#one of the booksellers gave me a rose

[equivocations]

Feira de Libros de Plaza Italia, Buenos Aires. After he saw the painting, one of the booksellers gave me a rose 🌹

[birdofdawning]

The Bookseller's Eldest Daughter and the Witch's Girl

The first chapter is here; the previous chapter is here.

Chapter Six

Her father was not happy. “Here you are, promised to the Inkmaker, and you go off and get yourself married to a King’s son! How will that make the Inkmaker feel? Devalued, that’s what! Devalued and of-no-account! Must you think of no-one but yourself!?” he ranted as he paced up and down in his eldest daughter’s new bedchambers. He had been knocked out of bed at six o’clock in the morning and found the stove unlit, no tea brewing, and two guards with orders to bring him to the palace. There the Steward and the Queen informed him of his eldest daughter’s imminent nuptials.

“And here I am having to agree politely with all these grand people — and miss a day’s custom too! You do make an inconvenience of everything!”

His daughter watched him with tired eyes. Despite everything she had swiftly fallen asleep the previous night, being exhausted from her adventures. But she had been woken up even earlier than her father by silent servants who dressed her in tight, scratchy, and extremely complicated clothes. Her best dress, the one her sister had worked so hard on, was spirited away with expressions of repugnance to the rag pile of someone-or-other; her satchel and her sensible boots, however, she managed to kick under the bed when nobody was watching. Breakfast was brought up to her room, though by the time it arrived it was cold — purposefully so, she suspected. For the handmaidens and footmen attending her left her in no doubt that she was not liked.

Eventually her father departed (extremely annoyed that he had to ask permission of the Steward to do so — “Why, it’s enough to make a fellow want to flirt with Egalitarianism!” he said a little too loudly) and the girl found herself left in a grand bedchamber filled with ornate furniture and beautiful hangings, with windows overlooking the palace rose gardens, and quite, quite alone.

She had asked one of the handmaidens if someone could fetch her something to read, but the woman only gave her a blank look, said “I’m sure I wouldn’t know anything about that, miss,” and left, revealing the two guards standing sternly outside the bedroom door as she did.

So the Bookseller’s eldest daughter spent her day sitting at the windows and looking out over the city, counting ships coming into harbour and flocks of doves circling the various buildings. Away to the west she could see the clocktower and the synagogue of the Antique quarter, and home. Further south was the city wall, and the smoke of the Braziers’ Quarter. She imagined pointing this out to the Witch’s girl, who replied I’m afraid I’m not in the habit of wasting my time speaking with fools and lackspirits. You will have to excuse me.

Eventually the light faded and supper was brought to her, and still nobody had addressed her with more than a few curt words. Of the Queen or the King’s son she saw nothing.

That night she lay in bed in her too-short nightdress and thought back over everything. She knew she needed to start working out what to do next, but somehow her heart wasn’t in it. “Tomorrow,” she decided. Ah yes, ‘tomorrow’. I am constantly amazed at the toil and sweat that is expended ‘tomorrow’, said the Witch’s girl in her head, No wonder you were always too tired to call on me, what with all the work you were going to do ‘tomorrow’. “I hate you,” whispered the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, and then she rolled over onto her side and fell asleep knowing she was a liar.

The next few days were just the same. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter would be woken up at cockcrow and dressed by strangers in uncomfortable clothes. Sometimes long pins were involved in the dressing, and these would prick her; her hair would be arranged into tight, elegant styles and this always involved painful tugs and cool apologies and far more ribbons than she had ever imagined existed in the world. Every other day she was bathed before she was dressed, in water that had cooled considerably on its way up from the kitchen, and she was vigorously scrubbed with harsh soap by her attendants, so much so that she had bruises by the end of her toilet. Her breakfast would arrive cold and often not properly cooked. She would offer most of it to the small kitchen cat that had begun slipping into her chambers with the handmaidens, but the animal was just as likely to turn its nose up at the mess as she was; the girl herself mainly lived on toasted bread.

Then, breakfast removed, she would sit at her window and watch the world. Sometimes luncheon would arrive. More often she was forgotten, so that by evening and supper time she was famished and would have eaten anything, no matter how badly cooked.

Though the Bookseller’s eldest daughter didn’t know it, the rest of the palace was faring almost as miserably. The King’s disposition remained extremely poor, which was quite out of character in that mild man. He found fault with everything, from his pot of coffee, to his vestments, to the appearance of his favourite horse. And then, face crimson with fury, he would fall into violent tirades at whichever poor servant or courtier he decided was responsible. Even the Queen was unable to sooth him or get him to take a more reasonable view of things. And at the slightest mention of his son’s marriage to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter he would stamp his foot and thunder “It shall be so! I have commanded it!” and storm out of the room muttering threats. Everyone in the palace was agitated and, as you can imagine, quite sure in themselves as to whom the blame for this reversal in character could be attributed.

So it was little wonder that on the third day the King’s son visited the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.

“I wish to know what you have done to my father,” he said, coldly.

“I promise I haven’t done anything to your father,” she replied, but by this time she had little hope that she would be believed.

The King’s son paced up and down her chamber, giving her sideways glances. “There’s really no point in going on with this farce,” he said in that low, controlled voice that men use when they wish you to know the effort they’re making not to strike you, “I am certainly not marrying any sorceress. You will tell me how to break your hold over my father and then I will have you hanged for treason.”

Resisting the impulse to point out how unpersuasive this was as an argument, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter leaned forward in her chair and tried to appeal to him: “Help me escape instead. I certainly don’t want to marry you either! Once I’m away from here you’ll never see me again.”

The Kings son gave a mirthless laugh. “Oh, you won’t be escaping from this place. My father has doubled the guard, and anyone — even me! — who is caught aiding you in any attempt to flee loses their head. The King has been very clear. As I’m sure you already know. And note this: even if you do get bored and choose to disappear in a... a cloud of sea mist or something, remember that we know all about you and your family.”

The girl didn’t answer. She turned back to her window and stared out until he left.

But he returned several times over the following days to rant at and threaten her in a way that was most unbecoming in any young man let alone one who expected to eventually sit on a throne. It was almost a relief when the dressmakers arrived to start measuring her for a wedding dress, for he deemed it beneath his dignity to be seen swearing at a common shop girl and would leave.

The dressmakers, overseen by the ladies-in-waiting, worked in a terrible silence. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter was only spoken to when they wished her to turn around or to raise or lower her arms, and these requests were brief and unfriendly. Bales of damask in pinks and oranges appeared and the ladies-in-waiting had murmured conversations over styles and fripperies, ignoring any comment the Bookseller’s eldest daughter tried to make. Great import seemed to be attached to how many ribbons could be plaited into her locks, and she spent hours sitting uncomfortably while her hair was twisted into strange and terrible shapes. When she wasn’t needed she would find herself hiding away in a corner with only the little black kitchen cat for company while the other women argued about wedding favours for the guests [1], and waited to be summoned again for the next fitting. She almost began to look forward to her solitary evenings.

But I am afraid that even in this faint hope she was soon to be disappointed. For to her surprise the Queen began to call on her, always at sunset. The older woman, every inch now the famed beauty, would sit with her by the window and make cool indifferent conversation — did she enjoy dancing, what were opinions on rose cultivation, how was her needlework? — but the Bookseller’s eldest daughter suspected the Queen paid little attention to her answers. Instead sharp grey eyes watched her carefully. She longed to interrupt and say Please believe me, I am innocent of this thing! But what was the point?

And then, as soon as night had fallen, the Queen would rise and leave with barely a word.

On the fifth day her sister visited her. She was shown into that beautiful chamber as the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was having another of her interminable dress fittings and feeling utterly miserable. The Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife gazed around the room at all the dressmakers and handmaidens and ladies-in-waiting, and then she put on a sweet smile and addressed the haughtiest of the ladies: “Good morning! I know it’s awful but would you mind dreadfully if I had a private audience with my sister? We’re probably going to be giggling and being such ninnies, and — I know it! — would embarrass ourselves tremendously if everyone was watching our silliness. And I can tell you’re far too kind to let that happen!”

The lady so addressed was not, in fact, too kind to let that happen, and would have been delighted at the chance to report to the court even more observations on the common and unbecoming behaviour of this wicked girl who had enchanted the King for a crown; but she couldn’t immediately think of a way of denying the request in front of everyone without appearing uncivil. “Of course,” she murmured shortly and lead everyone out of the room.

The Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife closed the door after them and looked at her sister.

“I wish I could do that,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter glumly.

“You’re far too busy getting into stupid messes,” said her sister, “And that colour is horrible on you.”

“I know.” The Bookseller’s eldest daughter stared down at herself sadly.

“Honestly, Ophelia, what were you thinking!? Getting tangled up in all this… I don’t know what! All week long I have been hearing stories of the nefarious enchantress who has bespelled the King. And this morning our father finally thought to tell me that it was you!”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter slipped off her uncomfortable court shoes and sat down silently by the window to toy with a pin-cushion.

“They say,” the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife continued, walking over to finger some off-cuts of fuchsia-pink damask, “that the King has sworn to cut your head off if you don’t marry his son. And also that you’ve cast spells on the King, so that his son has to marry you. And that you’re a prisoner, but also that you’ve usurped the throne. It all seems rather contradictory. This is nice,” she said holding up a length of apricot-coloured silk. She glanced back at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter to see what she thought; and then her face changed at whatever she saw and she said “Oh! You poor silly goose—!” and a moment later she was on her knees with her arms thrown around her sister.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter let herself sink into her sister’s embrace and sighed. After a while the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife said “I knew, of course, how little you wanted to marry the Inkmaker, but honestly—!” and despite everything the Bookseller’s eldest daughter laughed.  

Then the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife sat down at the window seat too, and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter told her all that had happened. And when she was finished her sister looked uneasy and said “So you think this is the… them? This is them revenging themselves?” and she shivered as she spoke, for she still had bad dreams about her time in Fairy.

“I think it must be,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “I can’t think of anyone else who might hate me so.” Can’t you? said a voice in her head, but she ignored it.

The Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife looked about the room and tried out a more cheerful tone. “Well. I suppose one could do worse than marrying a King’s son and living like this,” she said, idly stroking the kitchen cat, who had appeared in her lap at some point, like cats do.

“He loathes me. He thinks I’m a sorceress and wants to see me hanged.”

“Not the best start for a marriage,” agreed her sister. “I thought you were sweet on that girl at the Witch’s house.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter slumped in her seat. “I ruined that. I said horrible things to her. Although,” she said, frowning, “she also said horrible things to me.”

“What did she say?”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter thought back. “She said — she implied, she never says anything outright — that I was using her. Because I asked her to help me save the King’s son. She said that I was only interested in money and… and my prospects.”

“You? And prospects?” The Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife laughed unkindly because they were sisters. “Does she know you at all? You only care about books and the shop. Oh.” She stopped and gave her sister a suspicious look. “If there really was an affection between the two of you… Ophelia, you were calling on her when you could, and going for walks and so-on…? You didn’t come over all shy and tongue-tied, and pretend she didn’t exist, like you did with that printer’s girl you liked when you were fourteen?”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked awkward and the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife said “Oh, Ophelia!” in an annoyed but unsurprised voice.

“I was busy with… with work! And, and helping you with your wedding!”

“Oh yes, you were a great help with my wedding! I set you to roast some vegetables and then come in to find them smoking and you sitting beside the stove reading a cookbook!”

“It was Mrs Mynchyn’s Ars Coctione and she writes in a very amusing way!” retorted the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “Although she is quite spiteful about everyone. But I like that.” At this thought a tear made its way down her face, which she quickly wiped away, “And I helped you hem your kirtle.”

“You began to help me hem my kirtle; I had to finish it because you wandered off somewhere. Ophelia—”

“And I found you that poem about the moon and night-fishing as a metaphor for love!”

The Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife nodded gravely, “Yes, it was a charming poem. Thank you. However, I don’t know but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if your Witch-girl might have felt a little slighted by you staying away and ignoring her—”

“I wasn’t ignoring—!”

“—IGNORING her! And then suddenly you appear again just when you want something! What was she to think?”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter swallowed and nodded. “You’re right,” she admitted, “I get so caught up in my own matters and forget to consider how other people might be feeling. And yes, I think I wanted some reason to see her again. I couldn’t just… call on her. I was too afraid that I’d make a fool of myself.” She sighed. “Oh Miranda, I’m awful.”

“Yes, you are,” agreed her sister.

“And now she probably never wants to see me again, and she’s right. I’m a bore and a lackcourage. And I liked her so very much.”

The Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife rolled her eyes. “Then go and apologise, you peahen! You do make things hard sometimes!”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter stared at her. “How can I? The King has sworn to have my head if I try and leave!”

Her sister shook her head in exasperation. “Then start being the cleverest person I know once more and fix all this. And when you’ve done that, go and make it up with the Witch’s girl. By now she will have heard that you are set to marry the King’s son, so you’ll probably have to do even more pleading. There you are, “she added as she gently removed the purring kitchen cat onto the floor, and stood, straightening her skirts, “I’ve made a two-step plan for you: fix this ridiculous situation and then apologise to your young woman.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter fell back against the window still and groaned. “How easy you make it all sound, Miranda! Why, I hardly have to do anything!”

Her sister laughed and walked across the chamber, throwing open the door to find all the attending women waiting impatiently outside.

“We've had a lovely talk and decided not to use all that,” she said gesturing toward all the pink and orange silks “they're lovely, of course — such good eyes for colour you must all have! — but my sister has expressed a wish for her dress to be of midnight blue with silver ribbonwork. Or dark green with gold?” she added glancing over her shoulder at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, who stared, bewildered, back at her. “Make both, and she can choose before the day,” decided the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife with a nod, and she strode off down the corridor.

Dress fittings became ever so slightly more bearable after that.

But still the palace was broadly hostile to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter and took every opportunity to let her know it. The King’s son would pace about and threaten her after breakfast, the ladies and dressmakers would ignore her throughout the day, and the Queen would sit and engage her in icy conversation at sunset.

The Bookseller met with her again as the date of the wedding drew closer. He spent most of his visit berating her for putting the Inkmaker out so, and also bemoaning at how much extra work he now found himself with these days. “I must close the shop every time I need to have a word with the printer, or attend an auction. I dread to think how much custom I am missing out on — and here you are living like a lady in the palace! I don’t think it too much to call your behaviour positively unfilial, my child.”

“If I had been married off to the Inkmaker you’d still have to be doing all of that yourself,’ pointed out his daughter, but he was not willing to admit to this.

“I’m sure he could spare you from time to time,” he said airily, “Anyway: we shall never know now, shall we?”

Her sister also called upon her when she could, and smilingly settled matters such as which flowers ought to make up the bridal crown (“Roses, of course! White if she wears blue, and yellow if she wears green.”) and of what the nosegay ought to contain (“Why, rosemary and bay! Anything else would tempt misfortune. Yes, even orange-blossom!”).

But I am afraid that her fourth visit was more perturbing.

“Ophelia,” she began, after once again managing to remove that unfriendly company of women from the chamber, “I may have some bad news. I went to see the Witch’s girl, to let her know what had happened to you.”

“Oh?” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, turning from the window to regard her.

“I walked until I found the correct house — it looked just like your description,” her sister told her. “But nobody was there: that house is quite, quite empty. As the neighbours were very happy to tell me in great detail, the Witch disappeared from the city a week ago.” And she went on to relate a few of the accounts the residents of the Braziers’ Quarter had divulged to her: how all the Witch’s chairs and tables and other furniture walked out of the house by themselves one moonless night while the Witch flew above on a spinning wheel and laughed; or how the Witch had stepped outside one Tuesday morning and began playing a strange tune on her fiddle, and soon a great a great flock of songbirds had descended upon her house and transported all her possessions away through the air. One woman had said that the Witch hadn’t departed on her own free will, but that all the dead men she had wronged had come and carried her off, and that it was debt collectors who had turned up the next week and taken her belongings.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter frowned at this news. “And what about her servant girl? Did they know what had become of her?”

“The Witch didn’t keep any servants,” said the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife quietly, watching her sister. "Everyone assures me she lived quite alone."

“What?” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “Of course she didn't! No, they must have…” And then she blinked twice. “Oh,” she said, “Oh!” She sat down suddenly in a chair and was silent for a long time. And then she said, in a very small voice, “Miranda, she was right. I am a silly fool.”

Her sister leaned over and kissed the top of her head. “You’re the smartest fool I know. But you do tend to see only what you’re concentrating on and miss the obvious.”

Two days before the wedding the Queen came to call on the Bookseller’s eldest daughter in the early afternoon instead of the evening as had become almost habitual. She courteously requested a private audience with the girl and the Ladies-in-waiting and attendants reluctantly departed, annoyed that they were going to miss whatever was about to happen.

Once they were alone the Queen walked over to the window and looked out, making a few remarks about the weather.

“Madam,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter stiffly, “as to that, I hardly know what to reply since (as you are aware) I have been confined to these chamber for almost a fortnight now.”

The Queen had turned sharply at her tone, and now looked intently at her, as if trying to make up her mind about something. “Like everyone else,” she began after a moment, “it seems to me quite apparent that you are responsible for this situation; that it is all a part of some foul scheme you have conjured. And yet… And yet when I lay the matter out in my mind, several aspects strike me as curious.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter watched her and waited.

“If you could do this, ensorcell a king, why not replace me as his wife? Or simply get him to abdicate in your favour? And why put yourself in this ridiculous position where he could have you put to death in a moment of pique?” The girl shivered at this thought. “And why confine yourself here?” went on the Queen, beginning to pace. “You’re obviously not enjoying it. Unless you’re that skilled in deceit, and perhaps you are. But when I first met you I know I felt sure of your character.” She came to a stop before the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “My dresser tells me that every day you are pricked, pinched, ignored, and insulted, and that your tormenters walk away unscathed. And that too strikes me as curious behaviour from a wicked sorceress.”

“If this really is all a part of my evil scheme then, why, I know everything already,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter carefully, “So really, you lose nothing if you tell me what has been happening. For truly! I know very little, and have been at a loss as to how I can mend matters.”

They stared at each other for a long moment, and then the Queen sighed.

“I don’t really see I have any other recourse — we are almost out of time. Very well, then. The last fortnight has left the palace in a state of uproar. The King is as you saw him last: unreasonable and choleric and behaving quite out of character, forever finding fault and ordering punishment for imagined insults. Always I must stay by his side in order to prevent the worst from happening. I speak of banishments, or even summary executions, you understand.

“And then, as the afternoon wears on, he becomes more and more himself again. Sometimes he even appears surprised when he’s reminded of the upcoming wedding. But as soon as evening falls there’s a moment…” she frowned, as if trying to remember something. “I don’t know what it is that happens, but when it’s over he has returned to this ill-temper: furious at any perceived slight and obsessed with Samuel marrying you.” She shook her head, “So far this state of misrule has only disrupted the palace, but if nothing is done then surely the whole Kingdom will soon be in the same disorder. And that must not be allowed to happen.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter considered this. “He seems better in the afternoon… but then something happens—”

“At sunset, yes,” said the Queen, sitting down by her. “And a further curious detail, one that seems trivial but must be pertinent: I have realised that no-one in the palace ever remembers the moment when the sun actually sets. It is evening and then suddenly it is night. Something happens at twilight, something of which we are all unaware. But what it is…”

“Ah, thus your evening visits to me. You wished to discover what sorceries I was practicing each sunset to achieve my wicked ends.”

