till 11 reading the times newspaper of Friday the 6th inst. - do not hear it raining now,  and there does not seem to be very much wind.

[ofpineapplesanddawns]

Idk whether you’re taking prompts right now, but for when and if you’re feeling it; I’d be curious to see Phileas Fogg lost at sea, somehow ending up on a spooky haunted island with a weird hot prophet… no idea what that dynamic would be like but they are… similarish time periods. And very different

I'm always taking prompts, and I am very, very much up for writing this one right now!

Let's make the time period for this vague as hell because yeah.

On with the fic!

--

Another adventure, another batch of trouble, that's what Phileas had thought when he had encountered a man on a steamer ship on the English Channel. The man had some beef with him, that Phileas couldn't quite understand, though he had a feeling that this wasn't one of Bellamy's schemes to stop him, there was no bet involved.

He had been forced onto a boat again, this time alone, and he had been forced out onto the water with the ropes being cut. The strike with the water knocked Phileas about and he had struck his head, knocking him out.

He had no idea what time it was when he came to, but he found himself luckily ashore, but on an island with pine trees this time. It must be morning, it was cold and foggy as he exited the boat, wincing at the pain throbbing in his head and in his arm, he might have broken or fractured it in the fall.

As he stumbled from the shore and towards the forest, he heard voices somewhere close by. Oh, there were people here this time! Maybe they could get him back to England, or at least to Spain, that had been where he and his friends were going to make their way to. Oh, he hoped Abigail and Passepartout were okay, he wasn't sure what he'd do it they had been harmed.

"Hello!" He called out into the forest. "Excuse me, could someone help me?"

The voices stopped, and he couldn't hear much of anything anymore.

Actually... he couldn't hear anything in the forest, no wind, no birds or animals, not even the buzz of an insect. Just the quiet lapping of water on the shore, and his own beating heart.

Phileas swallowed around the lump in his throat when he finally heard something, footsteps, and he turned his head in the direction of them.

He could see two figures approaching, and Phileas tried to calm his heart, holding his injured arm to his chest when they got closer. "E-excuse me, gentlemen, could you help me out, please?" He asked when they were within earshot of him.

One man greatly intimidated Phileas right from the get-go, there was something about him that the adventurer didn't trust. But the other man, he had offered a smile, an honest one, when he was just a few feet away.

He was bearded, dressed well, and using a cane to walk with. "I am sure we can be of help to you, sir." He greeted, his accent sounded Welsh, was Phileas near Wales? Oh, he had never been himself, but he knew a few Welshmen, the accent sounded like theirs.

"Oh, thank you so very much. I'm Phileas Fogg, and while I was on a ship to Spain, a terrible man had forced me into a lifeboat off the main ship! I seemed to have drifted here, and just my luck, this location has people! Last time I was marooned, there was no one there but me and my friends."

The two men listened before the one with the cane nodded. "Ah, I see, such a terrible event, though you are very lucky to have landed here, we can be of help."

The other man shot a glare at his companion, but was ignored as the kinder man approached, taking Phileas' hand. "I am the Prophet Malcolm Howe, the leader of the island and its community. This is Quinn, a fellow founder of the community. We will see to it that you are treated well here, Mr. Fogg."

"That is so very kind of you." Phileas smiled, taking his hand, noticing how rough it was, a working man, even though he was a prophet? Was he a religious figure in the community? Hm, judging from the dirt of their clothes and hands, they must be a working community, possibly living solely off the land.

"Malcolm." Quinn said with a warning tone, but Malcolm shot him a look, then returned to Phileas.

"We can treat your wounds, the Goddess will make sure you are well taken care of, my friend." He was so kind, and something about that made Phileas feel warm. He didn't sense malice from Malcolm, though Quinn still made him nervous.

He was led away into the forest, which still sounded too eerily quiet for his tastes, even though Phileas didn't really have much experience in wooded areas himself. They walked for a bit, with Phileas speaking of his situation, why he was going to Spain, answering any questions that Malcolm had for him.

When he tried to ask questions himself, Malcolm gave short, simple answers, or changed the subject. When he asked about the Goddess, Malcolm had smiled and said she took care of them on the island, that she was good to the community.

Phileas wasn't sure what to make of that. He wasn't really religious himself, but he had never encountered a group of people here in this location of the world that followed a goddess over God. How curious.

They entered a clearing and Phileas found himself seeing a small town, with people milling about, performing tasks, taking care of animals, bringing in crops. They watched as Phileas walked into the town with Quinn and Malcolm, all of them curious, so he kept his eyes on the ground, feeling exposed and uncomfortable.

