#i will post edgar cock art

[outdatedprometheus]

Watched electric dreams last night and was overwhelmed with the urge to gijinka my special little boy :)

[lovelivingmydreams]

Not the one I wanted to fight. Bad ending

Yesterday I posted the good ending of the story. Once again this is all based on @immastingray you can find the original piece here. Now. On to the bad ending version of yesterday. The start will be mostly the same, so if you want you can skip ahead a bit. WARNING this is a BAD ENDING when I say Roman and Virgil angst I mean it. Roman is not better at the end of this. There is only hurt no comfort! Enjoy. Though trigger warning for blood and like a lot of angsty stuff.

It was a beautiful night. The clear sky allowed for the castle to be bathed in the light of the full moon. The open curtains in the main hallways let in its near-magical silver shine both fading into the warm red glow of the fire and contrasting against it.

A loud clang and a joyless laugh echoed through the hallway.

“Roman Please!” Virgil called out desperately, tears springing to his eyes as he parried Roman’s next attack as he had all the ones that came before.

When Roman had started to teach him ‘the art of the blade’ he’d thought it was as a weird bonding activity, he never expected to actually need it. Alright, maybe he thought he might, but he’d figured that was just his pessimism talking. And even in his worst-case scenario, Roman had never been his opponent.

“Come on Virgil!” Roman taunted, almost dancing through the trashed hallway.

“You’ve given me more of a challenge during our warm-up fights! You can do much better than this!” He pointed out as he swung his blade glowing red with his… Pain? Fear? Anger? Virgil didn’t know.

He knows that the silver glow of his own blade is fueled by his desperation to get both of them out of this situation unharmed.

After Patton told him what happened, he’d immediately ran off to the imagination. He’d expected to find the destruction. An upset Roman was as extra as an excited Roman after all. His friend didn’t do anything halfway.

He’d feared that Roman would call upon a monster to fight that was too much to handle and get hurt somehow. That was why he’d called forth the sword Roman had given him as a present the first time he’d manage to unarm him during one of their sparing matches. It was designed with him in mind, perfect in every way, glowing with magical energy that fueled the blade with strength drawn from his emotions. It felt like a part of him at this point. And now he’d have to use it against the one who’d made it that way.

“I don’t want to fight you!” he insisted, willing the tears not to fall.

“Then perish!” Roman growled as he charged. Virgil jumped back.

“Roman, please we can talk about this!” he knew it wouldn’t help but he hoped it would buy him a second to think of something. When he found Roman he’d been in the throne room surrounded by paintings he’d slashed to bits. All bearing the prince’s likeness. Broken pieces of busts lay among the ruined frames. When Virgil called out to him and asked if he was unharmed… He’d been too slow to notice that Roman’s costume had changed. His sash turned gold, his costume a troubling crimson. And his normally subtle crown of woven gold with three ruby blossoms embedded was now a grand crown fitting a king rather than a prince.

Upon hearing his voice Roman had looked up with fire in his eyes and then… Something in him had snapped. He’d brushed the hair out fo his face and summoned his sword. He’d said something about the dashing hero arriving to take down the wicked king and charged. His movements had been full of effortless grace. Roman was playing around and until he became serious Virgil wasn’t going to even consider switching to offence. He still hoped to snap Princey out of whatever breakdown he was struggling with. Because… Roman was his friend, and Virgil knew what it was like to lash out in anger or fear. He wouldn’t cause the dramatic side more pain than he already was in.

“Talk!” Roman laughed joylessly. “Talk! That’s all we ever do. And what has it ever gotten me? Even when I do everything right, I’m still wrong!” he bites. As he makes a twirl and aims his sword for Virgil’s stomach. Virgil has no trouble evading it. That move was so obvious it showed that the purple-clad side wasn’t the only one holding back.

“I get it! I get it alright! I’m mad with Janus too. I’m not the enemy here Ro,” Virgil pleaded again.

Roman halted then and for half a second Virgil hoped that he’d gotten through to the creative side. But then he threw his head back and started laughing insanely.

“No… No you’re not,” he agreed, tears streaming down his face, his eyes wild and desperate, like a part of him was begging Virgil to… To what? Save him, stop him? “But you won’t let me go after him either will you?” he asked pointing his sword at him once again and cocking his head to the side expectantly.

Virgil wished he could say the truth in a way that wouldn’t make Roman feel like he was alone in this. “I can’t risk you getting hurt Roman.” It was the best he could do. Janus was not a pushover. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been able to deal with Remus for all those years.

And even aside from that… Virgil’s job was to protect. It was against his nature to allow any of the sides to come to harm. Even the ones he wanted to punch in the face on a daily basis. So he couldn’t let Roman hurt Janus either.

Roman scoffed and shook his head, not surprised. “Like you said, Virgil. You aren’t the enemy here… I am.” His face darkened and he locked their eyes. Roman’s smoldering like embers, the fire’s around them reflecting in them ominously. “So do your job Anxiety!” Roman commanded. Virgil felt his title cut trough him, sharper than Roman’s sword ever could

“Protect Thomas! Protect the others! Make sure that the mad king doesn’t cause any more chaos!”

Virgil shook his head, a tear finally escaping him. “I won’t! You’re not… Thomas needs you too!” he insists.

Roman’s face darkens, his insane smile turning to a sneer.

“Then let me pass, and know that what happens next will be on your hand!” he gowled as he charged. Virgil turned and darted around the corner. He’s faster than any other side and he needed to give himself some room to move. Once he was past the corner he turned around and saw Roman coming for him. They got halfway the hall with Virgil parying every blow. He wouldn’t risk letting his fight or flight instincts take over. He knew that the fight would be over in a second if he did. But he can’t guarantee Roman won’t get hurt in th process. So he can’t fight all out, he just can’t. Sadly Roman is done holding back.The only reason they are still evenly matched is because his mind is clearly all over the place. He lacks focus, but he’s using all of his strength and that is what Virgil is struggling with. Once again, should he give his all, even to defend himself, he might lose control and find himself victorious over an injured friend. He has to protect Roman. Even from himself. “Come on Edgar Alan Woe! If you keep holding back, you might lose. Who knows what I’ll do to the others if I were to go back? Or maybe Patton will come looking for you? It’s been a while already. Surely he’s worried about his ‘son’ by now! What will happen if he sees me striking you down? Will he be too shocked to defend himself when I come for him next?” Roman taunted. Something in Virgil stirred, and it must’ve shown in his eyes because Roman’s eyes lit up with eagerness. “I wonder if you’d still be conscious enough to watch me strike him down while he’s screaming your name.”

Virgil forced himself to stay alert. Roman wouldn’t, he’d never… He’d never hurt a friend. “He’s edging me on on purpose,” he reasoned trying to calm himself. “But I have to… I have to take a chance.” With that decision, Virgil charged in at last. Roman parried laughing gleefully. “That’s more like it!” They danced around each other for a little while like that, tears now streaming down both their faces, though Virgil’s face was a mask of furious grief and Roman’s one of a desperate glee. They remained in the middle of the hallway now that Virgil was done retreating the whole time and was jumping at Roman as often as he was jumping away and around him. It was half a moment’s distraction. Virgil had simply looked for an opportunity to give Roman an advantage, but in doing so had failed to notice and defend against the upcoming attack. A sickening sound of pierced flesh echoed through the hall. Followed by a sword hitting the floor and two bodies colliding as a shocked gasp left Virgil’s mouth. Then, an agonized scream. “Virgil! Noooo!” Roman cried out as he lowered Virgil’s weight into his arms. “Shit. Not how I planned it,” Virgil gasped. Clearly still too in shock to freak out. “Be still, Virgil, I’ll, I’ll fix you. I didn’t mean to I swear. You were meant to strike me down,” he whispered as he gathered the other side in his arms, his sword still stuck in the younger one’s abdomen. But you weren’t supposed to take it out right? The sword was supposed to keep Virgil from bleeding out… Gods, Roman could feel the blood leaking onto his clothes. What had he done? He was a monster. “Sorry. I mess everything up,” Virgil gasped with a sad smile as tears started to fall from his eyes. “You were wonderful Virgil,” Roman vowed as he looked around desperately before deciding to risk it and teleport to his chambers. There were potions here that could heal Virgil. “It was supposed to be your choice to spare me Ro… I didn’t… Should’ve paid more attention… So sorry. Don’t blame yourself…” Roman froze halfway to the cabinet. “You were intending to lose and surrender yourself to my mercy?” he breathed in shock. Why? Why would Virgil, cautious, second guess everything Virgil, do something so insanely risky? “You would’ve never let any harm come to me given the choice Ro. I needed you to see that.” Roman shook his head in disbelieve as he rummaged through the cabinet thought’s swirling trough his mind. “Why?” “Because… It’s my job. and… Oh, screw it. I’m going to say it. I love you guys. Your my FamILY. My Ohana.”Roman nearly threw the bottle of healing potion against a wall in frustration. He didn’t get it did he? He turned around to berate the guardian of the mindpalace, but to his horror he was faced with a still, pale frame. Impulsively he picked up the one bottle in his cabinet that contained a curse. It was insanity, but it was necessary. He dripped one drop of the sleeping curse on each of Virgil’s eyelids and effectively put him in a stasis. No matter what happened to him now he couldn’t die until the curse was broken. If Logan were here he might point out that they couldn’t die. Virgil would simply have to sleep this off. But Roman would argue that the rules were different in his realm. He was too powerful and Virgil had been hit not just by his blade but by all the anger he felt towards everyone else. So he rather not take the risk. He pulled out the sword and tossed it to the side. He vanished Virgil’s hoodie and shirt so he could clean out the wound properly. Then he applied the potions and stared long and hard ta the morbid spectacle that was a stab wound healing itself. Not until there was nothing but a single line of raised gleaming skin did he relax. He waved and found that instead of a replacement hoodie, Virgil now wore a lilac silk undershirt with a waistcoat in his trademark purple. The waistcoat had silver stichings on it in elegant swirling patterns. It made him look rather handsome. On his chest was his logo, pined like a medal of valor; On top of that he now wore a cape that was lavender on the outside, but a shiny silver on the inside. His cape was held in place by a pin that held Roman’s own crest. Normally, if Virgil merely had gotten wounded during an adventure and hadn’t nearly died he would’ve woken up Virgil to gush about his creation and the fact that Virgil now truly did look like a hero. But being the reason for his injuries, being the villain that made this hero fall… He felt sick to his stomach. How could he trust that he wouldn’t hurt Virgil again after he woke up? What if he got angry and Virgil tried to save him again? He raked a hand through his hair and his eye landed on the sword. It had been fueled by anger, that was why it had put Virgil in this condition. When they practiced it couldn’t cause even a scratch. Because during practice there were happy and safe feelings. But this hadn’t been practice, and neither of them had been safe… Janus… This was all his fault. It should e him lying there not Virgil. He had to be dealt with. Until then, Virgil would have to be kept safe. But how? He was far too stubborn to not do what he felt had to be done to protect everyone. Even that snake. No… Virgil could not be allowed to fall for his tricks. Roman carefully smoothed out Virgil’s hair as he contemplated his options. There was a spell that would assure him Virgil’s loyalty. He could slip him that after waking him up. Or he could just wake him up later. Leave him here, well guarded of course, until he is certain it’s safe to let him out. Virgil wouldn’t even have to worry about anything. He’d wake up from a dreamless slumber and everything would be fixed. “What would you prefer… It feels wrong to force your allegiance, especially when I, clearly, need you to ground me. But it also feels wrong to leave you behind…” Roman bit his lip and then a thought occured; “I could always remain here; Before long the others will look for us and I can take care of everything and still be nearby. I can even create a formidable guardian to ensure that Logan and Patton don’t get dragged into this. I could take down Janus and no one else would have to be hurt. You’ll wake up and Patton will be here with a hug and Logan will have some words of comfort and we’ll all go back to how it was before. How does that sound V?” Not waiting for an answer that won’t come Roman walks over to his sword and tucks it in his belt, pondering his options once more. If he’d taken a moment to look at his reflection, as he is prone to doing whenever near a reflective surface, he’d seen how worrisome his current condition was. His eyes wide, dried blood on his hands, and in his now disheveled hair. His once pristine clothes still in a darker color scheme but tattered and singed from the fight and the fallen candles. If anyone else was conscious in the room they’d be able to tell him that he was humming to himself and kept repeating “I will fix it,” over and over like it was the only thing keeping him alive. The Prince, was not okay. And the three sides approaching his castle would soon learn just what that means the hard way.

