#winthrop household

[royaltysimblr]

Ophelia of Lausanne, Queen of Windenburg (1620-1673) - Part 3 - Life at Court

Following the couple’s marriage, Ophelia and James occupied Hertford Castle while maintaining apartments at Windslar Palace and Verdun Palace. While James and Ophelia remained devoted to one another and had a loving relationship, Ophelia felt isolated in court. After the conclusion of their wedding celebrations, Ophelia found the courtiers cold and hostile. Ophelia found solace in her Magnolian ladies-in-waiting whom she conversed with in her native language. Ophelia never fully assimilated into Windenburgian Society, and never learned to speak Simlish properly. Ophelia and her husband spoke Magnolian with one another, often in public, causing people to be suspicious of the couple. Many accused Ophelia of being a Jacoban spy who plotted with Jacoban insurrectionists.

Ophelia largely stayed in the company of her Magnolian household for the first two years of marriage. James was forced to dismiss them when rumors spread that Ophelia’s lady-in-waiting, Madame Villiers, was spying on the royal couple for the King of Magnolia. Ophelia was allowed to keep two of her ladies-in-waiting, Angelique de Rohan and Helene de Penthièvre. However, in 1635, Helene was accused of poisoning Adelaide of Schwerin and was later executed. James did nothing to stop this, infuriating Ophelia for a few months.

Over the next few years, Ophelia would develop a new household and close circle of friends including Lady Pauline Charleston and Cecelia Bentwick, Countess of Harren. Ophelia would develop life-long friendships with Pauline and Cecelia, who would remain her constant companions at court. Francine Withers, Duchess of Norwich was appointed her mistress of the robes, with her sisters, Lady Georgiana Burley and Lady Henrietta Burley serving as Ladies of the Bedchamber. Ophelia’s favorite at court, Vincent Williams-Bulwick, 2nd Earl of Winthrop, was appointed her chamberlain. James appointed his close friend, Sir Thomas Grenoble as his wife’s treasurer to control her finances. Ophelia’s constant overspending throughout the first years of marriage made her unpopular. Her expensive and grand wardrobe along with her large household led to her going into debt as early as 1637. 

With the news of Ophelia’s first pregnancy in 1636, she was gifted Courland Palace by her father-in-law, King Charles. Ophelia and her husband often traveled to Courland Palace during the summertime. Ophelia cultivated a series of residences that included Verdun Palace, Hertford Castle, Glencraig Castle, and Barley House. Ophelia had her residences refurbished and renovated, much to the dismay of her frugal husband. Ophelia collected a large number of pets including 12 dogs, 5 cats, and many exotic pets such as peacocks, parrots, and zebras. 

Ophelia had a warm relationship with her father-in-law, King Charles II, who often showered the couple with gifts. Meanwhile, Ophelia had a strained relationship with her mother-in-law, Matilda Carlton, and her grandmother-in-law, Adelaide of Schwerin. Matilda, a staunch Peteran, found Ophelia’s devout Jacobanism repulsive. While, Adelaide’s dislike of Ophelia came down to family disputes, as the Duchy of Schwerin was ransacked by Magnolia in 1605. Although Matilda and Adelaide detested one another, they worked together to ostracize Ophelia. Matilda and Adelaide would openly snub Ophelia by ignoring her at court and not inviting her to their entertainments. 

Ophelia’s open practice of her Jacoban faith was largely unpopular with the court and the public. Pamphlets were constantly dispersed slandering Ophelia and her faith, claiming she was a Jacoban spy. Ophelia’s sympathy toward Jacobans didn’t help her position at court either. In 1636, when the court was traveling to Dunkeld Palace, Ophelia had the court stop at the town of Aylesbury to pray for the persecuted Jacobans who were murdered by a Peteran mob. This greatly annoyed the court who had no sympathy for the murdered Jacobans.

[brooklynmuseum]

Opening on June 2… It’s Pablo-matic: Picasso According to Hannah Gadsby.

Fifty years have passed since the death of artist and cultural icon, Pablo Picasso. He’s a mainstay of the modernist art historical canon and a household name whose artwork sells for record prices, but what does his legacy look like in 2023 through a contemporary lens? A critical lens? A feminist lens? 

Using their incisive humor, comedian Hannah Gadsby worked with our curators, Lisa Small and Catherine Morris, to consider Picasso’s work through the aforementioned lenses in It’s Pablo-matic. The exhibition includes nearly 100 works including pieces by Picasso and selections by twentieth- and twenty-first-century feminist artists such as Dindga McCannon, Betty Tompkins, and Kaleta Doolin. Highlighting Gadsby’s voice alongside those of many of the included artists, the exhibition reckons with complex questions around misogyny, creativity, the art-historical canon, and who gets to be a “genius.”

Discover more about this exhibition: https://bit.ly/Pablomatic 

🖼️ © 2023 Estate of Pablo Picasso / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York → Gift of R.M. Atwater, Anna Wolfrom Dove, Alice Fiebiger, Joseph Fiebiger, Belle Campbell Harriss, and Emma L. Hyde, by exchange, Designated Purchase Fund, Mary Smith Dorward Fund, Dick S. Ramsay Fund, and Carll H. de Silver Fund → Betty Tompkins (American, born 1945). Apologia (Artemesia Gentileschi #4), 2018. Brooklyn Museum, Emily Winthrop Miles Fund and Robert A. Levinson Fund, 2018.21. © artist or artist's estate → Kaleta Doolin. Improved Janson: A Woman on Every Page #2. Brooklyn Museum, ‎Emily Winthrop Miles Fund, 2018.38. © artist or artist's estate

[yourtotfaveisproblematic]

Your fave is problematic: 42

Well, we all expected that this would come. No one would argue that Agent 42 is devoid of faults, but it's about time we examine just exactly how problematic he is. None shall go unscathed.

As of the end of the party's time in Sinncitti, I'll be starting the continuous list for 42's crimes. I'll keep adding onto this if necessary. Otherwise, an entirely new post may be in order. Considering everything that's wrong with him, it wouldn't exactly be surprising.

The first and most obvious issue is that 42 is a man in a party of non-men. Not only is 42 a man in a party of non-men, but he does not ever make the effort to acknowledge his male privilege in a space where many nonbinary and femme-identified exist. Seems entitled to me.

The very first thing that 42 does upon waking up is get dressed up in a suit. Wow. Suits are inherently used as a class indicator. Not only is 42 a man, but he chooses to flaunt his masculinity and his status within his society. So, you're classist now, too, huh? Wow.

Next, 42 notably leaves a note for his roommate to clean the dishes. Wow. Ever the misogynist, huh? 42's roommate is a nonbinary and more generally femme-presenting individual, and 42 immediately burdens them with emotional labor and the task of household duties. These are the actions and demands of a chauvinist.

It almost goes without saying that 42's career choices are obviously problematic, but I'll say it anyways. Hitman. Enough said.

Also, 42 is a government lackey, meaning that his very existence upholds a toxic system that oppresses its peoples. In short: cop energy. Boo.

