#traditional British lunch

[creativemedianews]

Classic Ploughman's Lunch Recipe: A Taste of British Tradition

Classic Ploughman's Lunch Recipe: A Taste of British Tradition #Britishculinarytradition #Britishpubfood

[thenextrush]

My Fitness Pal's Coronation Feast

#myfitnesspal #recipes #kingcharles #coronation #uklonglunch

MyFitnessPal shares a selection of recipes inspired by King Charles’ favourite foods to help you celebrate the coronation like a royal! With the coronation of King Charles coming up this weekend, royal loving Aussies are gearing up to celebrate this momentous occasion. While the distance between the UK and Australia may mean we can’t see the coronation in person, that doesn’t mean we can’t have…

[spidermaninlove]

Are TZ Married?

I spot a yellow-diamond ring (at least five carats, maybe six), from Bulgari. “This is my splurge, my treat-myself,” she smiles. “I do get a little employee discount,” she laughs shyly. “It feels like it’s gonna be an heirloom, like one day I can give it to my grandchildren.”  -- Zendaya for British Vogue, October 2021 (Interview conducted on July 1, 2021).

According to a Bulgari representative, Z's yellow diamond ring is an "engagement ring."

Rewind to November 2017 when Z posted this to her Snapchat account:

Then she immediately followed up with this Snapchat post:

Z's fondness for yellow diamond engagement rings obviously predates 2021. So did she or didn't she buy the Bulgari yellow diamond engagement ring for herself? That is the question. After reading the following statement in her interview in the October 2021 issue of British Vogue, I have serious doubts.

In February 2021, when asked during an interview if Tom would settle down now, he said he would do. x Five months later, on July 2, 2021, Page Six confirmed Tom and Zendaya were a couple.

But Z preferred to keep her dating status private during her interview on July 1, 2021 with British Vogue -- the same day the paparazzi photographed them kissing:

...dating her IRL is, she insists, a tall order. The list of approvals is long – “my dad, my brothers, it’s a whole thing. Good luck to whoever wants to take that on,” she scoffs. Perhaps her Spider-Man co-star Tom Holland, who has long been rumoured to be her boyfriend, is up to the task? After all, the following day (July 2, 2021), photos appear of the pair kissing in a car after our lunch (on July 1, 2021)."

August 2021

TZ attended their friends' wedding in August 2021. While at the wedding reception, Z did not participate in the traditional bridal bouquet toss. She watched the toss from their nearby table and then shared a kiss with Tom after the bouquet was caught. x

On September 1, 2021, TZ finally acknowledged they are a couple via Tom's Instagram post.

In November 2021, Tom told GQ that he and Z will talk about their story and what it is when they're ready.

"This isn’t my story. It’s our story. And we’ll talk about what it is when we’re ready to talk about it together.”

In June 2023, during an interview with BuzzFeed, Tom said, "I'm locked up, so I'm happy and in love..." x

In July 2023, during a podcast with Jay Shetty, Tom stated, "My relationship is the thing I keep most sacred. I don't talk about it. I try my best to keep it as private as possible. We both feel very strongly that that is the healthiest way for us to move on as a couple." x

September 2023

Miss Nicaragua allegedly shared during a live that she had met TZ in Oakland and that she hopes Zendaya's marriage goes well (post blogged on September 18, 2023). Note: TZ were in Oakland August 25-26, 2023.

Three days later, on September 21, 2023, Darnell went live on Instagram to adamantly deny Zendaya is engaged.

If she's not engaged, is she married? 🤫

October 2023

Law and Darnell were on the bridal floor in Vera Wang's store in Beverly Hills on October 13, 2023. I believe it's safe to assume Z was there as well.

February 2024

During a BBC Radio 2 interview, Z stated that British people are her family now.

April 2024

In a Vogue article dated April 9, 2024, Z described her perfect future which includes a protected life with her family.

Speaking of a protected family life, TZ recently adopted a dog named Daphne from Protection Dogs Worldwide.

And speaking of dogs, Z left her beloved Noon with Tom in London while she went to California. Tom even took Noon to work at the Duke of York's Theatre several times while Z was far from home (pun intended) for a couple weeks during the months of June and July 2024.

Note: Tom recently posted Noon, along with Daphne, on his Instagram account. x

October 2024

In October 2024, Tom launched his non-alcoholic beer, BERO. One of the three BERO brews, Noon Wheat, is named after "Tom and Zendaya's dog, Noon" and the "cofounder's (Tom) dog, Noon". So Noon is no longer just Z's dog. Noon is TZ's dog. Noon is Tom's dog, too. Noon is their dog.

Tom considers himself Noon's dad. Both Tom and BERO posted for Noon's birthday calling him "My birthday boy" and "Tom's furry child," respectively.

November 2024

Noon is called one of "the most loved members of the Holland family..." on The Brothers Trust Instagram post.

April 2024

An Atlanta paparazzi posted this to his Instagram account and then deleted it.

And then he posted and deleted this the following week:

February & April 2024

Dom Holland attended Z's London premieres for both Dune 2 (February) and Challengers (April). Is this considered father-in-law behavior?

May 2024

According to Ashley Perez, her notary instructor "insinuated" TZ may have gotten a confidential (non-public) marriage license.

Note: Ashley attends a college near the Bay Area.

California Confidential Marriage License Requirements:

The participating parties must be at least 18 years old to apply for a confidential marriage license. ✅

There are no CA state or US residency requirements.  ✅

The couple must state to the notary or county clerk office that they have been living together, as husband and wife or partners ✅ - not as roommates - at the time they apply for the marriage license, and must sign an affidavit on the license attesting to living together. There is no time requirement as to how long the couple has lived together.

You are not required to get married in the county where you purchase the confidential marriage license; however, you must be married in California.  You must file the license in the county where it was purchased.  

No witnesses are required to be at the ceremony, AND no witnesses sign on the marriage license.

The marriage license is a confidential record and is registered at the County Clerk’s Office in the county where it was purchased. A notary public with special authorization may issue, sign, and file a confidential marriage license.

Secret, Civil, Private, and Traditional Weddings

It's not uncommon to have a civil wedding ceremony and then have a traditional or destination wedding at a later date. Celebrities Joey King, JLo, and Elizabeth Olsen have done it. Anya Taylor-Joy originally eloped in New Orleans in 2022 and then had a wedding in Italy the following year. Millie Bobby Brown had a private family wedding in May of this year and is in the process of planning a second wedding for family and friends. Robert Pattinson and Suki Waterhouse recently had a secret wedding ceremony. Beyoncé, Kerry Washington, and Margot Robbie had secret weddings as well. Did TZ have a civil/secret/private wedding ceremony and are they planning a traditional/second wedding in the future? If so, it wouldn't be the first time they've kept their relationship status a secret.

Disclaimer: The opinions stated in this blog post are for entertainment purposes only.

[drgnflyteabox]

Malewife Gaz comes back from deployment desperate for his mean, office siren gf <3

MDNI / dub con-ish / public sex / overstim / anal play / grinding / Kyle is kinda gross lol I luv him / he eats it from the back :D / they're both switches / squirting

Reader works in an office, but it's not clear what she does. She does have her own private office though ;) you go girl!

You're ignoring him.

Your phone isn't turned off, it's not even on silent, but you haven't flipped it right side up despite the near constant buzzing. Kyle has been texting, calling, but you're cross at the moment and don't feel like having it out with him on a work day.

You should turn your phone off. It's distracting, and a little inappropriate to have it making so much noise even through the walls cushioning your personal office.

The thing is, it's a little gratifying that he's desperately trying to reach you. Part of it is the satisfaction that he's a little anxious and wants to make it up, and part of it is wanting him to be extra sorry when you gets home.

Kyle had been able to call you all through the past month despite being on deployment. At least twice a week, you'd be laid up in bed or tucked away on lunch in your office telling him about your day. A rare treat for someone of his vocation, and something you appreciated greatly. The expectation you always set for yourself was zero contact - something to keep you from being hurt or placing more stress on him. Truly, your workaholic tendencies made you perfect for somebody that spent so much time deployed. When he came back, he made you take a break. There was a balance.