"We'll take care of you in the church, come with me." Malcolm had said, suddenly by his side, his voice low and quiet. The prophet was gently holding Phileas' good arm, walking him towards a building, letting him inside.

It was empty inside, but it was clear that this was the church. "Do you have a doctor to help me? I don't know if these are serious, but they do hurt."

"We have ways of taking care of wounds, don't worry." Malcolm commented as he had Phileas sit, before leaving. He returned shortly afterwards with a small bowl and a few bits of cloth.

The man stood close as he started to take care of Phileas' wounds, first taking care of the head injury. It was a bump on the side of his head, but it had bled a little, and Malcolm took care to clean it. "It will heal fine, no need for stitches and the like. Now, let's see the arm."

Phileas winced as he moved it and nearly cried out when Malcolm squeezed it in places. "A small break, it should heal with little movement." He made a sling from some of the cloth, helping Phileas set his arm in it, making sure it would be comfortable.

Something about his actions said to Phileas that he wasn't used to doing this, that he was trying, just for the adventurer. That warm feeling returned and Phileas didn't understand it.

"Now, normally my followers tend to work through injuries, many of them don't like to let their Goddess down, but you are a guest, my guest, and I wish to help you. You can rest here until I can find a way to get you back to the mainland."

There was something about how the spoke that had Phileas sensing he didn't want the man to leave just yet. "That is very kind of you, Mr. Howe. I'm forever in your debt."

Malcolm looked at him, and he was smiling again. "There is no need for that. Just enjoy your stay in my community, we will treat you will, just as She will."

--

Phileas, your bi is showing (but can you blame him?).

Malcolm's behavior for this is... interesting, I figured that because Phileas is an accidental visitor and not a convert, not someone who found out about the cult and wished to join, he is going to treat him well, like a guest, and then maybe see if he can convince the man to stay.

Totally for cult reasons, oh, only those, not also because he quickly took a liking to Phileas. Course not.

[aheathen-conceivably]

🎶 Death she must have been your will 🎶

It had been weeks since Giorgio had told Josephine about the farm, and with each passing day the sands of time ran a little thinner. I leave before the New Year, Jo. I need your decision, Jo. Please, I love you; please come with me, Jo.

Her head was swimming in his declarations, swimming in his questions and his predictions about the coming economic crisis. Swimming in thoughts of her own failed business and dashed hopes. Jesus, swimming in love and pride for this damn place that had given her so much and then broken her heart.

All she wanted to do was talk to her brother and Zelda. But she couldn’t. If there was anyone who was more stubborn and loyal about this place, it was Antoine. But as time ran out, her feet took her to the club, to their home, to finally tell them what had been plaguing her mind and seek their advice.

As she entered the club, Josephine could hear muffled arguing echoing from the apartment above. She paused momentarily, wondering if she should interrupt whatever was happening, when she unmistakably heard Zelda sobbing and ran to find her.

As soon as she reached the living room she knew something was deeply amiss. There were trunks piled on each side of the stained glass archway, and Zelda stood beneath the chandelier, her face streamed with tears. Antoine was seemingly trying to calm her, his own expression ridden with guilt.

The moment that Antoine saw Josephine his face relaxed, “Jo, Grâce à Dieu. I thought Zelda would have to leave without seeing you. She received a call from her sister, it’s, it’s…”

Through her clenched hands, Zelda interrupted him, “It’s my mother, Jo. She’s fallen ill. I’m leaving immediately with Violette for England but Antoine…Antoine is…”

Zelda’s voice was cut off by a loud sob and Antoine pulled her close to his chest, their ongoing fight on the subject momentarily forgotten as she allowed him to hold her.

“I’m staying here, my love. I have to stay here. Please understand; I can’t go back to Europe. I can’t. Jo knows. Josephine, please. And the steamer tickets aren’t cheap. Then God knows if we shut this place down it may never reopen. Zelda, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I can’t…”

Josephine stared at them standing there in her mother’s parlor, Antoine’s face splayed with guilt as he held the woman he still couldn’t marry. With a sudden, striking clarity Jo realized that he would never leave. He couldn’t leave; like a moth to the flame of his own pain, he wasn’t ready to let go.

Antoine looked back at his sister, his pleading expression begging her for help: help to explain, help to comfort, just any help for the sobbing woman in his arms. Josephine walked to Zelda, taking her face in her hands, “Come, ma sœur. I’ll help you pack. Antoine will call Giorgio so that he can drive you to the station. We’ll get you to your mother as fast as possible, I promise.”