42 also clearly takes place in workplace bullying, as he chases after a poor unsuspecting coworker by the name of Agent 53. Remember, workplace bullying is never acceptable. Always notify HR if you have to interact with someone like 42.

42 is an animal killer and therefore abuser. Don't believe me? Ask Winthrop the Elephant.

Not only is 42 an impersonator and an identity thief, which is a terrible thing in and of itself, but he's also a known gaslighter. He impersonated Brandon Holder, Vincent's ex-boyfriend, to his face, and used Holder's appearance to gain leverage over and lie to Vincent. Actually manipulative and disgusting. #VincentDidNothingWrong

So, to summarize, 42 is misogynistic, classist, murderous, oppressive, bullying, animal abusing gaslighter. So don't you dare 'stan' him. 42 is fucking problematic.

Signing off (for now),

yourtotfaveisproblematic

[thelandofsims]

We start the Simmons family with a strange start. I know that there’s nothing fun around the neighborhood yet, but can’t you guys wait a bit before doing this?

Like in the last household, Belle gives all her money from the previous challenge to a mysterious person. She wonders if all this money is just going to waste.

Thankfully, her and Winthrop procured some money trees. They don’t give that much but it should sustain them for a while.

Not much happened the first day. All that happened was Belle digging for stuff, as well as Winthrop. That’s what they can do for now.

After sleeping, Belle heads off to work to hopefully make tons of money.

[guesthypebusinessfinance]

Tim Nguyen Boston, MA A.W. Perry, an actual property funding and providers agency with places of work in Boston and Hingham, has appointed Tim Nguyen to chief monetary officer and controller of the agency. For almost 140 years, A.W. Perry, Inc. has contributed to the material and financial system of the town of Boston and the South Shore by way of its actual property holdings and neighborhood investments. At present, beneath the administration of the fifth era of the Perry household, A.W. Perry is thought for premier properties similar to 20 Winthrop Sq., The Berkeley at 420 Boylston St., and 40 Summer season St. in Boston, in addition to its South Shore Park campus in Hingham. With over 15 years of expertise, Nguyen is properly positioned to steer the corporate’s monetary efforts. He joined A.W. Perry in 2022 and brings his in depth information of actual property accounting and finance. In his new function, Nguyen is liable for all accounting & finance, danger administration, payroll, and knowledge technology (IT) features of the corporate. Nguyen’s appointment follows Mark Flaherty’s current transition from COO to president. “Nguyen continues to exhibit in depth information of finance and accounting in all facets of economic actual property,” stated Flaherty. “As the corporate grows its footprint, Nguyen can be key to making sure the corporate is making the fitting selections and planning for the longer term. We're fortunate to have such a devoted and certified group member and look ahead to Nguyen’s ongoing steerage within the firm’s subsequent chapter.” Previous to A.W. Perry, Nguyen labored as a director of accounting for WinnDevelopment and controller for WinnResidential after beginning his profession with PricewaterhouseCoopers of their actual property assurance group.  Nguyen is a Licensed Public Accountant at present licensed in MA and member of each the AICPA and MSCPA. A.W. Perry’s providers and portfolio spans areas and asset lessons, together with properties predominately on the South Shore and Metro Boston, and lately increasing their North Shore presence with the acquisition of an industrial facility in Lynn – now often called Lynnway Park.  https://guesthype.co.uk/?p=3629&feed_id=6951&cld=64426128c5405

[slayercain]

In Kathleen Brown’s reinterpretation of [Winthrop] Jordan’s early modern sources, she notes that divisions of household labor between the sexes, manners and customs, and mores were as, if not more, central to West Africans’ function as foils to the emergent concept of Europeanness as skin color and hair texture. Despite what one might expect from reading Jordan’s conclusions, skin color was not the essence of racial difference in the pre-1650 sources: writers of the period devoted considerable space to descriptions of indigenous peoples’ adornments of their bodies, “the consequences of which were no less startling to English observers than differences which allegedly originated in nature”. The common criteria for bestial otherness were measures of degrees of civility in Iberian and English sources rather than complexion. One of the most common refrains in early European accounts of people living near the so-called torrid zones was “the people goeth all naked”. The appearance of allegedly naked bodies had contradictory evocations: on the one hand, nakedness conjured images of the garden of Eden and a prelapsarian state of mind, arrested development, and innocence; on the other hand, “Nudity also communicated sexual promiscuity and the absence of civility to Europeans, which they sometimes described as ‘beastly’ living”. Rather than simply, or decisively, a matter of color, projected sexual mores and virility were crucial determinants for measuring the being of Africans.

Zakiyyah Iman Jackson, Becoming Human: Matter and Meaning in an Antiblack World

[honorhearted]

After tethering his horse to a post, Ben entered a local Philadelphian tavern, thirsty, bleary-eyed and exhausted from a hard night's travel. His mount seemed equally weary, so he knew he had to cut his losses and retire for the night. His search for Francesca would have to reconvene in the morning.

Upon ordering an ale, Ben practically devoured the drink in three desperate swallows, his throat dry and stinging as he shakily sank into a chair in the farthermost corner of the room. Not long after, four men entered the tavern, loud and boisterous and clapping one another on the shoulders.

"This calls for a celebration!" the man in the middle exclaimed. "Barkeep! All rounds are on me!"

The room erupted into excited shouts, and bewildered, Ben squinted amidst the poor, flickering lighting, only to feel a seedling of dread sprout between his ribs. That was no ordinary man. That was-

"Winthrop!" the gentleman to his right exclaimed. "Come now, you've left us all in suspense long enough! Just what is it that couldn't wait until morning?"

Gleeful, the prat gathered up their requested steins, then began doling them out with a giggle. "Patience now, my boy, patience! What if I were to tell you that a certain escaped lark is now back in her rightful cage?"

"No!" the man exclaimed. "You mean, you were able to find the Bridgerton girl?"

"Indeed, I was!" Winthrop gloated. "Lieutenant Harrelson has an older woman working in a patriot encampment -- she's married to one of the other officers, you see -- and she was able to fool that girl and lure her right into our trap."

Tightening his grip around his ale, Ben abruptly turned and faced the wall, fearful as he listened with growing agitation. If Francesca was here, then he would need to get to her... The only problem was figuring out where and how he could acquire a proper disguise.

--

Fritz was starting to lose his patience. "It is a crime since you gave hard-earned loyalist coin to rebel scum!" he growled. "That makes you an accomplice, a traitor, and one who can readily be hanged for such an offense!" Furious, he grabbed hold of Francesca's chin, forcing her to return his gaze. "We didn't kill Bolton in cold blood. He stole from us. He was trying to stop our plans -- that, my dear, gives us justifiable cause to take action. Just as we are able to do so here with you."

When Francesca spoke of loyalty, Fritz laughed, loudly and without mirth. He shoved her so hard that her shoulder clipped the wall, then rose again to tower over her smaller frame. "Your family is not loyal to the Crown," he seethed. "And if they are, they've done a piss-poor job in raising the likes of you, eh?" He turned his head and spat. "Thanks to your little venture, we now have to try and find a new way to kill all those rebel bastards. The war could've been over by now, but clearly, you want all this senseless bloodshed to continue!"