Typically you'd get a window of time for when he'd be back home. Your favourite thing to do was to cook a British classic for the occasion, usually bangers and mash - his favourite. You always had his preferred beer too, a brand you noticed he copied from Price. So cute. Yesterday morning he'd sent you a message that he'd be home for 9pm, a little late for dinner but the boys wanted to catch up at their favourite pub before they separated.

Only last night you'd sat at the table waiting for two full hours by yourself before giving up. His meal was packed in the fridge while you'd eaten yours by yourself on the couch with a glass of wine, texts going unanswered.

The worst part wasn't that he hadn't shown up. Sometimes that happened, when missions ran long or he'd gotten too into his cups with his team. It was annoying, but your tradition was to spend the day together when he got back, and you didn't mind having breakfast with him instead. You just didn't appreciate that he didn't even call or text about it, and that in the morning you found him sprawled on the couch with just his boxers and a mess of clothing tossed on the ground from the door to the living room couch. Socks, pants, his tank top.

So, petty as you are, you go to work and forego the tradition. Ignoring him. You dressed nice, too, black stockings and as tarty as you could without getting a call from HR. He hadn't seen you leave, but you wanted to get home and remind him what he was missing.

Your office phone rang once, twice, "hello?" The secretary at the front of the building was a nice enough lady, but she rarely called you directly. "Your lunch is here - the deliveryman is just waiting."

"Deliveryman?" You say skeptically. You hadn't ordered lunch. You'd brought Kyle's leftovers.

"Yep. Should I send him up?" Though you probably know who it is, you tell her you'll be down in the lobby instead. You'd prefer to be safe than sorry, in case it isn't Kyle.

It is.

He looks like a kicked puppy, holding some kind of takeout bag in one hand and a coffee in the other. He knows you love Los Vaqueros, the little coffeeshop next door. It's probably a macadamia nut latte, your favourite.

"Babe," he starts, sounding a little rough. Probably battling a hangover. He's wearing your favourite shirt, a tight black compression shirt that shows off his tits. Grey running sweats. Oh, he's good. "Is your phone dead?"

"I've got a pretty busy day today, Kyle," you're a little snotty about it. Your hip is cocked to the side. You want him to work a little. "I was in the middle of a meeting."

"You can't be that mad at me. I brought you macadamia and a caesar wrap. Come on, baby." He shifts the bag into the same hand as the coffee, using the other to show you his palm in apology.

You peer at him a little warily. It's times like this you wish he wasn't so tall, so that you could look at him all judgemental secretary like. You settle for arching a brow and squinting. "Go away now, I'll see you at home. I better not see any dirty socks on my floor, either."

"I cleaned them this morning, I swear."

"Good. Now scram, and give me that coffee." You reach for the coffee, but he intercept and grabs your elbow. Pulling you closer. "What- kyle--" his hands slides up to your upper back, making you shiver. When you don't pull away, he grins like a schoolboy and starts steering you down the hall. "I have work -!"

"I know, baby, but I really wanna make it up to you. Let me make it up to you." He's speaking quietly as to not alert the secretary a few feet away. He's leading you to the bathroom.

"No! Kyle, I'm at work. Goddammit, I have things to do-"

"No you don't." When you've turned the corner and are out of sight, he slides his hand from your back to your ass, squeezing hard, making you squeak. "And I need you. I woke up so hard. I need your pussy." He's close to whining, tucking his face close to your ear, smelling your hair.

Your voice goes high pitched, flustered, not expecting him to try and cajole you into fucking in a public bathroom. At your workplace no less. "We can't!"

He used to do this when you first started dating; get needy, corner you in some barely secluded place and get you both off one way or another. Quick and dirty. He swore he never fucked anyone else while deployed, and if it wasn't the trust you had in him it was how desperate he seemed to get when he got back that assured you of his faithfulness. Sometimes it was your favourite, just how whiney and flustered he would get. As a treat, if he'd been very good during dinner, you'd wake him up by sucking him off the morning he got back. Surely he had missed that this morning, what with how fast he'd led you to the employee bathroom. Good.

He locks the door behind you, and you let him kiss you a little. You don't see him put your food down, but he must because both his hands squeeze your waist. You rub your thighs together to soothe the pulsing arousal building in your belly.

You hand goes to his chest, pushing him. He's so strong, it takes you slapping his chest and shoulders to move back, panting. "We can't, I'm serious. Do you want me to get fired?"

He licks his lips, not even looking you in the eye. "You won't get fired, baby. Just be quiet. Let me take care of you-" you interrupt him by grabbing his face and squeezing his cheeks hard, making his lips pucker up.

"Can you not think with your cock? Couldn't you have dropped lunch off and waited for me back home like a good boy?"

He slides his big hands down your waist to your hips, tilting his hard cock so its pressed against you. Despite you holding him, he walks you both forward until your back hits the wall and he can grind against you hard. "Kyle- I'm not kidding," you say sternly, but don't move away. His cock rubs deliciously against your mons, not quite where you want it, but a good enough tease that your breath shudders out in a moan.

"Please, please, let me," he begs, grinding. Pressing his body right up to yours. You acquiesce a little, moving your hand from his face to down his pants and into his boxers. "Hrmmn-nn fuck, fuck," he whines. Bypassing his dick, you feel him start to hump desperately, like a dog. He shudders hard and you're squashed against the wall as you palm his balls, playing with them a little. You feel wetness drip down your wrist.

"Did you just come?" Honestly, you're delighted, but you make sure your tone is disappointed. Mean. Your pussy squeezes, wets your panties a little more. "Bad boy. I thought you were going to make it up to me?"

"Oh fuck, thank you baby. I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you still. Just give me a second."

"No way. Get to work." It's easy to bully him a little when he's so fresh from his orgasm. You push him onto his knees and lift a heel to rest it on that big, muscular thigh.

Your tits feel squashed in your bra as you breathe hard, looking down at him. He pushes his forehead against your stomach, pushing your skirt up while murmuring something into the fabric. You palm yourself, pinch your own nipples through the fabric. Feeling empowered, your hand goes to his hair and you grind your panty covered pussy right on his nose.

"Go on."

He licks you through the fabric, long laps of his tongue. Sucks on where your clit is, wetting the fabric. Kyle grips your thighs and pulls them wider apart, making you teeter dangerously on one heel, the other digging into his leg. He mouths at your panties and bites gently at you while your scratch his scalp and neck.

He moans, and finally pushes your underwear down. You clench as your wetness is exposed to the air, cooling you. Your clit stands up, peeking out of your hood. He gives it a little lick, directly on the underside where you're most sensitive. It makes you jump, not expecting it. He doesn't let you move away, instead wrapping his lips around you and sucking, hard.

"Oh Jesus--" your knees buckle a little, "Kyle, fuck," he pulls back and turns you around forcefully, making you arch. His hand finds your ankle and lifts your leg up and out, tongue finding your cunt once again. He eats you out like he's making out with you, like a sloppy kiss. His other hand squeezes where your ass and thigh meet, spreading you open.

"I missed you so much," he says. "I missed this pretty little cunt. Oh, jesus, I'm hard again." Of course he is - his refractory period has always been quick. This is a new record, though. "Can I fuck you, baby?"

You have to really force your words out, with how he spreads your asscheeks and licks your other hole. "Nn- no. You haven't - haven't earned it yet."

Kyle doesn't say anything to that, just curls his tongue in your ass and let's your ankle go to pinch your clit between two fingers, twisting it. You shout, then go still, remembering where you are. "Kyle --!" It sneaks up on you, how fast your orgasm comes. From your toes to your nipples, electricity shoots through you and tightens your skin. You tremble violently, soaking his fingers and his face. He stands up while you go through the aftershocks, hands stroking your belly and holding you from behind, crowding you and making you feel safe.

Kyle kisses your nape, sucks your earlobe a little. Waits like a gentleman. You lean back against him and squeeze his fingers.

"I'm gonna fuck you now." He's not asking anymore, and you're boneless, so you just spread your legs and let him push his cock into you slowly, enjoying the stretch. It makes you rise onto your tiptoes, letting him take your weight. He rocks into you slowly at first, hands roaming from your stomach to your tits to your throat. Pinching and squeezing, having earned your submission.

"I missed you too," you admit finally, breathily. "I love you, big boy."

Kyle hums, sucking a mark into your neck, picking up his pace. "I love you too." He nibbles on you a little. His thumb finds your asshole again, pushing in, making you whine high and thin. "You gonna be a good girl and come all over my cock? I've been waiting for this, you know. Your pussy feels like home."