[archinform]

Lost Chicago Building 2 - The Masonic Temple

Masonic Temple, State and Randolph Streets, Chicago, photograph c.1895-1915, J.W. Taylor, Chicago. Ryerson and Burnham Archives. Marshall Field & Co. is on the right.

Burnham and Root’s Masonic Temple, 1892, whose life span was only 47 years, was for a time the highest building in the world, and a popular and much-illustrated landmark. It stood at the northwest corner of State and Randolph Streets until its destruction in 1939. The building has been extensively documented and written about elsewhere, so I will limit my own comments, and post some illustrations that I haven’t seen on other blogs or history sites.

Unless otherwise noted, all illustrations are from the Ryerson and Burnham Archives, Art Institute of Chicago, available online at http://www.artic.edu/research/archival-collections.

Interior views, Masonic Temple, from The Inland Architect and News Record.

Some colorful descriptions of the building soon after its construction were included in a Chicago Reader article:

Of his first day in Chicago [poet Edgar Lee Masters] remembers that he especially wanted to visit "the tallest building in the world, from the top of which, according to an old Polonius in Lewistown, one could see Council Bluffs, Iowa. I had to try that out, and Uncle Henry took me to the Masonic Temple."

From the mosaic floor of its marble lobby to gabled roofs and glass-domed gardens, the Masonic Temple at the northeast corner of State and Randolph stood 302 feet tall. It was, according to Henry Justin Smith, a managing editor for the old Chicago Daily News, "a wonder of wonders. Everything about the building made the city burst with pride, and gave country visitors kinks in their necks."[1]

The building, by the architectural firm of Burnham and Root of Chicago (Daniel Hudson Burnham 1846-1912 and John Wellborn Root 1850-1891), was Root’s design, as was the firm’s earlier Rookery building, which still stands.

According to architect Louis Sullivan, the term “skyscraper” was born with the Masonic Temple. 22 stories high, the Temple rose 300 feet to the apex of its steeply-pitched roof. The original cost of the building was $3.5 million. Inside, an immense atrium, designed to be a vertical shopping center, was surmounted by a metal and glass canopy.  The building was unique both in its height and its concentration of business and mercantile uses.

Atrium, Masonic Temple

The Temple’s exterior design was described at the time as Romanesque; Root had admired the architecture of H.H. Richardson, whose Romanesque style had swept the country in the 1880s.

Its exterior walls were of gray granite and yellow pressed brick. It had a distinct tripartite arrangement, that being a clearly defined base, middle section, and celebratory top; with the Temple architect Root took this concept to its ultimate conclusion, perhaps the best example anywhere. In between top and bottom were the clean and unbroken piers that allowed the building to leap into the sky; their upward force was exhilarating. Each of two massive gables, stretching east-to-west, were punctured with a rank of seven smaller gables. Topside decoration was profuse.[2]

Wrote Thomas Talmadge:

I think that he strove here … to achieve a 'commercial style' based on the Romanesque that might be generally accepted as a formula for the expression of the skyscraper, and he might have prevailed had not the World's Fair almost immediately knocked the hopes of the Romantics into a cocked hat.[3]

Root died of pneumonia in 1891 at the age of 41, as the firm was planning the World’s Columbian Exposition of 1893 in Chicago and before his Masonic Temple was completed.

Architect Philip Johnson, when designing a building on LaSalle Street across from Burnham and Root’s Rookery building in 1984, had remarked snidely,

"We're very proud that our building will be better than the Rookery," said Johnson. "Root wasn't feeling very well when he did that one. His Masonic Temple was a much better building."[4]

Geoffrey Johnson claims that “Johnson's enthusiasm for the Masonic is apparent in his firm's design for 190 South LaSalle,”[5] the tall building’s roof line echoing the twin gables and pitched roof of the Masonic Temple.[6]

190 S. LaSalle,1987, John Burgee Architects with Phillip Johnson, Shaw Associates. Photo: Chicago Architecture Center

Willis Polk, The Temple, 1901. Drawing, reproduced in Moore, Charles, Daniel H. Burnham Architect Planner of Cities. Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1921, Vol. 1, p. 219. View east on Randolph St.

Illustration from The Inland Architect

Main entrance; The Inland Architect

State Street elevation (left half), Burnham and Root

Longitundinal sections of upper stories (left half), Burnham and Root

17th story plan, Burnham and Root

Entrance detail; Snead and Co. Iron Works advertisement

The Masonic Temple from State and Randolph, 1909; from a stereo view, photographer unknown. Image: https://calumet412.com/post/29706348053/the-masonic-temple-from-state-and-randolph-1909

Masonic Temple, souvenir postcard, 1900.

Willis Polk, Composite of buildings, 1902. Depicted are: 1. Union Station and Plaza (Washington, D.C.), 2. Monadnock Building, 3. Merchants Exchange Building (SF, original pre-fire design), 4. Masonic Temple (Chicago, IL), 5. Land Title Trust Building, 6. Frick Building, 7. Flatiron Building (New York, NY), 8. First National Bank Building (Chicago, IL: 1903), 9. Illinois Trust and Savings Bank, 10. Union League Club Building (Chicago, IL: 1902), proposed addition, 11. Chronicle Building, 12. Kenosha Public Library, Simmons Library.

The Masonic Temple is considered one of Root’s three greatest buildings in Chicago, along with the Rookery (1888) and the Woman’s Temple (1892). The Rookery is the only one of the three still standing.

The Rookery Building, 209 S. LaSalle St., 1888, Burnham and Root, architects. Photo: Wikipedia; Library of Congress's National Digital Library Program under the digital ID mhsalad.250063.

Woman’s Temple, Chicago, LaSalle and Monroe Streets, 1892, Burnham and Root, architects (demolished 1926) View from northwest. One Hundred and Twenty-Five Photographic Views of Chicago. Chicago: Rand-McNally, 1902, plate 9.

https://www.researchgate.net/figure/Burnham-Root-Womans-Christian-Temperance-Union-Womens-Temple-Chicago-1892_fig4_259730525

  After its destruction, the Masonic Temple was replaced by a nondescript two-story building on the same site, which still exists in altered form:

Walgreens, Randolph and State; postcard, 1959; the former site of the Masonic Temple

Ironically, there was a Walgreens occupying the same corner in the Masonic Temple building. The more things change....

The Joffrey Center tower, Booth Hansen Architects, 2008, with 2-story Walgreens on the corner, occupies the site today.