Ever mercurial, a sudden hint of amusement bled into his eyes. "Have you ever heard of riding the rail, Miss Bridgerton?" Giddy, he explained, "It's when a man -- or woman -- is forced to straddle a wooden post and is paraded through town. Sometimes, the victim's legs are weighted to ensure maximum discomfort, and sometimes, they are stripped naked for proper humiliation." Canting his head, he prodded, "This seems like a suitable punishment for you brother Anthony, wouldn't you agree? Seeing how as the head of your household, he is the one who would've been responsible for rearing you and encouraging this behavior."

Winthrop. She should have known that such an odious troll would be involved, the mere mention of his name sending a prickle of violent unease throughout her body. Maybe it had been a mistake to take on such a name as Rose Nolan, but Francesca could not bring herself to regret the mission -- Not since it could have saved so many lives. She only regretted that it had led her here.

"Fine, I accepted money." Francesca let out a trembling breath, wishing that her voice carried with some semblance of confidence rather than the palpable anxiety that permeated each syllable. "Money that was given to me willingly, that I did not even ask for. Is that a crime?"

It took all of her might not to sag with relief at the mention of John Bolton and his death, the knowledge that they did not know of Ben's survival giving the smallest shred of hope in such a hopeless situation. Still, Francesca needed to play her part: The role of a girl who had no idea that her friend had met a violent end.

"You know nothing about him," she snapped, trying to stare him down and yet finding his cruel gaze impossible to meet. Whether or not there was truth in his words, in the assumption that Ben would sell her out without a thought, Francesca loathed his actions being used against her -- She may not have liked him at the best of times, but the Major was not a pawn to be used in such a way, to confuse her allegiances even further. "He was a good man that was murdered in cold blood. Why should I help the same people that allowed that?"

"Is a new America truly worth all this if everyone you love is dead?"

Francesca flinched at that, each word needling painfully into her lungs with a marksman's precision. It was an excellent question, one that she could not answer plainly -- People were dying everyday. Outside of these four walls, men and women alike were being shot at as though their lives meant nothing.

"My family have done nothing to you. They are loyal to the Crown."

[gnomeofinvention]

The Winthrops, Round 1 Spring

You can watch the livestream replay on my YouTube channel.

It was a hectic week for this yeoman family, but also a productive one. Turns out that jars of jam are way more popular than putrid-quality honey, lol. The candles sold pretty well too.

Isidora was in charge of making the jams and candles, while Landon took care of the beehives...or tried to, at least. The bees didn't take to him very well, bless his heart. He did better at tending the produce stand.

As the eldest child, Eric spent some time learning the family business. He got along well with the bees, though he'll need to be vigilant about taking care of them if he wants to get anything better than horrifying-quality honey, lol.

Graham was responsible for fetching water from the community well, though sometimes he got distracted if there were any gnubb games going on. He did help Anya out with the gardening, though.

The only thing Sofya had to worry about was learning her toddler skills. Between all the grown-ups in the household, she learned all three!

When she and Graham aged-up at the end of the season, she developed the Supernatural Fan trait, just like her mother Isidora. Graham grew up to be a Bookworm....a very muscular bookworm.

Between the excellent profits and bonuses from business rank-ups, the Winthrops were able to make a hefty contribution to the Royal Treasury!

[sticksbatnix]

Experiment Gone Wrong

Stewart’s stomach hurt.

He didn't mind it at first, he ate a snack right before he went back to studying.

Nothing seemed to be wrong afterward, just a few more hours of studying before bedtime. One class over another, another note and another, and one recording of the lesson repeated until every word is engraved into your brain.

Everything was fine.

Normal even before a sharp pain sprang through stopping the teenager’s numbing routine.

Stewart hissed, hands holding onto his stomach as he hunched himself over. Bile rose at the back of his throat, a wave of nausea ran through his body, and his body shook with uncertainty.

No.

Not now.

Why now?!

Stewart got out of his chair, stumbling over with his two left feet, one hand over his mouth, and the other moving anything out of the way. He burst through his bathroom door, legs failing him as he fell onto the cold floor. Not minding the pain that ran through his knees, the blond rushed to open the toilet seat and finally let out what was been inside of him for so long.

Clumps of, at first, the teenager considered to be the remains of the snack he ate a while back. But was shocked to see clumps of hay fall out of his mouth and fly down like paper onto the toilet water below.

He paused, face scrunching up in confusion before another round of pain ran through him.

Stewart yelped, his body seizing up in shock before he fell over at his side. He opened his mouth to throw up again, maybe screaming at how much suffering he was in before hay had clumped itself at the back of his throat. He choked, struggling to breathe as his body, once again, shook in agony at this unknown source of agony.

Stewart reaches his hand over at his bathroom counter, his fingertips stinging as bugs had bitten him. He perched himself up, vision blurred by his tears, the teenager struggling to keep himself together as his body ached to no end. It felt like something was going through his skin, like millions of bugs were begging to get out in any way they could.

It hurt.

My God, did it hurt!

But once Stewart opened his eyes, once again, blinking away the tears or whatever was covering them by now. He must have been sweating, the pressure building up and around and inside of him. If he could, he would pray but all that went through his mind was trying to see what was wrong with him.

The moment he saw himself was when he completely stopped.

An agonizing scream rang through the Winthrop household, two of the three family members all looked over in shock. Mrs. Winthrop had a look of disdain on her face while two of her children had a look of worry on theirs.

She looked back at her children, and immediately they looked back into their books.

“Ignore him.”

And they did even when the two wanted to see what was wrong.

It must have been a few seconds that passed before a loud thud was heard. And another and another and another and so on.

The older woman got up from her seat, not a smudge of worry on her as pure rage wrapped her senses. She cursed her firstborn, clicking her tongue as she rushed herself up the stairs. One child had risen from their seat and the other held them down, only a look given to another to not intervene.

The mother rushed to her son’s room, she hadn't bothered to knock as she let herself in.

“Stewart!” She screeched, one hand raised and the other crushing the doorknob beneath her, she stopped.

The room was a mess.

An absolute and complete mess.

The mother let out a sigh, eyebrows scrunched down, and mouth hung open. She could barely believe what she was seeing.

The expensive curtains were torn to threads, the clean carpet was ruined with dark stains, and the countertops were broken with a force like no other. It seemed like a hurricane ran through the room and ruin everything Mrs. Winthrop had worked so hard for.

And rage was all the mother would have for that unpredictable son of hers.

“Stewart! Stewart, where are you?!” She walked through the mess, raising her dress to prevent it from getting messy. “Stewart, so help me, if you don’t show up, I will drag you out myself!”

Had she seen the hay below her very heels?

The long scratch marks across the walls?

The horrid stench that ran through the air?

The blood that seeped through the carpet below?

Had she felt drops fall through the ceiling above onto her dainty head?