Your cunt drips on him, making wet little sounds while he fucks you hard against the wall. You're still sensitive from coming earlier, so you squirm on his cock, squeezing around him. "Come inside me, please," you beg. You need to feel it. He uses his free hand to push your face into the wall, bucking into you once, twice, then holding himself taut as a bowstring. His hips grind minutely against your ass while he comes, flooding your pussy.

Kyle doesn't let you go, just pulls his cock and thumb out quickly, taking advantage of your stupor to cup your pussy and roughly squeeze your clit. You yelp, jumping, but keep your legs spread. Your peak is building again, and he knows it. Two of his big fingers find your stretched hole and push in, curling and rubbing viciously until the pressure builds and builds and your pussy contracts, pleasure slicing through your abdomen painfully. You cover your mouth with your hands just barely in time to shout, knees buckling with your orgasm.

If not for Kyle holding you up, you'd have fallen down to the floor. You shake, feeling cored. He nuzzles you sweetly, licking your ear. His hand pets your pussy gently until you push him away, way too sensitive.

"Can I take you home, babygirl?"

"Yes please," your voice is a croak.

Kyle is a little inconsiderate in this but I hope it didn't read as angst and more playfulness between established partners <3<3 I feel like Kyle is a very noble character and he puts a lot of pressure on himself. Always worrying about what the right thing is. I figure with reader he can let go a little :') reader is a little miffed but she's soft for her man <3

Also I wrote this on my phone between shifts during a 13 hour day so please forgive any typos or grammar mistakes

[ugotcooneycrossed]

Going home with Raso for your first Aussie Christmas if r is british or something??

our lil razzle the elf 🤭

a very aussie christmas • razzle the elf

a/n: for you bestie🫶

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

"ready to say goodbye to this abysmal winter and hello to the very best christmas you'll ever experience?"

"absolutely! i miss the beach, i miss the tan, i miss everything."

the airport is bustling all around you- put you're both caught up in you're own little world- so wrapped up in nothing but each other you jump when your coffees are placed in front of you.

"so you're very excited for your first aussie christmas i take it?

hayley questions you from across the table- grinning at you over her mug.

"very! im so excited for some heat for once. we are going to the beach right?"

"as soon as we can- i promise. thought you'd be sick of it after the world cup though, you went to the beach so much back then."

"i could never be, when we get there- just leave me there honestly baby, i want to become one with the beach."

-

the flights long- and you take every moment to watch every christmas movie you can. your girlfriend already fast asleep next to you.

-

"so what's the plan again?"

"when we get there- we'll head straight to mums, then probably mooch what we can out of the fridge before we get yelled at to save the food for christmas lunch. then the beach. then back home for some cookie decorating! then you'll have the best christmas ever."

-

the beach is beautiful- much more so than you remember, perfect sand, salty air- a beautiful sunset, all right in front of you.

you turn around to get your girlfriend's attention.

"hey ras-"

a ball of sand hits you in the stomach instead, and you double over.

"owwwe- what the hell hayley!"

"merry christmas baby! aussie tradition."

you narrow your eyes at her- setting off and chasing after her into the water. you tackle her when you get close enough- bringing you both down and into the water, completely drenching you both. taking advantage of her trapped beneath you- you grab a handful of wet sand and dump it on her. getting up and booking it towards your towels when she charges after you.

you dont make it far- hayley grabbing you around the waist, making you both tumble to the ground.

you lay there- covered in san and giggling when she sits up suddenly.

"oooh let's make snow- sand angles!"

"sand angles?"

"yeah- like snow but in the sand."

the sun is almost gone now- just a little peaks over the horizon but you both arent in a hurry to move any time soon- too busy grinning at each other on the ground.

-

you're laying on the deck chair with hayley, bone-tired and ready to sleep forever. christmas has come and gone it seemed.

you woke early in the morning- treated with a big breakfast, and then an even bigger lunch.

then forced into the pool to play volleyball- in which you were the victim of drowning- your girlfriend climbing on top of you to get the ball- uncaring whether or not you made it to see boxing day.

but now you relax with her on the deck chairs, your head lulls to the side smiling at her over the rim of your sunnies.

"i love it here."

"and me- you're meant to say me."

"nah- not after you nearly killed me."

"hey! we won didn't we?"

[mountrainiernps]

Native American Heritage Month

The first non-Indigenous climbers of Mount Rainier were guided by an Indigenous man called Sluskin. The name appears several times throughout the park’s history, and it actually refers to more than one person. Sluskin aka Saluskin, Sluse-cum, Salooskin, Shu-lu-skin, or Sluiskin, is a family name among the Yakama people. In Mount Rainier’s history the most well-known is the guide Sluiskin, who led P.B. Van Trump and Hazard Stevens during their trip to summit the mountain in 1870. However, there was another Sluskin, who told a story from when he was a young man.

In the summer of 1855, Sluskin and his people were camping northeast of the present city of Yakima when they were approached by two “King George men” (white men) in search of a guide to Tahoma, the “White Mountain.” The men identified themselves as employees of Governor Stevens. Sluskin, who had learned the routes from his father, agreed to serve as their guide. After guiding them to the north side of the mountain, Sluskin’s story recounts:

“Next morning I saw them put lunch in pockets and leave camp. …they start up the mountain. They put on shoes to walk on ice …shoes with nails in two places like this [heel and toe]. They started early at daylight and came back after dark same day. I stayed in camp all day and thought they fell in ice split and died. At night I saw smoke go up from top of mountain, and I heard it like low thunder (probably an avalanche on Willis Wall). The white men told me they went on top of mountain and looked with glass along Cascades toward Okanogan and British Columbia, Lake Chelan and everywhere. They said ‘We find lines.’ They told me they set stick or rock on top of mountain. …They said ‘Ice all over top, lake in center, and smoke [or steam] coming out all around like sweat-house.’”

Despite the unknown identity of the two “King George men” surveyors, it is believed that Sluskin’s account truly documents the earliest known expedition to the mountain’s summit by non-Indigenous people. Records of native guides like Sluskin, who were familiar with routes to the mountain, also attest to Indigenous peoples’ close connection to the mountain, which they travelled to often for food and other resources.

NOTE: Sluskin’s 1855 story was recorded by Luculus McWhorter in 1916. Sluskin account and excerpts are from “Plants, Tribal Traditions, and the Mountain”, G. Burtchard, D. Hooper, & A. Peterson, 2024, pp 35-38. Available at https://go.nps.gov/Plants-TribalTraditionsReport

NPS/C. Meleedy Photo of Mount Rainier from the north side along the Wonderland Trail.

[aprocessionofthoughts]

Meet My Clone Sister

ectoberweek24 day 6- two sentence tw- none summary- the Hogwarts trio meets Ellie

masterlist ao3 part 2 of CvH

They had been in Amity a week and everything still seemed extremely weird. And it wasn’t just the classes. It was also the fact that they used electricity and other muggle tech. And all around the town there were signs of magic. It was so strange to see signs of magic in what looked like a muggle environment. 

Harry kept waiting for aurors to show up to obliviate everyone.

And the classes taught at Casper made him and Ron uncomfortable, and Hermione was always bordering on arguing about the content. Harry didn’t struggle as much. He hadn’t grown up believing blood magic and necromancy were evil like Ron, and he hadn’t delved into studying all things about British magical history like Hermione.

But of course, Harry’s life was never simple.

“Is that your sister?” Harry asked, pointing to a girl who looked about two years younger than Danny, although they looked like they could be twins. They were at lunch and Harry was trying not to think too hard about what was in the food. He definitely preferred Hogwarts meals. He had seen the girl before and been curious. 

“Ellie? No. She’s my clone sister.”

“What?” Hermione asked, dropping her spoon.

“Oh yeah. There’s this creep that wants to kill my dad, marry my mom, and take me as his son. Since we kept refusing he tried to clone me.” Danny smiled at his…sister. She waved at them, coming over.

“Hey, I’m Ellie. You guys are the visitors from the weird magic school, right?” she plopped down on the seat next to Danny, reaching over to steal one of his fries.

“And you’re a clone?” Hermione said, her eyes flickering between Danny and Ellie.

���Yup.” she said, stealing another fry from Danny. 