An excellent account of the Masonic Temple’s design and construction process, and the people involved, is here:

Johnson, Geoffrey, “The World's Tallest Building, 1892.” Chicago Reader, September 10, 1987. https://www.chicagoreader.com/chicago/worlds-tallest-building-1892/Content?oid=871104

Other good online sources of information about the building Include:

“Masonic Temple”

Chicagology

https://chicagology.com/goldenage/goldenage026/

  “Masonic Temple Cornerstone Laid -- November 6, 1890”

Connecting the Windy City

http://www.connectingthewindycity.com/2014/11/masonic-temple-cornerstone-laid.html

 “Masonic Temple by Burnham & Root Built 1892, Demolished 1939”

Preservation Chicago

https://preservationchicago.org/newsletter_posts/masonic-temple-by-burnham-root-built-1892-demolished-1939/

 “Masonic Temple Chicago”

Wikiarquitectura

https://en.wikiarquitectura.com/building/masonic-temple-chicago/

 NOTES:

[1] Johnson, Geoffrey, “The World's Tallest Building, 1892.” Chicago Reader, September 10, 1987. Online article archive:  https://www.chicagoreader.com/chicago/worlds-tallest-building-1892/Content?oid=871104

[2] Korom, Joseph J., The American Skyscraper, 1850-1940: A Celebration of Height. Boston: Branden Books, 2008,  p. 176.

[3] Talmadge, Thomas, cited in Johnson, G., op.cit.

[4] Johnson, G., op.cit.

[5] Johnson, G., op.cit.

[6] “190 S. LaSalle,” 1987, John Burgee Architects with Phillip Johnson, Shaw Associates;  Chicago Architecture Center. https://www.architecture.org/learn/resources/buildings-of-chicago/building/190-south-lasalle/

[searchingwardrobes]

Hope is the Thing With Feathers: Ch 2/3

Yes, this will officially have three parts. Part three is where everything will come together and all the action will take place. Chapter two is where the romance happens . . . enjoy, Krystal! It was so fun to write this for your birthday! Much thanks to @hollyethecurious   for the banner, the brainstorming, and co-writing chapter one.

Summary: Emma and her son Henry move to the tiny, quirky town of Hopeful, Maine for a fresh start. Emma isn’t expecting her son to get obsessed with a haunted castle or for her to get involved with the mysterious, handsome man who lives in the cabin behind it. Emma soon discovers that both the castle and the man have secrets that she could never have imagined. For @kmomof4 on her birthday.

Rating: M (yes, I upped the rating. This isn’t smut, but I definitely flirted with the line. All for you, Krystal!)

Words: A lot. Sorry if tumblr eats the cut on mobile. I tried.

Can also be read on Ao3

Trigger warnings: none unless you're afraid of spiders. Oh, and Captain Cobra in case that messes with your ovaries ;)

@bethacaciakay @teamhook @artistic-writer @whimsicallyenchantedrose @snowbellewells​ @kday426 @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @jennjenn615

Chapter Two: That Sings the Tune Without the Words

Hope is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words-

And never stops – at all

Henry paused in his reading. “You know, Emily Dickinson was a lot like you.”

Killian looked up from the spindle he was examining. “How so?”

The boy was perched on a stool in the corner with his literature textbook open on his lap. He rolled his eyes, looking for all the world like his mother. “Isn’t it obvious? She was a recluse.”

Killian’s eyebrows rose slightly. “That’s a big word for a ten year old.”

Now Henry scowled openly. “I hate when people say that. It’s not a big word at all; only seven letters.”

Killian chuckled at that. “You are not only incredibly bright, lad, but perhaps my kindred spirit.”

Henry seemed pleased even as he focused again on his textbook. “Mom does say I’m an old soul.”

“Oh ho! Now you’re calling me old!”

Henry laughed freely. Killian gestured towards the book in his lap.

“You didn’t finish the poem. It goes on to say, And sweetest – in the gale – is heard, and sore must be the storm – That could abash the little bird that kept so many warm – I’ve heard it in the chilliest land and on the strangest sea – Yet, never, in Extremity, it asked a crumb of me.”

“You know that by heart?” Henry exclaimed.

Killian shrugged. “I have a book of Dickinson poems. They’ve always spoken to me I guess, and it’s not as if they are difficult to memorize.”

Henry picked at the binding of the thick book in his lap. “My teacher thinks studying Dickinson is cool for Halloween. I don’t get it.”

“Maybe Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me, but if she wanted Halloween poetry, she should have gone with Edgar Allan Poe.”

Henry’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

Killian clapped his palm to his heart. “You’ve never heard of Poe? Quothe the Raven, nevermore?”

Henry shook his head. “Nope.”

“A tragedy, truly.”

“I figured you must read a lot,” Henry commented, “since Belle’s always bringing you big stacks of books. Why don’t you just go to the library?”

“I’m a recluse, remember?” Killian cleared his throat nervously and scratched behind his ear. “Why don’t you come over here, and I’ll show you how to use this lathe?”

“Cool!” Henry exclaimed, tossing aside the book and jumping up from his stool. But he hesitated before coming closer. “But Mom only let me stay if I promised to finish my homework, and you said you’d help me with those lit questions. There are more questions than there are words in the poem!”

Killian clapped his hand on Henry’s shoulder. “But I’ve also got to get this banister finished. The faster I get this last spindle done, the sooner I can help you with that poem.” He leaned closer to the boy and cocked an eyebrow at him. “And isn’t making a mess and using a loud machine more fun anyway?”

“It sure is!” Henry agreed excitedly as he donned the safety glasses Killian handed him.

Killian stood next to enry

Henry and handed him the final post of wood. “Put the wood on the spindle here,” he instructed, then he handed Henry the chisel. “Do you see this narrow part here?”

“Yeah,” Henry said with a nod.

“It doesn’t match the others, so I need to trim it just a bit. So I’ll turn on the machine, and you’ll run the chisel along this spot right here,” he shifted the chisel and lined it up properly.

“But what if I trim it too much?”

“I’ll be guiding you through it,” Killian assured him.

“Do you have like a measurement or something? I mean, do you mark the wood? I . . . I don’t want to mess it up.”

“I won’t let that happen,” Killian assured him, stilling the slight tremor of the boy’s hand. “But to answer your question, yes, many carpenters use specific measurements. But for me, it’s art. Do you do any type of art, Henry?”

The boy gnawed on his bottom lip. “Does writing stories count?”

Killian grinned at him. “Aye, my boy, it sure does. So crafting these spindles is like crafting a story. I have an idea in my head, but as I work, sometimes it turns out differently than I expected. Better, even.”

Henry narrowed his eyes, then nodded. “I think I get it.”

“Okay then, ready?” Henry gave a nod, and Killian turned on the machine. The boy leaned in concentration over his work, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Killian once again though of his mother, for he had noticed the same look of concentration come over her face yesterday when she was carefully cleaning the paintings they had found throughout the house. He guided Henry’s hand when it drifted, but he was impressed with how steadily he worked. He couldn’t believe the warmth he felt in his long cold heart whenever this boy and his mother were near.

Killian stopped the lathe and lifted the spindle to examine it, then ran a square of sandpaper across the newly trimmed wood. He looked at Henry with a smile upon his face. “Good job, my boy!”

He grinned broadly “Really? But how do we know it matches the other ones? If you don’t measure, I mean?”

“Well, after a while, it’s kind of instinct. But more than that, the slight variations add character. It would look odd if this old house had perfectly matched, machine made spindles on the banister, wouldn’t it?”

Henry tilted his head to think about it. “Yeah, I guess that’s a good point.” He looked down at the floor and ground his toe into the sawdust covered floor.

“What is it, Henry?”

“I don’t know . . . I was just thinking . . . At school, being a little different doesn’t mean you have character. It means you’re just . . . weird. Especially when you’re the littlest kid in seventh grade.”

Killian’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. Now the Dickinson poetry and those algebra problems in the boy’s homework made a bit more sense. “Henry, you are a bright boy. That is something to be proud of.”

Henry’s chin only sank lower. “Being smart isn’t cool, believe me.”

Killian sighed and set aside the spindle. “I don’t know that I was ever as intelligent as you, Henry, but I was small for my age. Smaller than my brother was at that age too. Liam was built broader than I was, and I wanted nothing more than to be as strong and good as he was.”

Henry finally met his gaze. “So what did you do?”

Killian chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “There wasn’t much I could do except wait to grow up.”

“Were you ever as big and strong as Liam?”

Killian rubbed his chin in thought, but in the end couldn’t lie to the boy. “No, but I did work hard when we joined the Royal Navy. And soon, I had callouses and muscles, and could hold my own with a swo- a weapon. I was never as good as Liam either, but I tried. And learning Greek came easier for me than Liam.” He chuckled again and gave Henry a light punch in the shoulder. “I always liked to rub that in just a bit.” Killian grew serious then and grasped Henry by both shoulders. “But listen, this is very important. Never, never be less than you are just to get people to accept you. Understood?”

Henry nodded, then gave a tiny smile. “Mom says girls like smart guys.”

“I sure do.”

Killian straightened to find Emma Swan herself leaning against a post in the entryway from the foyer, her arms crossed over her chest. There was a smile on her face he hadn’t yet seen, a light in her eyes he couldn’t read. He liked the look on her, though, and he hoped in some small way it was because of him.

“Mom, look!” Henry cried. “I got to use the – what’s it called again?” He turned to look up at Killian

“A lathe.”

“A lathe! I got to use the lathe!”

“That’s awesome, kid,” Emma said, walking up to rub her son’s head. Henry wrinkled his nose and reached his hand up to fix his mussed hair.

“I promise the lad finished all of his schoolwork except for his literature assignment,” Killian assured, both hands raised.

Emma tilted her head as she gazed up at him. “I trust you.”

No three words could have flooded Killian with more elation. The sparkle hadn’t left her eyes, and he had the strongest desire to trace that dimple in her chin. Instead, he gave his head a slight shake and took a step backwards.

“I did promise to help him with Emily Dickinson, though. After . . . we . . .uh . . . finished the spindle.” He cleared his throat, wanting to curse himself. He hadn’t been tongue tied around a woman since . . . He pushed the thought away, unwilling to complete it.

Emma quickly lowered her gaze from his, taking a step back herself. “Right, well, you two get to it. I’ll . . . just . . . start sweeping out this room and the foyer, then get to work in the library.”