The Queen sighed. “An endeavour in which I have been quite unsuccessful, as you are aware.”

“Yes, because it is not my doing.” The Bookseller’s eldest daughter leaned forward. “Madam, having done little but give this matter thought, I have concluded that this is a fairy revenge. That they are bespelling the palace and everyone in it because I stole your son back from them.”

The Queen slowly nodded. “Yes, it occurred to me that this might be so. If it isn’t you, after all. But how to prevent them?”

The girl thought a moment. “Take an ice bath.”

“What?” said the Queen, forgetting her formal tone.

“Have a bath brought to wherever the king is at around sunset — where is he usually?”

“Sitting for supper, or on his way,” said the Queen, staring.

“Well then. Have the bath set up… behind a curtain or in a gallery — somewhere where he won’t see you and demand answers. Have the bath filled with the coldest spring water, and with ice if you can obtain it. And just before the sun sets and everyone forgets their wits, climb into the bath. Because then you’ll be too busy thinking ‘Oh! How cold!’ to be lulled into a stupor by the magic, and so you will be able to see what occurs.”

The Queen was looking at her as if she had lost her faculties. “Child, I am not going to have a bath in public!”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter shrugged. “Then get your son to do it. I worry that he finds his days to be a little empty and lacking in purpose. This will make him feel useful.”

“And possibly be a spiteful little revenge upon him,” said the Queen, but she stood up decisively. “I shall consider your suggestion.” And she left, allowing the ladies-in-waiting and various other attendants to return, all clearly disappointed at the composure of both women and happy to take it out upon the girl’s hair, which all now agreed needed to be much higher in order to hold even more ribbons.

They finally left her alone at the end of the afternoon, and she sat at her window with the kitchen cat, smelling the late summer roses and watching the shadows lengthen. She observed the sun wester, but she found that, just as the Queen had said, she was insensible of the moment when it sank below the horizon and night fell. One moment the highest towers of the city were being bathed in orange and gold light, the next it was dark and crickets were calling down in the rose garden. Then she wondered what was occurring downstairs, and if the Queen had taken her advice.

And so I am happy to say that it was less than an hour after nightfall when the Queen knocked quietly at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s door and, upon being granted entry, slipped in followed by her son. He was in a thick dressing gown and his hair had dried into odd spikes, but he didn’t seem to care about any of this in the least. Instead he was excited.

“You were quite right!” he said, smiling at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter for the first time since their acquaintance, “I saw the whole thing!”

And then he told her how he and his mother had had a bath moved to the minstrel’s gallery above the great hall, where the King was to sit for supper, and how the servants filled it with the coldest water they could get, emptying in sacks of ice that runners had brought from the frost market. “Then, just as the sun was setting, I sat myself down in the bath — my oath, but it was biting! I could barely think with the cold! And then what do you think I heard?”

“I can’t imagine,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, who was having trouble recognising this affable young man as the scowling Prince she was used to.

“A peel of silver bells rang out from the twilight. And everyone below me stopped speaking or serving or whatever they were doing, and stood stock still. Mother too! And I know I would have been struck so as well, because the bells sort of got into your head, but I was that deuced discomforted I started back awake almost at once! And so I saw that, that Person — do you know who I mean? I see Them in my dreams some nights…”

“I think I know,” she said. “What about Them?”

“Yes, I saw Them glide in, from where I couldn’t tell. And They went right up to my father and whispered in his ear. I suppose I can make some guesses as to what They were saying, but... well, They smiled too wide all the while, d’you know what I mean? I felt like striking that horrible smile off Their sly face!”

“Thank heavens you could not!” said the Queen, “Carry on.”

“Then the Person… went away, again I couldn’t make out how. And a moment later the last chime of the bells had faded into silence and then everyone up and carried on just as they were! Why, I believe Sir Romant took up his story about the wolf in his orchard exactly where he had left it, and neither he nor his listeners the wiser!”

“So,” said the Queen, looking at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter with kind eyes, “We all owe you a tremendous apology. Oh, my dear child, if I had not listened to you—!”

The King’s son had become solemn and pompous at these words. “I, especially, have behaved appallingly to you. Miss Ophelia, I beg you to inform me of what I may do to expiate myself and repair our situation.”

“Oh, let’s not think of it,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, a little impatiently, for she was more interested in the matter at hand. But she politely invited them to sit with a gesture. “But I must say that it is wonderful to not to feel so alone at last!”

“You are kinder than we deserve,” said the Queen with dignity. And then she sat down and, suddenly informal, exclaimed “But, my dears! what on earth do we do next!? Tomorrow is the eve of your wedding day!”

The King’s son hummed, but didn’t appear to be quite as outraged at the thought of marrying the Bookseller’s eldest daughter as he had been.

“Oh, that’s easy,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, who was feeling more like herself than she had done in days. “You order the chapel bells to be rung from dusk tomorrow to dawn the next morning.”

They stared at her, astonished. “All night?” said the Queen, “But why?”

“Don’t you see? The fairies can’t stand the sound of iron bells!” she explained, “Thomas Thistle has a whole two chapters documenting their aversion in Multifarious Accounts of Fairy, its Nature and Customs! I am quite certain that while the bells ring that Person must stay away from the King.”

The Queen was shaking her head. “The state the King is in… even if he has calmed down by tomorrow afternoon I can’t see how we will get him to agree to this!”

“Tell him that it’s in celebration of the upcoming nuptials,” suggested the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “A wedding gift from the bellringers. Or perhaps the Barometer Makers’ Guild have reported a dramatic atmospheric low coming and advised that all the bells in the city be rung to agitate the air and break up the coming storm?”

“The first one, I think,” said the Queen with a smile, “The second may require a little more explanation than I feel I could provide. But how am I to convince the bellringers to work all night like this with only a day to prepare?”

“Oh, just go to them and ask a question about change-ringing,” said the girl, “I doubt you’ll discover much resistance to the idea. Bellringers, I have found, are very enthusiastic in their work.” She shuddered slightly, remembering previous conversations with bellringers. “If they’re not at the cathedral they will be drinking in the Cornishman’s Head.”

“This is all very well,” said the King’s son, “But what I want to know is: what is to stop the fairies from trying again another night? We can’t very well have the bells rung every night.”

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked a little awkward. “I do not wish to appear immodest or solipsistic, but I am wagering that once I am removed from the palace the fairies will lose interest in the rest of you. I am the one who thwarted them. Although I am sure they treasured your company very much,” she added soothingly to the Prince. He glanced uncomfortably out into the night and prayed she not trouble herself worrying about his pride. “Oh!” she added, brightening, “And I shall write you a list of protections you can keep about the place. Just in case. Thistle and Whitherwick — and Greenaway, of course! — have much to say of the matter of defences against the fairies; and, of course, the ordinary people of the Kingdom have long practiced their own vigilance over uncanny matters; modern society has much to gain from a proper survey and compilation of…” she noticed the politely bewildered expression on the face of the King’s son and trailed off self-consciously. 1

The Queen was looking up at the ceiling, still thinking through the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s scheme. “Still, the practicalities of the idea… hours of bellringing… it will make everyone in the palace quite mad by the end of it,” she mused, “not to mention the rest of the city.”

“Ah!” The Bookseller’s eldest daughter rose and stepped over to her bed, from under which she pulled out her old satchel. Quickly searching through it she turned back with her hand out. “Ear plugs! Quietly have it put about that if things get too noisy then they must fashion some just like this. They’re what I used—” She was suddenly aware at the identical looks of mild disgust both her guests wore and glanced down at the lumps of greasy tallow in her palm. “You might prefer beeswax,” she suggested after a moment.

And, in fact, the Queen and the King's son both declared that they would prefer beewax over tallow. That being decided, the Queen said that she had much to do and had better begin that evening. “I wish we could let you out and have you come with us,” she said, “but, of course, the King—”

The girl waved the apologetic words aside. “I can bear one more day. Let me know if there is anything I can do, though.”

On her way out the door the Queen paused, noticing the little black cat who was now curled up on a stool. “Oh! Hallo. And where did you come from?” she said.

“It’s the kitchen cat,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “She’s been keeping me company during my days here.”

“The kitchen cat is a large tabby,” said the Queen, “But perhaps they’ve gotten another one. Goodnight, my dear.” And she followed her son out of the chamber.

The Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked thoughtfully at the little black cat. “I hope you’re not secretly a fairy, guising,” she said, “If that were the case I think I should scream and not stop.”

The cat gave her an insouciant stare and then leapt down and strode to the door, requesting leave to withdraw, which she granted. The guards outside gave her hard looks, reminding her that, so far as most people in the palace were concerned, she was still the wicked sorceress that she had been an hour earlier. But nevertheless she went to bed feeling more hopeful than she had in many days.

The little black cat, meanwhile, had made its own way down through the palace and into the gardens, where it climbed a wall and dropped down into a quiet lane behind the palace grounds. There it arched its back and began an awful hacking and wheezing, eventually coughing up a small rolled up piece of paper. This was retrieved and tucked safely away, and then the person who now stood where the cat had been walked off humming with her hands in her pockets.

[1] They settled on fine white gloves being handed out to each guest, this being quite the fashionable thing to do that season. “But surely they won’t fit the hands of many of the guests?” the Bookseller’s eldest daughter wondered aloud. She was ignored, and the gloves ordered.

[2] Before she left the palace the Bookseller’s eldest daughter wrote down a short list of practical defences against the fairies for both the King and his son, mostly to put the poor Prince’s mind at ease. The King blithely ignored these suggestions, despite entreaties from his wife and son. The Prince, however, had unsurprisingly developed a dread of that capricious people and took to habitually wearing a self-bored pebble hanging from his neck on red thread, and carrying a walking stick of rowan-wood topped with a simple iron handle when out on excursions. During his own reign he established the position of Royal Campanologist, with attending Ringers who would welcome every special occasion with elaborate peels.

I am happy to say that the Prince kept the girl's document, and it has been passed down as a family treasure, the single scrap of writing paper carefully preserved in a leather folder embossed with the royal coat of arms. Scholars of fairy history can now view the list by special permission from the current head of the family.

The next chapter

[found-objects-1]

Letter 3

May 28th, 2000 Paris, France

I wish that you were here with me. Yesterday, something wonderful happened: Jean and I became grandparents for the very first time. An adorable little girl weighing 2.6 kg was born, named Rose Hélène, in honor of her godmother. We are over the moon. Jean, who, you know him, is usually so reserved, was more emotional than I have ever seen him. He didn’t even dare hold her at first, fearing he might hurt her. But once he was reassured, he took dozens of photos to capture the moment. We gave her a little pink bunny as a comfort toy, and Jean is already looking forward to showing her the real bunnies in the hutch at the bottom of the garden when she visits us. It’s strange how this moment transports me: it feels like I gave birth to my daughter yesterday, and yet it seems like centuries have passed. Claire and Hélène will soon come to meet the little one, along with their families. The cousins are eager to meet their new baby cousin. You would be amazed to see how much they have grown. Antoine, for instance, is preparing to take his baccalauréat in a few weeks. He has always been more passionate about motorcycles than books, much to Claire’s concern, though I know he will do his best not to disappoint her. Louis, on the other hand, is only dreaming of summer vacations. He will be going to a seaside camp with his friends and is already buzzing with excitement. He is like a little tornado, always adventurous and noisy, always climbing trees or running around. And then there is Eloise, entering her final year of studies to become a bookseller. She’s already working in a small shop and carefully saving up to open her own bookstore. A true little entrepreneur! She reminds me of you, with your passion and determination to always keep moving forward. As for Jean and me, we are leading a peaceful life. We have discovered a shared love for board games and spend many afternoons at the activity center playing with our neighbors. The coordinators introduce us to a variety of games, and we have have a lot of fun doing it. Knowing your impatience, I wonder if you would have liked it. We are also planning a big project: a trip to Portugal, which we hope to take next year. Lisbon, Porto, and maybe even a few small villages… We have always dreamed of this trip. Jean is already having fun learning a few words of Portuguese using the books I borrow from the library. Suzanne, I miss you every single day. Know that Jean and I watch over your children and grandchildren with all our love. They are so strong, so brave. You would be immensely proud of them, just as I was of you. I love you, my dear sister. Madeleine Valois – but always Maddie for you.

*national high school diploma in France.

[middleearthpixie]

Where I Belong ~ Chapter Ten

Summary: The next morning, things are a little awkward between Noelle and Thorin, although they thaw a little as they venture into the Village to visit Farran’s Bookseller…

Pairings: Thorin Oakenshield/ Noelle James (female oc)

Characters: Thorin Oakenshield, Noelle, Dr. Ian Carter

Warnings: None

Rating: T

Word Count: 3,713 words

Tag List: @tschrist1 @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @linasofia @fizzyxcustard @legolasbadass @kibleedibleedoo @xxbyimm @ocfairygodmother @exhausted-humxn-being @shalinizhara @rachel1959 @laurfilijames @sketch-and-write-lover @sherala007 @enchantzz @knitastically @notlostgnome @myselfandfantasy

If you’d like to be added (or removed) to the tag list, please just let me know!

Previous chapters can be found here and AO3

When Noelle opened her eyes the next morning, it was to see rain patterning the window across from her bed. Rain sucked, but it was better than snow. Sort of, anyway.

She lay there for a long moment, a sense of sadness lingering about her and it took a moment or two for her to remember why it was there. Then it all came back to her—her and Thorin in the kitchen, her in his arms, his murmured, “I would rather be alone and know what it would be like to be loved by you, than to die never knowing you.”

Chances were he no longer felt that way, and for some reason, that didn't make her feel any better. A heavy sigh rose to her lips as she stared up at the white ceiling. She loved her bedroom. It was small, but an oasis of tranquility, with its blue-gray walls and deep blue carpeting. She collected photographs of doors from all around the world, and the ones hanging in her room were painted almost the exact same shade of blue as the carpet, set in white stucco on the island of Capri.

The sounds of Thorin’s moving about reached her ears and part of her wanted to just hide away in her room and not have to face him. But she couldn’t, of course, and so she sat up and kicked away the covers.

Her robe lay across the foot of her bed, and normally, she wouldn’t bother with it. But, since she slept in shorts and a camisole, it probably would be better to cover up a bit, so she picked it up to shrug into as she left her room.

Thorin was at the window once more, just staring out at the rain. Her heart beat a little faster at the sight of him and she wracked her brain for something non-lame to say to him. She didn't want things to be weird between them. Not when he’d soon be gone.

She didn't want to think about that.

He glanced over. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” And just like that, the tension broke and she joined him at the window. “Is something interesting going on?”

“No. Just watching the rain. I don’t suppose we will make it to the park in this weather.”

“Probably not. But, we can still hit the bookstore. That could take up a good part of the day anyway, so…”

“You don’t think we will find the door there, do you.”

It wasn’t a question and when she met his eyes in the window, she shook her head. “No. I don’t. But, it wouldn’t be the first time I was wrong, either, so who knows?”

She drew in a deep breath and let her hand come to rest on his shoulder. He tensed beneath her palm, but then relaxed, and asked, “What time does this bookshop open?”

“Ten, I think. I’ll check.” She gave his shoulder a light squeeze. “I wanted to apologize for last night, Thorin. I didn’t mean to lead you on and I’m not usually a tease like that, but—”

“You needn’t apologize. I crossed the line and you were right to halt me.” He turned to her, his gaze even and direct and he didn't flinch as he added, “And I would have regretted it, no doubt, as you are not my One.”

It was the same thing she’d said to him last night, only hearing it from him really stung. There she was, teetering on the edge of falling hard for him, for this man—this dwarf—who only existed in a fictional world. And to hear him so bluntly reassure her that he did not see her that way, no matter how much she knew it was true—hurt far more than she cared to admit.

“No, I’m not. And the sooner we get you home, the happier we both will be.”

“Truer words were never spoken.”

She swallowed hard even as her throat tightened. “Then I’ll go shower and when I finish, you can hop in and then we can go.”

He turned back to the window. “Very well.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

She turned to stalk out of the room, and by the time she reached the bathroom, she sighed softly. Why was she angry? Why was she hurt? He was right. She wasn’t his One. His One only existed if JRR Tolkien created her and Noelle had no way of knowing if that even happened. She never finished The Hobbit, had never read any of Tolkien’s other works. So, for all she knew, she was jealous of a character who didn't even exist.

She closed the bathroom door and sank back against it. Jealous of a character in a novel. What was wrong with her? If that wasn’t the epitome of idiocy—jealous that a fictional man would marry an equally fictional woman and not her—

A low groan rose to her lips. “You’ve lost it, Noe,” she muttered, slapping herself in the forehead. “And you need to get a grip. A real one. Otherwise you’ll find yourself at Bellevue.”

With that, she pushed up from the door and moved to start the shower, vowing to not think about it, all the while she did nothing but think about it.

Thorin stood beneath the hot spray and just let it pound into his skin. He’d never seen anything like this wonderful fountain, although the fountains of Rivendell came close. But even they were only cold water. Not like this amazing fountain, where he could have scalding water, freezing water, or a comfortable blend of both.

The many bottles boggled his mind. Shampoo. Conditioner. Leave-in treatments. Body wash—there were at least three different ones labeled this. He picked up one and popped the top to sniff. Cloyingly sweet. Enough so it actually stung his nose.

Several of the bottles were marked for men, so he picked one of those to sniff next. Much better. Cleaner smelling and not nearly as sweet. He lowered the bottle to eye a huge ball of pink mesh hanging from the caddy. With a shrug, he grabbed it, squeezed a glob of body wash onto it, and went to work scrubbing.

From there, he shampooed, then conditioned, just as the bottles directed, and when he was finished, the water was slowly going cold on its own. He shut off the taps, and bent slightly to squeeze as much water from his hair as possible. Wet, his hair almost brushed his hips and it would take the better part of the day to dry. Still, he tried to get as much water out of it as he could, then he rubbed himself dry with a scratchy towel.

That done, he wrapped the damp towel about his waist and left the bathroom in a cloud of steam, padding down the short hallway to the living room. Noelle came out of the kitchen at the same time and he stopped in his tracks as his belly gave a queer leap, just as it seemed to do every time he looked at her since kissing her in the park.

Truth be told, he hadn’t meant a word of what he’d said earlier. His desire for her hadn’t cooled. Hadn’t faded. All he could think about was how she’d felt astride him in the chair, how the heat from her lithe body sank into him, how softly firm her breasts were in his hands. He’d wanted to kiss his way down her throat, down over her breastbone, along one inner curve, until he reached her nipple. He wanted to explore every inch of her body with his hands, his lips, his tongue. He wanted to kiss her, to taste her, to breathe deeply and savor the scent of vanilla that clung to her skin, her hair.