“What’s a clone?” Ron asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Hermione stared at him. 

“Well, you see,” Ellie started, and Danny snorted, “when a Fruitloop is so obsessed with having another woman’s son as his own, he takes some of his DNA, and makes a baby, that he then grows with magic till they’re about the right age, then he tells them that they’re meant to replace the original, but they’re too smart and decide they’d rather be the original’s sister, and they both beat up the Fruitloop.”

Harry stared at her incredulously. Beside him he could see Ron gaping, and Hermione opening and closing his mouth.

Across from them Danny rolled his eyes while Tucker and Sam laughed.

“That’s not quite how it happened.” Danny said. “But basically yeah.”

“You have a Dark Lord?” Hermione finally managed to say.

“He wishes he was a Dark Lord.” Danny said, chuckling.

“What even is a Dark Lord anywary.” Sam said, rolling her eyes. “Is it just someone who does magic you don’t agree with? What is it that makes someone a Dark Lord, and who gets to decide?”

“Sam,” Tucker interrupted, “let’s not get philosophical again.”

She huffed and crossed her arms but fell quiet.

“Besides, Vlad’s a Fruitloop, not a Dark Lord.” Danny said, rolling his eyes.

Hermione looked like she wanted to argue about the Dark Lord thing, but Ron elbowed her in the side. She glared at him, but picked up her spoon and angrily started eating again.

Harry decided to redirect the conversation. “So, why don’t you have Defense Against the Dark Arts?”

“What’s really considered dark?” Sam started, but Tucker spoke up quickly.

“I think we cover the same basic concepts when it comes to spellcrafting. And there’s classes on the different magical races–”

“The people you classify as creatures.” Sam interrupted, glaring.

Tucker continued as if she hadn’t spoken, which was probably for the best. “and their history and traditions. But that’s more of a social class. It’s still a required gen ed so we can be more aware of each other.”

“Really?” Hermione asked, sounding interested. “I wish they taught that at Hogwarts.”

Sam opened her mouth, probably to make another controversial comment, But Danny spoke over her.

“You can probably buy the textbooks to take back with you when you leave at the end of the semester.”

Harry relaxed, glad that it didn’t look like they’d be getting into another debate.

This was a strange place. But he was eager to learn more about magic, even if it was different than Hogwarts.

[skyblueartt]

Guess it’s just a tradition to doodle the fellas on my lunch break now. Omg

(British people- you are valid. Just NOT WILLIAM AFTON !!)

[celticcrossanon]

Australian Tour

Tuesday the 22nd of October

The King and Queen were in Sydney today.

Under a cut again due to length

The King went to the National Centre for Indigenous Excellence in Redfern (a suburb known for its poor indigenous inhabitants), where the event began with a traditional Welcome to Country and Smoking ceremony before The King meet a range of community representatives and local Elders.

While The King was in Redfern, The Queen visited  Refettorio OzHarvest in nearby Surry Hills (OzHarvest is a charity that collects food from restaurants etc that would otherwise throw it out and delivers it to charities that feed people - https://www.ozharvest.org/). She helped prepare the lunch being served in the restaurant and then spoke to the people who had gathered outside to see her.

After visiting OzHarvest, the Queen  visited the Green Square Library in the suburb of Zetland for a writing workshop, where she met schoolchildren taking part in workshops with local authors. She also met past participants of The Queen's Commonwealth Essay Competition and presented 4 certificates, and met with authors Liane Moriarty and Thomas Keneally.

The King and Queen then attended a BBQ at Parramatta Park, hosted by the NSW Premier. The BBQ was by invitation only and guests included  around 500 community leaders, volunteers and sports officials. There was a variety of entertainment on offer, including sheepdog trials and backyard cricket. While they took the tongs at the BBQ, it was only for a few seconds, as they spent most of the time meeting people.

Following the community barbecue, His Majesty attended The King’s Foundation Reception at Admiralty House in Kirribilli, where he met Hillview Foundation Australia chair Dominic Richards and The King’s Foundation chief executive officer Mrs Kristina Murrin and unveiled a plaque.

In the afternoon, The King toured the Melanoma Institute Australia in Wollstonecraft and met current patients. He also met Australians of the Year, Professor Georgina Long and Professor Richard Scolyer and heard about their cancer research and treatment.

The last event was at the Sydney Opera house. The King and Queen waved as they drove slowly through the crowds up to the Opera House, with the Queen wearing a new outfit. They were greeted by the NSW Premier and his wife and met 6 special guests, British actor Dame Joanna Lumley, actor Heather Mitchell, acrobat and dancer Lucia Richardson, singer Jin Tea Kim, artistic director of Bangarra Dance Theatre Francis Rings and Sydney Symphony orchestra principal bass clarinet player Alexander Morris. They signed the guest book and posed for photos before walking through the crowd before leaving for the fleet review.

The King and Queen boarded Admiral Hudson, a Kingfisher 54 cruiser, to watch Fleet Review of the Royal Australian Navy and a flypast by the Royal Australian Air Force, The Royal Australian Army was also involved. It was the fourth fleet review in Australian history.

The King and Queen now leave Australia for CHOGM in Samoa, which runs from the 21st ro the 26th of October.

Edit: The King is going to CHOGM; I'm not sure what The Queen is doing.

[emkayewrites]

These two pictures inspired one of the chapters of my Lukola fanfiction called 'Curtain Fall'...

Here's a sneak preview:

17th June 2022 – Brockenhurst (UK)

Everything about The Pig exuded charming British elegance. Nestled in the heart of the historic New Forest National Park, the homely country manor served as a five-star hotel with an acclaimed restaurant. It was a favourite weekend escape for city dwellers who were attracted to it for its natural beauty; from free-roaming local horses to ancient woodlands that were perfect for long walks.

It was a place particularly revered for offering the finest of traditional English dining without excessive pretension. The dining rooms had a rustic, cosy charm, featuring open fires and mismatched antique furniture.

Nicola and Luke sat opposite each other at a farmhouse-style table in a private dining room called the Green Room that was reserved for special guests. A Victorian-style fireplace and floor-to-ceiling conservatory doors opened onto a private garden terrace. Before them lay a half-eaten feast: salads with organic vegetables from the estate's garden, freshly baked bread with warm butter, a plate of oyster mushroom pappardelle for her, and a sourdough pizza for him.

They had been invited to this countryside retreat for the weekend courtesy of the production team. This was their first day and they had been greeted with a prepared lunch. He sat there in a slightly over-sized salmon button-down shirt and jeans. In contrast, she was dressed in a little more sophistication. She wore a dark tapestry mini dress with tie shoulders that cinched in her waist in a way she hoped would be flattering.

"You know, when Jess told me we should get bonding, she mentioned doing it over a coffee. This is a little more than a coffee." Nicola laughed, trying to shake the awkwardness off herself. She was used to spending time with Luke but this setting felt different. It felt intimate.

"It's on brand though." Luke replied, nodding at their surroundings. He was not wrong. This could be a room straight from Bridgerton.

She reached out and touched the green wall panels.

"What do you reckon this is – Farrow and Ball?" She quizzed.

"What's that?"

"You haven't heard of Farrow and Ball?"

He shrugged in an I don't know what to tell you sort of way.

"Well, that surprises me. Maybe you're not as posh as I think you are." She teased. "It's very posh paint, with pretentious names like Elephant's Fanny and Leopard's Arse."

He laughed. "OK, that's quite enough. You need to stop calling me posh. People might start believing you and expecting things from me."

"Anything east of Dublin is posh," she retorted, making him laugh again.

This is what she thrived on: banter. Their friendship was based on her dry wit and sarcasm. Making him or anyone else on set laugh was a small victory for her.  She was trying hard not to think about having to switch gears and drop the humour she wore as armour.

She had not wanted to admit it, but sitting across from him now, it was harder to deny: he was absolutely beautiful. To make matters worse, he was kind too.

Why couldn't the love interest be someone with a hideous personality in real life? She found herself wandering.

She was barely out of her reverie when he reached out and wrapped his hand around hers, guiding it gently away from the wall and in front of his face, inches from his lips. He took a deep breath, and his blue eyes bore into her own.

Oh God, that was his Colin face.