As she pulled Zelda close to her, Josephine left the rest of her promise unspoken, her mind on Giorgio made up and her loyalty perhaps even clearer than Antoine’s: and when you get back I’ll be right here. You are my family and this is my home and I will not leave you, I promise.

[belphegor1982]

86. “Don’t be scared I’m right here” prompt for sibling feels between Jonathan and Evie! Maybe when they’re kids and Jonathan is being a protective big brother?

I finally finished it! Hope you like :o)

The Chimera in the Attic

“Don’t be so loud,” whispers Jonathan, and Evelyn does her best to pin him with the most beady glare she can manage in the dark. It’s not so easy as it used to be. Jonathan has grown a lot in the past few months, and Evelyn remains somewhat on the small side for an eight-year-old girl.

He’s still skinny, though. The dressing gown Dad gave him for his birthday, saying he’d grow into it, is still too long and baggy for him.

“I’m not loud.”

“You are! I don’t even know how someone so small can be making so much noise while she walks! What are your slippers made of, solid lead?”

“Well, you’re the one who keeps talking!”

“Look, do you want my help or not?”

Evelyn glowers, but forces her voice down.

“Yes,” she mutters with a sigh – carefully, so she doesn’t blow her candle.

“Good show. Now – toes first, and then your heel. Mind the stairs, we’re almost there.”

It seemed a good idea to ask Jonathan for help – and, if she’s honest, it probably is – but she still doesn’t like it when her brother decides to be The Grown-up. It doesn’t suit him at all. But if she is to retrieve the books Mrs Pemberton, the housekeeper and household dragon, confiscated from her and locked up in the attic, then Jonathan and his baffling (and highly dubious) talent for opening doors is just the man for the job.

The fact that this ‘man’ is a thirteen and a half boy notwithstanding, of course.

And to be completely honest, creeping around the dark, silent house around midnight in his company feels much less daunting than it would on her own.

“Mum and Dad wouldn’t have taken my books away,” she mumbles while the both of them tiptoe up the stairs, careful to avoid the fifth step that always creaks.

Jonathan shoots her a look that has more than a little commiseration to it. But he doesn’t make a sarcastic comment like she half-thought he might. He also doesn’t point out that she’d need only wait till next Friday for Salwa and John Carnahan to come back from their trip. He knows few things are more important to her than her books.

“No,” he murmurs, “they wouldn’t have. But maybe you need a little more… I don’t know, subtlety?”

“What do you mean?”

“Next time, don’t leave the books lying around when you know Mrs Pemberton doesn’t approve of you reading treatises that would give any normal adult a headache, especially when you should be sleeping. You might want to keep them hidden.”

Evelyn concedes the point silently.

True to his word, Jonathan only needs a few minutes until the lock gives up. She probably shouldn’t be so impressed.

The South Wing attic is one of the few places in the house that still don’t have electricity – not even gaslight. It’s essentially a large lumber room filled with steamer trunks, some full, some empty, cabinets and bookshelves devoid of books but filled with bric-a-brac, and more generally everything that’s not too sensitive to light or dust. The windows have only had windowpanes for a few years, and that’s solely because Mum and Dad wanted to use the space to store their travel diaries, inconvenient heirlooms, and everything they couldn’t find room for downstairs.

At this hour of the night, it looks empty and huge, and dark, and utterly uninviting.

Evelyn and Jonathan remain frozen on the threshold for a few seconds. Then Evelyn takes a deep breath, hears Jonathan do the same, and they enter.

From there they split up to search, Evelyn hoping the dust won’t ruin her slippers, Jonathan swearing quietly every time he stubs his toe against something. For some reason it feels even more important to be silent here than it did downstairs, which is silly. This attic is not anywhere near sleeping quarters.

Evelyn lifts a pile of old almanacs, careful not to breathe in the dust that goes flying when she puts them down. Then an unexpected noise behind her makes her gasp.

“It’s just me,” whispers Jonathan, who somehow crept up on her. Evelyn is all the more miffed because for once it doesn’t appear he did it on purpose. “Did you find anything?”

“Just these.”

“Are you sure this is where Mrs Pemberton took your books? She could’ve hidden them in her lair with the rest of her hoard – ugly portraits, stuffed lizards, human remains –”

“Oh, shush.”