She gasped, looking up at what could have ruined her perfect hair. Her once rage-filled face then turned that fear upon looking over the creature above.

Even in the darkness, she could see and hear its pain. The agony of what was once human transformed into a being possibly not of this world or maybe was.

The burlap was torn, the hay spilled in between the stitches, claws digging through the ceiling for leverage, and the face.

My God, that face...

It looked like a skeleton almost, the skin outstretched and torn to no end, fangs stretched as far as they can go, and those eyes that can outshine the room if they could.

“Stewart?”

The being opened its mouth, and red gas foamed out and filled the room immediately. The woman rushed to the door, coughing, but was stopped by the creature falling to stop her. Its body hunched over the main entrance, it closed it with such force that it might as well shake the entire room.

The woman stopped, fear completely overtaking her entire body.

And as the creature came close to her cowering form, it whispered only one word.

“Scream.”

[brownandblackpearls]

📜 🖋 𝒞ourting with 𝒟r. 𝒟evorak (Julian x BlackReader) Pt.1

PART 1 SUMMARY:

You are a reputable, young beauty of means in Vesuvia, enjoying the winter courting season. An odd letter from an odd doctor finds its way to your door. You decide to respond.

─── Julian x black female reader

─── imagery + fiction

─── explicit smut

─── regency/historical/fantasy, courtship rituals, wealthy! MC, love letters, drama, handsome redheads

☾ next.

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

“Letters for you, Miss!” The scullery maid calls through the door.

You pause your writing, hesitating over your final line before turning to answer the call.

“Come in!”

The maid strides in with your daily mail on a silver platter. As expected, there is a heap of them from various suiters, all interested in seeking your hand. 

Some young, some old, some men, some women, some wealthy, and some positively blue-blooded, they are all voracious. Usually, your interest tends to wane after weeks and weeks of these greetings each season. The feeling especially set in after getting the particular suspicion that the lords, duchesses and dukes reaching out to you were having their own maids and butlers pen these letters, a copy of an inquiry to every potential young beauty in the region.

Consequently, many of the letters did not seem to genuine, remaining vague and distanced. Polite. 

Today, however, you find your lessons to be going slow. You decide to take a break and browse through the inquiries.

“Read through them for me, Delilah?” You call out the request as you lower your pen and clean your fingers in a warm, sudsy bowl of water on your desk. Drying your hands, you apply a spot of scented lotion on your fingers before smoothing it in and sliding your delicate gloves back on.

Delilah clears her throat, interested in the letters herself. 

You had no doubt the contents of the proposals would make waves throughout the household by sunset, but all of your staff were well-meaning. Just bored during these slow winter months. Honestly, you didn’t blame them for indulging in your courting dramas.

“Well,” Delilah begins, “Here is a letter from a Clarence Dunford Winthrop, hailing from Bremens County! He greets you and wishes you a very warm winter. ‘I am most pleased to write to you, Miss ------. I possess a healthy 34 years in me, and I seek the opportunity to meet and possibly enter the idea of courtship with you. Are the tales true that you are quite fine and b-buxom…? Goodness, how forward!”

You bite back a chuckle, allowing Delilah her scandalized looks and comments. After she’s thoroughly read Winthrop’s letter, she moves on to the next.

“This one,” she exclaims, “is from a young, Fiorentina Agosti, hailing from the Suthlands. She greets you amicably and wishes you a cozy winter. ‘Dear Miss ------, I am most delighted to write to you. I am a young woman of etiquette and good breeding. I am 23 years old, and yet for one so young, I am more certain of my passions and ambition than most grown adults. I seek the window of opportunity to introduce myself and my estate to you, as I am seeking to build my relationships with the nearby families of standing. I favor women only, as I’ll need a good, feminine eye to steer my estate towards a glorious future…what a boastful girl! I hear she is very attractive, though…”

Delilah goes on, examining letter after letter, reading aloud excitedly. Finally, she lands on a slightly ragged one, with a wax seal bearing no crest. Only a simple plant pattern with dried flowers and ferns trapped to the note.

“My,” Delilah wonders, flipping the envelope, “what a...humble introduction. Let’s hope that the contents are more splendid than the package they came in!”

Delilah adjusts the paper before her and begins.

“This one,” she explains, “is from a young…doctor…in the capital, near the palace. Oh, I think I recall this one? He is of great renown, but markedly odd. Hmm…He greets you fondly and asks if…if you have ‘seasonal allergies’...? He is more than happy to forward any herbs or teas that can help soothe inflammation…as a ‘show of good faith and possible friendship’—yes, very odd...He would like to know if you would be interested in accompanying him as an honored guest to his annual medical tools gala. There will be anatomical displays as well as guest surgeon speakers. Afterwards, he would like to take you to attend the opening night of a Vesuvian theatre drama, and then dinner. I—that sounds more exhausting than eventful. Goodness….“

Despite Delilah’s somewhat opinionated concerns, your interest perks at the oddness of the inquiry and the oddness of the planned date. You’re not so sure a medical gala will be of interest to you, as you’ve never attended one before, but you would like to try.  

“Delilah, please. No more commentary. What does the rest say...?”

Delilah harrumphs, moving on. “Well, he seems certain that you will find the engagement eventful and enlightening on his personage and he hopes to show you how good of a ‘provider he can be for a woman of your means’. He has ‘no grand heritage or acreages’, but he does have one of the ‘best practices in Vesuvia’ sporting several underling surgeons and plenty of business. New blood, instead of blue blood from the looks of it, if you ask me.”

You pause, thinking it over. 

The letter all sounded personally tailored and individualized for your reception, and clearly not something that was drafted up in the monotonous manner of house staff doing as ordered. 

The doctor seems very keen in meeting you... 

...You can’t help but feel the same.

“What is his name?”

Delilah levels you an uncertain look, noticing your choice, before sharing.

“The suitor signed off as a Dr. Julian Devorak.”

“Devorak,” you try out, rolling the name around in your mouth. 

It feels good.

“Thank you Delilah. You may place the letters in my box, save for the doctor’s. Please bring his to me, as well as my pen and good ink. I’ll also need the courting stationery.”

Delilah sours slightly before perking back up and doing as ordered quickly. She clearly does not approve of the choice but remembers her place, and knows that you are not one to be bossed. 

You wait until she delivers the stationery and retreats from your room before turning to your pen and paper, glancing at the letter from the doctor.

You perfume the parchment slightly, and use a fine, shimmering ink to dot the thick, French paper. You being to write, peering at your refined, swirling letters.

“Dear Sir…I take the first opportunity to acknowledge the flattering letter with which you have favored me…your discernment is of my deep interest, as well as your detailed plans for our hopeful outing. I consent to the date and time, and I look forward to your academic gala, as well as the theater and subsequent dinner. I implore that you arrive to chaperone me long before the sun is high in the sky, as we may need much time together that I am wont to spend with you. I will admit, I find you very curious and am interested to learn more of you. Warm Regards, ------.”