Mahal, he wanted to peel off every stitch of clothing and pull her astride him again. He wanted to feel her surround him, to become one with her, to make love to her until his name was a breathless cry on her lips and her body claimed his as he slid inside her.

He wanted her to come back to Middle Earth with him.

If only she could.

But, she couldn’t and that was the problem.

A hint of color came to her cheeks as she stared up at him. “You can use my bedroom to dress, if you wish.”

“Thank you.” He glanced at the jeans and Peeps tee shirt he’d planned to wear and for a moment, thought about simply letting the towel hit the floor. After all, dwarves were not the shy sort, and were perfectly at ease being naked in front of others. But from what he’d seen in this world, the same could not be said of Man. They took their modesty to the extreme, almost prudish in their need to cover themselves. And if Noelle’s cheeks went any redder, Thorin was afraid her face might actually melt.

With that, he scooped up the clothes, along with the underwear she’d insisted on buying. Although it strongly resembled his small clothes, these boxer briefs were a bit snugger that he was accustomed to. Still, they would suffice and after drying himself off the rest of the way, he stepped into a pair of bright red boxer briefs.

He finished dressing, then went back out into the living room, where he scooped the runes from where he’d put them on the table, and took them into the bathroom, to use the mirror as he braided them back where they belonged.

As he finished securing the second braid, Noelle paused in the bathroom doorway. “If you’d like, you can use my hair dryer so your hair doesn’t freeze when we go outside. It’s only supposed to be about thirty degrees today, so you’re welcome to it.”

“Your hair dryer?” He’d never heard of such a thing.

She nodded, inching around him to crouch before the cabinet under the sink. The door creaked open and she dove it, coming up with a strange looking object that she then plugged into the wall and aimed at him. “The switch for on and off is here,” she flicked the switch and he nearly jumped out of his clothes at the blast of hot air that shot from the dryer. “And this controls the temperature. And the diffuser—” she tapped the nozzle of the dryer—“will keep your curls from becoming frizz.”

The hot air became warm, then cool, and then she shut it off. “And don’t hold it too close to your scalp because you’ll burn yourself.”

Her voice held a hint of distance and he sighed softly. “Miss Noelle, it helps neither of us to be at odds with one another. And I apologize if I’ve hurt you in any way. It was never my intention.”

Her usual aqua eyes met his and she drew in a deep breath before saying, “You didn’t, Thorin. Hurt me, that is. Like I said, your ways are not mine and my world isn’t yours. And I’m sorry for letting things get out of hand last night.”

He smiled then, taking the dryer from her. “You needn’t apologize, you know. It was a nice kiss.”

“It was.” She leaned against the doorjamb and returned his smile. “It was a really nice kiss.”

“And, perhaps I should not say this, but…” His face grew warm even as he continued, “you look very nice in only a… what was it you called it?”

A hint of pink swept along her high cheekbones. “A bra.”

“In a bra. The man who wins your hand will be very lucky.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, how do I do this again?”

She sighted softly, but took the dryer and smiled as she said, “Crouch a little,” and then proceeded to blast his hair dry.

When she finished and he drew himself to his full height, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and actually burst out laughing at how fluffy his hair was, floating all around his face. “Oh… you did not warn me of this.”

She pressed a hand to her lips, but not quickly enough to hide her smile, nor did she muffle her laugh. He didn't know if she meant to do it, or if it was just instinct, but her head came to rest against his shoulder as she said, “I think it looks fine.”

“Fine? I’m… fluffy.”

“It looks nice, though. You look good fluffy.” She reached over to smooth his hair back toward his left ear. “It’s shiny and soft. Much more so than I’d have thought.”

He held her gaze as her fingers lingered along his ear. Her eyes were the most beautiful he’d ever seen, an equal mix of sea and sky, and if he wasn’t careful, he could easily lose himself in them.

Her lips were inviting, full and soft, and for a moment, he didn't care if he ever returned to Middle Earth, if it meant he could kiss those lips once more. If it meant he could whisk her black and white striped sweater over her head and let his eyes feast on her body once more. He wanted to see all of her, wanted to kiss his way from her head to the soles of her feet, wanted to peel each garment from her and let his lips sweep along each inch of skin he bared. He wanted to feel her soft, smooth skin bare against his, to feel her beneath him.

He wanted to—

“We should go,” she said, drawing back as she set the dryer on the counter. “It’ll be tough getting a cab in this weather.”

He cleared his throat. “Of course.”

With that, she left the bathroom and he scowled at himself in the mirror. “Enough, you fool,” he muttered at the fluffy-haired dwarf scowling back at him. “You need to keep your mind on your task and that is getting back to Mirkwood, not romancing a daughter of Man, no matter how pretty she might be.”

“Thorin!” Impatience tinged Noelle’s voice. “We need to go!”

“I’m coming!” he snapped back, flicking off the light to join her before she really started yelling.

Farran’s Bookseller took up a large portion of its block, and to Noelle, it was a step back into a time long gone by, with its brass doorhandles and old-fashioned lettering on its awnings. Thorin tugged open a door and held it for her and as she stepped inside, the air held hints of ink and paper and old leather. The shop’s interior was lit by small overhead lamps with shades of multicolored glass, to give it a soft and welcoming feel.

Noelle looked over at Thorin, who was almost wide-eyed as he looked about. “This reminds me of the shops in Ered Luin,” he said softly, moving deeper into the store, walking in a slow circle at he did. “Do you feel it, Miss Noelle?”

It was the first time he’d spoken to her since they left her apartment and she hated the chilled formality in his voice. She wished she had some way to go back to the previous night and stop herself from stopping herself. If she had to do it over again, she’d let herself enjoy him, even if was only for one night. Now, she kicked herself but good for stopping him.

“Feel what?”

He looked over at her, shaking his head. “I cannot explain it, but the air here feels… different.”

Her heart sped up a bit. Would he slowly fade from her sight when they found the doorway to lead hm back to Middle Earth? The urge to reach out and grab hold of his hand, to reassure herself that he was still there, nearly overwhelmed her and she couldn’t resist it. She did just that, her hand finding its way into his as she said, “It feels like the air near Turtle Pond.”

He didn't reply, but his fingers tightened about hers and his thumb grazed hers. Her mouth went dry as he led her over to the Tolkien section. There, along with Tolkien’s books, were copies of the movies, and other merchandise. She reluctantly let go of his hand to move over to the row of DVDs and slipped The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies from a shelf, glancing over her shoulder to see Thorin perusing a shelf behind her, his back to her.

She flipped over the DVD, her heart hammering her ribs as she read the back cover copy. But the copy didn't give away the movie’s ending, of course, so she slipped it back onto its shelf. When she turned back, Thorin was no longer behind her and the pit of her stomach fell away.

“Thor—Thorin?” She moved over to where he had been, looking to her left, then to her right But he was nowhere around.

“Oh, no…” Was it possible he’d found the way back, or that the way back had found him and whisked him away without his making a sound? Her gut clenched, her throat tightened, tears stung her eyes as she spun in a slow circle, hoping to see him somewhere. But all she saw around her were shelves of books and movies, of merchandise and posters.

No. How could it have happened that quickly, that quietly? How could he have just vanished without so much as a whisper and why hadn’t she held onto his hand the entire time? She knew this could happen and yet… she let go of him.

“Have you found anything?”

Her knees almost buckled at the sound of Thorin’s voice and tears stung her eyes as he came around from a bank of shelves on the far side of where she’d last seen him, a bag in his hand. “Where did you go?”

“I thought I’d bring back a bit of your world with me.” He reached into the bag and pulled out a deck of Hobbit playing cards. “I can only imagine the looks on the others’ faces when I show them these.”

She swiped at one eye even as she let out a choked laugh. “Playing cards?”

“Why is that amusing?” He tucked the cards back into the bag, then stepped closer. “Are you crying?”

“No.” She swiped at her eyes as they refused to dry up. “Yes. I thought you’d been poofed back.”

He offered up a tender smile and stepped up to draw one arm about her shoulders, to pull her flush against him. “I’m still here, mesmel, as you can see.”

She let him hold her for a moment, her head tucked against his chest, over one of the yellow Peeps, and just listened to the soft thump of his heart beating, just closed her eyes and took a deep breath in savor the scent of him—fresh earth, raindrops, and a hint of musk—but then, she lifted her head to peer up at him. “How did you pay for it?”

“Silver.” A hint of pride wove through his voice. “The clerk was a bit confused, and gave me this green paper back, and I know you use it to pay for things, so when we return to your apartment, I’ll leave it for you.”

“That’s not necessary, Thorin. It’s yours. You should keep it.”

“You’ve spent your money on me and asked for nothing in return. It’s the least I can do.”

“Thorin, I can afford to do it. My firm is doing very well. And I don’t mind spending it on you.”

“I’ll not argue it with you. Now, where might we look for this doorway?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. And I don’t feel that spark in the air any longer, either. It just feels… normal.”

He sighed softly. “I was hoping it was only me.” He looked about at the other patrons milling amongst them. “But, I don’t think we will find it here.”

“I think Central Park is the key,” she admitted softly.

He nodded. “I think so as well.”

“Hopefully tomorrow will be dry enough to go and try again. If not, maybe Ian has another suggestion. I’ll call him tomorrow and see. The worst he can do is tell me he has nothing and we’d be no worse off than we are now, right?”

He didn't look the least bit mollified, even as he nodded. “I cannot argue that, no.”

“So, are there any books or things you’d like to read? My treat.”

“No. I think I just wish to go back to your flat. I did not sleep well last eve and am quite tired.”

“Fair enough.” She cast a backward glance at the DVDs one last time, but then led him back out into the rain where she spent ten minutes trying to hail a cab. She bit back a curse as time and again, none stopped, and then Thorin stepped out into the rain, held up a hand, and a Yellow cab drew up to the curb.

She tugged open the door, threw herself into the back, leaned her head against the seat, and closed her eyes. It was so selfish of her, but she hoped Central Park would be a dud again. She didn't want to think about Thorin’s leaving, didn’t want to acknowledge there would come a time when he would not be there, that he’d go back to his time and his life and would, eventually, meet a woman with whom he’d fall in love.

Her gut curdled and shame washed over her at the same time. She wanted him to be happy, of course, and while remaining there, with her, would make her happy, he would be miserable in time. The weight of his failed quest would no doubt eat away at him and eventually, he’d come to resent her as well. And she could not do that to him.

She looked over at him. How was it possible that in the span of a few days, she’d fallen so hard? And more importantly, how would it ever be possible to get over him? Was it even possible?

Somehow, she didn't think so.

[deniigi]

So @petrichordiam and I are menaces and giggled over our ideal dinluke flower shop AU for like 4 hrs and then I wrote this.

Title: murderer next door

Summary: Din works as a florist and Luke works as a bookseller and they’re both assassins trying to keep the other off their turf.

-------------

Two times now, Luke had crashed past that flower shop, and two times now, the fucker inside had taken out his mark. Now all Luke had to say about the whole thing was that it was too bad that he was going to have to kill the guy.

Han told him not to turn back. The mark was dead; the mark was gone. They weren’t fast enough this time, but there would be others.

Luke just couldn’t let it go, though. He had rent to pay, and McFloristApron over there was smashing through all his targets and making that nigh impossible—regardless of how many marks there were in the area.

Luke waited until Han had closed up shop for the night and remained there in the dark with his arm slung over the back of the chair in the backroom, surrounded by books. He rolled his shot of whiskey in its tumbler. The sound against the old wood table offered no comfort.

He stood up and left the glass to get his laptop.

He wasn’t losing to some florist, Han, sorry. Only one family could take innocuous cover on this street, and it was them.

 ---

McFlorist’s name wasn’t listed on the florist’s staff page, but then again, none of the people on that page had names. In fact, the website’s whole vibe was all wedding-chic until you clicked on the ‘staff and contacts’ tab. Then, it may as well have been a line of mugshots.

Luke squinted along the row of increasingly involved headgear until he got to someone with a reasonably-sized neck with no tats. The ladies on either side of him appeared to have sapped all the ink out of McFloristApron. He wore a mask over the lower half of his face and gave a stoic thumbs up to the camera.

Under his picture was the number fifteen.

Damn.

Luke was only making eight per pop. Who the hell was this guy eating up all the feeder fish, huh? Them lower division folks had to eat too, you know.

Well.

‘Lower division’ in a sense of the word. Being two times undercover wasn’t super glamorous, Luke had to say. But when your dad fucked it up for the first family, sometimes you had to take what you could get.

Luke pointed at Fifteen on the screen.

“You and me, pal,” he said. “You and me.”

 --

 Step one was to get paid first.

Luke chased down three marks on the other side of town to pay the rent and the medical bills for now. His hand’s new sleeve felt like a dream. It didn’t overheat like the nylon black one did, and the hand was far less shiny now as a bonus. That had certainly reduced the number of people catching something move out of the corner of their eye.

Was it worth fifty grand?

No.

Was it worth the last nine that Luke had left to pay on it?

Yeah. It was definitely worth the nine.

 ------

 Step two was to go make it clear to Fifteen McFlorist that he and his folks needed to back down in the face of the established guard.

Luke put on his biggest sweater and the thickest glasses he could find. He stole Chewie’s messenger bag with all the pins on it. He slung it over his shoulder and rolled the hems of his jeans up just a smidge too much, then scurried over to the florist’s across the way.

Fifteen was off to the side of the register, fucking around with something in the refrigerator. Luke busily and noisily looked through the wall of foliage on the side of the shop nearest the window. He hummed. He hawed. He made anxious nerd-sounds until a voice asked, “Hi, can I help you?”

Luke glanced out of the corner of his eye and found that Fifteen was standing facing his way now. His mask was gray this time. His apron was orange. His boots were too heavy-looking for florist work.

“I’d love that,” Luke gushed breathlessly. “See, my mom just got engaged and I’m on the way to her house.”

Fifteen lifted his chin slightly.

“What’re her favorites?” he asked tonelessly.

Terrible customer service skills, dude.

“Roses,” Luke said.

“Ours are shit today,” Fifteen said. “How about dahlias?”

Luke didn’t know what those were but sure.

“That sounds great,” he said. “You have any in pink?”

 --------

 He watched Fifteen brutalize some pink, orange, and white flowers into a bouquet wrapped with a silver bow and was sure to smile every time the guy looked up.

“That’ll be $37.59.”

Sir, these are dead flowers. There is no need for that price.

“Can I put it on card?” Luke asked. “How long have you worked here, if you don’t mind me asking? I work just across the way is all.”

Fifteen’s dark gaze flicked up. His hair was covered by a gray beanie two shades darker than the mask.

“At the club?” he asked.

“The bookshop,” Luke corrected him with a shy, but widening smile.

Please be gay. Please be gay. Please be gay. Leia wasn’t going to want to cooperate. She thought it was beneath her to establish boundaries like this.

“Blue paint,” Fifteen said. “Yeah, that place. How long have you been there?”

“My brother-in-law’s place, actually,” Luke said. “I started there last year after I finished college.”

Or, you know, maybe even eight years ago when he’d finished college. No one had to know. Baby faces don’t kiss and tell after all.

“Huh. You must like it there,” Fifteen said.

“It’s fine,” Luke hummed. “You like it here?”

“The kid does.”

“Oh, you’re a father?” Luke asked. “How old?”

“He’s three,” Fifteen said. “Godson. His folks were in an accident; didn’t make it.”

“That’s terrible, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Luke said. “He’s lucky to have you.”

Fifteen handed him his card back. Luke’s hand didn’t close in time to catch it and it fell onto to the wooden counter.

“Sorry about that,” Luke said, reaching for it with the other hand. His knuckles bumped into Fifteen’s when he went for the card at the same time. They both paused and went for the card again with the same result. Luke laughed.

“Slippery, am I right?” he asked, flattening his fingers on top of the piece of plastic and snatching it away.

“Very,” Fifteen said. “I hope your mom likes them.”

“Me too,” Luke smiled. “I’ll see you around—What was your name?”

“You can call me Armando,” Fifteen said.

“Armando,” Luke sounded out. “It suits you.”

It was a falsie.

“And yours?”

“James.”

“It suits you.”

It didn’t.

“Bye now,” Luke said. “Thanks for your help.”

He let the door fall closed behind him with the tinkle of the bell.

 --------

 He informed Han that “Armando” had a toddler and received only a warning look and a scolding for all his effort. Han told him not to get jealous. If there was a kid in the balance, then Fifteen, for better or worse, was going to have to see each day after the next until there was no longer a kid in the balance.

Luke offered to call CPS and report “Armando” as an assassin.

“You do that and those folks across the street are gonna call the VA and tell them I’m an assassin,” Han said. “Lay low, Luke. Lay low.”

Never.

“Christ. At least until that thing’s yours then.”

Luke glared at his right hand.

“Gimme a double,” he told Han without looking away from it.

 ------------

 It was never easy to hunt in the daylight, but Luke wasn’t here to do easy things. He needed to get Mark No. 1 alone. The man took the train once a week to a gentleman’s club on his lunch break. Luke needed a change of clothes.

He had a rainbow windbreaker, white boots, and fishnets all ready to go.

He got on the same train as the mark and dropped his phone nearby. It clattered loudly and the case came off. Luke swore and squatted to drop it at the same time that two girls next to him decided to become good Samaritans. They crouched with him and one of them caught the phone first. They handed it back with a smile.

“I like your jacket,” she said.

Luke let his face struggle to find a smile at her kindness to him, a sweet little twink trying to find the pride parade that happened two weeks ago.

“Thanks,” he said. “I like your bracelet.”

He stood up. The girls were pleased with themselves. Luke glanced back to find Mark No. 1 turn his head abruptly away.

Come here, Markie.

Do you like what you see?

  Mark No. 1 didn’t make it out of his hotel room. A pity. Luke took the elevator down and huffed and puffed about a cheap date when he passed the front desk. He stopped abruptly and went back to ask the receptionist what the cross street was. She judged his go-go boots.

He told her she wasn’t his type. Her manager gave him the cross street.

Mark No. 2 had different parameters.

 ----------

 Mark No. 2’s parameters involved chasing him through a maze of boiler rooms and dumpsters. He was chump change towards a hand that Luke hadn’t wanted in the first place, but alas. The anger still roared.

Luke cornered him, still in go-go boots—no need to sacrifice style for speed—and watched those pale eyes look every which way as Mark No. 2 realized that there was no getting out of this.

“You got options, friend,” Luke said. “I can bring you in hot or I can bring you in—”

“—cold.”

His head snapped up and he lurched out of the way just as the crack of a bullet exploded in the alley. A car backfired around the corner in a sympathetic cough. Luke stared at the body then twisted around just in time for a thick glove to latch onto the back of his neck.

“Well, look who it is,” Fifteen drawled.

Luke glared out of the corner of his eye.

“Hands off, Armando,” he warned.

“I like your boots.”

“You’re gonna love ‘em when they’re on your dick,” Luke warned.

“Back off, Nayberry.”