Mrs Pemberton came with the house, so to speak, and watched over their father’s childhood with a gimlet eye. She’s very fond of John Carnahan and respected Salwa al-Masri from the moment Dad brought his new wife to England, which is a lot more than can be said for the rest of his family and household staff then. But she is Proper and Traditional and rules the house with an iron hand when the master and mistress are away. Jonathan sometimes half-jokes that he doesn’t see much difference between home and school as far as caning and bleeding knuckles are concerned. Evelyn really hopes he’s exaggerating on both accounts; but the last time Mrs Pemberton caught him scaling the vines on the west façade to sneak into a room, he held himself oddly for a few hours, and that wasn’t because he’d fallen down. He also made Evelyn promise she wouldn’t say a word to their parents, so she kept mum, but she can’t help thinking it’s not right. Mum and Dad never hit Jonathan when he misbehaves.

In normal circumstances she wouldn’t pick at his language. But a dark, dusty attic in the middle of the night is the last place in which she wants to hear about human remains.

“I saw her climb the stairs with all three books and come back down without them,” she points out. “She must have left them here.”

Logic has always been her most trusted ally. Jonathan, knowing this, nods.

“All right, so they’re somewhere in this mess. Now. If I was a fire-breathing dragon who eats twelve naughty children for breakfast, lunch, dinner and supper every day, where would I hide forbidden but valuable books?”

Evelyn can’t help a silent chuckle. Then her eyes fall on a cabinet in a corner, standing in a pool of shadow.

She nudges her brother and they silently make their way towards the cabinet.

A rustling sound in the near distance makes them both freeze. The little candleholder trembles a little in her fist; with her other hand she instinctively searches for Jonathan’s.

“Don’t be scared,” she hears him whisper, “I’m right here.” But his hand is none too steady in hers as he grips back.

“I’m not scared.” Jonathan gives her a look before he bends to inspect the lock of the cabinet, so she insists, “I’m not! I was just startled.”

“Right,” he says with that small infuriating grin of his, like he hasn’t jumped as well at the sudden noise. “All right, then, let’s see…”

A minute later he manages to open the door just a sliver and peek inside.

“Well, good news, there’s your books. I can see the name of one of those dratted Bembridge fellows on the cover. Bad news: something’s blocking the door and I can’t get it open without forcing it – hang on –”

Jonathan pulls on the door, Evelyn steps closer to hear what he’s muttering, and that is when a few things seem to fall on their heads at the same time: something heavy, a cloud of dust, an angry screech, the flapping of wings brushing their skulls. Jonathan yelps, Evelyn cries out. Her candle falls to the floor, instantly snuffed out, but the light managed to give her a glimpse of teeth, feathers, and – scales?

A hand grasps hers and tugs her onwards. She runs along without hesitation, barely registering that they’re racing down the stairs and across the wing to Jonathan’s room, until they’re safe and secure behind the door, covered in dust, chests heaving, their hands on their knees.

“What the hell was that?” gasps Jonathan. Evelyn is too out of breath to answer right away. She’s too busy trying to shake the sensation of lightning coursing through her whole body, like her whole person is reduced to a small human-sized wire.

When she’s able to make sounds other than panting, she groans.

“My books! We forgot the books!”

“We were attacked by a monster and that’s the first thing you say?”

“But that was the entire reason we… We have to go back!”

“And we will, but in the morning, when we can see more than five inches in front of us. And won’t be set upon by nocturnal chimeras.”

“Well,” Evelyn declares mulishly, struggling against the remnants of the terror that made her fly down the stairs as fast as though the wings had been hers, “I’m going. I won’t be able to sleep for a while anyway, I might as well have something to do.”

“Evy.”

“You’re welcome to stay here if you’re afraid, of course.”

“Evy.”

“But you will not stop me from—”

Jonathan rolls his eyes. The next thing she knows he drops three heavy volumes into her arms, so covered in dirt one can hardly decipher the titles on the cover.

“Here are your blasted books, you lunatic! And the next time you need something retrieved from wherever it’s ended up then you’re welcome to—”

It’s not easy to embrace another person while holding books that might be a little more massive than one can safely hold with one arm. That doesn’t stop Evelyn from following her impulse and throwing herself in her brother’s arms before he can finish his sentence. Emotions race through her – retroactive fright, a remnant of righteous anger at being denied what she loves most to do, relief at the return of her favourite books – and she knows better than to fight them. Instead she burrows her nose into the front of Jonathan’s dressing gown and lets them run their course.