You finalize the paper with a neat calligraphy of your signature, before cleanly folding and pressing the letter. You choose a lovely envelope and seal it with wax before stamping and sending it off with Delilah to be mailed. 

“Hmm. Odd man,” you murmur to yourself, before moving on to send responses to the other requests of interest. 

The days pass by, eventful.

You go on several dates, some of note and some not so much. 

A few remain in your mind of potential. There was a beautiful countess seeking companionship after a split from her count…Nadia. Buxom and svelte, she was also the epitome of regality, and a brown-skinned beauty like yourself. You couldn’t help but feel drawn to her. 

There was also Asra, a mischievous but enchanting merchant king. You suspected a penchant for the occult on his end, but his beautiful face was too good of a distraction to focus on what may hide behind it. 

Then there was Muriel, a mysterious man with one of the largest claims of land in Vesuvia. He was fidgety and reserved, but you sensed a deep soul in him. 

Portia, the jeweler of the aristocracy, and her passionate stares paired with her down-to-earth jokes were enough to make you lower your guards and raise your spirits. 

Lastly,  Lucio. Oddly enough, he turned out to be the count that split with Nadia. You found his countenance alarming at first, only to later find a subtle charm in his passion for life, luxury and you.

All of them were far more interesting than the duds you’d went on dates with the past few weeks. 

Valdemar, the ambassador, had spilled soup all over your dress during a brunch while he spoke wildly about some conquest of his past. Then there’d been Volta, an odd little thing that insisted on trying all these unappealing, exotic dishes. There’d been Vlastomil, a weevil of a person who seemed more eager to gossip cruelly than to learn of you. And lastly...most memorably...there was Valdemar…you weren’t too sure what Valdemar did, but you were certain whatever it was, you wanted absolutely no part in it.

Weary from all the courting, you put your best face forward and hoped this day ended up being a delight instead of another disaster.

Foregoing flat-ironing, blowouts, presses, braids and twists this time, you decide to arrange for your servants to outfit you in lovely, long locs for the evening. You line them with fine silver trinkets, baubles, and rings before arranging your makeup to perfection and dressing in your finest, warm regards from the tailor.

Today was the day with the doctor, and you wanted to see exactly what kind of man he was. 

You donned a beautiful gown beneath your long, furred coat and lined your neck with a shining collar of diamonds. The winter snow would reflect stunningly off of them, as well as you.

Perfumed, plucked, and preened, you stand, assessing yourself in the mirror.

Vesuvia’s treasure.

You laugh, satisfied with the show stopping look, before leaving your room. You almost bump into a servant, rushing in to announce to you that the doctor has arrived with a carriage for you both.

“Let him in,” you say kindly, glancing out the window. Sure enough, a large, black carriage awaits. You lift your chest, square your shoulders, and raise your chin, allowing your lashes to lower and your aura to project.

You descend the stairs of your home into the grand hall, your eyes pinning the man that entered and awaited below, greeted politely by your staff.

‘Oh,’ you realize.

He’s gorgeous.

Your eyes widen slightly at the sight of him. Tall, tousled, and terribly attractive, Julian Devorak watched you, open-mouthed, as if you are some sort of ethereal being that decided to grace his mortal existence. Descending the marble stairs, you feel him watch every step you take until you finally reach the landing.

You decide to close the distance and break the ice when he makes no move, still in awe of you. No need for those stars in his eyes, you think. You want him dazzled, not anxious or elevating you to something or someone that is inaccessible.

He is here in your home, after all. If you were inaccessible to him, he wouldn’t be.

“Hello Dr. Devorak,” you grace easily, smiling. “I’m ------. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“J-Julian, please, no need for extraneous titles,” he insists in a light stammer. “The pleasure is all mine, I can assure you.”

‘Aaw,’ you think to yourself, looking fondly at him. You’ve heard the line so many times before, but somehow, the words sound so genuine coming off of his tongue. You also like the sound of his voice very much. He sounds like how he looks, you realize.

Julian mistakes your silence for something bad, and rushes to fill it.

“I-I can’t tell you how…how long I’ve anticipated today.”

“Oh?” You ask, tilting your head in wonder. 

Were you the only one he was querying? That wasn’t possible. There had to be others. You respond pleasantly.

“I’m honored...’Julian’. But I’m sure an interesting man such as yourself is entertaining many acquaintances and possess many options.”

Julian blushes, surprising you. He shakes his head, fingers fidgeting at his sides.

“Not exactly,” he offers, leaving it there.

Your brow lifts in wonder. 

“Really...? But I loved your letter. I’ve reread it several times and am not afraid to say so. I find you quite striking.”

If possible, Julian blushes even harder at that, daring to hold your gaze. You see an odd sort of mask arise on him then, a false yet endearing bravado. You don’t call it out and simply watch as he does his best to disguise his rampant shyness.

“Ah...thank you madam! But not nearly so striking as one such as yourself! Why, I remember the feeling of when I first laid eyes on you. It was as if  lightning had struck me.”

Your eyes widen in pleasure, curious. 

“Such flattery! Where did this occur?”

Julian smiles triumphantly, happy to visibly pique your interest.

“The theater! I noticed you in your private box and it was then I decided that I must inquire to learn more about you.”

Your smile broadens, and you can’t help but step closer. Julian feels very comfortable and warm, even with the pomp.

“So that’s how you knew I’d enjoy the theater!” You exclaim. You had wondered about it since his letter first arrived. He could’ve invited you to any event, any activity, and yet he knew the theater was the right choice...

Julian tenses as you near, unsure of where to look. You can’t tell if he wants you closer or farther away. You decide to hold firm and give him time to sort it out for himself.

“I-uh…yes.” He swallows thickly. “Allow me to enlighten you of the day’s activities in the carriage…?”

You nod, realizing that your questioning is holding the both of you up from your date. You step back, cowed.

“Of course! My apologies.”

Julian swiftly holds out a broad, gloved hand for you to take. The gentleman’s escorting hold.

“No need to apologize,” Julian insists, guiding your offered palm gently, “I...I actually should be the one to apologize.” He bites his lip, thinking of some unknown err. 

You glance at him as the two of you step out the front door together, waved off by your staff.

“Whatever for…?”

Julian looks sheepish, rounding you both to the carriage door and opening it for you.

“I....well!”  He pauses, the words sticking in his mouth. “I was...told by a confidant very recently that the medical gala may have some things that are not...er, conducive for a romantic atmosphere. So I must ask...you’re not squeamish of leeches, are you?”

.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:.・゜゜・✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:・゜゜・．✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: *

AN: Do not copy, repost, or edit. If you see someone do so, please let me know.

☾ next.

☾ check my blog for more imagines.