Fucking hell, Han. This is why they should have set up boundaries weeks ago.

“I prefer ‘James,’” Luke said sweetly.

The glock levelled at his face didn’t care.

“You took my mark,” Fifteen said.

“Aw, poor baby,” Luke pouted. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you took mine.”

Fifteen’s orange apron was gone. He’d swapped it for an old leather jacket—something he could more easily wipe clean. He should’ve gone for patent leather. The brown really wasn’t working with his grey mask-beanie situation.

“Stay in your lane,” Fifteen warned.

“Only if you stay in yours,” Luke beamed.

Fifteen huffed.

“Bookstore,” he scoffed. “Who’d you give the flowers to?”

Luke tsked.

“Myself, jackass,” he said.

“Do you even have a mom?”

“What the fuck business is that of yours? You even got a kid?”

Fifteen’s stare was deadly—the cooling body before them notwithstanding.

“Take one step near him and we won’t be talkin’ so friendly, yeah?”

Mm. Yeah.

“You owe me four grand,” Luke informed Fifteen as the glock went down and Fifteen left him to go take a pulse.

The man’s back stiffened.

“Four?” he asked. “You took this job for four?”

Luke rolled his eyes.

“I got bills, Armando,” he drawled.

“How do you keep that shed open? Have you sold even one book?”

Rude. Luke was a great sales associate. If he actually cared to put his mind to it, he’d be worthy of a promotion to manager.

He pulled the rising legs of his shorts down and adjusted the weapon in his windbreaker. He couldn’t leave the alley the way he’d gone into it. Someone might have seen. He was going to have to take a side street. Hmmm, which one? Choices, choices.

“I’ll give you a Dad’s discount. Gimme two grand, and you can have him,” Luke negotiated as he thought.

“Two.”

Hey, no need for that tone. This was a great deal.

“What’re you gonna do with two?” Fifteen asked, already knelling down to heft the body over his shoulder as proof for payment.

“Buy some more tights,” Luke deadpanned. “Two, final offer.”

Fifteen stood up all the way and gave him a weird look. A long look. His beanie was pulled down low, but Luke got the impression that he was frowning at him.

“Take the four,” he said out of nowhere. “I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

Luke recoiled a step at first, then recoiled another when the reality of the situation hit him full in the chest.

“Forget it,” he snapped.

He spun around and started to leave.

“Wh—hey. HEY. Where are you goin’?”

“I don’t need your fuckin’ pity,” Luke called ahead of him as he set to climbing the chainlink fence separating him from the adjacent dead-end alley.

“You what?”

“You heard me,” Luke said.

He jumped down. His left hand found his right wrist and squeezed as he walked.

 -------

 The phantom pains kept him up all night, and it was definitely that and not the humiliation that made him call in sick. Han told him to answer his therapist’s emails. Luke told him to go do something useful and hung up. He rolled onto his back on his bed and focused on letting his body relax, his jaw unclench, his joints go limp.

There was sunlight finally streaming through his apartment windows again. It had been months.

Spring was almost here. He just had to hold out a little longer.

 --------

 He came in to work the next day and found an envelope on his chair in the backroom. It was thick.

“McFlorist dropped it off,” he said between aggravated sounds at his spreadsheets.

“Is it tax season already?” Luke asked him as he tried to burn a whole in the center of the envelope with his mind.

“Sure fuckin’ is.”

He stepped forward and snatched up the envelope, then deposited it squarely in Han’s lap. He made an unattractive noise of confusion and alarm.

“For the taxes,” Luke called as he went out to grab his lanyard and name tag. “Gotta keep this place open for another six months at least.”

 ------------

 There were new books in. A new shipment to shelve. Two kids’ displays to set up. And Luke was actually good at this stuff, thanks; he started stacking.

He got peace until he nearly got to the end of the second display, and then what he had was a heart attack. Two liquid brown eyes surrounded by an ocean of ringlets stared up at him from between his knees. The child curled a hand in and out in hello.

Luke jerked himself up to locate the thing’s parents immediately, and promptly found himself in deadly eye-contact with Fifteen.

Armando.

“You were gone yesterday,” Fifteen said flatly.

Luke looked between him and the kid. He was pinned between two enemy parties. How to escape, how to escape.

“Are you sick?”

How to escape. How to escape. How to escape.

“Are you hurt?”

H—what?

“I’m fine, stalker,” Luke snapped with more heat than this present cover allowed. He caught himself and pulled it back. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “Thank you for asking. Is this…?”

Fifteen blinked once. The child blinked once as well. It was creepy.

“He’s mine,” Fifteen said. “And apparently the only thing that will get us through the next two hours is a book.”

Dude.

“Kids are kids,” Fifteen said. “You got any books?”

Luke stared at him, then checked the shelves to make sure he hadn’t teleported into another dimension.

You always had to check.

“We’re in a bookstore,” he said.

“He can’t read,” Fifteen said, pointing.

The kid grinned. His teeth were gapped in that toddler sort of way. He was kind of cute.

“You can’t read?” Luke asked him.

“Hi,” Baby said.

Oh no.

Luke loved him.

“How much?” he asked Fifteen.

“Touch him and you’ll be permanently comatose,” Fifteen said.

“Not if I died out of spite,” Luke said.

There was a long pause. Then Fifteen started laughing? Kind of hard?

“Oh my god, that was so unprofessional. I am so sorry,” Luke blurted out.

Fifteen collected himself and shook his head. His little one giggled and reached for Luke’s fingers.

“Boo,” he said.

Luke couldn’t feel the hand, but he could feel all the heart.

“Book?” he asked, crouching down. “Do you want a story?”

“Mmmm.”

“I have the perfect one,” Luke told him. “It’s about a caterpillar. Do you know what a caterpillar is?”

He got a slow, exaggerated head shake back and forth, back and forth. He stood up straight.

“I’m conducting a temporary kidnapping,” he informed Fifteen. “Do I have consent?”

Fifteen looked from him towards the front entrance and mulled over the merits of leaving his kid with his rival assassin. Then he shrugged.

“Consent granted,” he said. “Luke.”

Luke’s heart stopped.

“James,” he said.

“Your name tag says ‘Luke.’”

Well, fuck.

“Luke Nayberry. It suits you.”

Hhhhhhh. This was karma, wasn’t it.

“Thanks,” he gritted out. “And yourself, Armando?”

“Din.”

Woah, look out. Mr. One-Syllable-Cool-Man had entered the building.

“Din, what?” Luke asked as his arm registered tension. Din’s kid had latched onto his fingers and started pulling incessantly with a chubby hand gesturing in the direction of the wall of children’s books.

“Don’t you worry about it,” Din said.

“Fine, go trip then,” Luke said.

He swore that there was a smile under that mask.

 ----------

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Saturday 29 November 1834

7 25

11 ¾

A tolerable kiss last night very fine morning F50° at 8 10 am - hurried over breakfast left Eugenie and George to follow in the carriage by the high road to Leeds (to the hotel) and A- and I and Charles H- walked (5 or 10 minutes from the Inn) to the railroad office -  And at 9 20 A- and I in the yellow carriage, the large best one (only this one in the train) at 3/. per place, covered in like a stage coach with door and windows at each side – and Charles H- in the green carriage just before us open at the sides – top supported on 4 uprights, 2/. per place – the carriages best and 2nd best like those on the Manchester and Liverpool road – the carriages drawn up ready for starting under a large good shed – our carriage called the Venues – sat waiting 18 minutes and off at 9 38 (my watch ¼ hour too soon by York – 20 minutes ditto by Hull and 25 minutes ditto Selby) - at Milford (8 miles from Selby) in 44 minutes, our train having slow for the last ½ hour – this slow pace (the men got out and walked by the side of us some throwing small stones upon the sleepers) continued for 25 minutes to ½ hour – it had rained almost from the moment of our starting – the sleepers were wet and slippery and the wheels of the carriage would not bite – they only bite by their weight – only one person (some sort of tradesman) in the carriage (holds 6) with us - and not a man of much intelligence – said there was to be a meeting of the Aire and Calder committee this afternoon to take into consideration what should be done in the present emergency – the Railway charges 6/8 per ton from Leeds to Selby – and the dues of the Aire and Calder from Leeds to Goole are 7/. let alone freightage which will average 2/6 per ton more – the navigation by the river from Selby to Hull being free gives a great advantage - At Leeds at 11 17 having done the distance from Searcroft in 6 minutes – the 800 yards tunnel into Leeds being quite dark took A- and me by surprise and she did not like it at all – distance from Selby to Leeds 19 miles – rained all the way more or less tho’ not heavily – a nice commodious waiting room with water closet adjoining for the ladies – good landing place and buildings for offices etc in Leeds – saw and spoke to the general superintendent Mr William Williams – asked him for a tariff of the charges on goods etc –a gentleman’s carriage to be 15/. - found Mr Williams civil and intelligent – there was a tariff printed for the use of the persons of the establishment but not allowed to be given to the public – on giving my name and address - saying I was interested in the Calder and Hebble navigation and anxious for information he very civilly gave me one of the printed tariffs on my promising not to shew it, but leaving me at liberty to make and shew any extract from it I choose – recommended me to Baines’s in Briggate for Woods’ work on railroads – while talking had left A- in the ladies room and let all the flies and cabs go away, so walked in the rain (not heavy) to Kendells’ took Charles H- ordered chimney piece for north dining room, to Wilkinson about the pendule and to Baine’s the booksellers – very civil and shewed me a nice new copy of Nicolls’ plan the canals and railroads very nicely done up in a case opening in the middle and looking like a book – map 3 ½ guineas mounting and case 1 guineas and book of text 8vo. 1 guinea= 5 ½ guineas - they had Woods’ work but it was the 1st edition printed in 1832 I think, so I declined taking it - bought a plan of the Leeds and Selby railroad, a 4d. almanac etc.  at the hotel at 12 55 – having just send off Charles H- to go by the coach from the Rose and Crown at one - A- tired ordered her a mutton cheap and the servants to dine – bought the Leeds Intelligencer and Leeds Mercury of this morning and sat reading – it seems Sir John Beckett will come in with Baines, Mr Marshall retires on account of bad health – off from the hotel about 2 – above an hour at Nelson’s choosing fender and fire irons for the blue room – Papins’ digester - and a new sort of grill to do beefsteaks etc in front of the fire – took up the pendule at Wilkinson’s – left the umbrella at Kendell’s we had borrowed there in the morning and off from there at 3 10 and at Shibden at 5 52 – some time with my father and Marian – then with my aunt – she had 2 letters for A- from her sister (Udale) and 1 franked by Lord Hotham at Denton Park from Mrs George Fenton - and a note for me from the Halifax philosophical society and a kind letter from lady Stuart dated Whitehall                         and a letter dated Langton 24th ultimo 3 pages and ends from Norcliffe! Given an account (rigmarole)  of his tour in America - tea at 7 – A- and I sat talking till after 8 – one of Mrs Sutherland’s letters to announce that Miss Rogers was to live with Miss Walker of Cliff Hill  and the other to announce Captain Sutherland having written to Mr Rawson about the administration account money in the bank on behalf of A- and her sister - While A- wrote a copy of letter to her sister I read from page 41 to 71 Philipp’s little elementary work on geology bought at York - fine morning till about 9 ½ am afterwards windy, boisterous wettish day and evening - went upstairs at 10 ¼ at which hour rainy night - F48° at 11 pm -  A-‘s cousin came this morning.

[lightwormlol]

ACOFAS REVIEW -INC SPOILERS

4.5 stars.

Okay, so! This was the first book I was able to finish in 2021. I've kinda been in a reading slump, and struggling to get past the 30-50% of books. I think its because I took essentially 3 months off my normal (daily) reading schedule and have been prioritising other things (health, fitness, job applications etc) - I think it's a testament to how addicted I was to this that I finished and consumed this at the rate I did! I recently went back and added some things to my ACOWAR review. To briefly summarise, I feel that, at the time I read it, it kind of gave me what I needed, but it definitely isn't getting a re read - my love for feysand has definitely lessened over time, but honestly i'm not that mad at sarah for this, as I find that whenever I've passed the sexual tension part of relationships in books, I tend to get bored of the domestic bliss. Like, leave that shit for an epilogue and keep it at that? As someone generally averse to relationships, but there is definitely a grace period for how long I can actively be smitten with a couple... before it becomes sickly. Taking all this into account, I honestly was nervous for this book, its release date totally took me by surprise, and I read it on a whim. As a Nessian shipper (I mean we didn't really have a choice after acomaf but to delve into the world of fanfic to keep us going) - this book gave me most of what I wanted and needed from them! I think,(some) kudos to SJM, for not disappointing in their relationship. This was definitely a character > plot driven story. In terms of the plot, I wasn't really invested until around the 38% mark? I'm not sure if I was adjusting to the writing style (lots of dramatic. sentences. that. are. so. abrupt. Nesta Archeron. Death etc) - or if it was bc I hadn't read an SJM book since the novella, which I basically skimmed. I was obviously reading for Nessian, but I didn't really feel intrigued by the wider plot (death gods, the human queens? Given I had lost my previous obsession with the world/ have outgrown 'fandom' culture, that made me actively update my knowledge, I couldn't remember a lot!) I think its clear that SJM excels character driven stories, but I think her worldbuilding and execution is significantly better in the throne of glass franchise. Now, I did say this was a character driven story. This is mostly regarding Nesta, Cassian and Azriel. I loved pretty much any interaction they had! I love a good training montage. Ngl though, I think, unless you possess an ardent love for Nessian, you're not going to be particularly wowed by this, if you've read heir of fire, or even acomaf. I obviously am never going to be able to be objective, because I've loved nessian so much from 2017-now, but I loved the dynamic those two (and three - friendship wise between nes/cass/az). One of the highlights of ACOWAR for me was the snippets of Az, showing tenderness, and opening up to the newer members of the inner circle (and i'm excluding any hint of an Elriel ship because FUCK THAT LOL) For me, the tip with SJM books is: once you outgrow them/the particular mode of narrative style, is to not anticipate anything other than a character driven story, albeit one riddled with smut. I personally am a romance heavy reader, so I'm honestly deconditioned to it at this point, (like, when I see reviewers scandalised I'm like... wow, the amount of trash I have consumed in the last five years loool.) While I disagree with the fact SJM marketed this series as y/a (or maybe it wasn't her per se, but the key booksellers definitely did this for her) - I think its clear enough now she's descended into the adult/borderline erotica genre.(very mild imo). I personally like to adopt a policy of skimming sex scenes when I find the dialogue cringy (most the time it is lets be honest any talking is v second hand embarrassment). Cassian and Nesta were definitely better than Rhys and Feyre post chapter 55 though! I was so glad there weren't a million moments of Cass/Nesta betraying their arousal with their scents, in front of everyone (like feysand, the voyeuristic pda pricks they are). I found the slowburn ish nature of their relationship great, and I actually think if you're a virgo/emotionally stunted reader, you will be happy with their relationship dynamic. It contrasts with the daemati sexual snark of acomaf, but it felt right, and authentic. This book was a journey of personal growth, for Nesta. It is clear SJM loves books about strong women, and maybe thats what makes me love this book so much. I think, out of all the archeron sisters, I love Nesta the most. This is for my Rose Calloway fans, my misunderstood, somewhat cold/left out girls, who are less receptive to being vulnerable. If you're a slowburn fan, it's not Mariana Zapata levels of slowburn, imo it's the perfect combo. Addictive enough that I don't want to put it down, but not so fast moving that I couldn't believe it. I loved the sex without emotion relationship they had!! This is honestly never done in mainstream n/a fantasy, unless its a caricature of a 'slut' that normally rivals the main character, lmao. Even if their inner conflict was p transparent, this gave me everything I needed! I know this is vapid lol but I also love the physical dynamic between the two, they just look so good together, the amount of fanart I'm going to reacquaint myself with after this review!! I adored seeing Nesta grow, (even if towards the end I kind of resented her sudden acceptance into the inner circle, i get SJM loves her and just wanted a fluffy ending, but, as a Nesta like character, it's awkward and stilted on her end to adjust to the inner circle like this - i mean, hugging rhys, really??)

I think, if I had to compare this to any other SJM book, I would say Chaols book (though I obviously preferred this). That being said, I felt less attached to new characters in this book than I was in even Chaols book (and even then ngl I remember nothing?) Obviously I loved what it represented, as a trio of traumatised women. I just, didn't love this the way I loved other inner circle members! I get that they gave Nesta exactly what they needed, a family that doesn't hold the history of her sisters, who she doesn't have to worry about holding preconceived notions of disappointment. I loved this for her! Even then.. I just wasn't attached to either of them. I found their interactions cute - but boring. Towards the end, when their stories/pasts are revealed, I couldn't help but cringe slightly, I can't put my finger on why, but I just didn't buy it. Maybe it's the brit in me but I couldn't be moved by this slightly forced bonding moment.. which was so anticlimactic. My 'aww how cute' tolerance is defo deserved for characters whose tropes I love. Maybe they just didn't fit into this list. Maybe I'm just being a cow here?

Now, let's speak about the real star of the show.... A FUCKING MAGICAL HOUSE FRIEND??? YESSSSSSS. IF YOU ARE AN ILONA ANDREWS INNKEEPERS CHRONICLES FAN, U WILL LOVE! How was the animation of this somehow more touching than all of nesta's other friendships combined? Exactly what I ordered, thank you. This trope somehow touches more than any material bonding!! The cute witch x house dynamic (also maybe howls moving castle vibes?) I loved the trying to reach the target of 10,000 steps (a little Celaena HOF). I think this, heir of fire and acomaf are my favourite SJM books for this reason. Gripes: I definitely had some personal gripes with how other members of the inner circle treated Nesta (rhys i'm looking at you. Disappointed doesn't even cover it.) I inherently take offence to any elain scene, as i'm so over bland characters whose existence is reduced to wanting to fucking plant flowers?? like?? really? To go from moriel to that is such a downgrade, even if I fell out of love with Mor due to the way she snubbed Nesta (you're a 500 year old being and you can't see someone is clearly traumatised?). I adore Az so much, but if it aint polyamorous, I cannot see any pairing with Elain making me happy. (wouldn’t mind gwyn though) I think the whole mating bond that I do not want is a good dynamic, but I really hate that everyone has to be mates in this world. I don't think we were that surprised, but it would've been nice if the somehow, idk, developed a strong bond over time, without it being preordained? Like, even if they do not all actively stay with their mate, given how disproportionate mates are among the general population, what's the likelihood 6 members of the inner circle (including lucien) have mates?

My advice? Read this book if you love nessian and the acotar world in general, but don't expect the world building to be consistent with greater fantasy series'. This style of story is obviously what to expect. She writes what she likes, and if her fantasy is this - then who are we, as readers, to expect otherwise?

