#kit with the candlestick

[azulso]

La Patrulla Condenada

[petermorwood]

More on pre-electricity lighting.

Interesting to see this one pop up again after nearly two years - courtesy of @dduane, too! :->

*****

After experiencing a couple more storm-related power cuts since my original post, as well as a couple of after-dark garden BBQs, I've come to the conclusion that C.J. Cherryh puts far too much emphasis on "how dark things were pre-electric light".

For one thing eyes adjust, dilating in dim light to gather whatever illumination is available. Okay, if there's none, there's none - but if there's some, human eyes can make use of it, some better or just faster than others. They're the ones with "good night vision".

Think, for instance, of how little you can see of your unlit bedroom just after you've turned off the lights, and how much more of it you can see if you wake up a couple of hours later.

There's also that business of feeling your way around, risking breaking your neck etc. People get used to their surroundings and, after a while, can feel their way around a familiar location even in total darkness with a fair amount of confidence.

Problems arise when Things Aren't Where They Should Be (or when New Things Arrive) and is when most trips, stumbles, hacked shins and stubbed toes happen, but usually - Lego bricks and upturned UK plugs aside - non-light domestic navigation is incident-free.

*****

Here are a couple of pics from one of those BBQs: one candle and a firepit early on, then the candle, firepit and an oil lamp much later, all much more obvious than DD's iPad screen.

Though I remain surprised at how well my phonecam was handling this low light, my own unassisted eyes were doing far better. For instance, that area between the table and the firepit wasn't such an impenetrable pool of darkness as it appears in the photo.

I see (hah!) no reason why those same Accustomed Eyes would have any more difficulty with candles or oil lamps as interior lighting, even without the mirrors or reflectors in my previous post.

With those, and with white interior walls, things would be even brighter. There's a reason why so many reconstructed period buildings in Folk Museums etc. are (authentically) whitewashed not just outside but inside as well. It was cheap, had disinfectant qualities, and was a reflective surface. Win, win and win.

*****

All right, there were no switches to turn on a light. But there was no need for what C.J. describes as stumbling about to reach the fire, because there were tinderboxes and, for many centuries before them, flint and steel. Since "firesteels" have been heraldic charges since the 1100s, the actual tool must have been in use for even longer.

Tinderboxes were fire-starter sets with flint, steel and "tinder" all packed into (surprise!) a box. The tinder was easily lit ignition material, often "charcloth", fabric baked in an airtight jar or tin which would now start to glow just from a spark.

They're mentioned in both "The Hobbit" and "The Lord of the Rings". Oddly enough, "Hobbit" mentions matches in a couple of places, but I suspect that's a carry-over from when it was just a children's story, not part of the main Legendarium.

Tinderboxes could be simple, just a basic flint-and-steel kit with some tinder for the sparks to fall on...

...or elaborate like this one, with a fancy striker, charcloth, kindling material and even wooden "spills" (long splinters) to transfer flame to a candle or the kindling...

This tinderbox even doubles as a candlestick, complete with a snuffer which would have been inside along with everything else.

Here's a close-up of the striker box with its inner and outer lids open:

What looks like a short pencil with an eraser is actually the striker. A bit of tinder or charcloth would have been pulled through that small hole in the outer lid, which was then closed.

There was a rough steel surface on the lid, and the striker was scraped along it, like so:

This was done for a TV show or film, so the tinder was probably made more flammable with, possibly, lighter fuel. That would be thoroughly appropriate, since a Zippo or similar lighter works on exactly the same principle.

A real-life version of any tinderbox would usually just produce glowing embers needing blown on to make a flame, which is shown sometimes in movies - especially as a will-it-light-or-won't-it? tension build - but is usually a bit slow and non-visual for screen work.

*****

There were even flintlock tinderboxes which worked with the same mechanism as those on firearms. Here's a pocket version:

Here are a couple of bedside versions, once again complete with a candlestick:

And here are three (for home defence?) with a spotlight candle lantern on one side and a double-trigger pistol on the other.

Pull one trigger to light the candle, pull the other trigger to fire the gun.

What could possibly go wrong? :-P

*****

Those pistol lanterns, magnified by lenses, weren't just to let their owner see what they were shooting at: they would also have dazzled whatever miscreant was sneaking around in the dark, irises dilated to make best use of available glimmer.

Swordsmen both good and bad knew this trick too, and various fight manuals taught how to manage a thumb-shuttered lamp encountered suddenly in a dark alley.

There's a sword-and-lantern combat in the 1973 "Three Musketeers" between Michael York (D'Artagnan) and Christopher Lee (Rochefort), which was a great idea.

Unfortunately it failed in execution because the "Hollywood Darkness" which let viewers see the action, wasn't dark enough to emphasise the hazards / advantages of snapping the lamps open and shut.

This TV screencap (can't get a better one, the DVD won't run in a computer drive) shows what I mean.

In fact, like the photos of the BBQ, this image - and entire fight - looks even brighter through "real eyes" than with the phonecam. Just as there can be too much dark in a night scene, there can also be too much light.

*****

One last thing I found when assembling pics for the post were Folding Candle-lanterns.

They were used from about the mid-1700s to the later 20th century (Swiss Army ca. 1978) as travel accessories and emergency equipment, and IMO - I've Made A Note - they'd fit right into a fantasy world whose tech level was able to make them.

The first and last are reproductions: this one is real, from about 1830.

The clear part was mica - a transparent mineral which can be split into thin flexible sheets - while others use horn / parchment, though both of these are translucent rather than transparent. Regardless, all were far less likely to break than glass.

One or two inner surfaces were usually tin, giving the lantern its own built-in reflector, and tech-level-wise, tin as a shiny or decorative finish has been used since Roman times.

I'm pretty sure that top-of-the-line models could also have been finished with their own matching, maybe even built-in, tinderboxes.

And if real ones didn't, fictional ones certainly could. :->

*****

Yet more period lighting stuff here, including flintlock alarm clocks (!)

[earthgift]

Candlestick Patterns

Looking for effective and unique Candlestick Patterns? Welcome to Earth Gifts, a one-stop destination to find an extensive range of wax melts and jar candies. The professionals offer the finest quality products and services. so, what are you waiting for? Visit -https://earthgifts.net/ for more details. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 2

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: Let me know if you want more. Didn't get too much on Part 1 but I have ideas so...

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Your third week begins in the same place. Before the iron gate, the code unlocking the green maze within. You’re still just as impressed as your first day there. To you, it’s like a fantasy. Entirely unattainable but it’s right there. You can look, but you can’t touch… not beyond cleaning.

You linger outside, not thinking. You admire the tall tulips and the hedge trimmed to resemble some landmark you can’t quite place. You could see a place like this in an Austenian film or perhaps something Victorian. You don’t have an eye for the difference.

You key in the code for the backdoor and continue on. You put covers on your shoes and grab a fresh set of gloves. You’re getting into a pattern, though each client differs slightly. You put your things away and bring your water bottle with you. You bought a cool strap that keeps it against your hip, a small splurge with your first paycheck. The rest went to bills.

As you start on your usual journey through the many rooms of the airy house, you wonder how its sole resident isn’t lonely. Or perhaps he is. He doesn’t seem the type to admit to it. You turn your thoughts back to your work. You try not to think of him, truly, you don’t know much of him.