[messymusingss]

magnolia grace winthrope

twenty eight » business owner » alycia debnam-carey.

melancholic, clever, obedient, inauthentic, generous, observant, envious, patient, indecisive, affectionate, competitive, unsatisfied, polite, guarded, yearnful, passionate, hesitant, contradictory.

content warning: mentions of depression, parental emotional abuse

magnolia hails from the wealthy winthrope family - yeah, those self-righteous lawyer winthropes. even so, she’s always felt a smidge out of place. for her entire life, mags has been attempting to fit every edge of her square self into the seamless and perfect circle her parents have molded out for her. even so, her family is and always has been the most important thing to her - and probably always will be unless she somehow learns how to enforce her own boundaries.

as a closet foodie, she owns a fairly new charcuterie restaurant called sips & swiss where they make their own specialty cheeses and wine from the small attached vineyard. her mother doesn’t approve (and dad is simply too busy to make a fuss) and thinks its beneath her but sure does enjoy the perks of bragging about their family’s wine.

perhaps the most pivotal piece of who magnolia is would be the constant inner tug of war between who she’s been conditioned to be and who she longs to be. with numerous people in her life from both sides, she’s afraid she might just eventually split in half altogether. she’s actually quite depressed and definitely undiagnosed because wouldn’t that just be an embarrassment. she couldn’t actually show her face at a therapists office - the shock and horror that would rattle the winthrope household. /s

plot hooks;

the winthropes - magnolia and ashley need their last sibling! the youngest winthrope, baby brother. should be twenty-six(ish) years of age and expected to fall in line with the family business of lawyering and shit. i’d love for him to have a special closeness with mags and maybe he’s the only one she really vents to about the way she feels when it comes to her place in the family idk idk. they also need the parents and if anyone wants to make them that would be the most glorious thing tbh.

sips & swiss employees - the business she owns needs workers whether that be cooks, wait staff, hosts, bartenders, or even farmers for the vineyard. i wouldn’t be opposed to her also maybe having a business partner if that’s something someone might be into?

a love interest - perhaps someone she’s always been friends with but something about them makes her hesitant to take that next step. perhaps her family wouldn’t approve or maybe they’d approve too much.  she’s had a few serious relationships before which were basically betrothals and she would always end up bored. she needs someone exciting to bring her back to life, pretty much.

an unlikely friend group - i’m a sucker for friendship groups and i know yall are too so help me or help yourself lmao. i’m not really looking for a group of wealthy people (although im sure she has numerous wealthy friends) simply because she wouldn’t feel as comfortable around people she’d constantly have to impress. more of a mixed bag when it comes to social/economical class. people who might not normally gravitate towards each other but something as tied them together nonetheless. my brain is trying to brain rn and its not succeeding lmao.

a rival - idk about this one but tbh i feel like there was always this other girl her age that her mother would always try and compare her to. perhaps their families are close and they are assumed friends but deep down - it isn’t that simple. “that ___ girl really is something.” is a comment mags hears all too often. its a big reason why she doesn’t just throw in the towel and go her own way, live her life how she wants. something about her. she’s everything mags should be and tiny part of her actually sort of wants to just to prove to herself she can. a lot of competitive energy, a lot of fake niceties, and i wouldn’t be mad if it turned into some kind of slow burn fxf shippy thing tbh 

[brooklynmuseum]

Mini Art Lesson Tuesday, July 28, 2020

Today’s lesson is inspired by May Wilson, who left rural Maryland and a decades-long marriage to become an artist in New York City at the age of 71. Wilson typically embellished and bedazzled found objects with some relationship to her early life, such as nineteenth-century portraits of women and old-fashioned button-up boots. Through her highly-decorated collages, she addressed issues of sexism, ageism, and the cult of beauty. Follow along as we share step-by-step instructions to create your own collages with ages 2–6 and 7 and up.

FOR AGES 2–6: LET’S PLAY

Mary Wilson often changed the narrative of a work by adding elements of collage to an otherwise complete work of art. In this lesson, we’ll alter our own images using fun art materials you have at home.

Step 1: Look at the artwork and talk about it with your child. What do you think the artwork is made with? This artwork uses a portrait and fun materials like glitter, mirrors, and red paint.

Step 2: Now, choose a photo! Perhaps one that you really like of yourself, or one from a magazine. Pick an image that you both feel comfortable permanently altering. 

Step 3: Discuss the household items your child would like to use in their collage. Parents can write this or they can encourage phonetic spelling and pictures as a form of writing. Choose a theme you’d like to explore through your artwork! Here, our friends chose to explore the theme of a party. 

Step 4: Now alter the original image using the materials you gathered! 

Step 5: Have your child explain the changes they made and why they made those changes. How does your new artwork make you feel? 

FOR AGES 7+: LET’S CREATE

May Wilson’s work is an example of “femm-age,” a combination of “feminist” and “collage” that spoke to women’s ability to transform functional objects into artworks with hidden meanings. For this project, let’s think about how we can transform images by cutting and pasting.

Step 1: First, gather your materials. You’ll need cardstock, magazines, markers, a glue stick, and scissors. 

Step 2: Now, cut your sturdy cardstock into 4x6 pieces. 

Step 3: Next, grab a magazine and cut out pictures to use in your collage.

Step 4: Here are some techniques to try…

Replace one object with another, like human heads with animal heads. 

Find creative ways to fill space. 

Mash up two or more images into one. 

Use a marker to draw or write on your collage. 

Step 5: May Wilson kept in touch with fellow artists by mailing them collages. This was an easy and inexpensive way to get her art out into the world. Add a stamp and a message and send your finished collage to a friend.

Bonus: Try adding pictures of yourself into your collage.

Posted by Tamar MacKay and Noé Gaytán

Photos from top: May Wilson (American, 1905-1986). Untitled II (Portrait), 1966-1967. Albumen photograph with glitter, round mirrors and red paint. Brooklyn Museum, Emily Winthrop Miles Fund, 2007.11.2. © Estate of May WIlson; For ages 2–6 (Tamar MacKay and Sarah Dinkelacker, Brooklyn Museum); For ages 7+: (Photos: Noé Gaytán, Brooklyn Museum)

[padawan-historian]

Racial violence is historically linked to the preservation of white womanhood. After the CW, white mobs throughout the South targeted black individuals, particularly men, often under the pretense that they had "raped" a white woman. Perceptions surrounding black sexuality claimed that not only were black men hypersexual, but they had a fixation on white women -- the ultimate "symbol" that established white Southern masculinity and dominance. The narrative of the "black male predator" not only worked to dehumanize black men and justify the lynchings, burnings, and castrations of black men, but also to reinforce the social hierarchy of the changing South.

Rural white farmers, free laborers of color, and newly liberated black slaves flocked to city centers seeking employment opportunities. The diversified labor pool presented both an economic and social challenge to white workers. Due to the exploitative nature of many of these industrialized jobs and limited opportunities – not to mention the threat of imprisonment that came with unemployment – many emancipated blacks were willing to work for lower wages and longer hours. In this new environment, one’s social status was less known and less fixed and traditional forms of authority—the patriarchal household, the church, the planter elite—were called into question.

Not only that, but, for the first time, black men had a modicum of power at the ballot box (at least on paper) and could join the workforce as skilled employees. This new order meant the possibility of whites and blacks coexisting and competing on equal footing – a reality that disrupted and dislocated long-held racial systems.