You can read more here:

[ickaimp]

12 Days of Murder - Beware the Ides of March

Crossposted to Ao3

“Bakaito said that today was a famous European holiday.” Aoko announced, holding out a covered bento for Saguru to take. “He couldn’t make the traditional dish, so asked me to make it for you since you share your food with us.”

“Thank you?” Saguru said, touched and confused. As far as he knew, it wasn’t a holiday today. The next holiday he was aware of was Saint Patrick’s day, the day after tomorrow.

Setting the bento box on the desk, he opened the lid and found a salad inside.

A very western looking salad. Lettuce, a few bright cherry tomatoes, some shredded cucumber, crunchy croutons covered in a creamy dressing, and dusted with parmesan cheese. There were a couple of slices of grilled chicken on one side, alongside a fork.

“The dressing has anchovies in it.” Aoko explained, holding up a similar bento. “But it tastes good! I have some for lunch too.”

“Thank you very much for your effort and thoughtfulness.” Saguru said, picking up the fork. Aoko smiled brightly at him as Hakuba stabbed the salad.

And promptly hit something metal. Aoko made a confused sound, her expression as perplexed as Saguru felt.

Saguru reviewed the facts as he dug into the salad with the fork. A supposed European holiday, not British. Kuroba asking Aoko for a salad with a dressing that had anchovies.

He got a bad feeling as he was able to poke the metal item out of the bento box and pull it out.

A dagger.

“Beware the Ides of March!” Kuroba cheerfully said from behind Saguru in English.

“Kaito!” Aoko snapped, looking annoyed. “Why would you put a knife in a salad?!”

“Don’t worry, it’s a trick dagger.” Kuroba assured her, putting his fingertip on the point of the blade and pressing down, the blade retracting into the handle with a squeaky noise.

“It’s alright.” Saguru sighed, understanding the joke now. He looked up at Aoko with a bland look.

“It’s a Caesar Salad.” -fin- (Yes, a traditional Ceasar Salad dressing does have anchovies or anchovy paste in it.)

[mariacallous]

Blintzes are one of Shavuot’s most popular dishes. Long associated with Ashkenazi cooking, the light and airy hug of the blintz pancake envelopes pillowy fillings such as whipped farmers cheese or fruit compote. To call it a crepe is like calling chicken soup consommé. It sounds more fancy, but it lacks the tradition and warmth. 

For Florence Tabrys, a Holocaust survivor, blintzes were a lifeline to her former life near Radom, Poland. I spoke to Florence when writing my first book “Recipes Remembered, a Celebration of Survival,” a compendium of stories and recipes I gathered from Holocaust survivors. I learned that as a child, Florence and her sister were separated from their parents in 1942 and sent to work in a munitions factory. They were eventually moved to Bergen-Belsen where they remained until liberated by the British army. Florence never saw her parents again, but the memories of her childhood favorite foods sustained her throughout the years. Her sweet and creamy cheese blintzes became a family tradition; she would prepare them in large batches and freeze them so they would always be at the ready.  

Topping blintzes is always a game of chance. For those growing up in Poland, most likely it was whatever was on hand from yesterday’s breakfast or Sabbath lunch. Hanna Wechsler, a survivor of Auschwitz, described her mother’s ���naleshniki” as a cross between a thin crepe and a traditional blintz. She remembers her mother filling them with strawberry preserves, chopped nuts and a touch of sugar, then topping them with a strawberry sauce. Hanna described her experience in Auschwitz to me in the most poignant way. Her mother would sneak out of the barracks and bring back food that had been stolen from the camp’s kitchen to sustain Hanna. She said, “My mother gave birth to me every day we lived in Auschwitz, because without her I would not have survived.”  

As an homage to these remarkable women I present Florence Tabrys’ cheese blintzes topped with Hanna Wechsler’s strawberry sauce. Enjoy them on Shavuot and all year long. And remember, the thread that weaves Jewish food is vital but fragile, and needs to be lovingly maintained. 

Notes:

The strawberry sauce will keep for 1-2 weeks in the fridge. You can also follow the same preparation using frozen blueberries or raspberries.

You can freeze the prepared blintzes (following Step 6) and fry them at a later time.

[birgittesilverbae]

wooden floors, walls, and windowsills

On the first anniversary of her parents' deaths, Mary rouses Bea with the sun, hand gentle on her shoulder as she shakes her awake. Her shirt is sodden with sweat and Mary kisses her forehead before shuffling her off to the bathroom. 

Upon her return she's greeted with their usual weekend spread, tailored over the year into a melange of American and British and Spanish breakfast traditions. She's quiet, pensive, as she surveys the food, the two plates set out either side of the kitchen table. 

Mary follows her gaze, gets out ahead of the question. "Just gonna be you and me this morning, kiddo. Shannon got called into work, but she should be back tonight."

"Will we have to take the motorcycle, then?"

Mary's face softens. "No, Bea, I got her to leave the van for us."

"I'm not scared," she clarifies, mouth set.

"I know you're not. I didn't particularly want to take it today either."

They make it to Malaga just as the central market opens, picking out the fixings for a picnic lunch, as always going for Bea's cherished favourites and one new thing to try, before making their way to a florist stall. Mary stands back as Beatrice goes up on her tiptoes to smell blossoms, hands twisting anxiously behind her back until the vendor assures her she can touch and then so very gently stroking a careful finger along the arches of petals. They come away with paired bouquets of lilies and a sprig of baby's breath tucked behind Bea's ear. (She waits until they're back in the van to carefully remove it, to hand it to Mary and rub at the back of her ear as Mary presses it gently between the pages of a sketchbook Shannon had forgotten in the footwell of the passenger seat.) 

"Are you ready?" Mary asks softly, hand on the key in the ignition. 

Bea takes a deep, shuddering breath, then another. Her jaw firms, resolution clear in the line of it. "I'm ready," she confirms, and her voice only wavers slightly.

There are no graves for Bea to visit, the bodies returned to England in the wake of the upheaval of Bea's life. But Mary had been desperate with Vincent in the aftermath, to find a way to give Bea something present and physical she could stand before, to find a way to give her some modicum of closure. And so Bea approaches the plaques erected in the memorial garden of Malaga's largest cemetery and kneels to lay her bouquets atop them. 

The sight opens up a crater in Mary's chest, a sinkhole, but she hangs back, giving Bea the space to make her own choices on how to grieve.

When Bea rises she searches immediately for Mary, presses her tear-damp face into the side of Mary's chest when she raises an arm for her to slip beneath. They stand there awhile as noon approaches and the air grows warmer around them.

Finally, Bea pulls back, takes hold of Mary's hand. "I'm ready," she says, breathless, her fingers tight around Mary's. 

"Okay." They amble back through the garden, bask in the brief moments of shade afforded by pockets of trees. Bea's grip grows loose, like she's expecting Mary to pull away from her, priming herself for it, and Mary tightens her own grasp, squeezes a gentle three pulse Beat that Beatrice echoes back. (It's a practised 'I love you' on Mary's part, though she's never quite sure whether Beatrice's response carries the same meaning, or if she simply finds comfort in the pattern of it.)

"Do you want to have lunch at the beach or a park?" It's habit, now, to present options that both end with Beatrice eating, to avoid her freezing when presented with far too much choice, to ensure she ends up fueled. 

"The beach, please."

Beatrice stands calf-deep in the surf, water rushing up every so often over knobbly knees, as Mary lays a blanket out for them, pokes at the contents of the soft-sided cooler. Mary gives her ten minutes, watching her head rise and her shoulders settle, before she calls her back up the sand. 

Beatrice sits primly at the edge of the blanket, waits for her legs to dry in the sun before dusting them free of sand and shifting closer in towards Mary. She busies herself unpacking the cooler as Mary slices the barra de pan, then hesitates over the jar of tapenade. 

"Just one bite," Mary reminds her, poking an elbow into her side. "Just to try it."

Bea smiles small and sweet as she nods. She unscrews the lid and takes the knife from Mary, spreads a dab across the end of a piece of bread. She chews, swallows, sits silently for a moment before her nose crinkles and she shakes her head.

Mary laughs gently. "Which part of it?" she asks, retrieving Bea's battered notebook from her tote bag and passing it over to her.

Bea slides the pen from where it's hooked through the ring binding, traces her thumb across the pod racer sticker stuck to the front cover. "I don't like the texture," she says after a moment, flipping her notebook open to the dog-eared page, propping it on her knees, and carefully adding a new entry beneath fideuà (four stars out of five, would prefer longer noodles). 