You take a candlestick and polish it. You move on the small globe; an ivory orb on a silver axes, the outlines of the continent carved into the surface. As you put it back, you notice something. An item you can’t recall being there before. You reach for it but stop as you realise it’s a camera.

You retract your hand and move on to dust the shelf itself. Does he not trust you or was it there before? Of course, somewhere like this would need security. There was a story just the other day about a break-in, but that was closer to your father’s where those culprits dwell.

The second floor is always easier. It seems even less lived-in than below. All but the study and the main bedroom. You flit in and out, checking points off the list until you’re content. You can only hope he will be too.

As you descend, the epiphany tickles your brain. It’s the first shift he hasn’t appeared. It’s easy to assume he’s busy. You don’t expect him to hang around. As if he would supervise you. Besides, that’s probably what the cameras are for.

You pack up and get your single refill of water. You leave the way you came, as you have twice before. The keypad flashes red to signal the lock is in place. You haul your kit higher on your shoulder and tread slowly along the little path along the side of the house.

You look at the gazebo trimmed in hanging ivy. It’s beautiful. You’d like to venture up and sit on that bench. Just sit and watch and smell and feel. You force the thought away and turn back along the stonework.

You’re going home. Not to pollen but tobacco smoke. Not to lush gardens but wilting strands in soggy mud. Not to immaculate floors and pristine decor but to stained walls and broken springs in your mattress. 

Home, to another man that makes you nervous.

🧹

Your father is as he always is, smoking on the couch. You say hi as you come in with a bag of groceries, the prize for what was left of your check. He grumbles and flicks through the channels. You go to the kitchen to put away the food.

You’re almost at the end of your first month, a third of the way through your probationary period. Hopefully after that, you can pick up more clients. You shut the cupboard and go back to the living room. Your father coughs into a crumpled tissue. He sounds horrible. You can’t say so, he doesn’t seem to care.

“I got some fresh produce,” you announce proudly, “I’ll steam some veggies with the chops.”

“You get fries?” He growls.

“Uh, no,” you admit, “I thought we could eat something healthier–”

“I don’t like steamed veggies,” he drops the remote and grabs his pack of smokes.

“Oh, sorry, I was only thinking–”

“Don’t lie and say you were,” he snorts as he pulls out a cigarette and taps the end of the pack. “Go on, I’m tryna watch this.”

He nods at the television and you follow his gaze to the rerun of All in the Family. He’s seen them all before. You take the dismissal and retreat up to your room. Like you always do.

It’s always been like this. You don’t hate your father but sometimes it feels like he hates you. You put your kit and your water bottle on your dress and change into clean clothes. You lay in bed and close your eyes, trying to let go of the tension in your muscles.

You don’t remember your mom but he does. You assume that’s why he’s like this. It’s not you, it’s what happened. Tragic. A loss he won’t talk about.

You rub your forehead and let your arms fall to bend on either side of your head. You only ever saw one picture of your mother. You don’t think you look like her. She was pretty. And young. You were always too afraid to ask about her but you could tell she was younger than him. No one could’ve expected her to go so soon.

You close your eyes. It’s a strange sort of grief to miss someone who is only a shadow in your mind. Not even a voice, just this ghost you know by name. Mommy…

You blow out a deep breath in an effort to bid away the sadness. That was so long ago. This is now and you have a lot to worry about.

🧹

The Laufeyson house greets you once more with its elaborate brickwork. It’s starting to feel familiar, like a habit to put in the new code and walk along the winding path around to the back door. Six more numbers and you’re inside; shoe covers, gloves, bottle, and the list.

You always check the new email sent by the agency. There’s always something small and new squeezed into the bullet points. This week, you notice the first task is laundry. 

‘Retrieve hamper from hallway. When hamper is left outside door, it means clothes must be washed.’

Easy enough. You go upstairs first and take the tall hamper from beside the door frame. It’s heavy and there’s no wheels to aid in your struggle. The laundry room is downstairs. Your descent is treacherous, one step at a time as you haul the basket down step by step. If Mr. Laufeyson is there, he can’t happy with the noise.

You finally get to the machine and follow the instructions about cycle type and separating colours from whites. However, there is only the bedding to be cleaned. You load the linens in and take a moment to figure out the touchscreen. Your father’s machine has a dial that only works on one setting and gives off a dingy stench.

You leave the basket in front of the washer and retreat to start your usual progression through the urban manse. Mop, sweep, dust, vacuum, polish; hallway, kitchen, dining room, sitting room… Nothing unusual or unexpected.

As you cross the narrow foyer to the den, the sunshine glows a warm orange through the slender windows on either side of the front door. The patterning of the glass reflects prettily on the floor. Despite your best efforts, you can’t help but imagine residing somewhere so brilliant.

You sigh and carry on. You’re sure to open the long drapes to let in the late spring sunshine. It’s not so bad working in the light and you can see where the rare spec of dust is hiding. You go to the tall shelf beside the record player and pull out the albums to wipe beneath them. Music would be jarring in a place always so silent.

You slip the albums back into place, pulling out one to admire the cover; Ane Brun. You’ve never heard of them. You read the track list curiously. You know you shouldn’t be wasting time.

“I don’t believe I’d have anything to your taste on my shelf,” the mocking slither has you pushing the album in line with the rest.

You almost apologise but you remember. You don’t speak. You just clean. So clean.

You glance over at Mr. Laufeyson as he struts in, a book held in one hand as his other is tucked in his pocket. He wears his usual pressed attire; a dark button-up and even darker slacks. You note that he has no tie that day. A single curl dangles by his temple as the rest of his black hair is precisely combed back.

You return to your tasks, gently wiping the cover of the record player and along the stand. You  hear the book drop onto the low table before the sofa before his footsteps continue on; closer. He approaches as you get to the next shelf, a collection of EPs in unmarked sleeves.

You wince as he stops near you, flipping up the cover of the sleek record player before stepping back to peruse his selection. You do your best to keep on as he looms. The air is thick and suffocating. Should you go to the next room and come back?

He slips a record free of its sleeve and places it carefully on the players. He moves the needle over and flips the switch, a crackle before the sound drones from the tall standing speakers. Acoustic guitar with a gritty feel to it. The sudden addition of a woman’s voice jolts you; her tone is peculiar but not unpleasant.

When I woke I took the backdoor to my mind And then I spoke I counted all of the good things you are

He backs away without a word. Not an explanation. You finish cleaning the second shelf and dare to glance over. He reads his book on the couch, unbothered by your existence. That isn’t too unfamiliar.

You finish the space but leave the vacuuming for later. You wouldn’t want to ruin the music. You go into what you can only call a sunroom. The french doors peek out onto the garden and a patio set with a large dining set in white iron and glass.

The music drifts in and keeps you company. It almost makes the work easier. You make quick work and go to check the washer to switch over the load. Once you have the dryer figured out, you begin on the second floor.

It’s only as you come out of one of the guestrooms that you notice the silence is returned. You turn down the hallway and near the next door. You enter the study with your usual reverence. Something about the space is intimidating. 

The large leather chair with its dimpled back and the even bigger desk; slabs of marble set into polished ebony. Shelves of a similar material, decked out with numerous volumes and the occasional ornament. Some appear even to be genuine artifacts. The rug at the centre is patterned in Persian style.