“Of course.”

He watched her go, unable to help himself from admiring the way her tight jeans hugged her figure. He rubbed at that hollow place in his chest also unable to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he was able to make her tongue-tied. Of course, thinking of her tongue made his mind race further into inappropriate territory, and he was once again cursing himself.

Bloody hell, Jones, her son is in the room!

****************************************************

Emma sneezed as she set the next stack of books onto the desk in the library. Dust billowed up from the leather bindings and yellowed pages, causing her eyes to water. She ran her now dirty cloth over the cover of the one on top; a book called Her Handsome Hero by an author she’d never heard of. She set it in the stack destined for the thrift store. She had learned in her research on the house that after Baelfire Gold died with no heirs, ownership of the entire property had been granted to the city of Hopeful. The house itself had been sold and used as a boarding school for wealthy boys until World War II. That meant the library was full of possibilities for their haunted museum.

“Henry’s finished his homework.”

Emma looked up as Killian entered the room. “Let me guess, he’s now playing video games.”

“No, he’s actually sanding the fireplace mantel.” Killian said as he idly picked up a book from one of her piles.

Emma raised her eyebrows. “Wow. He’s really into this project.”

Killian simply nodded in reply as he continued to shuffle through the books. “I take it this is your discard pile?”

“Well, donation pile. We’re only holding on to books of literary or historical value.”

Killian chuckled at her imitation of Belle’s accent. He lifted a book from the donation pile. “This one was written by a Frenchmen in 1773. His only novel; and it barely sold any copies. A shame, really, because it’s quite good.”

Emma’s brow furrowed when she saw he was holding Her Handsome Hero. “And you know this because . . . “

He gestured around the room. “I’ve read many books in this library.”

Emma put down the book she was dusting and crossed her arms. “When? Shortly after the first moon landing? There’s fifty years’ worth of dust on these books.”

“Well, um,” he stammered, scratching behind his ear, “I didn’t mean these books exactly. I’ve taken copies from here, you know. No one else cared about them . . . ”

He trailed off, flashing her a disarming grin, and she knew he was lying. But why would he lie about where he got a copy of an 18th century French novel?

“You don’t have to justify anything to me,” Emma assured him. “We can’t be sure who bought all these books, so it’s not like they can be returned to their rightful owners.”

He turned from her and grabbed another stack of books from the shelf. Emma watched him until he turned back towards her. Then she quickly lowered her gaze to the next book in her hand.

“This one’s a keeper,” she said, “Tom Sawyer.”

Killian smiled fondly. “Ah, yes, about the mischievous orphan boy. I always identified with him.”

“Which part? Being mischievous I assume?” Emma teased.

“Both actually.” The grin he gave her was one she knew quite well. It was the kind that hid pain behind a mask of indifference.

“Oh,” she said softly, setting the book aside in the too keep pile. The last thing she wanted to do was bond with this man over past experiences. She was already on dangerous ground with him. She had frozen in place when she walked in to find him patiently instructing Henry with the woodworking. And then Henry had actually opened up to him about his struggles at school, and Killian had encouraged him to be proud of his intelligence. It was something Emma had told him a thousand times, but she knew hearing it from a male, especially one he obviously looked up to, would make a world of difference to her son. The entire thing made her heart ache in a way she had never experienced before. Henry had never bonded with any of the men she had dated, not even Graham, who had actually tried to connect with him.

“Have I said something to offend you, Swan?”

Emma looked up into Killian’s concerned gaze and realized she had fallen silent for several minutes. “Oh, um, I just . . . “ she shrugged as she turned to get another stack of books, “I know what you mean, that’s all.”

“You’re an orphan too?” He didn’t say it with sympathy or pity, just matter-of-factly, one orphan to another.

“Yeah,” she sighed, “look, can we change the subject?”

“Of course,” he told her softly, then swiftly changed gears. “That’s quite a lad you’ve got there, Swan.”

“Yeah,” Emma said, a contented smile quirking her lips, “he’s pretty great. Thanks for spending time with him.”

Killian rested his hand atop hers. “It’s no trouble. I enjoy his company.”

“Hey, mom,” Henry’s voice echoed down the corridor. Emma quickly snatched her hand away from Killian’s as they both turned to the doorway.

“Yeah, kid?” Emma hated how nervous her voice sounded. For God’s sake, all the man had done was touch her hand!

“I think I sanded the mantel pretty good, and I’m starving.”

Emma gasped as she pulled out her phone and checked the time. “Henry, I’m so sorry, it’s almost seven! Let’s head to Granny’s and get some burgers.”

“Awesome!” Henry cheered, then he turned to Killian. “You should come eat with us! Right, Mom? I mean, he helped a lot with my homework.”

Emma tilted her head at Killian and smiled, “I agree. I think he’s earned a bit of a reward.”

She expected him to tease her or lean close and murmur an innuendo under his breath that Henry couldn’t catch. She didn’t know why she enjoyed flirting with him so much, but she did. Instead, Killian looked like a deer caught in the headlights, his eyes wide and his normally flushed cheeks suddenly pale.

“I would love to,” he stammered, “but I really can’t.”

Emma elbowed him gently in the ribs, “Come on Jones, everyone’s gotta eat.”

“Yeah,” Henry put in, “please!”

Killian’s eyes darted between the two, and then he leaned close to Emma. His eyes pleaded with her to understand as he said in a low voice, “I really can’t Swan.”

Emma’s brow furrowed, and just like she knew he was lying about the book earlier, she now knew he was telling her the truth. She gave him a slight nod of understanding, then turned to her son.

“Killian’s had a long day, Henry, let’s get out of his hair.”

“Awww,” Henry pouted.

“Sorry, my boy, I’m old remember?” Killian told him, ruffling his hair affectionately.

“See you tomorrow, Killian!” Henry called as they headed out the door. Emma smiled at Killian over her shoulder, her arm flung around her son’s shoulder.

It was all so strange. Emma’s gut told her she could trust this man, and her gut rarely went straight to “trust.” Yet he had lied to her about the book, something that should have been inconsequential. Then when he told her he couldn’t join them for dinner, he was being absolutely truthful. Not that he didn’t want to; he couldn’t. Emma somehow knew the distinction was important. Killian Jones was a mystery for sure; one that she was determined to solve.

*****************************************************

The pungent aroma of wood stain flooded Killian’s senses and made a slight headache pound at his temple. Despite that, his thoughts continued to wander in the same direction, leading him right back to Emma Swan. He rubbed wearily at his forehead with the back of his hand before rubbing at the post in front of him once again. The feelings that were stirring inside of him were those he thought he was no longer capable of; things he hadn’t felt since Milah.

For three centuries, he had watched the world pass before him, ever changing. Yet he was stuck as a mere spectator, forced to hide in the shadows lest suspicions be roused about a man who never aged. That was the reason that female company, or any company for that matter, had been rare in his life. Occasionally he would take a woman back to his cabin simply as a way to release his pent up frustrations and physical loneliness. He always chose those carefully; grifters who were just passing through, or a tourist who was up for a no-strings-attached tryst while she was on vacation. Of course, the more Hopeful deteriorated into a ghost town (pun completely intended), the more he found himself alone for long stretches of time. Until he woke up one day and realized it had been years, not months, since he last interacted with another human being. His voice was rough from misuse, and he startled to discover that he not only conversed with animals and inanimate objects, but himself. It had been a startling and frightening revelation.

That had to be why Emma Swan consumed his every thought, awake and in his dreams. He had gone from being that recluse Henry had mentioned to being in her lovely presence on an almost daily basis.

You don’t dwell on thoughts of Belle or Henry all day long. His mind argued. He sighed as he dipped the rag into the dark stain once again. And now here he was talking to himself again.

Everything had changed the day he had literally run into Belle French poking around the castle. Like Henry, she had been curious about the old place rumored to be haunted. Not to mention she was the most adventurous and curious woman he had ever encountered. She had already done extensive research in her beloved library on Gold Manor, and had recognized him immediately, gasping out his name as she dropped her flashlight. Never for one second had she found his story unbelievable. Another way she was like Henry. And now she was determined to find a way to free him from his curse.

In three hundred years he hadn’t had a single friend, and now he had three. Though if he were completely honest, his fantasies about Emma Swan were far outside the realm of mere friendship.

“Ugh, it reeks in here! How have you not passed out?”

Killian turned to find Emma Swan herself standing below the ladder he was perched on, the sunlight streaming through the brand new glass on the French doors illuminating her hair. The way she wrinkled her nose was adorable while her wide stance and hands braced on her hips shouted feisty strength. She was a contradiction in softness and strength, dark and light, and he found her absolutely mesmerizing.

“I find it clears my head,” he replied dryly.

She rolled her eyes. “Liar.” She reached down for another container of stain and a rag. “This looks tedious. I’ll start down here, and we’ll meet in the middle.” She knelt down at the bottom of the staircase, prying the lid off the stain can with a screw driver. He kept his mouth shut about messing with his tools; she hadn’t exactly been making a suggestion. More like an order.

They worked on the banister in silence for several moment before he heard Emma make a little sighing noise. He glanced down at her to see her brow furrowed and her teeth worrying her bottom lip. Whatever she was contemplating, he had a feeling it wasn’t the banister in front of her.

“You’re a mystery, Killian Jones.”

He almost lost his balance on the ladder.

“I’ve asked about you around town,” she continued, still not tilting her gaze up to his.

Killian swallowed, unsure what to say as she paused. He should have expected as much. She was the town deputy, and Killian was spending a lot of time with her son.

She calmly got more stain on her rag before continuing. His heart thudded in his chest.

“The only people who’ve ever seen you around are the postmaster and the employees at the market.” She cut her eyes up to him. “You love to read, yet you never go to the library.”