Jonathan sighs into her hair and wraps his arms around her. If she doesn’t grow taller quickly he’ll soon be able to put his chin on top of her head. Usually she’s tempted to be a little miffed about that. Right now, it doesn’t sound so bad.

“I don’t… I didn’t mean that.”

I know, she thinks, letting the familiarity of his voice and his wiry frame wash the rest of her nerves away. She was fully prepared to march back up those stairs and into the attic, and now she’s unspeakably grateful that she won’t have to.

Later, when they’ve dusted off their nightclothes, Evelyn hops into bed with her brother. She does it every now and then when she can’t sleep for this or that reason, more rarely since he has gone away to Eton and only comes back in the weekends. Even if he complains that her feet are cold he never turns her away. As always, their whispered conversation carries late into the night. Evelyn is drowsing already when she asks, “What do you think happened, exactly, back there?”

“I don’t know,” whispers Jonathan, eyes closed, “and I don’t care. Whatever it was, it won’t bother us now.”

Evelyn agrees and finally falls asleep, secure in the knowledge that she is safe and, perhaps more importantly, so are her books.

※ ※ ※ ※

The next morning, they wake up at an ungodly hour to retrieve Evy’s candleholder and erase all traces that suggest they recently set foot in the attic. They approach the cabinet cautiously, only to find a moth-eaten stuffed crocodile’s head on the floor covered in bird droppings and what looks like a little owl’s feathers. The ‘trophy’ – probably older than their parents – must have been left on top of the cabinet for ages, wedged against the top of the door, effectively preventing anyone from opening the door completely.

Jonathan looks down, then up, then down again, and says, “There’s our chimera. Looks like we survived a crocodile attack last night.”

Evelyn makes a face. The memory of their undignified rout stings, especially now that it’s obvious there was nothing to get so scared about. Startled, yes; scared, no.

“I wonder if we frightened that poor bird away for good,” she muses as they set everything to rights as silently as they can.

Jonathan, who wandered off looking for the point of entry, looks over his shoulder and says, “I hope so. I don’t fancy this attic becoming an aviary. There are too many interesting things here to leave them left for the birds, so to speak.” He plugs an owl-sized hole in a windowpane with a rag and adds with a grin, “The things you’ll do for books, I swear.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Evelyn counters, feeling a similar wide smile make its way on her face.

And Jonathan, who usually has a ready sarcastic retort on the tip of his tongue, only shakes his head with a snort.

Books – both their contents and their physical form – are important to Evelyn in a way they aren’t to Jonathan. Perhaps they’ll never really understand each other on this. But perhaps it doesn’t really matter, either.

After all, even if he isn’t up to standing up to a chimera in the dead of night any more than she is, her big brother still knows her well enough to know that Evelyn Carnahan will only leave a book behind in the direst of circumstances.

(There you go! Not my best prose, I’m sorry, but it’s the best I could hammer out into shape ^^’ I have a lot of feels about these two and I’m always glad for the chance to explore these feels, so thank you, dear anon 💜)

[justforbooks]

Rudolf Christian Karl Diesel was born on March 18, 1858. He was a German inventor and mechanical engineer, famous for the invention of the Diesel engine, and for his suspicious death at sea. Diesel was the namesake of the 1942 film Diesel.

One of Diesel's professors in Munich was Carl von Linde. Diesel was unable to graduate with his class in July 1879 because he fell ill with typhoid fever. While waiting for the next examination date, he gained practical engineering experience at the Sulzer Brothers Machine Works in Winterthur, Switzerland. Diesel graduated in January 1880 with highest academic honours and returned to Paris, where he assisted his former Munich professor, Carl von Linde, with the design and construction of a modern refrigeration and ice plant. Diesel became the director of the plant one year later.

In 1883, Diesel married Martha Flasche, and continued to work for Linde, gaining numerous patents in both Germany and France.

In early 1890, Diesel moved to Berlin with his wife and children, Rudolf Jr, Heddy, and Eugen, to assume management of Linde's corporate research and development department and to join several other corporate boards there. As he was not allowed to use the patents he developed while an employee of Linde's for his own purposes, he expanded beyond the field of refrigeration. He first worked with steam, his research into thermal efficiency and fuel efficiency leading him to build a steam engine using ammonia vapour. During tests, however, the engine exploded and almost killed him. His research into high compression cylinder pressures tested the strength of iron and steel cylinder heads. One exploded during a run in. He spent many months in a hospital, followed by health and eyesight problems.