Behind the desk are a set of doors that open onto a balcony. The drapes are drawn shut. You find that is often the case. It’s a sombre and dark space hidden from the bright gardens without. Your tasks here are minimal. You use the hand vacuum and dust the shelves. You aren’t to touch the desk at all.

A shadow startles you as you drag the cloth along the edge of the bookshelf. Your eyes round and you look over as Mr. Laufeyson enters. You blanch but he doesn’t acknowledge you. He sighs and goes to the desk, sitting in the chair and wheeling it closer. You narrow your sights on the shelves; focus.

You feel a tremble but quickly shake it away. This is his home, he must be able to exist within it, but this feels strange, almost deliberate. Is he trying to make some point? To scare you? You remember the mention of those who came before you. Did they quit or did he dismiss them? Regardless, you can’t afford either.

It isn’t that difficult to follow the rules. Don’t speak? You haven’t much to say. You get closer as you advance along the shelves to the back of the office. He lets out another long exhale. His chair creaks, once, twice, and again.

“Hm,” he rolls back and swivels, an action you observe from the corner of your eye. He tuts and wheels back to the desk, resuming tapping on the keys of his slender laptop. The glow limns his silhouette sinisterly.

You rustle the drapes as you pass them and cross to the opposite shelves. As you brush over the spines of the books, you nearly drop the cloth. His low hum frightens you as he mimics the same melody that played from the speakers below. His tone is deep and sonorous, even delightful.

You squeeze the cloth and pause before regaining your composure. This cannot be a coincidence. The camera and now he’s following you. Or so it seems. Does he distrust you? What reason have you given him?

You are mindful to wipe down the bronze statue of what you assume is a viking warrior. You place it back staunchly, making sure your work is entirely visible to him. You are honest and you like to think you do your work well. Or at least, you try to. Perhaps if he sees that effort, he won’t be so suspicious.

As you head for the door, he quits his humming. His chair squeaks again.

“You are rather more thorough than the last,” he muses.

You stop and turn your head. You nod. He’s baiting you to break his number one rule.

“And you take orders well,” he adds blithely, “that is rare these days.” He taps a key again, “as you were.”

You take the dismissal in stride and flit off to your next task. It isn’t much, maybe only a statement of fact, but it’s something. He isn’t unhappy with your work. So far, neither are you.

[kitty-gray]

“Your father was a con man and you wanted to be like him. Your duffel bag is probably full of things you stole from the Institute.”

“It . . . ,” Kit began, and trailed off as Ty reached over, yanked the zipper on the bag down, and eyed the cache of stolen daggers, boxes, scabbards, candlesticks, and anything else Kit had scavenged revealed in the moonlight. “. . . might be,” Kit concluded.

NO ONE IS DOING IT LIKE THEM

[kdogreads]

Happy Birthday, Dean

Dean x Reader smut

Summary: It’s Dean’s birthday and you’re celebrating by doing his favorite things: drinking beer and having sex.

Warnings: 18+ only content, very little plot just smut lol, please let me know if anything needs added here

Word count: ~1300

A/N: I can’t promise I’ll keep posting content this frequently, but right now I am on a smutty roll lol. For now, please enjoy our birthday boy’s gift ;)

————————————

Dean never wanted to make a big deal about his birthday, but you just couldn’t resist. You surprised him with some beer and snacks, and a few small wrapped gifts. A Kit Kat bar, Slim Jim, thrifted silver candlestick (to melt down into bullets), and a 5-pound bag of salt. He said he didn’t want anything but giggled like a school boy the whole time.

Sam and Eileen left the bunker shortly after the festivities concluded, adding a few gifts of their own. They were smart enough to know you two wanted some alone time.

As soon as the door shut, Dean walked over to you, took your beer out of your hand to set it down, and planted a warm, hungry kiss on your lips. You smiled into his mouth.

“Happy birthday to you,” You began while you worked on the buttons of his shirt. Dean’s eager hands grabbing your hips.

“Happy birthday to you,” You slid his shirt down his shoulders while he slid his hands under your own and pulled it quickly over your head.

“Happy birthday dear Dean,” He made quick work of the clasp on your bra and discarded the thin garment to the floor, pushing you up against the large table in the library. His rough hands lifting you easily to sit on the cool, wooden surface, pausing only to squeeze your round ass.

His hands moved to your breasts while he exhaled a sharp breath, cupping them and kneading them in his large hands. You crashed your lips to his and tugged the waistband of his jeans.

Moving frantically and sloppily you undid the button and unzipped the fly, shoving his jeans and boxers down in one swift motion. Dean followed suit and undid your jeans in record speed, his lips never leaving yours, and lifted you slightly with one strong arm so you could slide your pants and panties off and onto the floor.

Your folds were already dripping in anticipation, wanting Dean inside you filling your walls with his rock-hard cock. No other man could make you so desperately horny and wet without even touching you. The looks he gave you and dirty thoughts he whispered into your ear throughout the whole party had you biting your lip to keep from crying out all night.

Dean grabbed your hips and pulled you to him, his hard cock rubbing against your already throbbing clit. His hot breath danced down your neck and you threw your head back in ecstasy as he nibbled on the soft spot just above your collarbone.

He lined himself up with your entrance, one hand guiding it into your core and the other tangled in your flowing y/h/c hair. Your hands grabbing at his shoulders and the short hairs at the base of his neck.

He slowly slid himself into you, filling your wet center with his large member. He moved so slowly your body started aching for more of him. You gasped and let out a low moan as his hips met the inside of your thighs. A deep groan escaped from Dean’s throat.

“Happy birthday to you,” You sighed out as he pulled himself almost all the way out, leaving only his throbbing tip inside. You met his emerald gaze and dropped a hand to brace yourself on the table.

“Happy birthday to me, indeed,” Dean hissed as he slammed back into you. You inhaled sharply as the force of his hardness made your warm walls shutter.

He began thrusting in and out of you strong and steady. His arm held onto your waist so he could keep pounding into you while the other yanked on your hair, tugging your head back with it.

He sucked and kissed your neck leaving little red marks and pulling rhythmic moans out of your throat.

Dean let you out of his strong grip and pushed your stomach back until your back was flush with the table. He threw your legs over his shoulders before looping his arms around them to grab on both hips with a strong, powerful grip.

This was your favorite way to take him and he knew it. The new position made him fill you in an almost unbearable way. With each thrust he slammed into your sweet spot making you see stars and feel your walls begin clenching around him.

Within seconds you felt the white hotness of the most intense orgasm take over your senses. Dean smiled a wicked smile and began circling your clit with his thumb, never breaking his demanding pace. You shook in his grasp and rode the waves of pleasure through each thrust before coming back down and gathering your senses again.

“Fuck, Dean,” You finally breathed out, “God you fuck me so good.”

Dean let out a primal grunt in response and grabbed your right leg, sliding it back down to rest on the table so he could have easier access to your clit.

He continued plowing roughly into you, smiling as he watched your face twitch in intense pleasure.

“Cum for me, daddy, please,” you begged, wanting to feel Dean’s warm liquid spill out inside of you.

“Fuck,” Dean grunted, “Gladly, baby. But not yet.”