“Why do that when I have a lovely librarian who makes house calls?” he quipped with his most charming grin.

Emma frowned as she turned her gaze back to the banister. Was she jealous? God, he hoped so.

“Speaking of Belle, she’s the only one who seems to know your name. And she’s definitely the only one who ever comes out to see you.” She made a funny sound in the back of her throat. “Except for me and Henry now I guess.”

“Belle is just a friend, if that’s what you’re beating around the bush for.”

Emma snorted through her nose. “Don’t really care about your social life, Jones.”

Killian made his way down the ladder. “So you say, Swan, and yet you’ve evidently spent a great deal of time looking into just that.”

She huffed as she stood to reach the next part of the banister. Killian moved the ladder down a bit. “Please, don’t flatter yourself. You are an employee of the city, so I have every right to look into your background.”

Killian couldn’t help scratching behind his ear. “I – uh – thought Belle handled my paperwork.”

“She did.”

It was all Emma said on the matter, but Killian couldn’t help but wonder. She certainly sounded suspicious. He rubbed his forehead wearily.

“You know, this stain is giving me a bit of a headache. Do you mind finishing here while I install the new doors on the curio?”

“Sure,” Emma replied, “but leave the ladder. I can barely reach where I’m staining now.”

“It’s okay, Swan, I find vertically challenged women quite fetching.”

Emma tossed her rag at him, shooting him a withering glare that held little heat. He laughed, pleased to see the spot of pink in her cheeks and the twinkle in her eye. God, he loved teasing her!

They fell into a companionable silence again as they worked, only the sound of his drill bit and the occasional scraping of the ladder breaking the quiet of the room.

“Shit, come on!” he heard Emma complain after about thirty minutes of working. He turned to see her atop the ladder, straining to wipe the last spindle in the center of the banister. She was standing on the very top rung, the one that was clearly labeled “not a step” in bright yellow. On her tip toes was more like it.

“Emma,” he warned as he set aside his drill and came closer.

“I’ve . . . almost . . . got it . . . “

The ladder rocked as she reached up, and Killian surged forward as Emma lost her balance. She let out a sharp scream as she fell backwards. It was cut off when she collided with Killian’s chest. The rag she was holding hit him in the face before fluttering to the floor, and the can of stain wobbled before tipping over, sending the dark brown liquid streaming like a waterfall down the rungs of the ladder.

He shook his face and blinked to get the dust from the rag out of his nose and eyes. When his vision cleared, he was practically nose to nose with Emma. Her green eyes widened as they stared at one another. Every cell in Killian’s body was keenly aware of Emma in his arms. The slight weight of her legs draped over his left arm, her skin beneath his calloused fingers where her shirt had ridden up, the curve of her breast against his chest, and the arms that were wrapped tightly around his neck. A smile hitched at one corner of his mouth as she continued to gaze at him, her fingertips idly toying with the hairs at the nape of his neck. It sent shockwaves all the way down his spine.

“Um,” Emma finally spoke, “why are you still holding me?”

“Oh . . . right,” he muttered, his face burning as he quickly put her down. He rubbed at the back of his neck as she straightened the bottom of her shirt. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she said with a shrug. She stepped close, invading his space. His heart was beating so loud, he wondered if she could feel it beneath her palm when she laid it upon his chest. “Don’t try to distract me with flirting, Killian Jones. I’ll figure out your secrets.”

He quirked a brow at her, then leaned close, swiping his lower lip with his tongue. “Who’s flirting, Swan? I just saved you from a broken neck. You’re the one who was fiddling with my hair just now.”

Red crept up her neck as she blinked rapidly. “You – you are such a – a,” she stuttered, “a . . . “

“Dashing rapscallion?” he teased with a pout.

She narrowed her eyes. “An arrogant jerk,” she finished with satisfaction. He only chuckled as she marched over to grab some rags from the floor. “Oh, and by the way,” she added as she began to rub vigorously at the wood stain still dripping down the ladder, “I’ve never heard of a cocky recluse.”

His mouth fell open at that. She glanced over her shoulder at him with a smirk.

“I don’t know why you’re hiding out here, Jones, but I will find out. I’m not taking my eyes off you for a second.”

Killian threw her smirk right back at her as he sauntered into her space. He leaned close and winked at her. “I would despair if you did.”

****************************************************

The music had been Killian’s idea, and despite the fact that he was humming a tune by The Cure under his breath as he made even strokes with the paint roller, Emma couldn’t help wondering if it was a subtle way of avoiding her. Or something.

She chose to focus instead on the fireplace mantel so she wouldn’t accidently paint it “cranberry sunrise.” God, why did paint colors have such ridiculous names? She sat back on her heels, brushing at a stray hair with the back of her hand. Only half of the room was painted, but it really was a great color. For a “haunted house” anyway. The dark wood stains and deep reds would create the gothic ambience they were going for. It would look even better once they put up the gilded wallpaper and the heavy brocade curtains.

Emma glanced over at Killian and smiled when she saw him swaying his hips slightly to the music. She sighed and carefully set the brush down on the drip pan. Then she rose from her position on the floor and walked cautiously over to him.

“Um, Killian?”

He didn’t stop with the paint roller, simply looked at her and winked, still swaying a little to the music. “Like what you see, Swan?”

Emma rolled her eyes. “No, we, uh . . . need to talk.”

He wearily lowered the paint roller. “In my experience, it’s never a good thing when a woman says that.”

Emma grimaced. Of course he assumed she was about to give him a hard time again. When hadn’t she? Pulling her gun on him, calling him arrogant, insinuating that the time he spent with her son was anything less than innocent and kind. He rescued Henry from the barbed wire, and even saved her from a broken neck when she fell from that later. Yet how did she thank him?

“Look, about my . . . asking around about you . . .”

He came incredibly close, causing her to lose her train of thought. He reached up and began to rub his thumb gently over her cheek. She literally felt herself sway as the breath rushed from her lungs. He smiled softly at her.

“You had a bit of paint there.”

“Oh.”

His thumbed stopped rubbing gentle circles, yet his hand didn’t leave her face. His fingers gently caressed her jaw line, his thumb hovering over the dimple in her chin.

“And as for your little investigation,” Killian said in a low voice, “try something new, darling. It’s called trust.”

Her eyes widened as he lowered his hand. “I do trust you! That’s what I’m trying to say.”

His brow furrowed in confusion as he pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket. Who carried a handkerchief anymore? He wet it with his tongue, an act that she found fascinating. Then he tilted her chin up with the tips of his fingers and dabbed at the same spot on her cheek again.

“Uh, are you wiping spit on me?”

He chuckled. “Aye. I didn’t quite get that paint off. You were saying?”

Emma swallowed thickly. It was really hard to concentrate when he was staring at her face that way. Her skin tingled where his fingers brushed.

“I just know what it’s like to screw up big time. To want to start over, and not have your stupid decisions come back to bite you in the ass.”

He smiled again, brushing his knuckles down her cheek. “There, all gone.”

Emma shook her head. “Do you know what I’m trying to say?”

He tilted his head at her, both eyebrows raising. “Perhaps.”

She let out a long breath of exasperation. “What I’m saying is I don’t care why you’re a loner or what you’re running from. Because . . . you and I . . . we understand one another.”

Killian nodded as he shoved the dirty handkerchief back into his pocket. “Aye, love, I believe we do.”

**********************************************

Emma couldn’t believe how everything was coming together. The new staircase was complete, not only with the beautiful stained banister, but with patched and sanded steps. They were waiting for a runner to be delivered, and she couldn’t wait to see the rich crimson against the dark stain of the wood. Killian had picked it from the sample book she and Belle had brought form the hardware store, the same way he had chosen the paint and wallpaper.

Emma shook her head to clear such thoughts and chose instead to admire the new coat of stain on the fireplace mantel and on the hardwood floors. The house was coming together, that was what mattered. Not Killian Jones and his reclusive tendencies.

“So what are we doing today?” she asked him.

His back was to her as he hoisted a large, rolled up oriental rug off his shoulder. It caused his shirt to ride up in the back, exposing the hard muscles there. The ones Emma couldn’t deny that she had fantasized about digging her fingernails into. Why did he have to be so damn hot?

Killian leaned the rug against several others that were nestled in the corner of the room. He turned to her, flashing that easy grin of his.

“Well, the room is incomplete without rugs, not to mention historically inaccurate. I found these in the attic. They were probably stored up there after the school closed in the forties, so they aren’t period accurate, but better than brand new.”

Emma tilted her head and frowned. “They’re disgusting.”

Killian chuckled. “Aye. But Belle rented a steam cleaner. It’s out on the veranda. We need to go through all of these, clean them up, make sure they’re in good enough shape, then figure out where they should go.”

She nodded, “Okay, sounds good. We’ll need one in the foyer, two probably in the parlor, and one in the library. Think we’ll have enough?”

Killian patted the rugs. “I brought six down, and left four more on the second floor. Hopefully the rodents didn’t nibble on too many of them.”

Emma wrinkled her nose as she thought of the disgusting things they might find as they unrolled them, and Killian laughed. She pulled on the first one and grunted. “How did you lug these down from the attic all by yourself?”

“Emma,” Killian suddenly said, voice low, “don’t move.”

A shot of fear made her spine go cold as she thought of rats, snakes, and –

“It’s a spider,” Killian continued.

She had to force herself not to scream and do a ridiculous dance around the room. On her list of things that freaked her out, spiders were at the top. Without turning her head, she cut her eyes to her left and saw a black spider slowly descending from a thread of web from the top of one of the rugs. As it spun, dangling just over her shoulder, she saw a distinctive red hourglass marking on its underbelly.

“Killian,” she hissed, her fear increasing ten-fold.