Final rating: 4.5 (no, i'm not objective, but objectivity does not exist if you are a real, human being, lol)

Original Characters: 5/5 (nessian/az/house wise) 1/5 (feysand - really over how they essentially take over the very end of the book - ugh, I wanted nesta's arc to be wholly separate from them) Writing style: 3.5 Cringe Scale: Low, with the exception of some dialogue. New Characters: 2 Plot: I went into it with a 2 and came out with a 4. Not in terms of complexity, but in terms of how addictive and enjoyable this reading experience was! (less)

[natsukitakama]

Headcanon : Arno Victor Dorian falls in love with you

Author note : I hope you guy will enjoy it ! If you want something like this with another character please let me know (I am stuck on my house because school is closed thanks corona). 

I know I was supposed to post it on Friday, but I was « stuck » with animal crossing (which mean I play during the whole day. If someone got an apple on their island I am here) and the expectation of my exam’s result I am sorry. It’s a bit longer than I used to write I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoy to write it. 

Warning : Spoiler if you didn’t finish the game + the DLC  (I might have changed the period) / The screenshot is mine feel free to use it ! Headcanon is below since it’s pretty long 

Masterlist 

Like I said on another Headcanon, Arno Victor Dorian suffered from depression because of all people he has lost. At some point back in St-Denis’ days, he thought about suicide. After all no one wanted him anymore, he doesn’t have any purpose, any friends, any lover, any parents. All lost with his memories and his regrets… and alcohol. 

In a moment of consciousness, he thought about living France so he might forgot about everything. Then, le Marquis de Sade asked him to find Condorcet’s manuscript in return he’ll give him help to leave France for Egypt. Then his last quest on France began : at this point he didn’t know this mission will help him going through a lot of his issues plus gave him a friends and someone to love. 

You on the other hand, used to work as a bookseller in St-Denis. Let’s say you were a patriot and believe France need to be save : you met Leon some months ago, he was walking around your library looking for something interesting so he could steal it. Unfortunately you found him before he stole something from you : Rather than punish him you decided to reward his curiosity and made a deal with him, he would never try to steal something from you and you let him borrow one book every week. This is how you became friends, turns out this little boy was very brave more than a lot of French’s soldier plus it gave you company (you even started to teach him history and some philosophy). You started to really love this boy : being from a wealthy family you never have the chance to socialize with other people than your family’s group of interest. So talking with this little boy was refreshing. 

His first meeting with you was particular, he and Leon knocked at your door during one night looking for answer about the design carved on the wall. Knowing you were a passionate of history and myth, Leon thought you could be helpful to them so they could keep their investigation going. To be honest Arno expected to see a man or teenager rather than you : even in the middle of the night you were absolutely breath-taken. There were something about you, your aura or the glow from your eyes but Arno was mesmerized. He couldn’t even talk properly so Leon has to introduce him. 

« Y/N this Arno my friends, we need your help »

« This couldn’t wait tomorrow ? » 

« No Y/N It couldn’t ! We’re fighting for France »

«  Alright alright Leon … Well… Monsieur ? » 

« Arno, Arno Victor Dorian Mademoiselle ? » 

« Mademoiselle, Y/N Y/LN but please call me Y/N »

« Y/N alright …. P-Please call me Arno too » 

« Right so Messieurs please come in » 

To say you were intrigued was an understatement, this whole symbol were all new for you. You told them you needed some times to work on your own with your books to find something that might help them. During your whole speech, Arno couldn’t took his eyes away from you. Not only were you attractive but you were also quite smart and very curious with for Arno was something quite attractive. The boys then left you working so they will investigate on your own. They kept going meet you so you could share what your learned from your book and your theory about what will be behind this door. 

« So at first I thought it could be a symbol you know ? Like an artefact so Bonaparte could use it as a proof of his merit you know ? To justify his putsch. Then I thought about what you heard him say back in the cave you know about knowing the true human’s nature ? And what citizen will do to progress. Both of you have already heard about the myth on St-Denis ? About the king’s ghost killing people by sinking his crown on people’s eyes ? It might be true. I thought a little description on a book about Saint Denis which involved bat killing people by going through their head or something… I know this doesn’t make any sense but what if it was true ? What if there is being this door an artefact or worst a weapon who could control bat or anyone ? » 

« I don’t Know Y/N it sound weird »

« Not necessarily »

« What do you mean Arno ? » 

« I might see something quite similar when I worked in Paris… Please Y/N until we are sure about what’s behind this door do not talk about this to anyone ? Promise me »

« I promise you Arno »

After this conversation, Arno started to come to see you more and more : he justified his visit by protecting you and make sure everything was okay. But you knew better, it was like he was looking about anything who will force him to stay with you which you would not complain about. The first time you saw him at this night you were also mesmerized by this man : everything about him was divin. He was absolutely handsome, his eyes were sharp yet he seemed so fragile like he was hurt and was looking for something to keep him alive. You didn’t know how to explain it but to you the man was absolutely broken and it was your mission to help him going through his issues. 

You started to see each other during days just for the pleasure of seing each other, you talked a lot about your childhood, your trip. Quickly you discover he was suffering from a loss cause he was always unclear when talked about his past as if it was something too heavy even for him. To him it was different, he couldn’t the feeling about being nostalgic with you : not like you were similar to Elise (quite the contrary) but he couldn’t stop thinking about his youth with Elise. You made him feel like a young boy again while he thought about seing everything and be ready to die. He was falling in love with you 

He was afraid and confused he didn’t know if he has the right to have a life. After Elise & Monsieur de la Serre’s death and being expelled from Assassins’ order : he doesn’t feel like he belong to this earth anymore, should he take you on his fall ? It’ll be selfish. He decided to keep his distance from you, he couldn’t hurt you : he’ll be damned for that. But you, you were devastated : because you fell the same about him, you were in love with him and more over you wanted to help him, you couldn’t just let him go to his decline. But the assassins was good at keeping you away from him, it was like he vanished from the city he couldn’t be seen no where. Madame Margot saw this, she was aware about your huge crush on the assassins and knew he felt the same but because of his past he would not tolerate himself to be happy. So she had to act. 

She started to talk with Arno, to understand why he was getting distant with you. She tried to explain how life is going to be rude and how grateful he will be if he got you by his side. She underlined his crush by telling him she noticed how he was looking at her when he thought no one noticed. It didn’t work, Arno could be stubborn when he wants to : he really thought his action were justify and one day you’ll understand. You on the other hand after being sad for couple of days, decided to let it go : I mean the man didn’t want you you couldn’t fight this. You even started to depreciate yourself : to you, you weren’t pretty enough, strong enough, smart enough. So it made sense Arno wasn’t interested on you. Plus he was getting very busy with his mission against Bonaparte. So you barely saw him. But you have seen him enough for Captain Rose to know you could be use at his own advantage. 

One night, on your road to your house you noticed someone was behind you probably following you since you left your library. Without looking on your back you were walking faster trying to be always as close as possible of shops just to be sure. Unfortunately Philippe Rose has expected that kind of behavior and wedged you on an alley. They were too many for you and there no way someone would come if you scream for help : this is the end you thought, you were about to die without a chance to confront Arno about your feeling. Everything went black and when you woke up you were in a cave completely tied on a chair. This was probably the cave Arno talked about : Will he come to save you ? Was he still even here ? 

Captain Rose tried to ask you some information about what they knew and what will be their next move. They get nothing, you first pretended knowing nothing about it and didn’t even know those people but you were a terrible liar. Rose noticed that and started to beat you but again you didn’t talk. You couldn’t let them having whatever was behind the door. Arno came to the cave eventually (he learned from Madame Margot you weren’t on your library and some people saw you walking quite fast while someone followed you), to say he was anxious was an understatement. He already lost Elise he couldn’t lose you too not when he came to realize (thanks to Leon who teased him about having a crush on you) he could try having something with you. 

Plus, thanks to Leon he gained faith again and decided he will come back as an assassins for the brotherhood and this time he’ll do it better. He was decided to come back at Paris with you if you still wanted him. Killing Rose was a piece of cake, the man became too confident when he got the key to open the door so he was careless. He didn’t take too minute time before Arno’s blade was on the throat of Philippe rose but he didn’t die Before Arno could say something. 

« Do not even think about putting a finger on Y/N again » 

After Rose’s death, he began to kill every Rose’s soldier before finding you tied on a chair. You looked tired, your eyes was so read probably from crying too much, one of your eyes was black while your cheeks and lips were swollen from being beaten. He wished Rose’s death was more painful. 

« Y/N can you hear me ? It’s me Arno mon dieu … Je suis tellement désolé please stay awake for me I don’t want to lose you Y/N »

« I don’t want to lose you either Arno » 

After being sure the cave was safe, he asked you to go upstairs and run to Margot’s house so you’ll be safe with Leon : he had still business to do. When he found the old Lanterne and finding out his true power, Arno was sure about one thing : Bonaparte shouldn’t find it. Then when the business was done, Arno went back to Madame Margot’s house finding you on her bed resting while Leon waited for him. When you woke up, he was on your side holding your hands while looking at you with a sad expression on his face. 

« Why are you crying monsieur ? » 

« I-I am not, I am just so relieved you’re okay. I was afraid I might lose you »

« You won’t Arno never … I am stronger than I look »

« I know I was here … I-I know I wasn’t very present these days and I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me again I mean… » 

« Arno please shut up. Don’t even finish this sentence, listen to me : I like you a lot, I know they’re something you don’t want to talk because it’s sill hurtful but it’s okay I can wait Arno. I’ll always wait for you. All I ask you is to give me chance to prove you you’re wrong » 

« Wrong ? About what ? » 

« Wrong about believing you don’t deserve some happiness in your life » 

This, is basically how your relationship began. 

Translation : 

Monsieur : Sir 

Mademoiselle : Miss 

Messieurs : Gentlemen 

Mon dieu... Je suis tellement désolé : My God ... I am so sorry 

[shipaholic]

Omens Universe, Chapter 12 Part 2

Awkward mid-chapter split resume~

If anyone out there kins Waterstones, this might be a sad chapter for you. :(

Warning for a bit of violence, mild body-horror, and disrespect shown to books (but only cheesy ones).

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 12, cont.

Crowley felt Aziraphale stir. He turned towards Michael by inches. There was a hum in the surrounding air. Crowley thought he heard wind whistling.

He looked at the being he loved most in the world and gulped.

The slightly foxed, kindly bookseller facade had fallen away. There were tempests in Aziraphale’s eyes. He looked like an occult entity with a berserk button that had been decisively pressed. Phrases Crowley would never have thought to apply, like ‘eldritch abomination’, now seemed exceedingly applicable. A black glow suffused him, as though light didn’t work properly in his vicinity any more. The shop’s lights flickered above his head. On a metaphysical plane, hundreds of eyes flicked open.

“Michael. I believe you’ve been responsible for my shop.”

Michael clocked the eerie calm rage directed towards her. Crowley would have been looking for a table to hide under,[1] but she looked more irritated than concerned.

“Not a fan, I take it? This place was in a shocking state when I arrived. Couldn’t find anything. And the dust…”

She shuddered, briskly. She looked like a person who never went over her allotted number of shudders per annum and handled them with utmost efficiency whenever they were needed.

“Ebooks are much easier to track, honestly. I can’t wait until print media goes obsolete.” She gave a tiny smile. “What am I saying - everything’s going obsolete. This Saturday. Thanks to him.”

She nodded at Adam.

Crowley felt he had become superfluous to proceedings and was not unhappy about it in the slightest. He tried to signal Adam to join him under the table. Adam ignored him. He stared at the two angels, transfixed. He knew the ethereal slap fight about to occur would forever redefine the word ‘awesome’.

“Angel?” Crowley called. “I know you had a plan, but uh. Perhaps let’s revise it while we’re running away from here very fast?”

Aziraphale’s wings unfurled with a thwump. A shield of pure light unfolded from his ring.

Michael smirked. She walked at a leisurely pace down the rest of the staircase. Three steps from the bottom, she hopped and floated the rest of the way down without summoning her wings. Her modest heels touched down on the polished floor like a dancer’s.

She glowed. She reached into her chest and pulled. Through layers of suit jacket, cravat, and extravagant pocket handkerchief, a magnificent silver sword emerged from her body like the stone that produced Excalibur.

Crowley gulped. Enough of his side had met grisly discorporations on the end of that sword that a kind of demonic racial memory was screaming inside him. Adam, at last, reluctantly backed off and came to join him under the table.

“I don’t know what your intentions are with the Antichrist, but they end here. Let me remind you, I am an Archangel. You are a mere Principality. That,” Michael’s lip twisted as she eyed the shield, “isn’t even a weapon.”

Aziraphale stepped towards her. Hundreds of eyes blazed.

Michael shrugged. “Very well.”

She held her sword at the ready.

With a blur of motion that whipped the pages of all the books in the room, she charged.

Her blade clanged down on the shield. A sound like a gong reverberated throughout the room.

Aziraphale’s outstretched arm braced against the blow. The midnight aura surrounding him rippled. Wisps of his white hair lifted as though stirred by a breeze.

He walked forward. Michael’s sword was pushed inexorably towards her body. She grunted, her arms bending with the weight. With a glare, she took an uneven couple of steps back and let her sword slide sideways off the shield, forcing Aziraphale to stumble. Michael danced backwards, a strand of hair shaken loose from her pompadour and trailing over her forehead.

Aziraphale kept advancing. His shield swept a table aside. A pyramid of holiday reads tumbled to the floor. Michael sidestepped and lunged. His shield caught the edge of her sword and threw her off with a blast of energy that shocked everyone in the room.

Michael reared up, her eyes flaming. Her wings unfurled. They had a blue-ish sheen, like silver under starlight. The feathers were as sharp as her sword.

She kicked off and took to the air. She swooped and slashed at Aziraphale from the side. With a flap of his wings, he rose into the air to match her. Another energy blast sizzled out of his shield, catching Michael in the chest.

The air was thick with feathers and flying paper. Shelves toppled, spilling books like wheelbarrows full of bricks onto the floor. Crowley grabbed Adam and pulled him closer. He wasn’t sure what good it would do, but the small reading table they were cowering under was as good as a bunker and a solid steel hatch in a time like this.

Something whirred towards his ear. There was a thunk, like a throwing axe embedding itself alarmingly close to him.

The table split in two. The break was perfectly clean, as if done with professional logging equipment. The two sides slipped away from each other like puzzled dance partners falling unconscious from drink in opposite directions. They hit the ground with a crash. Twins piles of neatly halved books fell to either side.

Michael’s sword clattered to the ground between the table halves. It missed Crowley and Adam by a whisker. It poofed into a smoke cloud and vanished.

Crowley raised his head over the parapet. He saw Aziraphale, shield flaring with Heaven’s light, bearing down on a disarmed Michael.

Her head was high, and her eyes cold and mutinous. She took three blows to her torso from the shield without flinching. Then -

Crowley didn’t know how she moved so fast. With a blur of motion, she ducked around Aziraphale, chest to back, and seized his shield arm at the elbow.

She twisted. Something crunched.

Aziraphale cried out. His shield flickered and died.

Michael swung his arm and pulled it into a lock behind his back. She held it aloft, forcing his body to bend forward while his arm remained perpendicular to the floor. Her other hand gripped his gem. She began to pull it, agonisingly, off his finger.

Crowley shouted and leapt over the wreckage of the disassembled table. Michael glanced over as if he were nothing more than a sideshow that was irritating her. She snapped her fingers. The remaining tables all threw themselves at Crowley’s head. He flung himself onward, battered by books and furniture.

Through the flying projectiles, he glimpsed Aziraphale’s ring, glowing.

Mrs Beeton’s Guide to Household Management flew out of his gem and smacked Michael in the forehead.

She staggered back, letting go of him. Two more tomes, both hardback, followed, clocking her on the jaw and face.

Aziraphale summoned his shield one last time and hurled it at Michael like a discus.

It bisected her through the chest.

Michael looked down at the disc the size of a cartwheel embedded in her torso.

“Oh,” she squeaked.

With a look of disgust, she burst into a smoke cloud.

The sky-blue, diamond-shaped gem in her chest fell to the floor with a clink, and lay still.

Sheafs of paper fluttered to the ground like bonfire ash. The Waterstones had been thoroughly purged.

The static charge around Aziraphale dissipated. The extra eyes and dark, glowing aura winked out. He turned to Crowley, breathing slightly heavier than usual. He was his kind-faced, well-loved angel once more.

Without missing a beat, Aziraphale picked through the carnage covering the shop floor. He found a spot he seemed to approve of and snapped his fingers. A square of carpet obligingly came loose. He stooped and yanked it up.

“It’s still here!”

He beamed at Crowley. Crowley traipsed towards him, still a little shell-shocked.

Adam followed. “That,” he said fervently, “was wicked.”

Crowley looked down. On the floor, where Aziraphale had pulled up the carpet, was a circle of elaborate chalk runes. Despite the dust of decades coating the floorboards, the chalk looked pristine and unscuffed.

“She moved the cash register,” Aziraphale sniffed.

He somehow conveyed, in that one sentence, his overall contempt for everything Michael had done with the place.

He miracled up some candles. Crowley hovered while Aziraphale knelt and arranged them around the circle, feeling like a bit of a spare part.

“So, what’s all this?”

Aziraphale looked up at him. “Do you mind, dear? I have to pray.”

Weird. Fine. Crowley turned his back to give him privacy. It had been a while since he’d done this kind of thing. He wasn’t sure what the current etiquette was.

After a few minutes, a voice said:

“Front desk. How may I assist?”

It was a familiar voice. It was Crowley’s voice, although the intonation was all wrong. He turned around, and saw a bored, beatific version of his own face, magnified to three times the normal size, sitting in the air above the portal like the Great and Powerful Oz.

Crowley “urk”ed and ducked out of the way.

“Oh, hello there,” Aziraphale said, smoothly. “Would you be so kind as to prepare for incoming? Three of us.”

The angel sighed.

“Of course. It’s all go at the moment… stand by.”

The runes of the portal glowed. The oversized face hanging in the air above it vanished.

Crowley whirled around to Aziraphale.

“This is your plan? We’re going to Heaven? Including me?”

“You’ll just have to try to blend in.”

Aziraphale looked infuriatingly calm. He did the ritual to prevent his gem from being left behind. Crowley glared while he did the same on himself and Adam.

“Is this an alien warp pad?” Adam asked.

“Close enough,” Crowley grunted.

They were as ready as they could be. Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand, put a hand on Adam’s shoulder, and prepared to guide all three of them into the circle.

“You know what?” Adam said.

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking. And I reckon I wouldn’t mind having a space dog.”

The front doors to the shop banged open in a sudden flurry of wind. Aziraphale jumped.

“Like, a small dog, but it’s green. And half-robot. And it can shoot lasers, and it has one of those big fish bowls on its head, and it can swim in space. That would be amazing.”

A small thunderclap sounded outside. It could have been from a vacuum of air caused by an enormous dog becoming, for instance, a very small dog. Any other modifications were happening silently.

“You could have all kinds of adventures, with a dog like that. In space. And I’d call it…”

Adam paused. The universe held its breath. Crowley looked nervously at the door and noted that it had got a bit blowy all of a sudden.

“Spacedog. Saves a lot of trouble, a name like that.”

Something barked outside the shop.