You dropped your head to the table while Dean worked eagerly on your clit. He circled it with his fingers and moved you in all the right directions.

“Dean,” you moaned, “Dean please I can’t- I’m s-so close.” You had barely recovered from the first one before you felt your walls tighten again, another wave of pleasure coursing through your veins.

You let out a loud moan and yelled Dean’s name over and over until the spasms inside you finally slowed down. He fucked you through the waves and dragged your intense pleasure out as long as he could. You could barely tell which way was up by the time your fingers stopped clawing into Dean’s strong forearms, and you let out a raspy, “Fuck.”

“That’s my good girl,” Dean cooed into your ear, pulling you up from the table and holding you close to him, “Such a good girl cumming all over daddy’s dick.” Still thrusting himself into you, just slower and more methodically.

You tangled his hair in your hand and ran the other down his back, scratching him with your nails the whole way down.

“Please, daddy. Please cum inside me,” You breathed into his ear, “Fill me up, daddy, please.”

Dean’s pace wavered for the first time as you felt his muscles tense up. He growled into your neck and let out a string of curse words. He tightened his grip around your waist as you felt him spill out inside you, filling your walls with his sticky warmth. You gasped into his ear as the new sensation sent shivers up your spine.

“Fuck, y/n,” He hissed, “God I love your tight pussy, baby” He kept thrusting into you, slowly tapering his pace, trying to ride every wave of pleasure he could deep inside you.

You sighed as he slid himself out of your sore, throbbing folds. His eyes met yours and he pulled you into a deep, passionate kiss. He held you tight as if he wanted to savor every single moment his skin felt yours.

You smiled contently as Dean grabbed his discarded t-shirt to clean you both up and plant another warm kiss on your lips.

“Happy birthday, Dean,” You whispered into his mouth, a smile creeping onto your face

“God, I love birthdays,” Dean exhaled and smiled.

“But you’re supposed to let me take care of you on your birthday!” You responded in protest, wrapping your arms around his shoulders.

“We’ve got all night for that, baby,” Dean bit playfully at your neck and you let out a squeal in surrender.

Dean stepped back and extended his hand to help you off the table. It took a moment before you regained your balance.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” you told Dean before turning in the direction of the bathroom. You kissed his lips one more time and squeezed his arm.

“I’ll meet you there, sweetheart,” Dean responded with a wink. You laughed lightly and headed on your way.

It was going to be a long night and you couldn’t wait.

Join my tag list! Thank you so much for the love ❤️ @this-is-me19

[crepe-of-wrath]

Benefits Package St. Valentine's Special Part 2 (Alucard x Fem Reader)

Please see Part I for overall notes; this is sensual/Reader being looked after; blood/biting mention, but there is nothing sexual (sorry!). Part II takes place at an as-yet-unspecified time after Part I.

Your life was routine as it could be, given that you worked for a woman who casually used the world's most fearsome monster as a weapon. You woke up--sometimes in your bed, sometimes where you had crashed after another late night at work--worked your way through whatever Sir Integra needed from you, ate your simple meals, and then worked well into the night attending to all the small things that were always getting postponed to take care of the types of crises the Hellsing Organization got called on to make go away.

You rubbed your hands together and yawned. Probably best to stop soon; this was detail work and best not done when you were this tired. And, as your stomach unceremoniously reminded you, hungry.

You realized that--

"You haven't eaten dinner yet, little human."

You still jumped whenever Alucard manifested himself, but you generally didn't shriek anymore. "You're right, I should go to the kit--"

"No," Alucard said, offering you a hand as you got out of your chair. You were surprised to see he was just wearing his suit. He looked much more...formal without his duster. As always, he was devastatingly beautiful, red eyes and lustrous hair, just the perfect length--slightly unruly, but not overly long.

"It's too late for the kitchens," he said, in a strangely--and seductively--commanding tone. "I have prepared something already."

"That's very kind, thank you."

Alucard offered you a strong arm and your fingers slid over the fine wool of his suit. You were not a tiny thing, but you felt it as he guided you down the halls. He was not so casual or modern as to touch the small of your back or to intertwine fingers; no, in these moments, whatever of the Old Aristocrat, the boy who had been part of a class that saw itself as separate and superior and demanded expressions of that superiority through the flawless performance of prescribed ritual, manifested itself. He walked in march time, gaze always straight ahead, and it was fascinating to see this vestige of court drill still embedded him after all this time.

He opened the door to one of the dining rooms, where the table was appointed with a lace tablecloth, candlesticks, fine dining china, a variety of elaborate ice-packed serving trays, and tools. Laid over one chair was something made of fine-looking, semi-translucent fabrics.

Alucard had taken hold of your shoulders and was rubbing circles with his thumbs as he leaned down and whispered in his deep, plush voice, "Your clothes must be uncomfortable after such a long day. Perhaps those would be more pleasurable."

The part of you that had developed a million different defense mechanisms to shield the soft, romantic core of your heart almost laughed at the absurdity of it all. What ancient and forgotten wardrobe had he found this--goodness, it was an honest-to-God 1930s peignoir and negligee set--garment in? Some inner voice stopped you though, told you that, strange as it might seem, laughing would deeply wound him.

"Let me change," you said. "It's so thoughtful of you--I am sure it will be so much more comfortable."

You availed yourself of an attached cloakroom and grumbled when you realized how right Alucard was: it felt divine to shuck off your skirt suit. It fit fine, but any outfit with waistbands and buttons and pantyhose was going to feel tiresome after a 12+ hour workday. The cotton of the nightgown was incredibly soft and you actually felt beautiful when you saw how it showed hints of your lingerie underneath and showed off your décolletage. The silk of the robe caressed and soothed in all the ways that nylons never could.

Alucard met you in the doorway, first smothering your hand in kisses, and then once again offering his arm so he could escort you to the table. The candles were lit and the table was set with smoked salmon and a variety of caviars on ice. A flute of champagne was already bubbling away. He pulled out your chair for you and then took a seat to your left. You began plucking plump looking pieces of smoked salmon and digging into the caviar vessels with a spoon (a proper mother-of-pearl spoon, of couse). The grey-golden pearls and the iridescent streaks in the spoon glistened in the candlelight.

It was so good, the contrast of the fatty fish and the salty, briny caviar further cut by the dry, sparkling champagne. The fine, flimsy fabric allowed you to feel the intricate wood carving in the chair, the details in the upholstery's brocade, the depth of the pile of the carpet. This was incredibly relaxing, and you marveled at the vampire's ability to know how badly you had needed this.

Alucard watched you devour the caviar with an inscrutable look. He regarded his own goblet with a bit of resignation. You locked eyes with him and smiled very big to try and convey how appreciative you were.

"Sometimes, I miss the ceremony of feasting."

"Then feast from me."

The declaration surprised you both. "You freely offer this?" he asked. You nodded firmly, adding a verbal, "Yes, I do."

He reached out and took your hand, pulling you across his lap. You presented your neck to him, and here he did not hesitate. You gasped at the intrusion into you neck and whimpered as he drank: it was pain and pleasure and strange euphoria for both of you.

When he lifted his head up and took a deep breath of satisfaction, you lifted your own head up to kiss him, but he gently put a gloved finger to your lips and took a fine linen napkin off the table, blotting the blood that had been trickling down your neck, just before it stained your gown.