“It’s a black widow, I know, just be still –“

But before either of them could figure out what to do, the spider dropped to Emma’s shoulder and then crawled more quickly than Emma could have anticipated down the front of her shirt. All calm flew out of her mind then. She screamed, trembling all over, and without thinking, she pulled her shirt over her head and flung it aside.

*************************************************************

Killian should have been thinking about the poisonous spider if he was a decent man at all. But instead, he was distracted by the smooth porcelain of Emma’s skin, the curve of her waist just begging to be grabbed, and the way her breasts bounced as she brushed at imaginary spiders. Her bra was a tiny thing that dipped low on the swell of her breasts, and as she bent over, brushing at her arms, they almost burst free of their confines.

“Killian, where is it!” she screamed, startling him out of his inappropriate ogling.

He forced himself to examine her torso in a more clinical way and didn’t see anything. He strode quickly over to the t shirt she had tossed upon the floor, and there, crawling calmly over the wrinkled fabric, was the spider. Killian quickly brought his boot down on the creature, leaving a nasty smear of spider guts on Emma’s shirt.

“Sorry, love,” he apologized, “I didn’t want to risk losing sight of it again.”

“Thank you,” she shuddered, placing her hand to her chest. Which was heaving in a very distracting way, he couldn’t help noticing. “Did it get me?”

She pulled her hair up and off her neck, turning her back to him. Killian’s own heart was thudding now, as he gazed at what she was offering up for his perusal. He noted every freckle; one on her collarbone, a smattering around the clasp of her bra, and one large one begging to be kissed at the small of her back.

“Um, no, I don’t see anything.”

She turned to face him, her cheeks pale and her lower lip trembling. He didn’t blame her; black widow spiders were nothing to mess with. He once again scanned her frame, this time trying (and failing) to be more clinical.

He let out a relieved sigh. “No, Swan. It didn’t get you.”

Color returned to Emma’s cheeks as she lifted her gaze to meet his. She was still holding her hair in a messy heap atop her head. The atmosphere was suddenly charged, and he noted that her chest was heaving again, but in a different way. This wasn’t fear; it was desire. She dropped her hair, and it went tumbling over her shoulder, resting between her breasts in a teasing way. He couldn’t help that his eyes drifted from her eyes to watch the tresses brush against her cleavage. When he tore his gaze away, he was relieved to see a slight smirk upon her lips. She took several steps forward, reaching for him with her palms out. Her gaze never leaving his, she slipped them up his shirt, dragging her fingernails through his chest hair.

He couldn’t take it anymore; he grabbed her bare waist as he had been longing to do, and captured her lips. Emma’s hands snaked around to his back, her fingernails scratching in an intoxicating way. They both groaned as they deepened the kiss. Emma pressed herself flush against him, and his only thought was that there was too much fabric separating their skin. Emma seemed to have the same thought as she began to push up his shirt.

They parted just long enough for Killian to get his shirt over his head, then they surged together again. If possible, Emma was pressing herself even closer to him. His hands trailed along her spine, then back up again, pausing at the clasp of her bra. He unhooked it, and relished the feel of her completely bare back under his palms.

He practically growled against her lips as he realized how few surfaces were available to them in this room. He pivoted, pressing her back against the nearest wall as he tugged her bra straps free of her shoulders. Emma broke their kiss to tilt her head back, a moan escaping her lips. He sucked at her neck as he ran his thumbs over her breasts, then he trailed kisses down to the valley between them. Emma arched her back, and he needed no further encouragement as he worshiped each breast with his tongue.

Once he had her crying his name, he fumbled with the button and zipper of her jeans. Then he sank to his knees in front of her as he yanked them over her hips. He trailed kisses teasingly up her inner thigh until he felt her tugging at his hair.

“Killian,” she gasped.

He simply looked up and grinned.

**********************************************************

Emma hooked her bra, then reached down to retrieve her t shirt from the floor. She frowned and turned to Killian, who was pulling his own shirt over his head. Watching the muscles in his arms as he performed that simple task made her think of the way she had gripped his biceps just moments ago as he had thrust into her. She shook her head to clear it. This man was like a drug!

“I . . . um . . . can’t wear this shirt,” she told him lamely. Why was this so awkward? They had been far from awkward five minutes ago. Or maybe that was easier because they hadn’t been thinking then.

“Oh, right,” he said, scratching behind his ear. “Come on out to the cabin, and I’ll find you something.”

“Yeah,” she continued, “then we can get back to these rugs.”

“Um . . .aye.”

Yes, definitely awkward.

Emma followed him out of the back of the house, through the gardens, and out of the door in the hedge. She had come to find out that he was the one who had installed the door, which was why it was so much newer than everything else. They made their way through the trees and to Killian’s cabin, the cool October air making goosebumps rise up on Emma’s bare skin. The inside of the cabin held welcomed warmth, and Killian made his way quickly to one of the two doors off the kitchen. He stepped inside and began rummaging through the drawers of a dresser in the corner of the room. Emma stood in the doorway, clutching her dirty shirt self-consciously to her chest. The bed seemed to loom large against the far wall, invitingly soft with a homey quilt draped across it.

“This should work,” Killian said as he turned to her, but when their eyes met, his expression went soft. He tossed the flannel shirt on the end of the bed before striding to her. He cupped her face with his hands and searched her face. The blue of his eyes were bright. “Oh Emma,” he breathed out, and then they were kissing again.

Emma wasn’t surprised in the least when they tumbled down to Killian’s bed for round too. Somehow, she had known all along this was why she had followed him here.

*************************************************

Killian pulled Emma close, pressing soft kisses to her shoulder blade, her back against his chest. He marveled at how perfectly she seemed to fit against him. She turned in his arms, and he was relieved to see a relaxed smile upon her face. She reached out and traced his jaw slowly, her fingers then drifting to trace the scar on his cheek. He held his breath, partly at her tender touch, and partly from fear that she would ask about the scar. The last thing he wanted to do was lie to her directly. Lies of omission weighed on him heavily enough.

“This feels strangely right, doesn’t it?” she finally said.

He arched his brow at her. “Are you calling me strange, Swan?”

She rolled her eyes and smacked him lightly in the chest. “You know what I mean.”

He pulled her closer, pressing kisses to her hair. “If you mean this feels like exactly where we’re supposed to be, then yes.”

He felt her lips curl into a smile against his collar bone “Exactly.”

He swallowed hard, then pushed her shoulders gently so he could look into her eyes. He cupped her face again, this time kissing her forehead gently. He murmured against her skin, “There’s something I want to say, but I’m afraid you don’t want to hear it.”

“Then don’t say it,” she whispered back, “please.”

He nodded, deflating somewhat, but he had been expecting her to react that way. She startled him though, when she shoved him onto his back and straddled him. She grinned down at him, pinning his arms over his head.

“I prefer we not talk at all.”

She kissed him roughly, almost desperately. “Emma,” he groaned, sitting up so he could gather her in his arms. He broke the kiss, brushing her hair away from her face. She looked almost panicked as she pressed her fingers to his lips.

“Please, Killian.”

He sighed as he let strands of her hair slip between his fingers. “I need to at least tell you that this isn’t just –“

She wouldn’t let him finish, but brushed his lips with a chaste kiss. “I know.”

For now, it would have to be enough.

***********************************************************

“Belle?” Emma called as she stepped into the Hopeful Public Library.

“Over here!” the brunette called, waving her hand from behind a study cubicle in the back of the room.

Emma headed that way and found Belle surrounded by books and papers, all of which looked hundreds of years old. Emma smiled as she propped her arms on the edge of the cubicle’s partition. “I’m glad you love this part because that looks incredibly boring to me.”

Belle shrugged. “I can’t lie, I’m a total nerd. Plus, if I’m going to lead part of the ghost tours, I need to know all the facts backwards and forwards.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear in an almost nervous gesture, then quickly slammed the book in front of her shut like she had been caught at something. Before Emma could give her actions too much thought, the little bell at the circulation desk dinged, and the librarian hurried to her feet.

“Coming!” she called to her new patron.

After she left, Emma sat down in the cubicle, suddenly curious what had Belle so jumpy. An extremely old and yellowed paper, covered in a plastic sleeve, poked out from beneath the pile of books. Emma slid it out and gasped at the face she saw sketched there. The resemblance was uncanny, the slightly mussed hair, the scruffy jawline, the thick eyebrows. And even though they weren’t blue, the intensity in the eyes was the same.

It looked exactly like Killian.

In the bottom corner, the artist had scrawled her name: Milah. Emma sat back, her mind reeling. Was there a deeper reason why Killian seemed to know so much about Milah Gold and the estate? Was he a descendant of the man in this picture? And if so, why hide it?

Emma glanced over the edge of the cubicle, but Belle was guiding the elderly visitor to the arts and crafts section. Emma turned back to the stack of dusty books and opened the one Belle had shut so quickly when she arrived. Luckily, the brunette had left a slip of paper inside to mark her place. Emma scanned the words, their old-fashioned phrasing tripping her up a time or two. It was a recounting of Milah Gold’s affair with her pirate lover, that much she could comprehend. And two words stood out starkly on the page: the pirate’s name, Killian Jones.

Emma suddenly felt the air leave her lungs as she looked between what she had just read and the drawing before her. Her mind struggled to make sense of it.

“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true.”

Emma jumped to find Belle standing next to her, an intense expression on her face. Emma shook her head. “I don’t . . . I don’t know what you mean.”

“That’s him,” Belle said simply, gesturing to the drawing, “that’s Killian, the one we both know.”

Emma closed her eyes tightly. “That can’t be . . . it isn’t . . . possible,” she breathed out the last word.

“He’s cursed, you see. He can’t leave the manor grounds. He tried to save Milah, but he didn’t understand the magic he was dabbling in –“

“Magic?” Emma interrupted incredulously. She stood quickly, shoving Belle aside. “I – I – have to go.”