Prior or during lynchings, many black men were further brutalized with castration and dismemberment. This emasculating practice has its roots in slavery when the white patriarchy propagated images of black men as abnormally virile and lusty to the point of violence. However, this condemnation of black men was often accompanied by a peculiar, almost obsessive, fascination with black male bodies – especially their sex organs. Scholar Winthrop Jordan muses that the “conflicting messages embraced by Anglo-American culture as it sought to control and circumscribe the bodies of enslaves men and women, on the one hand voice repulsion for Africans, framing them as beastly, ugly, and unappealing, while on the other hand viewing them as hypersexual.”

While white men of all classes actively – and often violently – engaged sexually with black women, the thought that white women could operate with the same level of agency was wholly radical. For the white patriarchy to uphold power and superiority over enslaved black bodies, black male sexuality could not be allowed to flourish, or even exist. So instead of tackling the reality of black male desirability, they instead painted enslaved men as bogeymen who were incapable of controlling their sexual urges and natural desire for white women (put a pin in that). White women were framed as helpless and wholly dependent on their white male protectors who defended and avenged them in equal measure against the “savage black man.”

While, on some levels, this imagery was also meant to deter white women from joining the workforce and becoming socially (and financially) independent from their patriarchal families, many white women played a role in the ritualized violence of black bodies.

Weaponizing their femininity + backwards perceptions of racial superiority, they pointed out "suspects" who were then brutalized publicly (and privately) as a way of "avenging their honor and affirming their racial dominance over black bodies." They attended public executions and burnings alongside their husbands, brothers, and fathers, often brought their children along. At home, they framed the destruction of black communities and black life as the only way of preserving their economic and political dominance over blacks (and to a lesser extent immigrant communities). Integration and reconciliation were not solutions, but forms of oppression against the white race. 

While we've steered away from lynchings as a society, the remnants of white supremacy and racial violence exist in police brutality and weaponized FALSE accusations like #AmyCooper.

Commentators and talking heads will argue whether or not she was justified in her actions. Even if she was intimidated (I'm 5'2 and can probably be tossed like a football) but the tactics she resorts to (raising her voice, her change in body language, even the look on her face) the same ones used by racists women of the late nineteenth and mid twentieth century. She, like so many women before her, thought that her whiteness (and womanhood) entitled her to point her pale finger and lie without a thought about the implications or consequences. We will likely never know if she truly meant to cause harm or simply make him “leave her alone.” But her actions reveal that she saw no problem lying - a lie that could potentially lead to the death of black man. If that happened, how could she ever reconcile her privilege and racism? 

This is why antiracist education in schools and work places is essential work. Racism isn't about someone being triggered by shitty jokes or tweets about how the Confederate soldiers were patriots (they were not). Racism shapes our interactions and access and, sometimes, whether or not we'll make it home. To support the actions of people like #AmyCooper is not only dangerous but sets a precedent that validates the restoration of white supremacist policies all for the sake of white economic, political, and social control and dominance over black, brown, and indigenous bodies.

The only way to reconcile this reality for white Americans to unlearn their ideas that “we’re all equal” or “race doesn’t matter.” We are all human and deserving of respect, empathy, and equity . . . but do not mistake that for us being equal. We are not and race does matter. It matters so much that our very lives depend on it. Once you recognize this reality, you must educate yourself, teach your children, and activate your activism.

[junie-bugg]

Prospects and Propriety - Chapter Two

Summary: Everlark Jane Austen AU

Katniss Everdeen and her younger sister Prim are the adopted daughters of Mr. Haymitch Abernathy, a wealthy man with no biological heirs. By the rules of Panem society, an older sibling must be married before the younger can wed. In a time when women have no means of making their own living, marriage is the only way for Katniss to save her sister from destitution and set her up for a happy marriage of her own. Katniss sets her sights on Mr. Gale Hawthorne, a wealthy man who just moved to Whitley and who seems to have his eye on her. But what of the poor baker’s boy who once took a beating to save her life?

Read here on Tumblr or on my AO3 account: izzacrosswriting

Warning: I do plan on this series getting a lil smutty. There will be graphic depictions of violence, sex, and possibly death. I’m still working everything out:)

Nature ambiance(s):

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UZ9uyQI3pF0&t=1694s

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hUjUhZ1Yy7Y

Music:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hQbx-OkfN-M

(If you want to listen to this song on Spotify it's called Symphony No.5 in C Sharp Minor: 4. Adagietto (Sehr Iangsam))

Word Count: 3125

Chapter Two

Prim and I have the next day off of lessons. We’ve been homeschooled ever since we came to live with Haymitch, but the weekends are saved purely for whatever we see fit to fill them with. For me, that’s mostly hunting and being out in the woods, unless the weather is bad, and sometimes not even then. 

If I decide to stay at home I usually lounge around with a book and see what Prim is up to. It’s mostly knitting, dress-up, or playing with the ugly cat Haymitch let her keep a few years back. Prim named him Buttercup, claiming that his matted, ruddy coat matched the bright yellow of the flowers she so adored. I had wanted to drown the thing in a bucket when we caught him stealing scraps from the kitchen, but Haymitch had laughed, even picked the thing up by the scruff of his neck and shook him around. 

“Look at this little guy, sweetheart. He’s a survivor. We can’t kill him!” He had placed the dirty, mewling kitten into Prim’s arms and the thing had hissed at me. I was worried he’d give Prim some kind of disease but he never did. I don’t feel gratitude towards him though. Only suspicion. It could still happen. 

When I want to be alone I go to my greenhouse. Really it’s Prim’s and my greenhouse, but ever since she found maggots in the compost pile nearly two years ago, she hasn’t stepped foot in there.  The greenhouse is small, maybe a third the size of my bedroom, but it’s peaceful. Especially when it storms and I can hear every hollow beat of the raindrops on its glass roof. It’s situated on the edge of the grounds by the tree line that morphs into the large forested hill behind Victor Greene, Haymitch’s estate. Over the years I’ve planted herbs and flowers and medicinal plants I’ve found on my journeys into the woods. The plants do well here in the rows of dark soil I’ve fortified with compost and fertilizer. The whole place smells of earthy rot and there’s something about how sunlight scatters lazily through the frosted windows that calms me. There’s a nook on the far side of the greenhouse, past all the plants, where I’ve scattered some quilts and pillows on a wide triangular window ledge. It’s a perfect place to read or sleep. Or sing. 

This is the only place where I let myself sing. I don’t even do it in the woods, always afraid someone else taking a stroll will hear me or that I’ll scare away game. Ever since Prim and I were placed under Haymitch’s care, really ever since our dad died, I refuse to sing in front of others. Maybe it’s because I’m shy and I don’t like people listening to my voice swelling and breaking on the high notes. Or maybe I’m lying to myself and I don’t sing in front of others because it’s too painful to remember a time when my life was filled with music. Mountain aires and lullabies and love songs, all sung by my father. I guess I don’t like breaking apart when there’s an audience. But when I’m alone I can shatter beneath the notes for a time, before I’m needed back up at the house. 