As he held the ruined napkin aloft, he chuckled. "Master will be so irritated," he said, boyish amusement in his eyes.

He insisted you eat a bit more to regain some strength and to be sure you were truly sated. When you could eat no more, you stood up and walked to his chair to ask to dance with you, but, as you opened your mouth to ask, you yawned.

He took you in his arms, eyes taking in your breasts, which were pressed into him, before he spoke. "Time to sleep, my dear."

You were about to protest, when you were taken by a sudden swoon of exhaustion. Alucard was staring at you intently.

"You allowed me to drink, and after such a long day, little human. We will dance another time." You opened your mouth again, not wanting this night to end, but he stopped you.

"I said, time to sleep, little human."

You began to drift off as though under a spell, but you knew Alucard was carrying you toward the bedroom where you usually slept when you worked late. In the bedroom, there was a dresser with a great mirror over it across from the bed.

The last thing you saw before you succumbed to slumber was a vision of yourself in the mirror, wrapped in diaphanous ivory, your body limp in the arms of a tall, well-built, dark-haired man who was gently lowering you into a soft bed. You were the Sleeping Beauty of your silliest fantasies that had been stoked by Disney films and fever-dream nineteenth century canvases. You hoped that the smile you felt in your heart had made it to your lips for Alucard to see.

When you awoke the next morning, not to an alarm, but to the gentle glow of the morning sun through the sheer drape, you could see in the giant mirror that your hair was rather attractively messy and the cotton nightgown, whisper-soft against your skin, enveloped you like a cloud. The silk and lace peignoir was arrayed at the foot of the bed as though it were staged for a photoshoot

Alucard had left your keys, pocketbook, and calendar on the nightstand. You used the bookmark to open your datebook, and without thinking, flipped to the next page to see what you had on for today.

You smiled softly and your eyes misted when you saw that today was February 15th.

[aneurinallday]

The Grey Man

Chapter 9: The Way Home

Sunlight was streaming through cracks in the wagon’s curtains, dust motes slow-dancing in the air, when Tommy awoke. He found himself still sitting in the bunk, leaning against the wall, his neck aching from the unnatural angle. The doctor was fast asleep at his side. In the light of day, the bruises from Arthur’s knuckles had almost faded, leaving behind only a subtle yellow-brown tint; but his face looked pale and fragile.

It was impossible not to pity him. But he was still the enemy, and Tommy had still fallen asleep beside him.

Fuck, Tommy thought. He wasn’t irritated at the doctor, but at himself. Yesterday’s escape attempt had taught him the consequences of lowering his guard, yet he’d done it again. Just because Holford was weak didn’t mean he could be trusted.

Tommy rose, trying not to disturb Holford, and got dressed. As he straightened his cuffs in front of the mirror, he saw the red mark on his head from the candlestick, and the welt on his neck from the curtain-cord. He sighed. What the fuck are you doing here, Tom?

The fire had burned out. He lit the hearth again, tidied up last night’s mess, and took stock of what supplies he had. With water and canned milk and rolled oats, he started to make porridge in the iron pot.

He felt eyes on him, and turned to see that Holford was awake; the smell of cooking and the clatter of the ladle against the sides of the pot had drawn him from his sleep.

“Morning,” said Tommy.

The doctor didn’t reply. His green eyes followed Tommy nervously - no longer dazed and unfocused, but clear and apprehensive. In the cold light of day, now that he’d had a good night’s sleep, a horrible clarity had set it, and the events of the previous day seemed so much worse.

He’d attacked Tommy, almost killed him, escaped, discovered that his own people wanted him silenced, barely survived their brutal torture, and now he was back in Tommy’s hands. He’d gone out of the frying pan, into the fire, and then back into the frying pan. And to top it all off, he’d cried and pissed himself in front of Tommy, as if he hadn’t been humiliated enough already.

“It’s alright,” said Tommy, as if reading his thoughts. Setting the ladle aside and leaving the porridge to gently simmer, he picked up his medical kit. “Those bandages will need changing by now.”

Wincing, Holford slowly sat up. He started to push the blanket away, then realised he was naked and pulled it back up.

“My clothes?” he asked hoarsely.

“Ruined. I got rid of them. You can have something of mine.” Tommy sat beside him. “Let’s take a look at that arm.”

In a way that Holford couldn’t quite put his finger on, Tommy’s tone was different. Still cold and reserved, but the ever-present sardonic edge was gone. Seeing Holford reduced to such a state had disarmed him.

Tommy started to unwind the bandages around the doctor’s left arm, a little blood leaking out as he did so. Holford watched anxiously. As the gauze peeled away layer by layer, he remembered the feel of the rough asphalt underneath him, the knife’s edge, the invasive touch violating his dignity. Then he remembered shadows cast by firelight, and the taste of whiskey, and - fuck. He’d offered himself to Tommy.

Holford squeezed his eyes shut, took deep breath after deep breath, trying to suppress the memories. Tommy noticed his reaction, but said nothing.

“I’m sorry,” said the doctor, “About yesterday and about…last night…”

“It’s done. Pointless dwelling on it.” Tommy changed the dressings, then washed his hands and returned to his cooking. The porridge was done; he ladled some into a bowl, and handed it to Holford along with a spoon. “Eat it while it’s hot.”

“Thank you.”

As the steam rose from the bowl to greet him, Holford’s forgotten appetite came flooding back and he realised just how hungry he was. He hadn’t eaten a hot meal in a fortnight. His sore mouth curled painfully around the spoon, conscious of re-opening the old cut in his lip. There was something sweet mixed into it - honey? Each spoonful soothed his throat, which was still raw from screaming.

“You know how to cook?” he remarked.

“You don’t?”

“...I suppose not.”

“Growing up, I spent a lot of time on boats and in caravans. Eating what I caught or gathered. When I wasn’t, I lived in a little flat in Small Heath. I cooked my own breakfast and my own supper. I didn’t always live in a grand house with servants, like you.”

Tommy put on his holster and coat. His cap had fallen on the floor during yesterday’s struggle; he picked it up.

“I’m going to take a look around. See if I can bring back some game for supper.”

“The lock’s broken,” Holford said quietly. “What’s to stop me from running away?”

“Well, Mosley, for a start. And those rain-clouds, if you don’t want to get soaked.”

Without waiting for a reply, Tommy left, glad to be out in the open fields and away from Holford’s presence - from the thought of Holford kissing his hand, and of the doctor’s naked skin. As he went, he removed the razor blade from the brim of his cap, threw it away into the grass where he would never find it again, and put the cap on.

The wagon doors were open, but he didn’t care. They both knew Holford wasn’t going anywhere.

And so it was the next day, and the next, and for more days than they cared to count. They fell into a routine: check the injuries, wash the arm, change the gauze. Breakfast, tea, supper. Tommy fetched water at dawn and hunted at dusk. Washed clothes in the stream and hung them up to dry.

The missing skin on Holford’s arm was growing back one fraction of a layer at a time, starting at the edges and working its way towards the centre, the raw red turning to deep pink. Tommy never brought up what had happened - forcing Holford to relive it would’ve been cruel - but inwardly he gave thanks for Pascoe’s precision. The bastard’s skill with a knife had ensured a shallow and even cut, with no damage to the muscles or fat underneath.