She dashed from the library, her breaths coming out in gasps. She raced down the sidewalk, not slowing down until she found herself at the docks. She leaned forward on her knees, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Part of her brain told her it was crazy, but another part started to process all the little signs. How he turned down Henry’s invitation to dinner at Granny’s. How he never went to the hardware store. How Belle brought him books from the library. The way he reacted to the painting of Milah and Emma’s suggestion that her grave could be a tourist attraction.

Then there was the drawing made by Milah Gold herself. It was clearly drawn by a woman who knew every inch of her lover’s face. A face Emma herself knew so well, down to the scar Emma had traced with her finger just yesterday.

Shit, was she sleeping with a three hundred year old pirate?

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Edgar Allan Poe’s Genealogy II

You may remember that I had, previously, written a post about Edgar Allan Poe’s genealogy, as put forth by his ex-fiancee, Sarah Helen Whitman. In it, there was some mention of one of his ancestors saving a noblewoman who had been accused of witchcraft. I happened to have run across an entire chapter about it in an old book called, Irish Witchcraft and Demonology, by St. John D. Seymour. Sir Arnold le Poer, is Poe's relative. The other le Poer's in this tale? One would guess that they were, but it is never really stated directly and it is only suggested that John le Poer "probably" was related to Arnold. Here is the chapter in it’s entirety.

CHAPTER II

A.D. 1324

Dame Alice Kyteler, the Sorceress of Kilkenny

The history of the proceedings against Dame Alice Kyteler and her confederates on account of their dealings in unhallowed arts is to be found in a MS. in the British Museum, and has been edited amongst the publications of the Camden Society by Thomas Wright, who considers it to be a contemporary narrative. Good modern accounts of it are given in the same learned antiquary’s “Narratives of Witchcraft and Sorcery” in Transactions of the Ossory Archæological Society, vol. i., and in the Rev. Dr. Carrigan’s History of the Diocese of Ossory, vol. i.

Dame Alice Kyteler (such apparently being her maiden name), the facile princeps of Irish witches, was a member of a good Anglo-Norman family that had been settled in the city of Kilkenny for many years. The coffin-shaped tombstone of one of her ancestors, Jose de Keteller, who died in 128—, is preserved at S. Mary’s church; the inscription is in Norman-French and the lettering is Lombardic. The lady in question must have been far removed from the popular conception of a witch as an old woman of striking ugliness, or else her powers of attraction were very remarkable, for she had succeeded in leading four husbands to the altar. She had been married, first, to William Outlawe of Kilkenny, banker; secondly, to Adam le Blund of Callan; thirdly, to Richard de Valle—all of whom she was supposed to have got rid of by poison; and fourthly, to Sir John le Poer, whom it was said she deprived of his natural senses by philtres and incantations.

The Bishop of Ossory at this period was Richard de Ledrede, a Franciscan friar, and an Englishman by birth. He soon learnt that things were not as they should be, for when making a visitation of his diocese early in 1324 he found by an Inquisition, in which were five knights and numerous nobles, that there was in the city a band of heretical sorcerers, at the head of whom was Dame Alice. The following charges were laid against them.

1. They had denied the faith of Christ absolutely for a year or a month, according as the object they desired to gain through sorcery was of greater or less importance. During all that period they believed in none of the doctrines of the Church; they did not adore the Body of Christ, nor enter a sacred building to hear mass, nor make use of consecrated bread or holy water.

2. They offered in sacrifice to demons living animals, which they dismembered, and then distributed at cross-roads to a certain evil spirit of low rank, named the Son of Art.

3. They sought by their sorcery advice and responses from demons.

4. In their nightly meetings they blasphemously imitated the power of the Church by fulminating sentence of excommunication, with lighted candles, even against their own husbands, from the sole of their foot to the crown of their head, naming each part expressly, and then concluded by extinguishing the candles and by crying Fi! Fi! Fi! Amen.

5. In order to arouse feelings of love or hatred, or to inflict death or disease on the bodies of the faithful, they made use of powders, unguents, ointments, and candles of fat, which were compounded as follows. They took the entrails of cocks sacrificed to demons, certain horrible worms, various unspecified herbs, dead men’s nails, the hair, brains, and shreds of the cerements of boys who were buried unbaptized, with other abominations, all of which they cooked, with various incantations, over a fire of oak-logs in a vessel made out of the skull of a decapitated thief.

6. The children of Dame Alice’s four husbands accused her before the Bishop of having killed their fathers by sorcery, and of having brought on them such stolidity of their senses that they bequeathed all their wealth to her and her favourite son, William Outlawe, to the impoverishment of the other children. They also stated that her present husband, Sir John le Poer, had been reduced to such a condition by sorcery and the use of powders that he had become terribly emaciated, his nails had dropped off, and there was no hair left on his body. No doubt he would have died had he not been warned by a maid-servant of what was happening, in consequence of which he had forcibly possessed himself of his wife’s keys, and had opened some chests in which he found a sackful of horrible and detestable things which he transmitted to the bishop by the hands of two priests.

7. The said dame had a certain demon, an incubus, named Son of Art, or Robin son of Art, who had carnal knowledge of her, and from whom she admitted that she had received all her wealth. This incubus made its appearance under various forms, sometimes as a cat, or as a hairy black dog, or in the likeness of a negro (Æthiops), accompanied by two others who were larger and taller than he, and of whom one carried an iron rod.

According to another source the sacrifice to the evil spirit is said to have consisted of nine red cocks, and nine peacocks’ eyes. Dame Alice was also accused of having “swept the streets of Kilkenny betweene compleine and twilight, raking all the filth towards the doores of hir sonne William Outlawe, murmuring secretly with hir selfe these words:

“To the house of William my sonne Hie all the wealth of Kilkennie towne.”

On ascertaining the above the Bishop wrote to the Chancellor of Ireland, Roger Outlawe, who was also Prior of the Preceptory of Kilmainham, for the arrest of these persons. Upon this William Outlawe formed a strong party to oppose the Bishop’s demands, amongst which were the Chancellor, his near relative, and Sir Arnold le Poer, the Seneschal of Kilkenny, who was probably akin to Dame Alice’s fourth husband. The Chancellor in reply wrote to the Bishop stating that a warrant for arrest could not be obtained until a public process of excommunication had been in force for forty days, while Sir Arnold also wrote requesting him to withdraw the case, or else to ignore it. Finding such obstacles placed in his way the Bishop took the matter into his own hands, and cited the Dame, who was then in her son’s house in Kilkenny, to appear before him. As might be expected, she ignored the citation, and fled immediately.

Foiled in this, he cited her son William for heresy. Upon this Sir Arnold came with William to the Priory of Kells, where De Ledrede was holding a visitation, and besought him not to proceed further in the matter. Finding entreaty useless he had recourse to threats, which he speedily put into execution. As the Bishop was going forth on the following day to continue his visitation he was met on the confines of the town of Kells by Stephen le Poer, bailiff of the cantred of Overk, and a posse of armed men, by whom he was arrested under orders from Sir Arnold, and lodged the same day in Kilkenny jail. This naturally caused tremendous excitement in the city. The place became ipso facto subject to an interdict; the Bishop desired the Sacrament, and it was brought to him in solemn procession by the Dean and Chapter. All the clergy, both secular and religious, flocked from every side to the prison to offer their consolation to the captive, and their feelings were roused to the highest pitch by the preaching of a Dominican, who took as his text, Blessed are they which are persecuted, &c. Seeing this, William Outlawe nervously informed Sir Arnold of it, who thereupon decided to keep the Bishop in closer restraint, but subsequently changed his mind, and allowed him to have companions with him day and night, and also granted free admission to all his friends and servants.

After De Ledrede had been detained in prison for seventeen days, and Sir Arnold having thereby attained his end, viz. that the day on which William Outlawe was cited to appear should in the meantime pass by, he sent by the hands of his uncle the Bishop of Leighlin (Miler le Poer), and the sheriff of Kilkenny a mandate to the constable of the prison to liberate the Bishop. The latter refused to sneak out like a released felon, but assumed his pontificals, and, accompanied by all the clergy and a throng of people, made his way solemnly to S. Canice’s Cathedral, where he gave thanks to God. With a pertinacity we cannot but admire he again cited William Outlawe by public proclamation to appear before him, but before the day arrived the Bishop was himself cited to answer in Dublin for having placed an interdict on his diocese. He excused himself from attending on the plea that the road thither passed through the lands of Sir Arnold, and that in consequence his life would be in danger.

De Ledrede had been arrested by Le Poer’s orders in Lent, in the year 1324. On Monday following the octave of Easter the Seneschal held his court in Kilkenny, to which entrance was denied the Bishop; but the latter, fully robed, and carrying the Sacrament in a golden vase, made his way into the court-room, and “ascending the tribunal, and reverently elevating the Body of Christ, sought from the Seneschal, Justiciary, and Bailiffs that a hearing should be granted to him.” The scene between the two was extraordinary; it is too lengthy to insert, and does not bear to be condensed—suffice it to say that the Seneschal alluded to the Bishop as “that vile, rustic, interloping monk (trutannus), with his dirt (hordys) which he is carrying in his hands,” and refused to hear his arguments, or to afford him any assistance.

Though we have lost sight for a while of Dame Alice, yet she seems to have been eagerly watching the trend of events, for now we find her having the Bishop summoned to Dublin to answer for having excommunicated her, uncited, unadmonished, and unconvicted of the crime of sorcery. He attended accordingly, and found the King’s and the Archbishop’s courts against him to a man, but the upshot of the matter was that the Bishop won the day; Sir Arnold was humbled, and sought his pardon for the wrongs he had done him. This was granted, and in the presence of the council and the assembled prelates they mutually gave each other the kiss of peace.