Aziraphale gave Adam the politely baffled smile of his that tended to come out whenever children talked at length. Crowley opened his mouth to say, “Sounds nice.” The words died.

A small, green, cyborg dog in a space helmet appeared in the open doors of the shop.

With a whirring series of robotic clicks, it wagged its tail.

It leapt forward and trotted straight into the air as though ascending on an invisible ramp. It paddled towards Adam, yapping with delight. The yaps were slightly metallic-sounding.

Adam’s face split into the largest grin on Earth. He held out his arms. The dog flew into them in raptures, and squirmed against his chest, tail going ballistic.

“OK,” said Crowley. “What.”

Aziraphale’s mouth hung open. He shook himself.

“No time. Sorry Crowley, we’ve got to go.”

Crowley let Aziraphale steer him and Adam into the circle. The dog’s arrival was at least sufficiently weird that it had thoroughly distracted him from how he was meant to get around Heaven without being sniffed out as a demonic plant.

The portal made a genteel powering-up noise.

“Going up,” Aziraphale said, bracingly. He squeezed Crowley’s hand. Crowley mustered a smile and squeezed back.

With a harp flourish that ended in a pop, they vanished. The candles blew out behind them.

An ominous thunderclap rattled the wreckage of the shop. Something in the wind turned.

The hellhound had been named, and Armageddon was officially underway.

---

[1] He was, in fact, looking for a table to hide under.

(Link to next part)

[main-to-card-games-and-pain]

generosity

So there was a prompt on @top-crowley-central which I kind of fell in love with. I decided to write a lil drabble for it, this turned into a 3000 word one shot. Can’t say I regret anything. :) 

...

Aziraphale knew something was wrong the moment he turned onto the street. Even from down the block the aura around the shop was usually so warm, comfortable, loving; even more so after he and Crowley got married. 

Aziraphale twisted his wedding band nervously, his pace quickening. 

Right now, the shop was anything but. It felt cold, sterile, indifferent. Oh God, Aziraphale realized, oh God, it feels Divine. 

The angel burst into a run, barely remembering to snap his fingers to miracle the door open and back closed in his haste to get in the shop. His husband’s name was just about to leave his lips when he saw him. 

Gabriel, specifically, but there were others there too. He’d just happened to see Gabriel first. 

Aziraphale froze, chest heaving - though he tried to hide it - from what he didn’t know. (He was almost certain it was fear, but acknowledging his fear would be to acknowledge that he had something to be frightened of, and the bookseller could not entertain those thoughts at the moment.) 

Gabriel’s face split into a wide grin, his arms outstretching welcomingly, “Brother! It is so good of you to join us. We thought we’d come down for a little visit, see how you were doing...” 

Aziraphale cleared his throat.

Maybe Crowley felt them coming, maybe he hid. 

“Yes,” he whispered, “it is good to see you after so long, Brother.” 

“Not just me, everyone!” Aziraphale looked up, taking stock of all the angels in his shop. Micheal, Uriel, Sandalphon. My, the whole lot had been summoned. 

“Hello, everybody.” Aziraphale wouldn’t meet their eyes but that wasn’t new. 

“Oh,” Gabriel started, like he’d just remembered some inconsequential tidbit to tell Aziraphale, “and look who we found!” 

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop, and his non-essential heart stutter to a stop. 

Crowley was pulled forward from where he’d been concealed from his husband, his wrists forced together in holy chains and a gag wrapped tightly around his mouth. His sunglasses were off, exposing his golden serpentine eyes for all to see, but not read. 

His angel, however, was an expert in reading. What he saw was terror, terror and desperation. 

Micheal gave Crowley a rough shove, throwing him to his knees. Aziraphale instinctually lurched forward, remembering himself only at the last moment and stopping. Crowley was sporting a blackened eye and split lip. The sight of his husband’s blood made the Principality’s own blood become cold with rage, but he could do nothing. 

We could be killed for this, Aziraphale thought. It was one thing to say it and not care when it was a possible future, and another thing entirely when it stared at you in the face. 

“You wouldn’t be hiding a demon, would you?” Gabriel’s stupid smile hadn’t dropped, he wasn’t expecting answers. No, he was just enjoying his power right now. “You aren’t bedding a demon, disgusting creatures that they are, right?” 

“N-no!” Aziraphale’s eyes met Crowley’s, which were so desperate for the angel to do whatever he needed to to survive; it still felt like betrayal. “No, he is my Adversary, nothing more. A foul fiend who-”

“You fool no one,” Uriel cut across him coldly. “He has one of those ridiculous rings on his hand, with your name engraved. You’ve one too, I can see.” She smirked, crossing over to Aziraphale and clasping a cold hand over his shoulder. She leaned in and whispered, “I can smell him on you, traitor.” 

“Explain this to me, Brother,” Gabriel sneered. One of his hands came to rest on Crowley’s head. The demon glared hellfire at the archangel, lurching from his place on the ground as if to attack. The hand became a fist, tugging at Crowley’s hair and forcing his head back. That’s when Aziraphale saw the holy blade. “Explain to me, right now, or I’ll cut his throat.” 

It was too much for the angel. 

“No, don’t-!” His attempt to get to his husband was cut off as Uriel and Sandalphon grabbed his arms and wrenched them behind his back. “Gabriel, please. There’s - there’s really no need for all the - all the theatrics...”

The blade traced the curve of Crowley’s jaw, his neck, just barely against his skin like a lover’s kiss. 

Crowley grunted, glaring angrily at the archangel. His neck was becoming sore and his jaw had been forced open for far too long. But most of all he was scared, he was terrified in fact, not for himself but that Aziraphale would be killed trying to protect him.

“That’s not an explanation,” Gabriel declared, nodding at Michael. 

She backhanded Crowley hard enough to force him off balance. Aziraphale gasped for the gagged demon, struggling to get forward. 

“That’s a warning, Aziraphale. I’ve already told you what I’ll do, so you better give me a great fucking explanation.” Gabriel huffs a laugh, cutting off any more pleading Aziraphale was about to give. “That’s the explanation though, isn’t it?” The archangel continued to chuckle, evidently thinking his thus-forth inside joke was hilarious, “it’s ‘great fucking.’”

“How dare you-” the angel sputtered, expression quickly morphing to anger. 

“It’s evident to everyone present that it’s true, do not speak to us of what we dare to do,” Michael hissed. 

“But I suppose we can forgive one temptation,” Sandalphon added, smirking. “This is after all, what’s happened, yes? The demon Crowley tempted Aziraphale.”

“Yes, I think you’re right,” Michael agreed, equally smug. 

“For-forgive it?” Aziraphale asked timidly. 

Uriel tightened her grip, “Heaven is after all, supposed to be forgiving.”

Gabriel caught on. “Indeed, it’s not your fault Aziraphale. We will simply dispose of the demon, and you can go on your merry way.” 

Any semblance of hope was dashed from Aziraphale’s heart. 

“Now there’s no - there’s no reason why we should be so hasty.” 

“It’s really quite simple; if the demon tempted you, you are nullified of guilt,” Michael assured, flashing a smile that sent ice through Aziraphale’s veins, “if not then...” she shrugged. 

Crowley’s eyes had become wide at the offer, his husband could live through this. He wanted to meet Aziraphale’s gaze but his head was still wrenched back, he wanted to tell him to take the deal. 

“Three seconds for the explanation or I kill the filth and we consider it over.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure he hated Gabriel, until that moment, when he sentenced Crowley to death with a bored look on his face. “Three.”

“I-I can’t-”

“Two.”

Crowley was begging Aziraphale to condemn him, to save himself. Not for me angel, don’t die for me. 

“One.” 

The blade rose. 

“No, wait!” Aziraphale cried, sagging in his captor’s grip. “Don’t... I love him.”

Crowley felt the familiar edge of despair suffocate him at the angel’s words. He closed his eyes, so that the prickling of tears could not be visible to the bastard holding onto him. Aziraphale continued to condemn himself, past the point of caring. 

“He didn’t tempt me, he married me. I fell in love with him, he didn’t do anything, it was me.” Something splashed against Aziraphale’s cheek which he supposed must be tears. “Please, just let us go.”

There was silence.

And then there was pain.

Crowley fought harder, made more attempts at noise from behind the gag, he drew all the attention back to him as soon as he heard flesh hit flesh and Aziraphale’s gasp of pain. 

“Stay still,” Gabriel snarled, flicking the knife just enough to nick Crowley’s chin and send a cascade of ichor down his neck. 

“Please, just let us go,” Aziraphale repeated, all too aware of his husband’s blood. “We won’t - we won’t bother you at all, we haven’t until now... please, be reasonable.” 

“Reasonable?” Gabriel scoffed, “you have just confessed to fucking a demon, to loving a demon, and you ask it of me to be reasonable.” 

He let Crowley’s head up, finally, only to push him forwards in an even more degrading position on his hands and knees, held there like a dog by Gabriel’s shoe. 

“Look at him Aziraphale, this is where they belong. Demons are evil, filthy, corrupted creatures, who had the Grace of our Lord and threw it away. And you, you are traitor to the Host by being in some sort of disgusting relationship with it.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flashed with anger. “You don’t know my husband, you know nothing of what we have, and if I am to die for loving him I will do so gladly. Eternity is nothing to me without him.” 

“I cannot believe you thought that participating in such a meaningless human ceremony would forgive you the sins you’ve committed,” Michael taunted. 

“We didn’t,”Aziraphale said softly. Crowley’s golden eyes finally found his angel’s, and together they shared the moment, Aziraphale spoke more to his husband than their captors. “We did it because we loved each other.” 

“Well look at where your love has gotten you,” Gabriel sneered, stomping upon Crowley’s back and forcing his face into the carpet. 

Crowley shouted angrily from behind the gag, twisting his back and kicking viscously at Gabriel’s leg. (He was extremely flexible when he wanted to be, in part because his other form was a snake and in part because he could not imagine such a silly limitation as stiffness.)

“Feisty,” Sandalphon commented. Gabriel shot them an annoyed glare and straightened his suit. 

“Pathetic,” Uriel corrected. 

Michael rolled her eyes and pinned Crowley’s leg down and still, watching as Gabriel let a grin stretch his jaw as he smashed his heel down on Crowley’s lower leg with all his might. The demon screamed, muffled as it was it was still enough to draw a shout from Aziraphale. 

“Stop-!” He fought desperately for purchase, tears flowing unchecked from his eyes. “Leave him alone! You’re here for me, hurt me!”

Crowley’s leg was bent wrong. 

Michael and Gabriel shared a smirk before Michael gripped Crowley’s hair and slammed his head into the floor. His head came back up oozing black ichor, his nose obviously broken. 

Aziraphale shook his head, like he could will this awful situation away, like he was dreaming some horrible nightmare. His breath hiccuped into a sob. 

Gabriel started kicking the demon’s stomach, ignoring the angel’s cries. 

“Stop it! Gabriel, please...” Aziraphale tugged uselessly on the restraining grips of his comrades. “Stop it!”

Something snapped in Crowley’s chest and he screamed again, this time trying desperately to cough but being forced to choke on his own blood. Aziraphale could see how the white fabric had begun to turn black.  

“I’ll Fall! I’ll die! I’ll do whatever you want me to do just leave him alone!” 

The room stilled. 

“What did you just say?” 

“You heard me; kill me, cast me out of Heaven, I don’t care, just let him live.” 

Crowley threw his dignity out the window, shaking his head and screaming at Aziraphale that no, he can’t do this, he isn’t worth his beautiful angel’s life, or wings. 

“What if we need you alive?” Gabriel smirked, blessedly stepping away from Crowley for the moment. 

“There’s a war coming, Aziraphale,” Michael continued coldly, “the war against Hell, to end all things and finally settle our score.” 

“Y-you mean...?”

“Armageddon approaches, yes.” 

“And we need all the soldiers we can get,” Uriel added. 

“So we’re not going to kill you,” Michael concluded. “The demon however... Well, that’s just getting a head start.”

No. No, no, no, no, no. 

“No. No, I won’t fight if you do, I won’t.” 

“Chain him to the desk,” Michael barked, ignoring Aziraphale’s protests. “Gabriel and I will deal with this.” She nudged Crowley with her shoe, smirking when he groaned in protest as one of his snapped ribs jostled. 

“No, no! Let me go! Let us go!” Aziraphale struggled with everything he had, desperate to get to his husband. He felt Uriel and Sandalphon pull him towards his desk, felt the holy metal enclose his wrists, but worst of all he felt his heart break. “Crowley! Please! Please! Don’t!” 

Crowley was yanked onto his feet by Gabriel, and when he met his husband’s eyes his own were clouded with pain, fear, anger, love. 

He repeated the same sentence through the gag over and over, tapped his wedding ring incessantly, and then pointed at Aziraphale. Wrecked as he was, the angel understood. 

“I love you too.” 

It was all he could say before his husband had been pulled from the room, but it was the only thing he said that mattered. 

Unlike Crowley, Aziraphale’s wrists were chained behind him. When the grip on his arms fell away he was immediately struggling to escape, and thus, sustained a considerably painful injury as he wrenched his shoulders back. 

What’s worse, that over his own crying Aziraphale could still hear the sounds. He heard with horrifying clarity Crowley’s body hit the floor as they (presumably) beat him. He heard his husband scream in agony, evidently they’d decided to remove the gag. And then he heard nothing, which was perhaps the worst of all. 

He felt nothing too, like Crowley’s essence had been cut off from him, like he was- 

Michael and Gabriel reentered the room just in time to see the angel sink to his knees in desolation, silent sobs wracking his whole body. The holy blade left a trail of fallen ichor as they walked. 

“Chin up, Aziraphale,” Gabriel bellowed, slapping a hand against Aziraphale’s shoulder, “no more distractions.”

Aziraphale spat in his face. 

Gabriel’s expression never changed but his eyes did, they became even colder with fury. He struck the angel across the face, hard enough to throw him to the ground, and then carelessly threw the key against his cheek. 

“For the chains, you pathetic excuse of an angel.” He turned to leave, throwing his head back towards Aziraphale and adding, “Oh, we left you a present back there. Better clean it up.” 

And they left. 

But the love didn’t come back to his flat. 

Eventually, the angel found the strength to unlock himself from his chains, but he could’ve sat there for the rest of his existence and not cared. But he had to take care of Crowley. 

So he dragged himself to the back room, readying himself to see- to see his husband’s corpse. 

What he saw when he got there though, it took the breath from his lungs. 

Because Crowley was there, and he was alive. 

Terrified, wet, pained, and living eyes stared at him from their place on the floor. 

“Oh my God,” Aziraphale breathed, snapping from his reverie and collapsing at his husband’s side. “Oh my God, oh my God, Crowley.”

The chains came undone and Crowley collapsed into Aziraphale’s arms. The angel tore the gag away from his husband’s mouth, throwing it to the side hysterically. 

“Darling,” he cried, waving his hand over the demon’s body to assess the damage. “What did they do to you?” 

“H-hey angel,” Crowley breathed shakily, smiling despite the pain. “You have no idea how happy I am to see you...” 

Aziraphale gave him a watery smile, running his fingers through his hair gently. “Hush now, let me help you.”

The angel could see the glowing sigil carved into Crowley’s shoulder blade, it was what made his aura disappear, it disconnected demons from their powers, from Hell even. It was excruciating. 

There were so many hurts on his husband’s body, it was a miracle he wasn’t discorporated. 

Aziraphale picked up a plant mister curiously, freezing when Crowley’s grip on his hand tightened and he strained to choke out a few more words. “Careful, love,” his husband ground out, “dilute holy water, my feet...” 

There were few words in any language that Aziraphale knew that could describe his disgust and heart break at Crowley’s words, at the cruelty from Heaven. 

On a mission, Aziraphale healed first the sigil, gasping in relief as Crowley’s aura burst forth, and then his feet. He had to take a break afterwards, having spent most of his energy. 

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale cried gently, “I’m so sorry Crowley. If it weren’t for me they never would have-”

“Don’t blame yourself, angel,” Crowley croaked, “I’ll hear none of it. I love you too much...” 

“I love you too. Alright, hold still while I-” Crowley caught the angel’s hand before he could grasp and heal his wounds. 

“Too much,” he rasped, “it’ll hurt you. Just wait, help me to bed. Now that those dammed chains and sigil are gone I’ll be able to do it myself soon.”

“I’m not going to let you lay there in pain when I can do something about it.” Aziraphale was outraged at the very notion. 

“Not askin’ you too. Jus’ askin’ you t’wait,” the demon slurred, slumping slightly against his husband’s chest. 

“Fine,” the angel conceded, taking a moment to just hold the demon to his chest. He’d never take it for granted again. 

Later, when Crowley was asleep in their bed, and Aziraphale was painfully cleaning up the wreckage of his bookshop, he stumbled on a letter he was sure wasn’t there before. 

Heavenly ink swirled against the pages, making Aziraphale nauseous. 

Aziraphale, 

We hope you like our gift; we trust you remember that we may not always be so generous. Especially with the oncoming war. 

We excitedly anticipate your efforts to the war, in the service of our Lord and Mother. 

Take care. 

Gabriel. 