The days turned into each other. Every now and then, they would move to a different camp, a different field, a different forest…It didn’t matter. They were all the same to Holford. He didn’t ask where they were headed, nor did he particularly care. Sometimes Tommy blindfolded him, but he didn’t care about that either - he had no intention of trying to escape again.

His body was healing, but something inside the doctor remained broken. Before, he’d used to explore the wagon, pacing restlessly to and fro. He’d read Richard III cover-to-cover until he'd practically memorised it. He’d tried to engage Tommy in conversation, desperate to create a connection. Now he just lay silent, facing the wall.

He no longer pleaded for release, because there was no point. Even if he escaped Thomas Shelby, where would he go? Mosley wanted him silenced by any means possible. Going to the police would only reveal his own role in the conspiracy. Even if he was spared prison, he would lose his license and his reputation. There was no life for him outside this wagon any more. He’d given up.

If Tommy was troubled by his change in mood, he didn’t remark upon it. Perhaps he didn’t want to re-open wounds that were still so fresh, knowing that Holford already spent every waking moment thinking of Pascoe’s assault and Mosley’s abuse. Or perhaps he just didn’t care.

Chapter 10: Wild Mint

[isablooo]

I don't normally post this kind of stuff but I've been wanting to share some research photos I took at the Fragonard Perfume Museum when I visited Paris in the Summer! I took loads of photos as research for my comic Séverine’s Perfumery, but these are the highlights. It's free to visit and very beautiful so I would so recommend going!

From left to right:

1.) Perfume organ, used by perfumers to arrange raw materials!

2.) Nécessaires de voyage (essentials kit for travelling), Paris, c. 1809-1819. It was a gift from Duc de Berry to his first wife Amy Brown and holds a hundred objects, including toiletries, perfume bottles, teapot, coffee pot, hot chocolate pot, sugar bowl, candlesticks and tools for sewing and writing.

3.) Nécessaires de voyage close-ups.

4.) Enfluerage board.

5.) Corset bottles: Jasmin, Lotus flower and Lilac, Ahmed Soliman, c. 1920.

6.) Selection of 19th century perfumes.

7.) Crystal and pink gold flacon, France, c. 18th century.

8.) Muguet (lily of the valley) flacon, Guerlain, c. 1900.

9.) Flacon from the workshop of Bernard Perrot, France, c. second half of the 17th century.

10.) Perfume nécessaires (essentials) in the form of a book that Marie Antoinette used to offer round to her guests c. late 18th century.

11.) Flacon in the shape of a knight, France, 19th century.

12.) Nécessaires (essentials) case holding 13 toiletries, including a mirror, London, c. 1760-65.

[sixminutestoriesblog]

for all your vampire slaying needs

Apparently a vampire slaying kit went up for auction last year at Hansons Auctioneers. Dated from the late 19th century, the kit sold for $15,600.

"Inside the box is a matching set of pistols, a brass gunpowder flask, holy water, a Bible, a wooden mallet, a wooden stake, brass candlesticks and rosary beads. The box also contains paperwork from the Metropolitan Police, a force that serves the greater area around London, registering an "alien enemy" in 1915. 

"The task of killing a vampire was extremely serious, and historical accounts suggested the need for particular methods and tools," Charles Hanson, the owner of Hansons Auctioneers, the auction house that sold the box

The kit once belonged to Lord Hailey (1872 to 1969), a British aristocrat and administrator in colonial India. It's unclear whether he actually hoped the kit would help him ward off vampires or whether he, like the kit's most recent buyer, bought it out of fascination, Hanson said."

Van Helsing would have been proud.

source

[thearachive]

⌜  loving you feels like i’m dreaming.  ⌟

╌╌╌╌╌╌【 ꜱ ᴘ ᴏ ɴ ꜱ ᴏ ʀ ᴇ ᴅ 】╌╌╌╌╌╌

•   ❛ SOLEIL ❜ top; rigged for legacy f [+perky], maitreya, ebody reborn [+juicy booba, mounds, teacups] & kupra. set includes bloomers.

available @ORACLE / KUSTOM9.

•   ❛ KRYSTAL ❜ stockings; rigged for MAZE’s soft thighs - legacy, kupra, ebody reborn & maitreya.

available @ORACLE.

╌╌╌╌╌╌╌ 【 ᴄ ʀ ᴇ ᴅ ɪ ᴛ ꜱ 】 ╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

ʻ 𝘨 𝘦 𝘯 𝘦 𝘵 𝘪 𝘤 𝘴

head - ora 3.1  @lelutka.

body - ebody : reborn @ebody reborn store.

skin - ‘ari’ [in velour shade ‘brownie’] @heaux.

hair - ‘sukhi’ @vco.

deformers - ‘ebody reborn deformers’ @pretty liars.

ʻ 𝘤 𝘰 𝘴 𝘮 𝘦 𝘵 𝘪 𝘤 𝘴

blush - ‘imperfections’ @reverie.

moles - ‘metronomy kit’ @veltica.

freckles - ‘simple freckle pack’ @okkbye.

ʻ 𝘢 𝘱 𝘱 𝘢 𝘳 𝘦 𝘭

panties - ‘bloom’ @bonnie.

shoes [in set] - ‘rubi heels’ @sweet art.

ʻ 𝘢 𝘤 𝘤 𝘦 𝘴 𝘴 𝘰 𝘳 𝘪 𝘦 𝘴

collar - ‘bell collar’ @otaku.

flowers - ‘delicate daisy bouquet’ @ariskea.

ʻ 𝘴 𝘦 𝘵

pose - ‘alexa’ [modified] @sweet art.

ʻ 𝘴 𝘦 𝘵  𝘥 𝘦 𝘤 𝘰 𝘳

‘dreamy outing’ @dust bunny : blanket, pillows, cooler, baskets, fruit board, sandwiches, chips, umbrella, bag.

my son - ‘corgi puppy animesh [companion]’ @rezz room.

windblown book - ‘beach day . breezy book’ @dust bunny.

book w/ clutter - ‘gardening books with mister’ @apple fall.

macarons - ‘sweetheart lunch . macaron bowl’ @dust bunny.

polaroid - ‘serene 2’ @haikei.

phone - ‘your bloom 3/4’ @haikei.

candles - ‘glass candlesticks’ @fancy decor.

bicycle - ‘emma flower bicycle’ @dust bunny.