Affairs having come to such a satisfactory conclusion the Bishop had leisure to turn his attention to the business that had unavoidably been laid aside for some little time. He directed letters patent, praying the Chancellor to seize the said Alice Kyteler, and also directed the Vicar-General of the Archbishop of Dublin to cite her to respond on a certain day in Kilkenny before the Bishop. But the bird escaped again out of the hand of the fowler. Dame Alice fled a second time, on this occasion from Dublin, where she had been living, and (it is said) made her way to England, where she spent the remainder of her days unmolested. Several of her confederates were subsequently arrested, some of them being apparently in a very humble condition of life, and were committed to prison. Their names were: Robert of Bristol, a clerk, John Galrussyn, Ellen Galrussyn, Syssok Galrussyn, William Payn de Boly, Petronilla of Meath, her daughter Sarah, Alice the wife of Henry Faber, Annota Lange, and Eva de Brownestown. When the Bishop arrived in Kilkenny from Dublin he went direct to the prison, and interviewed the unfortunates mentioned above. They all immediately confessed to the charges laid against them, and even went to the length of admitting other crimes of which no mention had been made; but, according to them, Dame Alice was the mother and mistress of them all. Upon this the Bishop wrote letters on the 6th of June to the Chancellor, and to the Treasurer, Walter de Islep, requesting them to order the Sheriff to attach the bodies of these people and put them in safe keeping. But a warrant was refused, owing to the fact that William Outlawe was a relation of the one and a close friend of the other; so at length the Bishop obtained it through the Justiciary, who also consented to deal with the case when he came to Kilkenny.

Before his arrival the Bishop summoned William Outlawe to answer in S. Mary’s Church. The latter appeared before him, accompanied by a band of men armed to the teeth; but in no way overawed by this show of force, De Ledrede formally accused him of heresy, of favouring, receiving, and defending heretics, as well as of usury, perjury, adultery, clericide, and excommunications—in all thirty-four items were brought forward against him, and he was permitted to respond on the arrival of the Justiciary. When the latter reached Kilkenny, accompanied by the Chancellor, the Treasurer, and the King’s Council, the Bishop in their presence recited the charges against Dame Alice, and with the common consent of the lawyers present declared her to be a sorceress, magician, and heretic, and demanded that she should be handed over to the secular arm and have her goods and chattels confiscated as well. Judging from Friar Clyn’s note this took place on the 2nd of July. On the same day the Bishop caused a great fire to be lit in the middle of the town in which he burnt the sackful of magical stock-in-trade, consisting of powders, ointments, human nails, hair, herbs, worms, and other abominations, which the reader will remember he had received from Sir John le Poer at an early stage in the proceedings.

Further trouble arose with William Outlawe, who was backed by the Chancellor and Treasurer, but the Bishop finally succeeded in beating him, and compelled him to submit on his bended knees. By way of penance he was ordered to hear at least three masses every day for the space of a year, to feed a certain number of poor people, and to cover with lead the chancel of S. Canice’s Cathedral from the belfry eastward, as well as the Chapel of the Blessed Virgin. He thankfully agreed to do this, but subsequently refused to fulfil his obligations, and was thereupon cast into prison.

What was the fate of Dame Alice’s accomplices, whose names we have given above, is not specifically recorded, except in one particular instance. One of them, Petronilla of Meath, was made the scapegoat for her mistress. The Bishop had her flogged six times, and under the repeated application of this form of torture she made the required confession of magical practices. She admitted the denial of her faith and the sacrificing to Robert, son of Art, and as well that she had caused certain women of her acquaintance to appear as if they had goats’ horns. She also confessed that at the suggestion of Dame Alice she had frequently consulted demons and received responses from them, and that she had acted as a “medium” (mediatrix) between her and the said Robert. She declared that although she herself was mistress of the Black Art, yet she was as nothing in comparison with the Dame from whom she had learnt all her knowledge, and that there was no one in the world more skilful than she. She also stated that William Outlawe deserved death as much as she, for he was privy to their sorceries, and for a year and a day had worn the devil’s girdle[6] round his body. When rifling Dame Alice’s house there was found “a wafer of sacramental bread, having the devil’s name stamped thereon instead of Jesus Christ, and a pipe of ointment wherewith she greased a staffe, upon which she ambled and galloped through thicke and thin, when and in what manner she listed.” Petronilla was accordingly condemned to be burnt alive, and the execution of this sentence took place with all due solemnity in Kilkenny on 3rd November 1324, which according to Clyn fell on a Sunday. This was the first instance of the punishment of death by fire being inflicted in Ireland for heresy.

Whether or not Petronilla’s fellow-prisoners were punished is not clear, but the words of the anonymous narrator show us that the burning of that unfortunate wretch was rather the beginning than the end of persecution—that in fact numerous other suspected persons were followed up, some of whom shared her terrible fate, while to others milder forms of punishment were meted out, no doubt in proportion to their guilt. He says: “With regard to the other heretics and sorcerers who belonged to the pestilential society of Robin, son of Art, the order of law being preserved, some of them were publicly burnt to death; others, confessing their crimes in the presence of all the people, in an upper garment, are marked back and front with a cross after they had abjured their heresy, as is the custom; others were solemnly whipped through the town and the market-place; others were banished from the city and diocese; others who evaded the jurisdiction of the Church were excommunicated; while others again fled in fear and were never heard of after. And thus, by the authority of Holy Mother Church, and by the special grace of God, that most foul brood was scattered and destroyed.”

Sir Arnold le Poer, who had taken such a prominent part in the affair, was next attacked. The Bishop accused him of heresy, had him excommunicated, and committed prisoner to Dublin Castle. His innocency was believed in by most people, and Roger Outlawe, Prior of Kilmainham, who also figures in our story, and who was appointed Justiciary of Ireland in 1328, showed him some kindness, and treated him with humanity. This so enraged the Bishop that he actually accused the Justiciary of heresy. A select committee of clerics vindicated the orthodoxy of the latter, upon which he prepared a sumptuous banquet for his defenders. Le Poer died in prison the same year, 1331, before the matter was finally settled, and as he was under ban of excommunication his body lay unburied for a long period.

But ultimately the tables were turned with a vengeance. De Ledrede was himself accused of heresy by his Metropolitan, Alexander de Bicknor, upon which he appealed to the Holy See, and set out in person for Avignon. He endured a long exile from his diocese, suffered much hardship, and had his temporalities seized by the Crown as well. In 1339 he recovered the royal favour, but ten years later further accusations were brought to the king against him, in consequence of which the temporalities were a second time taken up, and other severe measures were threatened. However, by 1356 the storm had blown over; he terminated a lengthy and disturbed episcopate in 1360, and was buried in the chancel of S. Canice’s on the north side of the high altar. A recumbent effigy under an ogee-headed canopy is supposed to mark the last resting-place of this turbulent prelate.

In the foregoing pages we have only given the barest outline of the story, except that the portions relative to the practice of sorcery have been fully dealt with as pertinent to the purpose of this book, as well as on account of the importance of the case in the annals of Irish witchcraft. The story of Dame Alice Kyteler and Bishop de Ledrede occupies forty pages of the Camden Society’s publications, while additional illustrative matter can be obtained from external sources; indeed, if all the scattered material were gathered together and carefully sifted it would be sufficient to make a short but interesting biography of that prelate, and would throw considerable light on the relations between Church and State in Ireland in the fourteenth century. With regard to the tale it is difficult to know what view should be taken of it. Possibly Dame Alice and her associates actually tried to practise magical arts, and if so, considering the period at which it occurred, we certainly cannot blame the Bishop for taking the steps he did. On the other hand, to judge from the analogy of Continental witchcraft, it is to be feared that De Ledrede was to some extent swayed by such baser motives as greed of gain and desire for revenge. He also seems to have been tyrannical, overbearing, and dictatorial; according to him the attitude adopted by the Church should never be questioned by the State, but this view was not shared by his opponents. Though our sympathies do not lie altogether with him, yet to give him his due it must be said that he was as ready to be persecuted as to persecute; he did not hesitate to face an opposition which consisted of some of the highest in the land, nor did fear of attack or imprisonment (which he actually suffered) avail to turn him aside from following the course he had mapped out for himself.

It should be noticed that the appointment of De Ledrede to the See of Ossory almost synchronised with the elevation of John XXII to the Papacy. The attitude of that Pope towards magical arts was no uncertain one. He believed himself to be surrounded by enemies who were ever making attempts on his life by modelling images of him in wax, to be subsequently thrust through with pins and melted, no doubt; or by sending him a devil enclosed in a ring, or in various other ways. Consequently in several Bulls he anathematised sorcerers, denounced their ill-deeds, excited the inquisitors against them, and so gave ecclesiastical authorisation to the reality of the belief in magical forces. Indeed, the general expressions used in the Bull Super illius specula might be applied to the actions of Dame Alice and her party. He says of certain persons that “they sacrifice to demons and adore them, making or causing to be made images, rings, &c., with which they draw the evil spirits by their magical art, obtain responses from them, and demand their help in performing their evil designs.”

Heresy and sorcery were now identified, and the punishment for the former was the same as that for the latter, viz. burning at the stake and confiscation of property. The attitude of this Pontiff evidently found a sympathiser in Bishop de Ledrede, who deemed it necessary to follow the example set by the Head of the Church, with what results we have already shown: thus we find in Ireland a ripple of the wave that swept over Europe at this period.

It is very probable, too, that there were many underlying local causes of which we can know little or nothing; the discontent and anger of the disinherited children at the loss of the wealth of which Dame Alice had bereft them by her exercise of “undue influence” over her husbands, family quarrels, private hatreds, and possibly national jealousy helped to bring about one of the strangest series of events in the chequered history of Ireland.