[woollyslisterblog]

1834 July Monday 28th

No kiss Fine morning F70° at 10:00 a.m. breakfast at 10:22 11 1/4 –

had ordered and waited for calêche - so old looking and dirty, would not have it, Anne and I went out on foot - peeped into the cathedral - the interior undergoing repair - not either very large or handsome building, and the interior painted in fresco imitation of gothic ornament - very bad taste - the deep blue roof with gold stars and fresco groining looked well enough –

then to a booksellers in the Place St Leger – fortunately stumbled upon the best, Puthod, above an hour there bought several works - particularly the first 5 nos at 3/. (15 more to come) off vùes de la Savoy … suivres d’un précis historique and discriptif published here by Courtois at Albert Lithographes - gave my address and desired the other nos to be sent to me aux soins de Messers Lafitte , Paris - whom I would direct to pay for them - the female person in the shop very civil - gave us directions what to see - sent her servant with us to la poste for a carriage - little charabanc 6/. a day, should only be 3/. for this afternoon - but the mâitre de poste asked 6/. for this afternoon and 18/. a day for a calêche and pair - at last bargained for the latter to take me to Aix and the charabanc for 22/. - saw the rooms - smelt strongly of new papering and plastering and beds at 3/. and noisy, bustling pace - very glad we were not there, and quite contented with La parfait union

from 2:10 to 4 walked to Les Charmettes at where Rousseau and Mme de Warens lived, and some time there - nothing about nonsense in the Livre de Estrangers, so declined writing even our names - went one way and returned another - we were near 1/2 hour going from La Poste – fine view of the town in returning - nice, clean, well-built, good looking town, not very large - in going had bought 18 good greengages for a sol –

came home for 1/2 hour for Ann to have her cold fowl, and off in the charabanc at 4 1/2 - passed through the little village of Aisse, and the paper manufactory au bout du monde at 5:10 - one of the workmen shewed us the cascade (50 to 100 yards at the back of the building) - not much water now, but still very picturesque and pretty - the water of the Doria falls from a fine cleft in the high limestone rock -on each side are little springs gushing from the rock which springs man said are cold in summer and heated in winter - the strata of the rock are here at the cascade and more particularly a little lower down and turning up along little river Aisse (now all but dry which falls into the Doria at the mill in time to swell the stream and turn the wheel) very singular - look exactly like a wall of stones about a foot long and six inches in the bed - and this stratification extends to some little way down the Doria -

the man shewed us, too, the process of paper making and we bought nice soft papier gris (at sol per lb) 64 sheets for 1 franc - the man said times were much better, le commerce allait beaucaisse mieux de temps des Français - now he, whose work begins at midnight for 11 hours every night, and always in water has 44 francs a month about 30 sols day, the wages of the best workmen - and the others had all them from 34 up to 44 a month - the woman had 12 sols a day - but they have each a room in the building that I suppose they live rent-free - the paper that sold du temps de Napoleon for 40/. and was no sooner made than sold, now hangs on hand and sells for 18/. or 20/. - asked if the King had been at Chambery yes! at the paper manufactory- I said he was très bon -bon enfant- no! said the man the manufactory had always given him something but he had never given anything in return - things could not go on in this way - an hour at the cascade and in the manufactory -

returned another way by Alby, but had unluckily left at home Mme Puthod’s paper so forgot to go St Saturnin en passant - the cocher, however, stopt, at the great nursery garden and we stood an hour there and ordered a collection of roses to take back with us! Thought this would be a nice place to send to little John to- spoke to the man about it - he seemed to have no objection - will see him again and have more information as to terms - the boy should be aged 14 - these people have an establishment at Lyon and Grenoble and Turin - are chiefly famous for roses dahlias and ----------- of which they have every variety - the young man makes excursions to the mountains - has a herbary of above 6000 plants - to go there and see this at 10:00 a.m. on Wednesday - drove around the place, and promenade de Verny, and home at 8 1/4 - dinner at 8 1/2 - very fine day F71 1/2° at 11 1/4 p.m. - too much dinner - very hot - asleep in my chair after Eugenie left me till near 11 -

the nursery is also famous for peonies and camellias. Definitely much more of an ideal present to each other.

[vigilante24ish]

Soprano and the Phantom Chapter 1

My entry for the “Once Upon Another Time” project by @a-partofthenarrative

Beauty and the Beast, Phantom of the Opera version. Enjoy.

---------------------------------------------------

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, a prince lived in a shining castle. Although he had everything his heart desired, the prince was spoiled, selfish, and unkind. But then, one winter's night, an old beggar woman came to the castle and offered him a single rose in return for shelter from the bitter cold.

Repulsed by her haggard appearance, the prince sneered at the gift and turned the old woman away, but she warned him not to be deceived by appearances, for beauty is found within. And when he dismissed her again, the old woman's ugliness melted away to reveal a beautiful enchantress.

The prince tried to apologize, but it was too late, for she had seen that there was no love in his heart, and as punishment, she transformed him into a deformed hideous beast and placed a powerful spell on the castle, and all who lived there. Ashamed of his monstrous form, the beast concealed himself inside his castle, with a magic mirror as his only window to the outside world.

The rose she had offered was truly an enchanted rose, which would bloom until his 31st year. If he could learn to love another and earn her love in return by the time the last petal fell, then the spell would be broken. If not, he would be doomed to remain a beast for all time. As the years passed, he fell into despair, and lost all hope, for who could ever learn to love a beast?

===============================

In the nice small town of Rouen, a bright new day had started for all. The town, not too big and consisting of small cottages and two-storey houses, some of them packed together. Stands and small shops were at the bottom, selling and serving local products.

The streets of the town were paved by limestone rock, giving it a nice crème-yellow appearance. It matched most of the houses and lead people all around the city as it forked into roads and alleys.

In one of the houses at the outskirts of the town, a true beauty lived once with her father. Her name was Christine Daee, daughter of a Swedish violinist who retreated into the small town for both health but also escape.

Christine exited the house, her curly brown hair bouncing with each of her steps while she gave a white pearly smile to the people.

She had many hobbies, one of them was singing and found her songs accompanying her lonely life. Fuelling the fire of adventure she so much wanted.

"Little town, it's a quiet village. Every day, like the one before. Little town, full of little people Waking up to say…"

She walked her brown woven basket at her right hand and waved at her fellow townsfolk.

"Bonjour!"

"Bonjour!"

"Bonjour!"

"There goes the baker with his tray like always. The same old bread and rolls to sell. Every morning just the same. Since the morning that we came to this poor provincial town"

The Baker noticed her and smiled. "Good morning, Christine"

She returned her smile and jumped over to him. "Morning, monsieur!"

"Where are you off to?"

"The bookshop! I just finished the most wonderful story, about a beanstalk and an ogre and…"

He ignored her happy talk and turned his attention inside. "That's nice…Marie, the baguettes! Hurry up!"

She shook her head but kept her smile. Unlike everyone else, Christine had a love for books. It was her retreat into mystical adventures she could never have, and all started when her father would spend hours telling her stories and legends of the north.

It was rare for a woman to be educated, especially with books but she was an exception. She never felt ashamed for it and followed her heart which yearned for a change, for something new but knew she would never have.

"Look there she goes, that girl is strange no question. Dazed and distracted, can't you tell?" a woman gossiped, leaning to her friend.

"Never part of any crowd."

"Cause her head's up on some cloud" the Barber joined, overhearing them from his shop.

"No denying she's a funny girl, that Christine"

The smiley woman ignored them, not really caring about what they thought of her. Perhaps she did have her head in the clouds, but things were so much better up there than down below. Once getting some bread, she jumped on the back of the wagon that rides through town.

Everyone greeted and smiled at each other, starting small discussion; they were a small community after al. Everyone knew everyone and gossip travelled faster than wildfire.

Christine left out a sigh and jumped down once she had reached her stop, the book shop. "There must be more than this provincial life!"

She entered the small shop, overcrowded with dozens of books of all genres. Too bad she had read all of them and no one seemed interested in their content other than her.

"Ah, Christine" the bookseller greeted her, a smile on his face from seeing his favourite customer.

She smiled, feeling a relief once being inside the shop. The short man was the only one who never judged her for her love of books and needs for adventure. He was her supporter from the very first day along with her father.

"Good morning. I've come to return the book I borrowed" she said and handed him the book which she had inside her basket.

"Finished already?" the man asked, slightly impressed since it had been only a few days.

"Oh, I couldn't put it down! Have you got anything new?"

He laughed and shook his head before placing the book back on the self "Not since yesterday"

Christine was unfazed by the news and she quickly climbed the ladder, going to the 4th self. Her eyes scanned the titles. "That's all right. I'll borrow… this one"

"That one? But you've read it twice!"

She chuckled. "Well it's my favourite!" she explained as she swung off side of the ladder, rolling down its track. "Far off places, daring swordfights, magic spells, a prince in disguise!"

Her mind replayed the scenes, a feeling of excitement to read the story all over again and let herself be submerged into the adventures it held. She walked towards him with the book and the man smiled.

"Well, if you like it all that much, it's yours!"

She was taken back; such an act of generosity was too much for her. "But sir!"

"I insist!"

She quickly hugged the man, finding it hard to express in words how she felt. She released him and gave him one of her most sweet smiles, her brown eyes sparkling with happiness.

"Well thank you. Thank you very much!"

She then left the bookshop, skipping a step once in a while. A small change in her routine fixed everything and she daydreamed the adventures of her book while her townsfolk judging her from the background.

She zoomed everyone out, keeping locked inside her thoughts and emotions. Her imagination running wild while the need to be the heroine of that book kept growing.

"Look there she goes That girl is so peculiar! I wonder if she's feeling well!"

"With a dreamy far-off look!"

"And her nose stuck in a book!"

"What a puzzle to the rest of us is Christine!"

She found her way to the small fountain in the middle of the town. It was her favourite place when she needed an escape and often, she had company; the local sheep. She would sing and talk to them, being her true friends that listened without judging.

"Oh! Isn't this amazing! It's my favourite part because you'll see! Here's where she meets Prince Charming… But she won't discover that it's him 'til chapter 3!" she sang and petted the sheep closer to her.

"Now it's no wonder that everyone called her a 'beauty' Her looks have got no parallel!" a woman in the background sang, observing the peculiar brunette from afar.

"But behind that fair facade, I'm afraid she's rather odd Very different from the rest of us…"

"She's nothing like the rest of us. Yes, different from the rest of us is Christine!"

====================.

Not too far away, closer to a more open area of the town a Geeze hunt was taking place. The majestic birds flew across the blue sky, only for one to be shot down. It fell on the ground, not alive any longer and a slightly tanned man walked towards it.

He had a slightly exotic complex and stood out due to the red fez on top of his head. He was skinny and not that tall, but his green eyes showed some intelligence. He walked over and quickly put the dead animal into a bag before turning to the shooter.

"Wow! You didn't miss a shot, Raoul! You're the greatest hunter in the whole world!"

Raoul De Changy was a charismatic man with short light brown hair and stunning blue eyes. His body was trained, and his clothing showed the wealth of his family, along with the insignia sewed on his jacket.

He let his gun down, a smug smirk of pride on his cupid shaped lips. "I know"

"Huh. No beast alive stands a chance against you…and no girl for that matter!"

"It's true, Nadir and I've got my sights set on that one!" he said and pointed at the faint figure of Christine by the fountain.

He knew her since they were children but as they grew older, they also grew apart. She became distant and buried her nose into old books, preferring an imaginary world than the real one. He grew responsible, carrying on his family name and focusing on skills he needed.

"The violinist's daughter?" Nadir asked as he joined his side, and both watched the young woman.

He gave a nod. "She's the one! The lucky girl I'm going to marry"

"But she's—"

Ignoring him, Raoul continued. "The most beautiful girl in town"

"I know-

"And that makes her the best. And don't I deserve the best?"

"Well, of course, I mean you do, but I mean…"

Once again, poor Nadir was interrupted. The man by his side too caught up in his own world to listen.

"Right from the moment when I met her, saw her. I said she's gorgeous and I fell. Here in town, there's only she, who is beautiful as me. So I'm making plans to woo and marry Christine"

He started walking towards her, earning the attention of any other woman in the town and most specifically, the young women.

"Look there he goes, isn't he dreamy? Monsieur Raoul, oh he's so cute! Be still my heart, I'm hardly breathing! He's such a tall, strong and handsome Vicomte!" One woman sang, talking to her friend and trying her best not to faint.

Christine by now she was walking back to her house, easily passing through the crowd. Raoul tried to follow but struggled to catch up.

"Scuse me!" he tried while people chatted and continued with their day. "Please let me through!" he was once again ignored. "Just watch I'm going to make Christine my wife!"

At last, she managed to catch up with her.

[flashbastardwithsunglasses]

what does all of the text say when aziraphale says paperwork? "my dear gabriel im sad to announce to you and our fellow angelic co-workers," etc etc

My dear Gabriel,

I’m sad to announce to you and our fellow angelic co-workers that I’ve got into the situation where I’ve lost the body I was issued with. Now, let me tell you all about how it happens before I ask you to issue me a new one. As you know my work on Earth is not done, the demon Crowley’s still influencing humanity and so are probably other demons.

Anyways, of course, I was working for the British Government. As you know, I’ve established myself in London as a seller of old and rare books to keep my cover. You know, you’ve been to my book opening, after all, and I’ve explained it all to you. It was then when you gave me a medal. Anyways, I was working for the British Government to find and expose some Nazi spies here in London. The Nazis, as you’ve surely thought, after all, even Heaven must have heard about the inhuman practices they perform in Germany nowadays.

So, I was working with Captain Rose Montgomery of British Military Intelligence. She helped me establish contact with Mr. Glozier and Mr. Harmony, the Nazis. They’ve ordered some books of prophecy, human prophecies, from me. As you may know, I, as a bookseller, have found my niche: antique prophecy books. I’m owning several: I got Robert Nixon, Martha the Gypsy, Ignatius Sybilla, Old Ottwell Binns. Nostradamus, Mother Shipton, and St. John the Divine of Patmos. The Nazis ordered Otwell Binns, Robert Nixon, Mother Shipton from me, which I got them, of course. After all, it was just a setup and I’d get my books back. They’ve also ordered the Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, which I don’t own, to my great despair, since all copies were destroyed by the publishers.

So, I got them the books, as promised, at night in a church here in London. The plan was this: I was going to bring them the books, then Captain Rose Montgomery and her men would back me up and arrest the Nazi spies. What happened was this: I went into the church, just as planned. Of course, they were a little bit iffy about the fact that I had not been able to bring them the Agnes Nutter. In a short conversation, I found out that they, or more specifically, their leader, wanted also the Holy Grail and the—

Featuring some words which I wrote wrong in the text on the gif (like Gouvernment…) which I didn’t correct bc I was too lazy

[threecrowsinatrenchcoat]

OCtober Day 16 - Wild

I do actually have other OCs besides just Lyric and Niiro. 

Some of those OCs are absolutely Mary Sue characters. Cause we all have em. 

Vincent is my Mary Sue character. 

Day 16 - Wild

Niiro held very still as he listened, his eyes closed to tune out the world around him. He had fought these types of monsters before, and they were wild and unpredictable. Creatures of chaos. So why was this one so… tactical? He could hear the beast, faintly, as it moved through the underbrush with quiet steps. In a careful, practiced motion, he drew Scarlet Rend from its sheathe. The blade’s weight in his hands was familiar, encouraging; but ever a reminder to remain focused. 

The beast was stalking something, as Niiro himself was stalking it. He knew he was unseen and unheard- the enchantments upon Scarlet Rend ensured that. Which meant there was something else here, something that had caught the beast’s attention. Swiftly, silently, Niiro left his hiding spot and moved in a wide arc. He kept his attention split between the beast and the woods around him, wary of whatever might have his target on the defensive. 

The beast stopped suddenly- Niiro could just make out its massive, pather-like body where it stood, the edges of its form flickering and wavering like a candle moments from being extinguished. Faint whisps of smoke rose from its dark fur, and though he could not see them from here, Niiro knew the beast’s eyes would be pupiless and glowing yellow. It raised its head slowly. It’s sharp ears scanned the area around, and at the same moment its head turned sharply back toward where Niiro crouched in the underbrush, Niiro heard a sudden snarl rip through the quiet woods. He turned in time to see a monstrous, demonic creature leap at him, this one a mess of too many arms and too many claws and the sharp scent of sulfur that cloaked a being that had only just emerged from the Lower Planes. He raised Scarlet Rend to deflect the demon’s attack, but he had reacted too slow; it was mere inches away, and his blade was still not between them. He braced for the strike. 

Then there was a flash of white light, and the scent of ozone surrounded him. The demon fell back, howling, grasping in pain at the seared flesh. Then another flash of light as the radiant energy struck again, and this time, the demon fell dead. Niiro turned. He was not surprised by what he saw. 

Vincent strode toward him. The strange bookseller. The artifact collector. Lyric’s friend. Niiro turned his blade toward him. 

“Put that away,” Vincent scoffed. But he stopped, about thirty feet away. Niiro could see he held some item in one hand, covered in a protective layer of cloth. He could sense the curse upon it just as he could smell the sulfur on the angel. 

“Did you open the rift?” he demanded. The demon had come from somewhere; a rift between the planes lay open somewhere in these woods- a tear between the worlds caused when the ley lines overflowed with magic. Or when somebody forced one open. 

“I did not,” Vincent answered, coldly. His sharp blue eyes narrowed. “I closed it. After. That is the only one that escaped.” 

“You shouldn’t be wandering about in there.”

“You know what I am?”

Niiro paused. Vincent knew the answer to that, or he wouldn’t be asking it. Wordlessly, Niiro simply nodded. 

“Then you know you cannot stop me.” 

“If you weren’t Lyric’s friend,” Niiro said, slowly, “I would try.” 

“And, were you not Lyric’s friend, I would hope that you would.” 

They both watched the other for a moment longer. But as the initial shock of what he had seen began to die down, Niiro realized that the beast he had been hunting was still somewhere in these woods, startled off by the noise and the presence of the fallen angel. Slowly, unsure of how deep Vincent’s loyalty to Lyric actually ran, he lowered his sword, but did not sheathe it. He did not bid him farewell- they were not friends. Instead, he gave Vincent a nod. Vincent returned the gesture. And they parted. 

And later than night, when Vincent stopped by Lyric’s shop with the cursed item he had obtained from the Lower Planes, neither spoke of their encounter.  

[justforbooks]

I suppose it’s O.K. to give away the address now. The books are gone, packed up in dozens of cardboard boxes and hauled away. When you ring the buzzer for apartment No. 7, nothing happens any longer, and won’t, probably, until someone else moves in. The old feeling you’d get, that you had sprung a trapdoor, discovered a secret passage, won’t come anymore.

Michael Seidenberg’s one-of-a-kind bookshop, Brazenhead Books, closed last month. For seven years, it operated out of an apartment at 235 East Eighty-fourth Street. Of course no bookstore or other business had any business being there, in that rent-stabilized apartment, so it was, strictly speaking, illegal, and because it was illegal it had to be secret. The secret was known to a small number of discreet patrons and shared strictly by word of mouth. (At first, Michael saw customers by appointment only.) Inside, the windows were blacked out and covered with shelves. On bookcases, in every room, volumes of all sizes in serried ranks rose two deep from floor to ceiling. More were stacked on desks and tables and grew in unsteady columns from the floor. There was a stereo (covered in books), a few chairs, and a large desk in the front room (likewise all but submerged), on which Michael kept a half dozen or so bottles of wine and spirits, a tower of plastic cups, and a bucket of ice.

Walking in, you might find a handful of patrons lounging on chairs with drinks in their hands, or browsing amiably, making conversation, generally about books, but often ranging widely into art, politics, personal life stories, and the history of New York. In the same way that children imagine adults living in perfect freedom, enjoying all the cookies and television they want and staying up till all hours, Michael’s shop was what a bookish child might dream up as a fantasy home for himself, a place far from any responsibilities, where he would never run out of stories.

It was, of course, no more practical than a gingerbread house. There was no bathroom or kitchen. (When nature called, customers had to knock on the next-door neighbor’s apartment and ask to be let in.) The affable if somewhat inscrutable proprietor, potbellied and gray-bearded, in his late fifties, lived elsewhere, and held court in the shop on Saturday nights. At least, that was how things stood in the summer of 2011, when I first started visiting.

The story of Brazenhead goes like this: in the nineteen-seventies, Michael ran a bookstore in Brooklyn. That was the first Brazenhead Books. The novelist Jonathan Lethem, as Patricia Marx reported in Talk of the Town, in 2008, worked there when he was fourteen years old. (He was paid with books.) Michael eventually moved his shop to the Upper East Side, only to lose his lease several years later when the rent quadrupled. Lacking options, he moved the books into his own apartment, but there were too many—so many that he and his wife moved out to make room for them all. After that, he plied his trade occasionally, and more or less thanklessly, at book fairs and on city streets. Otherwise, in the apartment on East Eighty-fourth Street, the books gathered dust. It was not until 2007 that his friend George Bisacca, a longtime conservator of paintings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, helped Michael turn the apartment into the place I came to know. The Times, writing about Brazenhead in the fall of 2011, was near the mark in calling it a “literary speakeasy.”