˙ᵕ˙

[brandonwayneb]

Wicca

Vikka Викка

Wicca Knight's

Vikka Rytsar' Викка Рыцарь

Wicca Can Duel

Vikka mozhet duel'

Wicca Candle Candlestick

Wicca Candle Podsvechnik

yah churchyard: tserkov' pogost

yah church bats: letuchiye myshi

opentezhetvex: Chandelier Rachel

godson

ˈɡädˌsən

judsun

‎جودسون

krestnik

крестник

god skin

jild allah

‎جلد الله

kozha boga

кожа бога

God, Bog Бог 'iilh إله

Booger Snake

ava, is the ace, never eve error

aya, is the ace, never eve error

mickey mouse volcano

mickey mouse vay allocate know

mickey mouse volvo

Heimlich maneuver, kitesurf*

pinky and the brain

Now you see why I only post Tom

Roma Red Tomato Swat Teams Sniper Zipper Espn Assassinations Overwatchs’ bliss church bats

Now you see why I only post Tom

Now you see why I watch Tam, Mat,

Wicca, Needle Quilt Roma Tomato

Mathematics David

Wicca Jewish Swastika

Espn Psy News Swastika Pay Ray, Playdates, Private School TreeHouse Tapestry

wicca knight’s

watch fat men on the stare masters,

mmmmmmmmmmmm

Gay = The Day Always

Organic = Our Gay Nick

Vegan = V A Gay Anna

Wic = Wicca and Baby Food Cards

EBT= Bet Your Bottom Food Dollar

Debit = Swipe Swipe Pen Code

56 Nazi Mazi Manny Moobs Animé 222222222222

spec

zinc

if you need words to power through lies,

use Brandon Bra Man Boobs Bra Sebastian Steinhausen

okay ya ya gym

every drop a blood is like a castle

every single spec is a tip of a infinite castle, sand tornado swords

same goes for soul, keep divine twine. no america trash codes

smithereens

no sea water talks,

say only stay on stage Abu

séance déjà vu

keep only giiiiin ziiiiiiiii now, xeno geo neo ziiiiiiiiniiiiith zion iiiith, oversight overseer spell bayne 'zEeeeNnnn’ ‘zen’ is failed, say up ziiiiiin gin zi

knight wiccan knight pagan page tome, tom, Palestine, pagan

Brandon Wayne Burdett Sebastian Steinhausen, sky news 56 nazi worship rapists to find everyone

‎فارس ويكا فارس صفحة وثنية توم ، فلسطين ، وثنية

‎ براندون واين بورديت سيباستيان شتاينهاوزن ، سكاي نيوز 56 نازي يعبد المغتصبين للعثور على الجميع

faris wika faris safhatan wathaniat tum , filastin , wathania

brandun wayn burdit sibastian shtayinhawzin , skay niuz 56 nazi yaebud almughtasibin lileuthur ealaa aljamie

bliss church bats temples

love handles drum solo kit

map spam the words agave nectarine

agave nectar, purists, as of puritans, purist, necromancer, aroma, roma purée que cup cupids arow's

spams maps only 222222222222,

star 56, dot kiss 123456777626

bliss church temple bats

trust me, pretend you're made of lead.

sand tornado’s séance

wicca knight’s

Wicca Jewish Swastika Sky Quicksand, kkk www quick, www kkk wick,

Kiwi

Wiki

Wicca Swastika

Freddy Lobby Server's

Betty Boop Server's

[pinerreader]

Plash palatka shelter

The final belt item was an entrenching tool. The belt would also carry a water bottle. A grenade pouch was usually worn on the left side. Reenactor websites I have viewed are insistent that it became routine to wear just one ammunition pouch, which was positioned on the right of the belt. At the start of the war a pouch was worn each side in the same fashion as a German soldier. So what did the Soviet soldier carry? There would be an ammunition pouch. Some removed the gas protection equipment and used the bags for more useful items. Once it was accepted that gas warfare was unlikely Soviet soldiers often did not bother to wear this bag. The Soviet equivalent was a canvas bag carried near the left hip. Other blades such as German trench knives or Finnish puukot might also have been carried.Īn iconic equipment item of the German soldier is the metal canister used to carry his gas mask. Scouts and some other troops might carry the NR-40 knife. While the bayonet was a useful fire poker, screwdriver, pot lifter and candlestick it was not much use as a utility knife. Bayonet scabbards tend to be all metal and on the heavy side in my experience, so this policy may have saved the Soviet soldier a few ounces of unnecessary weight. No bayonet scabbard was issued in wartime since they were not needed. Some other Soviet weapons had folding bayonets. It was also a handy implement for clearing a jammed cartridge. The standard bayonet had a screwdriver tip for adjustment of certain parts of the rifle. The Soviet rifle used a socket bayonet that was kept permanently attached to the rifle. The German usually placed his bayonet over his entrenching tool. The breadbag may placed inside the pack rather than being worn on the belt.Īnother “missing” item is the bayonet scabbard. Again the Soviet seems to have preferred to carry his rations and personal items in his pack. There was a Soviet version of the breadbag but it does not seem to have been so widely used. An older pattern of circular pail was also in use. The Soviet mess tin was a kidney section pail of similar design to the German. The Soviet seems to have preferred to carry his mess tin in his backpack or tied to the outside. Sometimes the mess tin was attached to the yoke or a backpack but carry on the belt was very common. The German routinely carried his mess tin and breadbag on his belt. The British had a similar rain cape as did the US, post war the poncho was introduced in the British army but with the advent of gortex they have been withdrawn (due to being useless for keeping you dry and the hood being problematic for shelter making) and replaced with a PLCE basher, functional and one of the best items of kit we have at the moment.The first thing you notice when comparing the German and the Soviet is what is not there. The Russians had the 'plash palatka' which was rectangular and was used as a rain cape or basic shelter. Similar equipment has been issued in most armies for years, probably decended from the watch cloaks used since medieval times. Pretty cool eh? Sort of like an issue origami set. The Zeltbahn could also be used to make basic flotation aids: They were made in numerous patterns for both wehrmacht and SS, most of which were reversable. It could also be worn as a poncho to keep dry:Įarly ones were field grey (I have a couple of these, check me) but wartime they were camoflaged so that every soldier had some basic pattern disruptive clothing. The triangular zeltbahn is based on the square pattern of 1892 used up until the mid 30's, 4 could be buttoned together to make a four man tent (comfy to sleep in), more could be put together to form even bigger structures: The WW2 version is triangular with buttons along each side, holes in the corners for tent pegs and a tent pole. The German shelter quarter (or zeltbahn) was made from a cotton duck twill which when wet swells slightely making it more waterproof.

[azulso]

Doom Patrol S2 behind the scenes

[exoentomologist]

i just realized that if i go into the mikvah in less than 4 months, i really gotta start finding myself some Basic Jewish House Stuff

[secretsofblackthornhall]

Magnus to Alec

Dear delectable muffin of love,

I hope this perfumed letter finds you well, and that you and R and M are having an excellent time in your exotic journey to…well, I believe the term you used was “upstate.” I have heard legends of this Upstate, but never did I know that my family would see for themselves its mountains, its twee farm markets, its River of the Son of Hud.

More to the point, I hope the kids are enjoying their visit with Grandma, and I hope you are referring to Maryse as “Grandma” as often as possible because I enjoy the face she makes when we do. On a less pleasant but more urgent note, I hope you’ve had a chance to talk with Luke about the Cohort/Idris stuff.

But do not tire your beautiful hands with a written reply. I will be heading to this “Upstate” myself to join you later this afternoon, as I am relieved to report that the business with the Blackthorn kids’ cursed house is more or less resolved. Although it was touch and go, let me tell you.

I don’t think I even showed you the note Jem sent, which said, “Emma and Julian are trying not to bother you about their house, and that is very nice of them, but unlike them, I feel absolutely no compunction about bothering you, and so this is me, now, in this note, bothering you. We are in need of a warlock and you are the best one I know for this. We would all really appreciate your help.”