"And if it had been blended smooth?"

Bea wedges the end of the pen between her lips, catches herself, tugs it free. "Too salty and meaty," she adds, and "if it had just been olives I think it'd have been okay."

Mary nods, tucks the information away in the back of her head for later use, and produces a tub of olives from the cooler. 

"Kalamata?" Bea asks, snapping her notebook shut and tucking it carefully back in the tote.

"Kalamata," Mary confirms, and Bea's pleased little noise makes her grin.

They return to Antequera late that afternoon, wind-chapped and worn tired, to find Shannon napping on the couch. Bea takes note of this as they begin to unpack the cooler in the kitchen, tries her best to keep her movements quiet. But Mary shoos her out into the living room with a wink, a murmured "go show her the shells you found."

Shannon greets Bea's cannonball leap onto the couch at her side with equal enthusiasm, schools her face well enough that her wince sneaks past Bea's notice. Mary doesn't miss it, though, and checks the ice pack stash in the freezer, finds the rib wrap missing. She stews in her worry, wipes the kitchen down top to bottom as she listens to Bea ramble on about tide pools and the hermit crab they'd found using a plastic cap as a shell and did Shannon know how hermit crabs traded shells? Had she seen the conga line of exchange?

"Bea?" Mary calls out when she can't stand it any longer, the not-knowing, the mask Shannon's donned so easily in an attempt to protect Bea on this of all days. 

"Yes?" 

Mary ducks her head into the living room, where Bea is pressed tight to Shannon's right arm, the day's treasures cupped safely in her palms. "Can you go ask Maria if we can borrow some tomatoes? We didn't pick any up this morning."

"It's not borrowing if–"

"Yeah, yeah," Mary interrupts, rolling her eyes. "'It's not borrowing if we don't return the same ones'. Get your shoes on, Little Miss Semantics."

She waits until Bea's footsteps have started down the stairs to cross the living room, to tug Shannon's shirt from the waistband of her sweatpants. Shannon lets it happen, head lolling back against the couch cushions as Mary strips away the ice pack to expose patchy purple bruising stretching across her left side. 

"Just cracked," she says softly, laying a hand over Mary's. It's only then that Mary realizes hers are trembling. "They're just cracked, that's all."

"You can't let her–"

"I know. Get that back in the freezer before she comes back up, would you?" 

But Mary can't move, her hand lingering over the splotches marring Shannon's skin. Can't help but skate her thumb along their margins, can't help but remember her own hands covered in blood.

"Mary," Shannon urges, pushing at Mary's wrist, pulling at the hem of her own shirt, "they're just cracked. I'm okay, but Bea won't be if she finds out." 

"Okay. Okay." Still, she ducks in to capture Shannon's mouth with her own, pours every shred of emotion into it like in doing so she can anchor her here to this couch. Pulls back, breath shaking, forehead pressed to Shannon's. "She's going to catch on if you don't stop wincing," she says quietly.

"I didn't say it doesn't hurt," Shannon mock-grumbles, but she nods all the same. "I'll do my best."

After dinner, when Shannon's drifted off to sleep again and Mary stands at the sink scrubbing dishes, Bea pauses in the middle of drying off a plate and glances back over her shoulder.

"Is she okay?"

"Shannon?" Mary asks, fighting to keep her voice level. "Why wouldn't she be?"

Bea fixes her with a withering stare. "Don't lie to me, Mary. I'm not a child," she replies sharply, all of nine years old and four and a half feet tall.

Mary lets the pan in her hands drop, braces her palms against the bottom of the sink. "You are, Beatrice. No matter how quickly life has tried to make you grow up." 

"Is she okay?" Bea repeats, the knife's edge of her voice going dull with worry. 

"She will be," Mary ventures, but Bea crosses her arms, arches an eyebrow, all but taps her foot. "She hurt her ribs, but not badly."

"Just her ribs?" Bea presses.

"Just her ribs. She'll be back to normal in a month or so."

Bea worries her bottom lip between her teeth, darts another look towards the living room. "Just a month?"

"Give or take a couple of weeks." Mary bumps her hip against Bea's. "Plenty of time for you to get her to apply all the stickers to that new lego kit for you."

Bea doesn't crack even the tiniest smile at that, though. Instead, she bites her lip bloody as they finish up the dishes, then lingers in the doorway when Mary takes up residence on the couch, leaving space between herself and Shannon's side. 

Mary pats the cushion, gestures Bea over with a jerk of her chin. Bea settles tentatively in the empty space, staples herself to Mary's side. Shannon's still disturbed by the motion, yawning herself awake, reaching a hand to Bea's shoulder with a quiet "Hey, Bea."

"Can I see?" Bea asks, gesturing at Shannon's side.

Shannon meets Mary's eyes over Bea's head and Mary shrugs. "Perceptive kid," she says in explanation, and Shannon sighs.

"Yeah, Bea, you can see." She pulls up her shirt again and Bea leans forward, hovers her fingers over the bruises.

"This one looks kind of like a sea urchin," she says quietly, and Mary leans forward to watch her trace curling fingers of bruising. 

"It kinda does," she agrees, and Bea flashes a soft smile at her.

"They eat their own homes into rock faces," she continues, eyes fixed on Shannon's side. "They take reef rock and devour it and make shelters for themselves in places they'd be unsafe otherwise."

Mary smoothes her hand down over Bea's back. "Yeah?" 

"Yeah. Can you really eat them even though they eat rocks?"

Mary laughs at the helpless glance Shannon shoots her. "They're a pretty good protein source," she confirms, "and you don't eat the digestive tract. Do you want to add them to the list?"

"Please and thank you," she says, pulling Shannon's shirt back down for her. 

"Where do the crabs you saw today live?" Shannon asks, slinging an arm around Bea's shoulders.

Bea shifts carefully in towards her, rests her head against the front of Shannon's shoulder. "The bigger ones make burrows in the silt," she explains, "but there are some pea crabs in the Alboran Sea that live inside oyster shells." 

As Bea delves into her recent fixation on sea creatures and the homes they find for themselves, prompted every so often by Shannon, the stricture in Mary's chest loosens just the smallest fraction. She drops a fleeting kiss on the back of Shannon's hand where it rests on Bea's shoulder, plants another on the side of Bea's head, and lets herself settle into the quiet rhythm of Beatrice's voice.

[rosie-b]

Centuries Overdue

Chapter 2

The first thing Marinette noticed on opening the leather journals when she inevitably returned to the South room one week later was the grayed ink flowing across the pages. The second thing she noticed was that this particular journal was not written by Adrien Agreste, like the first one had been, but by his mother, Emilie Agreste.

There were perhaps twenty to thirty books on the shelf, with two-thirds of them being written by Adrien’s parents and the last third being written by Adrien himself. The time during which the journals were written spanned from the years just before the French Revolution to 1810, just before the end of the Napoleonic Wars. They all seemed to be travelogues detailing the Agrestes’ long journeys to various historical and legendary locations in Europe as they evaded the worst of the fighting, met different groups of people, and moved on to new adventures.

It all seemed normal enough until Marinette noticed a passage describing a magic ritual done under the full moon in striking detail. Even then, she assumed it was just some forgotten tradition, not an example of true belief in magic. But as she skimmed through the rest of Emilie and Gabriel’s journals, she realized that each of them truly believed in magic, and so did the people they met. Even the places the Agrestes journeyed to were all associated with magic through legend or myth.

And Adrien? He grew up going on these extended journeys; he was brought up on old stories and spell castings and the peace treaties of mages. For him, magic’s existence was a solid fact of life, not a hypothetical or something to be questioned.

The more she read, the more disappointed with Adrien’s parents Marinette grew.

The moment they realized they were having a child, they left France (it was in early 1789, which Marinette begrudgingly admitted made it kind of a smart move, since the Agrestes were part of the aristocracy). They went to Britain, heading straight for Glastonbury Abbey, and never looked back. They raised their son on legends and then, predictably, died during one of their more extreme displays of faith in the supernatural, leaving a twelve-year-old boy to deal with the fallout. It was hardly good parenting.