In the years after I discovered the shop, I occasionally introduced others to it, bringing them with me one at a time, as if inducting them into a secret society. With time came practical improvements: the addition of a working toilet (but no sink), better-organized collections of Russian, Japanese, and Latin American literature. Michael even hired an assistant. As a result, the contents of the shop, formerly in a state of apparent chaos, began to assume a peculiarly perfect kind of order.

But the unlikeliness of the place never dissipated. On one of my first visits, Michael and I bonded over a shared fascination with the work of Edward Whittemore, an unjustly neglected American writer who, after graduating from Yale, in 1955, served in the Marines and as a C.I.A. operative in the Far East and Jerusalem. The first of his books, “Quin’s Shanghai Circus,” was published by Henry Holt, in 1974, and was described in the Times as “a war novel without the usual furniture of war,” “peopled with circus masters, prostitutes, priests, gangsters, voyeurs, retarded man-boys, pornography collectors, pederasts, dwarfs, fat American giants and sadfaced secret-service agents, who change identities from time to time and drift through landscapes that resemble Tokyo, Shanghai and the Bronx.”

There was a copy of the novel on a low shelf in Brazenhead’s back room, the first-edition room. Beside it were the hardcover volumes of Whittemore's magnum opus, the Jerusalem Quartet, all long out of print, which stand in relation to “Quin’s” much as “The Lord of the Rings” stands to “The Hobbit.” (Paperback reissues of the five novels, published by Old Earth Books, in 2002, are likewise out of print.) Frustratingly, though, Brazenhead had only books two, three, and four of the quartet; the first volume, “Sinai Tapestry,” was missing. I bought “Quin’s,” and asked after “Sinai Tapestry.” Michael indicated that it was in his private collection, and not for sale.

If it seemed strange for a bookseller not to sell a particular book, it was stranger still to let people treat his shop as a hangout without pressuring them to buy anything. His patrons, a mix of bright young things and old eccentrics, were fiercely loyal. The considerate ones bought books, or at least brought a handle of booze once in a while to replenish the bar. The inconsiderate treated Brazenhead like their own parlor—drinking up the whiskey and port, blocking the doorways, rarely buying anything. On any given night you were liable to encounter a poetry reading or a musical performance. For a time, on Thursday nights, the bookshop hosted weekly meetings of the staff of the New Inquiry, the lefty Web magazine, until Michael had what he described as a falling-out with the editors. From then on, Thursday was an open salon night, just like Saturday.

But for me, the books were always the biggest draw. Michael’s collection seemed incomparable in both its idiosyncrasy and its quality. There was a wall of poetry, another of science fiction. A special New York section. General fiction and literature were organized alphabetically, more or less, and stretched across several bookcases. Pulp novels higgledy-piggledy in one corner; art books enshrined in another nook; a few shelves reserved for the collected letters and journals of Edith Wharton, Hart Crane, James Joyce, and their peers. There were trashy paperbacks and American first editions of Yukio Mishima. One night, one of the New Inquiry editors and I gave an impromptu reading of a poem by Suzanne Somers—that Suzanne Somers—from a collection called “Touch Me,” a slim volume I was half-convinced Michael had somehow dreamed into existence. The poem was called “I Want to Be a Little Girl,” and was even more unsettling than it sounds. When I’d looked inside the front flap to see Michael’s asking price, there was no dollar figure, just one word, in pencil: “Priceless.”

When the notice of eviction came down, in the summer of 2014, the whole dynamic changed. All at once, Brazenhead was on borrowed time. No one knew how much. Patrons began to be looser with the address. There was a rumor that someone’s posting of the address online—a big no-no—had attracted crowds finally too large to ignore, and that this was what had occasioned the eviction notice.

As word got around, the crowds swelled. Minor celebrities dropped in. Everywhere you looked, on a Saturday night, you saw people guzzling red wine and Wild Turkey. Pot smoke was general, and it became hard to see the books through the throng. Michael and his shop were featured in the oddball web series “The Impossibilities.” He officiated at least one wedding on the premises.

Each supposed last night gave way to another. Nobody wanted to say goodbye. On July 28th, Michael advertised a final poetry reading—“apocalypse edition”—on Facebook. “See you there or on the other side,” he wrote.

Where will that other side be? Michael does plan to reopen somewhere, somehow. “The future will begin in September,” he told me recently. I don’t know whether he has chosen a location, or whether the store will retain its semi-clandestine nature. When I pressed him, he said only that he was off to the country to relax, and would be “back in September for Brazenhead—whatever that will be.”

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[sinfully-romione]

Too Much Information

Summary: Dragons are usually the creatures associated with hoarding. Ron discovers that witches could give them a run for their money...

Rating: T

Sin: Greed

Ron staggered under the weight in his arms. “Hermione, you already have a copy of that book.”

Hermione turned and smiled at her husband of six months. “But I don’t have this particular edition. This has additional information from the last four years. I need it for my research at work.”

“Alright. But we’re running out of shelf space in our flat.”

“Oh, I already thought of a solution. We can make our bed a platform bed and use the space underneath it for storage for more books. I can do an extension charm underneath it so more can fit.”

Ron huffed. “And where am I supposed to put my Quidditch gear, dear?”

Hermione’s expression changed, one of cynicism. “Oh, I thought you had that in your wardrobe.”

“No, dear. I have my clothes and shoes in there. There isn’t enough room in the wardrobe for my Quidditch gear. That’s why it’s under our bed.”

She shrugged. “Well, you’ll have to find a different place for it. I need more room for my books.”

“Hermione,” Ron implored. He knew living with her had some issues but her collection of books was growing overwhelming. The way he called her name told her that – if she paid attention.

“Ron!” She crossed her arms and tossed her hip out in a terrific imitation of Mrs. Weasley.

He relented. “You win. I’ll build another set of shelves. But we really need to get rid of some books if we are going to stay in our flat.”

“Whatever,” she said over her shoulder as she made her way to the front with the new stack of books.

Hermione laid down the three books and Ron put down the other five in his arms. “Back again Ms. Granger?”

“Hello, Thomas. Yes, I am. I found these three for work and the rest for pleasure. My dear husband,” Hermione gave Ron a look, “said he would build me more shelves for the collection of books.”

Thomas the bookseller gave Ron a commiserating look and turned back to Hermione. “Let me see what you have here and ring you up.”

The bookseller opened each book and checked the prices, tallying them on an ancient galleon register. “This one is two galleons, and the next is two as well.” Thomas went through each until the last one and stacked it to the side. “The cost is 19 galleons, ten sickles Ms. Granger.”

Hermione opened her coin purse and doled out each gold galleon and the sickles, double checking the amount before pushing the coins across the counter. “I should be back in next week to get the new publishing of the Goblin wars of the 17th century.”

Ron stood there gobsmacked. “Hermione you have three copies of it at home,” Ron said. “Why do you need another copy of it?”

“Yes, but this one has the new chapter on the 1627 Goblin rebellion that I need for work. I have to have this new copy.”

“And the other three copies you already have? What can we do with them? Can we sell them back to Thomas here, or donate them to someone else?”

Hermione laughed. “Oh, I’ll keep them too. You know I loathe parting with any books.” Hermione stepped aside for Ron to pick up the stack, smiling sweetly.

“You’re going to break my back with these,” he said.

“I’ll help,” Hermione pulled her wand and lightened the load, using magic to help him with the burden. Hermione turned for the door with Ron following, wobbling the stack and hoping he’d not drop it. They had some ways to go before getting to their flat, including moving through Muggle London without hopefully being noticed.

“Hermione, when we get home, we need to talk.” Ron wobbled while walking on the cobblestones on Diagon Alley.

“About what?” She ducked and dodged through the crowds, avoiding most but the crowds melted back into Ron’s way.  He constantly felt elbows and toes on his size 12 feet while trying to not lose Hermione. Each elbow threatened to deposit the load on his feet.

He nearly made it into the Leaky Cauldron before being bumped, hard. He lost the stack of books, watching them crash into the gutter.

Hermione turned and huffed, waiting impatiently for Ron to collect the stack again. As he was knelt down, he watched his wife tap her foot and bounce between her feet. He huffed again.

“About your spending habits of books,” he raised his voice to be heard. People continued to flow past them, going in and out of the pub. He struggled to get the last book on the stack before she used magic again to levitate the stack of books into his arms.

She stood there, waiting for him to finally get comfortable with the load.  “Oh, that? I budget the galleons from my paycheck for the books.” She turned on her heel, flouncing away through the patrons in the pub towards the back wall of the Leaky Cauldron.

“Damn it, Hermione,” he growled before going after her, ducking random elbows and servers carrying plates of lunch and mugs of butterbeer and cider. He finally made it, waiting for Hermione to tap the bricks on the wall so they could make their thirty minutes walk back to their flat. Instead, she spun away, apparating home away from the crowds.

“Damn it, Hermione!” Ron growled before stopping. He surveyed the stack of books and realized that he couldn’t apparate all of the books, not without losing most of them. When did she get the idea that she’d apparate home, leaving him to walk the 2 kilometers back to their flat, holding a stack of her books?

Bloody buggering… Ron grumped as he put down the stack of books and pulled his wand, intending to tap the bricks in the right order to traverse into Muggle London. A very soft pop behind him had him spinning with his wand in his hand.

“Why are you still here?” Hermione stood a few paces away, looking impatient. She saw the stack on the floor at his feet and frowned. “Do you need some help?”

“Well, yes I do,” He growled. “Why’d you apparate away?”

Hermione stepped over and picked up three books and put them into her grotty beaded bag and held two more. “Will that help?” she cheeked.

“Considerably,” he replied, deadpan.

Hermione apparated away and left Ron holding the remaining three large tomes. “Damn it, Hermione.” He gripped his wand and apparated away, landing seconds later in the den right by the front door.

Hermione was already bustling around in the second bedroom with the number of sounds coming from their de facto library. She came out within seconds with a huge stack, levitated by magic, into the den. “I think I need to reorganize the bookcases. It’s currently by topic but I think I need them by importance right now. Goblin rights are relevant to my work at this moment and centaur history isn’t.” Ron saw the three bookcases in their den, all double-stacked and double-deep. Hermione lifted her wand and performed a silent incantation. All of the books flew off the shelves and circled her head in a circular pattern. One by one they flew into the bookshelf, starting at the top. Ron watched as it took minutes but all but seven books landed in the newly organized bookcases.

“Why are those seven not in the bookcases?”

“I need to read these two by next weekend and the others by the end of the month. Once I’ve read them, I’ll go next month and purchase more.”

“Why do you need to keep all of them if these are new versions of the old ones? Couldn’t, you know, sell them or otherwise get rid of them?”

“Are you mad? Why would I want to give them away?” Hermione turned and stared at her newlywed husband. “I don’t intend for us to live here forever. When we have a cottage, I will have my library.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “And right now we’re smothered in books. Every square inch of extra space is stacked full of books. Our spare bedroom has a thin path to the desk and bed and that’s it. Hell, there books stacked on the bed, too. We have the room stuffed full of books – books you’ve not touched in a year – in there collecting dust and taking up precious space. Hell, I can’t even work in there because there isn’t enough room in there for me to pull the chair out enough for me to sit.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “You’re exaggerating. There’s room in there for you to work.”

“No, there’s not. I am not five foot three. I’m six four. I need space to stretch my legs out, not have them bunched up under my arse!”

“That’s not true at all. There’s room.”

Ron turned and stomped to the spare bedroom and tried to push the door open. He barely moved it, leaving just enough room for him to squeeze through sideways. Books shifted left and right, nearly toppling on him. He tip-toed to the desk, which was shoved up against the corner and looked on the desk. “She’s barking mad.”

“See? There’s room.” Hermione said smugly.

Run pulled the chair back six inches to show that his size 12 trainers did not fit in the seat of the chair. “And how pray tell, Hermione, can you make this actually work?”

“With magic, dear.” Hermione pointed her wand at the desk and it rose up in the air four feet. “See? You can sit there and work.”

“Well isn’t that effective?” He cheeked. “So the only way I can get in and out of the desk to work is by levitating up above my head before setting it back down where it’s supposed to go. I wonder what would happen if I am distracted for a moment while doing such? I dunno, maybe it would fall on my head. Maybe if I have it hovering and you ask me an important question it falls and breaks my bloody foot.”

“You’re being dramatic,” she huffed. Her hair exploded from the hairband, falling everywhere.

“No, I’m not. One day I’m going to get hurt tiptoeing in my own home because of your compulsive book buying.”

“You are not and it’s not a bad thing.”

“It is when you keep all of the duplicate books of new ones.”

“We still have room in the flat.” She crossed her arms and leaned on the doorframe. “I can enchant the bookcases to hold more, like an extension charm.”

“You’re missing the point. You have a problem. And the only space left is on the bed with us. Sorry, but I won’t have books in bed with us. This problem is getting out of hand.”

“I don’t have a problem. I budget monthly for my book buying.”

“You just wait. One day you’re going to come home and I’ll be buried under the books when they topple over.”

“That will never happen. “

Hermione tapped the knob of their flat and walked in, carrying her work satchel and a parcel from the post. “Ron, I’m home.” She set down the sack of takeaway from the Indian restaurant they both liked along with the parcel in her arms.

She took two steps and stopped. Ron was standing in the hall, looking like a thunderhead, his head wrapped and both eyes blackened. His wand was in his hand, pointed at the floor, and sparks were accidentally flying out of the tip.

“What the hell happened?” Hermione dropped everything, including her over-extended briefcase, making a resounding thud.

“What happened,” his voice was hoarse, “was that stack of books in our office, the stack just inside the door, fell. You told me that you put sticking charms on the piles. Well, you were wrong. Eight stacks of books fell on me, along with a heavy as fuck bookcase. I think I blacked out; at least that’s what the healer said. But I yelled for you when I came to, thinking you were still home but you weren’t. I yelled for you a few times before I wrote it off as a bad job. Good thing I had my wand in my hand and could levitate the entire pile off of me. But this,” he motioned around his head, “was how the healer at St. Mungo’s treated me. I’m also off from work for a week from the nasty bump on my head as well as a sprained back.”

“Oh no! Why didn’t you send me an owl?”

“Hermione,” Ron’s voice got soft, quiet, and ready to explode. “I did when I was at St. Mungo’s. I never heard from you.” He stood like a Sphynx in the hallway, blocking the way back to the bedrooms. “I sent an owl instead to Harry but he said he couldn’t find you either inside the Ministry.”

“Oh dear God!” Hermione turned ashen. “I’m - I am so sorry. I was in meetings with the International Wizarding Confederation most of the day and forgot I had all of my owls held.”

Ron pulled a face. “Well, that explains everything, doesn’t it?”

“I really am sorry.”

“Sure,” he said offhand. “So I fixed the problem.”

“What problem?” Hermione wobbled slightly in her kitten heels.

Ron took three steps backward and pushed open the door to the second bedroom. The door opened the entire way. “I got fed up with the problem. So, I did something about it. It won’t be a problem anymore.”

Hermione stood there, gobsmacked. “You. Didn’t.”  It wasn’t a question.

“Oh, I did.” Ron pushed the door wide open and stood aside for Hermione to look at his work. “Take a look, dear.”

Hermione stepped into the second bedroom which this morning contained thousands of book, collected from Muggle and Magical sources, all stacked up according to the topic. Gone were the myriad of bookshelves, double stacked and double high for each shelf. Gone were all of the books stacked precariously along the walls and on the flood. Gone were the books on the bed, the desk, and under the desk. Almost everything was gone.

All that remained of her gargantuan book collection were two bookcases, approximately seven feet tall, and single row stacked on each shelf.

He turned, feeling smug, and saw enormous tears falling down Hermione’s face.

“All my books, gone.”

“No, they aren’t all gone. There are these bookcases here.”

She turned on her heel, glaring. “I’m not an idiot, Ron. My books aren’t here. The rest are gone.”

“Yes, they are.” Ron smiled mischievously.

“What are you bloody on about? What did you do with my books? Please tell me you didn’t bin them all.”

Ron pulled the wand from his sleeve holster. He tapped four books in a pattern on the second bookcase and stood back. The shelving swung open and behind it appeared another room. “Oh, my Merlin!”

“I know how important your books are, but I need space too.  I need to use this office and, well, frankly, what we had wasn’t working. I asked Harry to have him come to the flat and work with me this afternoon. I had an idea but he knew how to do the magic. We came up with this.”

Hermione stepped into their magically expanded library and gawked at what her husband did for them. Each book in the room was placed in shelves, by subject, along with the four walls, with a row down the middle of the room. “When,… how… “ She couldn’t communicate what she desperately wanted.

“I’ve had the idea for a month, actually. I wanted to surprise you for your birthday but that is still a month away.  Today’s accident changed the timeline. Now, the shelves open up to where you need but when not in use, they line up into a storage space unit. That was the idea I had for making the room small enough but expansive enough to store all of your books. So anything you’re not currently reading can be in here, minus a few for decorations or current reading in the bedroom.”

“You…” her voice trailed off.

“When I was upset, I thought about chucking them all. Then I got smart.” Ron unrolled the bandages from his head and pointed his wand at his face, healing up the bruises instantly.  “But then I realized that I could have what I needed but also keep what was important for you.” Ron smiled. “Dad told me that compromise is a foundation for a good marriage.”

Hermione pointed her wand at the chair and silently accio’d it to her. “You’re so good for me and to me. I don’t deserve you.” Each breath shook her, shuddering to calm down from her anxiety.

“Nonsense.”

She took two heaving deep breaths and calmed down. “When I saw you were hurt, I was going to chuck all of the books, save a few. Well, maybe I was going to send them all to Grimmauld Place, for decorations in the parlour, but then you did all of this, as a gift for me, and I’m just… I’m awed at how thoughtful of a gift this is.” She looked up and while tears were still streaking down her face, her eyes were clear. “We’ve not even been married six months, and you have a birthday coming up and here you are, building me a magical library in our flat.”

“We needed it and this will do until we get us a cottage or at least a larger flat. Your books are important to your work and I realize it. I, though, needed some space to work, too. It’s not like I want to be bent over half in the den with all of my books and paperwork spread everywhere when I’m working on a case.” Ron grinned. “It’s not good for a bloke’s back.”

“You are right and I was being selfish in making you keep that for me without me considering your needs.”

“Yeah, you were. But It’s ok. You’ve had so much on your plate it’s a wonder that you get any sleep at night.”

Hermione stepped out and went across the hall to their bedroom and saw that it was tidied up, clean, and three books on her side table, all of them what she was currently reading for work or pleasure.

“When did you have time to do all of this? The flat looked nothing like this when I left this morning.”

“Well, there’s this little thing called Magic, and I do know some spells that are useful, and – “

Ron barely caught his wife in his arms before they tumbled back into their bed, with Hermione showing Ron how much she appreciated her incredibly talented husband.