Ever since attending lectures of Carl von Linde, Diesel intended designing an internal combustion engine that could approach the maximum theoretical thermal efficiency of the Carnot cycle. He worked on this idea for several years, and in 1892, he considered his theory to be completed. The same year, Diesel was given the German patent DRP 67207. In 1893, he published a treatise entitled Theory and Construction of a Rational Heat-engine to Replace the Steam Engine and The Combustion Engines Known Today, that he had been working on since early 1892. This treatise formed the basis for his work on and invention of the Diesel engine. By summer 1893, Diesel had realised that his initial theory was erroneous, which led him to file another patent application for the corrected theory in 1893.

Diesel understood thermodynamics and the theoretical and practical constraints on fuel efficiency. He knew that as much as 90% of the energy available in the fuel is wasted in a steam engine. His work in engine design was driven by the goal of much higher efficiency ratios. In his engine, fuel was injected at the end of the compression stroke and was ignited by the high temperature resulting from the compression. From 1893 to 1897, Heinrich von Buz, director of MAN SE in Augsburg, gave Rudolf Diesel the opportunity to test and develop his ideas.

The first successful Diesel engine Motor 250/400 was officially tested in 1897 and is now on display at the German Technical Museum in Munich.

Rudolf Diesel obtained patents for his design in Germany and other countries, including the United States.

He was inducted into the Automotive Hall of Fame in 1978.

On the evening of 29 September 1913, Diesel boarded the GER steamer SS Dresden in Antwerp on his way to a meeting of the Consolidated Diesel Manufacturing company in London, England. He took dinner on board the ship and then retired to his cabin at about 10 p.m., leaving word to be called the next morning at 6:15 a.m.; but he was never seen alive again. In the morning his cabin was empty and his bed had not been slept in, although his nightshirt was neatly laid out and his watch had been left where it could be seen from the bed. His hat and neatly folded overcoat were discovered beneath the afterdeck railing.

Ten days later, the crew of the Dutch boat Coertzen came upon the corpse of a man floating in the North Sea near Norway. The body was in such an advanced state of decomposition that it was unrecognizable, and they did not bring it aboard. Instead, the crew retrieved personal items (pill case, wallet, I.D. card, pocketknife, eyeglass case) from the clothing of the dead man, and returned the body to the sea. On 13 October, these items were identified by Rudolf's son, Eugen Diesel, as belonging to his father. On 14 October 1913 it was reported that Diesel's body was found at the mouth of the Scheldt by a boatman, but he was forced to throw it overboard because of heavy weather.

There are various theories to explain Diesel's death. Certain people, such as his biographer Grosser, and Hans L. Sittauer (both in 1978) argue that Rudolf Diesel committed suicide. Another line of thought suggests that he was murdered, given his refusal to grant the German forces the exclusive rights to using his invention; indeed, Diesel boarded the SS Dresden with the intent of meeting with representatives of the British Royal Navy to discuss the possibility of powering British submarines by Diesel engine – he never made it ashore. Yet, evidence is limited for all explanations, and his disappearance and death remain unsolved.

Shortly after Diesel's disappearance, his wife Martha opened a bag that her husband had given to her just before his ill-fated voyage, with directions that it should not be opened until the following week. She discovered 200,000 German marks in cash (US$1.2 million today) and a number of financial statements indicating that their bank accounts were virtually empty. In a diary Diesel brought with him on the ship, for the date 29 September 1913, a cross was drawn, possibly indicating death.

After Diesel's death, his engine underwent much development and became a very important replacement for the steam piston engine in many applications. Because the Diesel engine required a heavier, more robust construction than a gasoline engine, it saw limited use in aviation. However, the Diesel engine became widespread in many other applications, such as stationary engines, agricultural machines and off-highway machinery in general, submarines, ships, and much later, locomotives, trucks, and in modern automobiles.

The Diesel engine has the benefit of running more fuel-efficiently than gasoline engines due to much higher compression ratios and longer duration of combustion, which means the temperature rises more slowly, allowing more heat to be converted to mechanical work.

Diesel was interested in using coal dust or vegetable oil as fuel, and in fact, his engine was run on peanut oil. Although these fuels were not immediately popular, during 2008 rises in fuel prices, coupled with concerns about oil reserves, have led to the more widespread use of vegetable oil and biodiesel.

The primary fuel used in diesel engines is the eponymous diesel fuel, derived from the refinement of crude oil. Diesel is safer to store than gasoline, because its flash point is approximately 175 °F (79.4 °C) higher, and it will not explode.

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