Even so, she found the story intriguing. Marinette began to sneak into the South room during breaks and read through the journals, one by one. She decided that Gabriel’s entries were all bland and didn’t add much to the story, while Emilie’s were too long and flowery most of the time. There were only so many times she could read about Adrien’s “golden, glowing locks and paper-pale skin” without wanting to throw the fragile book across the room, so eventually, Marinette decided that she would stick to reading Adrien’s journals instead. They were much more interesting, anyway.

But there was one thing that annoyed her about all of the journals: The nouns were capitalized (seemingly at Random!) throughout the entire series.

That haphazard style was something Marinette would have expected from old books written in English, not French, so she decided to blame the situation on Emilie, who, as her journals noted, had come to France from England when she was a child. She must have taught her family about the new style being developed across the channel, and when they moved to Glastonbury Abbey and then around the British Isles for the first years of their traveling, improper capitalization must have become habit for the Agrestes.

At least it wasn’t a problem when Adrien was writing in German. Most of the time.

His journals were really quite interesting, Marinette found as she pored through them day by day. Reading the books during her lunch break and even after her shift ended became something of a habit for her, and she found herself declining lunch invitations from her friends in favor of reading about the long-dead Agreste’s adventures throughout Europe.

Adrien, like his parents before, mostly stayed out of France on his journeys, which made some sense, but even as the Napoleonic empire expanded, he continued to make regular visits to occupied countries. He kept his trust in magic spells to keep him safe from enemy eyes as he traveled by foot or on horseback through the rapidly changing world.

Even if he was obviously exaggerating some parts of his tale and making up others (please, no amount of spell-casting could help him defeat an entire platoon of soldiers), Adrien Agreste was much more interesting than anyone Marinette had met in real life. And his writing style, for all its capital crimes, was masterful and compelling. She could tell he was in charge of every aspect of the story he wrote, because he came off as too good to be true, but in such a genuine way that she couldn’t help but sympathize with his struggles. If he was someone Marinette had met around modern Paris instead of just another dead guy in a book, she might have been tempted to date him.

She hoped that wasn’t too weird.

It probably was.

__*__*__*__*__

Excerpt from the ninth journal of Adrien Agreste, written in Leipzig, Germany, on the sixteenth of January, 1810.

Leipzig is a good place to get a new Journal. They have many good publishing houses, and as such they must have good Bookbinders as well. I was able to purchase this particular Journal from a kindly man in Anger-Crottendorf with ease and no questions asked . . . But I am only somewhat put at ease by the City’s Peace, such as it seems.

There is talk of a Darkness in Venice. And again, a Darkness in the Dolomites, and in Scotland at the Loch Ness, and still more Talk about nearly every place I have visited in my years as a Mage and as a boy with my parents. Still no reported Darkness in the Harz, and none in Paris yet, and still it is clear that the Danger is not shrinking but burgeoning.

Time, like a Candle too well loved, is growing shorter, and soon it will run out entirely. I must make my Attack before it is too late.

I have gathered several like-minded, strong Mages, and a dozen Talents as well. They have agreed with me that Blå Jungfrun is the proper place for our Fight, partially because it is so isolated, meaning no Lives save our own will be risked, and partially because it seems to be the Home of the Darkness. It is its place of birth, and its Lair.

If Blå Jungfrun is truly the Heart of this dark Magic, then our Mission ought to see victory. For I do not see how any group of Mages of this size and Heart could ever fail in their Quest.

I did venture to the Cave to ask Plagg if he would join us, but the Kwami was not in the Cave. The Mages there told me that his Absence is more common than his Presence these past months, and he spends more time with Tikki than with his Mages. But this information has not broken my soul, for it was Plagg who taught me all I know of Magic. He will be with us in Spirit if not in body, and that gives me still greater hope.

Come this time next year, the Darkness will be vanquished. I have sworn it on my parents’ grave…

__*__*__*__*__

Marinette had never believed in magic, not past the age of seven, anyway, when she’d stumbled on her father peeling a fake Santa beard off of his face on Christmas Eve. That year’s holiday season wasn’t the best in her memory.

But some parts of the journals she’d found in the library made it seem almost like magic truly was real, like questioning its existence was something only fools did even though the opposite was true. (Some parts of the journals. Not all of them.)

Gabriel’s journals, for example, were too preachy about magic, proudly explaining the ‘gift’ from the ‘kwamis’ that let him sense magic even though he couldn’t wield it. He was a ‘Talent,’ not a ‘Mage,’ but the way he wrote made it clear that he thought he was above all the Mages he met. His writing made Marinette want to write an essay proving the dead man’s views on magic all wrong. It certainly didn’t convince her to give magic a chance.

Emilie’s journals were nice, but she wrote mostly about the people she met and the delicate peace treaties that allowed her and her family safe passage from country to country in the midst of a war that spread across most of the continent. For her, a Talent’s job was more similar to that of an ambassador’s than a magician’s. She was humble about her powers, and her belief in magic was quiet, not presented in a way that brought out the spells holding the world together, that could make Marinette reassess her own beliefs and take a chance on the impossible.

But Adrien’s journals…

Adrien’s journals were gripping, seizing Marinette’s attention in a way that popular published books might; they were as captivating as seeing a fashion design on the catwalk for the first time. They made her want to believe in magic. Want to, but Marinette lived in the real world, not the crumbling pages of a tantalizing, yet obviously fictional, journal. She couldn’t afford to start believing in magic, even if something about the way Adrien wrote made her ache with the desire to trust, to believe in its existence like she had long ago.

At one point in the journals, he’d written about discovering that he could wield magic. It was something that his parents had kept secret from him, even though they had known about his potential. It felt like seeing the world in color for the first time, he’d written about the first time he’d wielded the magic his gift gave him.

Gifts, according to Adrien’s journal, were something each Mage was given at birth. Sometimes, they seemed to be genetic, passing down from family member to family member over generations, but the gifts were actually random. The kwamis, the first holders of magic, determined who would be given a gift based on each baby’s character and situation. They knew the past, the present, and the future, and so they knew who deserved to be given a gift.

There were many kwamis, and so there were many gifts. From creation to destruction, each young Mage learned a different style of magic. When they were old enough, they joined a group of other Mages with the same gift, often leaving their home country behind to focus on their magic.

Talents, like Adrien’s parents, moved from group to group, bringing new Mages to the fold and serving as messengers while keeping magic a secret from those without a gift. Talents could not wield magic, but they could sense it, and they played a vital role in the Mage community. It was said that Talents, too, had a gift from the kwamis, just one that worked in a different way from most. They were responsible for finding new Mages who might not know about their gift and teaching them about it.

From the journals, it was clear that why Adrien’s parents hadn’t done this for him was beyond his understanding. And even though he didn’t want to be mad at the dead, he couldn’t help but be hurt by what seemed to be a lack of trust in his ability to handle his gift. Destruction could be dangerous, but only without training, and to its enemies, of course.

And if Adrien had been taught about his power, couldn’t he have even saved his parents from the death they had suffered? Fought off the Darkness together with his parents?

Marinette wondered these questions along with Adrien as she read his journals, and she doubted whether anyone would write something so open, so vulnerable, if there was not some truth to it. She kept reading, day after day, promising herself that she wouldn’t fall for Adrien’s lies but knowing that maybe, she already had.

Once he moved past his hurt, Adrien began taking lessons from a Mage in the city he was staying at. He wasn’t the best teacher, but Adrien learned a few good spells from him, so he wrote them down in the journal.

Marinette eagerly took a picture of the spells and uploaded them to Google to be translated, since they were written in a foreign language she didn’t understand.

It was a made-up foreign language, Marinette discovered when the search results were fruitless.

Maybe magic was fake, after all.

But Marinette kept reading.

Halfway through the third journal, Adrien moved on to another teacher, a Mage of Plagg in the Harz mountains. He learned how to use simple spells accessible to all Mages, called Universal Spells, as well as more specific ones that only Mages chosen by Plagg could use.

Then Plagg himself returned to the cave. And he decided to train Adrien, though according to Adrien, it had been in an almost condescending way, like he had no choice but to train Adrien or leave him “as defenseless as a newborn kitten.”

Marinette thought Plagg’s description of Adrien was hilarious and somewhat accurate.

Adrien went on to describe Plagg as being “monstrously tall and blacker than the night, with a glowing green aura, three eyes, and six arms.” So that was another strike to his story’s credibility, as far as she was concerned, because no one had six arms and three eyes, ‘kwami’ or not.