As is often the case, I was both mildly annoyed and mildly impressed with Jem, who managed to be both very kind and also to remind me that I am a sucker when it comes to him and Tessa and will rush to their aid when I can. Because I am a sucker when it comes to him and Tessa, I wrote back quickly saying I would come.

I know what you’re thinking: “How could Tessa need a warlock when she is a warlock?” But different warlocks have different expertises, as you know, and while Jem was flattering me that I was the best choice, the reality is that I have dealt with a lot more curses than Tessa. That’s what comes of spending the past decades hiring your services out to any miscreants who come by, instead of more intelligently living a calm life as a magic researcher in the Spiral Labyrinth. Tessa always was the smartest of us.

Anyway, I must give Emma and Julian credit. I expected to arrive and find them banging the cursed objects against one another or something, but they had set up a decent enough protective circle and even found a spell. It was an old, kind of generic spell that I have found to rarely be of much use with actual curses in the modern day, but still.

Rather stupidly I set up a basic workaday curse-breaking circle of my own, and gave it a try. “Stupidly” because I had forgotten who did the curse in the first place. Your worst ancestor, Benedict Lightwood, all-around demon enthusiast and dilettante necromancer. How in bed with demons was Benedict? He literally died of demon pox — which if you do not know, because you are beautifully pure, my Alec — is a sexually transmitted demon disease.

But I forgot that in the moment, so I was surprised when the curse put up an impressive resistance. It writhed and thrashed and struck out, like Max being lowered into a bath. The cursed objects were all glowing, kind of neon green, where they were tied to the magic, and eventually I realized I was going to have to carefully unknot each object from the curse, one at a time.

I managed the flask, the dagger, and one of the candlesticks (don’t ask me to explain how THAT happens), but after that I was stuck.

It’s not a great look for a warlock to strike a big magic pose and then nothing happens. I am sure I looked ridiculous, like a mundane magician who couldn’t understand why the rabbit wasn’t coming out of the hat. Julian and Emma are very polite and only waited patiently but I felt quite silly.

And then I lost all my focus temporarily because the door opened and Kit walked in. He sort of looked around at the scene and finally said, “Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick, I see.”

“Purple is always an appropriate color for a warlock,” I said. “It is the decorative color of magic.”

Emma, of course, said, “Your magic is blue,” because she is an inveterate smartass.

“Maybe he meant me,” said Julian. “I’m wearing a purple hoodie. Also because it is the decorative color of magic,” he added with a nod in my direction, which I appreciated.

“Maybe you could put the objects on a purple tablecloth instead of a white one,” Kit said, and while he was talking he walked out to get a closer look.

And when he got close to the circle, Alec, I felt the strangest sensation. A feeling of…power, I suppose, kind of humming in Kit. You know the way your body kind of vibrates when there’s a really really low sound? That rumbling feeling? It was like that, but silent. I’ve never had that experience any of the times I’ve seen Kit before. I could also tell that Kit didn’t feel anything unusual. Or if he did, he was surprisingly casual about it.

So I suggested he come join us around the circle and add his focus to the magic. “Especially since Jem and Tessa have snuck off somewhere rather than helping out with this round.”

“They’re out in the garden with Mina,” Kit said, a little defensively.

I redirected everyone’s attention to the objects and established a somewhat souped-up version of my go-to curse breaker. I went for the other candlestick and BANG. No resistance anymore! There was a big burst of blue and all the knots of magic tying the objects to the curse broke into pieces.

Everyone blinked a bunch. Eventually I said something like, “Well, that was more what I was hoping for. I guess four people made the difference.”

I checked. The curse seemed…gone. I was actually a little shaken. I haven’t mentioned it to Tessa and Jem, because I don’t want to make a big deal of it, but I think it worked because of Kit. Not because we needed a fourth person. Something is going on with him, some magic that is totally outside his awareness. I assume it has something to do with being a descendant of the First Heir, but I’ve never been an expert on that kind of faerie enchantment. (And do burn this letter, after you get it — very few of us know about Kit being the First Heir, and it’s best if we keep it that way.)

It makes me sad to think of it. Kit is a good kid who deserves a good, ordinary life. I know that’s what Jem and Tessa want for him, more than anything, after the chaos that was his growing up. But I am not sure he will have a choice in the matter. Fae may not let him choose.

Julian reached out and took hold of the flask. He held it for a moment, frowning.

“What?” said Emma.

“Nothing,” Julian said. He looked up at me. “Is that it? No more curse?”

“No more curse,” I said. “I hope.”

And then down from the ceiling drifted Rupert the Ghost. I never met Rupert Blackthorn when he was alive. I don’t know what to think of him. On the one hand, he seems to have been an innocent who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, a spirit trapped in a house he never lived in because of evil he never knew about while he lived. On the other hand, he met Tatiana Lightwood and thought that lady seems like marriage material, so there must have been something weird going on with him.

Rupert had been hovering and he descended until he was right above the table. He was staring at something on it.

“What is it, Rupert?” said Emma. “What are you looking at?”

Kit followed his gaze and started pushing the objects out of the way. “It’s the ring,” he said.

Emma said, “What ring?”

Indeed, what ring? There wasn’t a ring among the cursed objects. But there was a ring on the table now. Kit picked it up. It was a silver ring, etched with a design of thorns and set with a black stone.

“Blackthorn family ring?” Kit said.

“It’s not how family rings usually look,” Emma said.

“Wedding band?” said Kit.

“Shadowhunters don’t use wedding rings,” said Emma, but Julian had that thoughtful look he gets.

“I am bound here by a silver band,” he said softly.

“Shadowhunters can exchange wedding rings,” I said. “They just aren’t expected to. But they can if they want.”

Whatever it was, it was Rupert’s. He had followed Kit’s hand as it picked up the ring, and now he was reaching out for it with a thin ghostly hand. He wrapped it around the ring, which did absolutely nothing since he’s a ghost – Kit just kind of held it there for him. Then his eyes closed (Rupert’s, I mean) and he got this expression on his face of relief and gratitude and peace, and he just…faded out, right there. Just slowly vanished and was gone. No more Rupert. On to hopefully not being reunited with his wife, since she was also his jailer for over a hundred years.

“He didn’t even say goodbye,” Emma said quietly.

“That’s for the best,” I said. “He was never supposed to be here at all.”

“Well, Rupert, if you can hear me,” said Emma, “it was nice being haunted by you.”

“Five stars,” said Kit solemnly, putting the ring back on the table. “Would be haunted again.”

And all the candles went out in the room at once. Which, if it was Rupert, was a nice touch. Though it may have just been a draft.

We all filed out of the room quietly. “It’s different,” Julian said. He was looking around at the hallway. “I can feel it already.”

I could feel it as well. There was a lightness that had not been there. A kind of pleasant hominess that a good house conveys and that had always been absent from Blackthorn Hall in the time I’ve known it. It’s hard to describe, but all at once it felt like Julian and Emma’s home, in a way it hadn’t before. I’ve always known it as a forbidding place, and then as a hideous ruin, but for the first time I thought, this was a place the Blackthorns could fill with joy.

And I’m certain they will.

See you very soon, my love. I shall kiss you until a toddler forces us apart to pay attention to him. So plan for a kiss of about 30-60 seconds, based on previous experience. But I wish, as always, that it could be endless.

Love,

Magnus