Maybe one of the ‘spells’ had included smoking some hallucinogenic plant, and Adrien had dreamed Plagg up while high. But he remembered everything in such detail, and wrote about the kwamis he met with such consistency, never mixing his story up. Could a drug-addicted man spreading lies really do that?

Maybe, just maybe, the magic Adrien wrote about was real.

There were more incomprehensible spells recorded in his journals, sometimes accompanied by descriptions in French, English, or German. Hoping to find one that could be translated (so she could check its veracity), Marinette flipped through one journal seemingly dedicated in full to the spells, landing on a page of one with a described purpose for it.

The title read, “A Spell for the Preservation of Leather Journals.” As Marinette looked at it, the tip of the dog-eared page fell off and landed on the floor.

The spine was threatening to crack in her hands, so despite the lies Adrien had been told, this spell clearly didn’t work.

Marinette set the book down, glanced at her reddened, dusty fingers, and scoffed.

Still, the next line of the description had said to replenish the spell’s strength every decade, so the evidence might not be as conclusive as she’d thought.

She kept returning to read the books and held off on judging them one way or the other.

By the time a week had passed, Marinette was determined to figure out once and for all if Adrien’s journals were just a fantastic tale or an actual record of powers beyond humanity’s ken. And she’d found a way to tell the truth from lies, assuming the Paris tavern Adrien described in one journal was still standing.

The tavern was, supposedly, a meeting spot for Mages as well as Talents. They met in the tavern every Wednesday at one hour past sundown.

Assuming it was real, Marinette planned to join one of their meetings, herself.

A few searches on the internet revealed that there was a restaurant by the same name as the one Adrien gave in roughly the same location as he described, so she headed there after work on Tuesday. It wasn’t a tavern, but the restaurant’s website had bragged about its long history in Paris, so she was willing to go out on a limb and say that it was the same place Adrien had described.

Marinette arrived at The Clockwise Fox precisely thirteen minutes after her shift finished. It was a very average-looking café; its cream brick walls and large glass windows were unassuming and woefully unmagical.

She walked inside anyway; discreetly took an average-looking wooden seat at a standard wooden table; and definitely-not-at-all-suspiciously glanced around for a secret magic symbol. If Adrien’s journals were trustworthy, it would be carved into at least one of the beige walls. If it wasn’t there, then Marinette would give up on magic once more and assume that Adrien Agreste was a bald-faced liar who should have gone into writing fiction. But if the symbol was there, she’d be coming back the next day for a longer visit.

Marinette scanned the wall near her, first, then the far one. Nothing yet. Maybe—

“Would you like something to order?”

Marinette blinked at the café worker, who’d seemingly popped out of nowhere to take her order.

“Uh,” she replied, slapping herself internally.

“See, normally people order at the desk before they sit down, but we’re not busy right now, so if you know what you want, I’ll take your order,” the worker continued in a bored manner.

Marinette stared blankly at them, taking in their white, orange and blue uniform and bubblegum pink hair. It should clash. It did clash, but it wasn’t like the café could expect their employees to color coordinate their hair to go with their uniforms.

Marinette shook herself and forced herself to focus.

“Uh, thanks! I’ll take a hot mocha, then.”

Marinette dimly realized that she did not want a hot mocha on this hot and humid summer afternoon.

The worker gave her an odd look, probably judging her for ordering caffeine this late in the day (hot caffeine at that), and went back to the desk.

Marinette cringed. All of this and she still hadn’t found the symbol, though who could tell if it had lasted through the past centuries? Hmm — come to think of it, the café looked as if it had been renovated not so long ago.

Marinette was on a wild goose chase.

A different worker called out Marinette’s order, and she got up to collect her unwanted mocha.

As she collected the still steaming cup from the obviously amused barista, she noticed something.

The barista was wearing an apron with a symbol, presumably the café’s logo, on it. And the symbol looked awfully familiar. It hadn’t been on the sign outside the café or carved into the walls, but still…

Marinette turned her coffee cup around as she slowly walked back to her seat. The same symbol rested there, in the middle of the mug! It was a white circle outlined in black, with two chevrons inside it. One was a red-orange chevron pointing to the top of the circle and an inverted, light blue chevron pointing to the bottom.

In Adrien’s faded drawing, the symbol had no color, but just like in the symbol on the cup, the chevrons met together and formed a diamond inside the circle. And just like in his descriptions, at the very center were two black dots like eyes.

With the café’s name and now this symbol’s appearance taken together, there was no doubt — Adrien had been telling the truth in his stories!

But just how much of what he’d written was true, or was he inventing fiction set in real locations?

Marinette would have to return to the cafe to find out, but in the meantime, she had an unwanted beverage to drink.

When she reached her seat, she set down the coffee cup and slid into the chair. Just then, a young girl slid out of her own seat; and she excitedly ran around until she bumped into Marinette’s table and fell down with a squawk.

The steaming cup of coffee fell over, spilling most of its contents on the table before Marinette could catch it.

She could only shrug and smile as the child’s mother ran over and started apologizing. It wasn’t as if she’d been looking forward to having the hot drink, after all!

Coming back to the café later and testing Adrien's claim that a group of mages used it as their base, though... that was an entirely different story, Marinette thought as she exited the building.

Written for @mlbigbang

[stephensmithuk]

The Hound of the Baskervilles: Sir Henry Baskerville

@myemuisemo and @thefisherqueen have already provided their own useful historical context posts, which I've reblogged and will add some more of my own.

Tweed had been handwoven in the Outer Hebrides by crofters (small-scale farmers) from the 18th century and was introduced by Lady Dunmore to the British aristocracy in the 1840s. The warm waterproof fabric became rapidly popular for outdoor activities, like walking, climbing, golf and carriage driving. It eventually sped to the middle classes.

The Times has been around since 1785, originally as The Daily Universal Register before changing name in 1788. It is considered a centre-right paper editorially and very much the paper of the British Establishment, although its founder John Walter actually spent time in prison for criminal libel against the then Duke of York. That's the traditional title for a monarch's second son, currently held by Prince Andrew of particular infamy.

Free trade vs. protective tariffs were a big political issue at the time.

Holmes is using the the-polite term for an African-American and the French version of the now considered derogatory one for the Inuit - it is generally believed to mean "eaters of raw meat" or similar in the Algonquian languages family i.e. languages used by First Nation and Native American tribes. Basically, Europeans adopted a racial slur from a people they applied racial slurs to.

You can identify whether a person is of European, Asian or African descent, broadly speaking, by their skull shape, but in not much further detail below that level.

Gums tend to come from tree resins, paste from wheat flour.

Fountain pens were being mass-produced by 1889, but remained expensive until the 1950s and 1960s, so dip-pens were wildly used as @myemuisemo discusses; the hotel could worry less about them being stolen.

School desks would have indentations specifically to hold an ink-well and some kid would end up having to fill them each morning.

"Dime novel" was an American term for cheap popular literature at the time in a variety of forms and indeed costs, sometimes used perjoratively as they were seen as sensational and low quality. Insert your own jokes about modern fiction here.

"Why in thunder" was one of the many "minced oaths" used then and today to allude to a stronger curse without actually saying it. Sir Henry is hardly going to drop an F-bomb and Watson wouldn't be able to print it if he did.

In September 1888, six dollars would have been roughly £1 4s, or about £130 in today's money. Some fairly expensive boots then, but you can get similar stuff at that price today:

Shoe shiners would have been widespread in London, typically children sent out to earn money for their families.

2pm would have been a reasonable time for a Victorian lunch - it would have typically been a light meal, supper being the main one. Afternoon tea became a thing as supper could be very late indeed:

Victorian cabs had their number on the rear clearly visible:

Bond Street (actually split into Old Bond Street and New Bond Street) has a number of art galleries even today, including Sotheby's (also known as an auction house), which moved there in 1917. Others are nearby, like the Royal Academy of Arts on Piccadilly, right next door to Albany of Raffles fame. The art even extends into the new Elizabeth line part of Bond Street station.

[duchessofvastergotland]

29th November 2023 // Crown Princess Victoria and Prince Daniel continued the first day of their visit to the UK with a pub lunch at the Three Blackbirds in Cambridgeshire. They spoke with the pub's owner and learned about British pub culture and the traditions and culture of East Anglia.