Today, however, instead of knitting or playing hide and seek in the gardens, Prim has informed me she wants to walk to the village. “You need new ribbons for the ball!” She squeaks as I button up her light pink dress from behind. We have servants available who help us dress or bathe or brush our hair but I always like helping Prim myself. She looks like a tiny little princess with her frilly dress and her curls pulled back with a pearl white ribbon. In contrast, I look plain in a forest green frock and my light brown shawl. 

“I told you, Prim. I’m not going.” I struggle with the last button. Prim has been going through a growth spurt and soon she’ll be too big for this dress. I feel sad, watching my little sister growing up so fast. 

“I heard Mrs. Winthrop and Ms. Trinket talking and they said you had to go,” She’s grinning so hard I can see the slight gap between her two front teeth. “Because Mr. Hawthorne is going to be there.” 

Ah, yes. My supposed husband-to-be. So even Prim has heard about Ms. Trinkets’ ridiculous arrangements. A man with that much money has his pick of the litter when it comes to choosing brides. I’m not ugly, but I’m no exquisite beauty either. Not like some of the girls I see around Whitley. I have no fortune of my own, really no status either besides being Haymitch’s ward and that will go up in smoke the second he dies. Most likely Mr. Hawthorne will look right through me and move on. But the news that I’m being forced to attend the public ball worries me. The whole village will be there. Including him. The baker’s boy. 

Maybe some new ribbons aren’t such a bad idea. 

We turn down an offer for the carriage and instead walk along the main road into Whitley. My boots have barely brushed the cobblestone sidewalks when Prim is dragging me into the seamstresses’ shop. The dressmaker, Cinna Ludgate, and the tailor, I think her name is Portia Peever, both turn to welcome us. Prim tells Mr. Ludgate about my need for new ribbons and in a flash he pulls down the display from the ceiling, winking at me as he walks back to the counter. 

There are so many to choose from. Streams of all colors flutter between my outstretched fingertips like butterfly’s wings. I see ribbons of frilly lace, satin, velvet, and even silk. My eyes land on a simple, white cloth ribbon with a delicate embroidered lavender pattern. I hold it up for Prim’s inspection and she declares I have to buy two in case I manage to get one dirty before the ball. 

I’ve just handed Mrs. Peever the money for the ribbons when the bell over the door rings. In walks Ms. Delly Cartright, one of Prim’s closest friends, and her older sister, Ms. Marianne Cartright. Their father is the village shoemaker, so they’re well known and well-liked by almost everybody. Delly is Prim’s age which gives them plenty to talk about. Prim grabs a hold of Delly and begins showing her the latest shipment of buttons Mr. Ludgate has displayed. 

Marianne is one year younger than me but we’ve never exchanged more than simple pleasantries. I dread small talk but from my personal experience, a trip into town wouldn’t be deemed official without at least one awkward encounter. 

“Are you coming to the ball, Ms. Everdeen? You missed the last one,” Marianne asks. She’s absolutely gorgeous, with big, blue doe eyes and a pouty mouth. Her nose is small and her figure slender. She is what they call a “country belle” in Town. I know at least five love songs written about girls like her. I expect in a few years Prim will grow to be one herself. 

“The dancing was splendid. I do hope you’re coming next week,” She continues.

I hold up my ribbons in response. “My tutor Ms. Trinket won’t let me miss it.” I force my mouth into a smile. 

“Oh,” Marianne’s eyes have settled on my ribbons. They’re probably a tad dull for her taste seeing as there were velvets and silks to choose from, but I like the simple flower design. The white cloth paired with the purple and green thread looks pretty. “Well, as my darling mother always says: simple never goes out of style.” She smiles up at me but the warmth doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “My sister and I are here for my dress fitting. I can’t wait to show everyone what Mr. Ludgate made me for the ball. It’s a custom piece!” She practically squeals. I nod and bid her goodbye, waving Prim over so we can leave. I breathe a sigh of relief as we exit the shop. I hate girl talk. 

With our main objective for coming to Whitley carried out, my feet automatically turn towards home, but Prim has other ideas. “Can we look at the cakes, Katniss?” She begs. She’s like a little puppy. I can’t refuse, though I grow more anxious with every step closer to the bakery we get. 

I know what this is. A look at the cakes in the window leads to Prim asking to go inside. It’s happened before and I’ve been lucky enough to avoid him. He works alongside his parents and two older brothers anyway. What are the chances that he’ll be manning the counter and not the ovens in the back? 

Prim pulls me through the bakery doors and runs to press her face against the display case. I hear a call of “I’ll be right there!” from the back, followed by a grunt and the shuffling of boxes. I join Prim and am just starting to admire the selection of pastries when I hear a quiet gasp and look up. 

It's him. The baker’s youngest son. I don't know him by name but I remember him. Of course, I remember him. I can almost feel the icy sheets of rain and the hollow numbness of hunger from that horrible day as I meet his gaze. 

Our father had died three months earlier. He had been a poor wheat farmer but the income from the harvest was enough to support a small household. My mother traded plants and home remedies to supplement what our empty pockets couldn’t buy. One winter, my father had been kicked in the head by his horse. My mother did everything she could but even as young as I was, I knew he had died before he hit the ground. After that my mother stopped eating. She just sat in bed and stared at the walls while her children turned to skin and bone. I did everything to try and rouse her but it was no use. With our father dead so too was her will to live. 

At eleven I became the sole provider of the family. I ventured into town alone to sell that damn horse, some old jewelry, and even dresses of my mother’s from her merchant days, but the money ran out quickly and there was more to buy than food. Our hearth sat cold, unused, and wanting of wood, and we resorted to rubbing ourselves raw to keep warm. We stopped attending school in the village, afraid that a teacher would see how hollow we were becoming and would whisk us away to the orphanage. I had seen orphans in the schoolyard, their faces empty and their shoulders slumped in defeat. I would never let that happen to Prim. 

We had eaten nothing but dried mint leaves in water for three days before I decided to try selling some of Prim’s old baby clothes in town. The clothes were threadbare and faded so nobody had wanted them. My arms were shaking so violently from cold and malnourishment that I ended up dropping them in a puddle. I decided to leave them there, afraid that if I bent over I wouldn’t be able to get back up. 

I found myself stumbling around behind a row of brick buildings. The rain had started and I was soaked to the bone. The smell of baking bread carried over the frigid air and I realized I was behind the bakery. The back door was open and I stood, trancelike, basking in the warm glow of the ovens before a thought floated through my foggy head. Maybe they had food scraps in their trash. A crust of bread or rotting vegetables, something only my family was desperate enough to eat. I lifted the tops off of the bins and my hopes died when I saw that their insides were heartbreakingly bare. 

Suddenly, I heard a woman screeching. It was the baker’s wife. She spat remarks about how she was sick of people going through her trash bins and if I didn’t leave she would call law enforcement. As I dropped the lids and backed away I saw a boy peeking out from behind his mother’s skirts. I recognized him from school but we had never talked. 

With my final hope gone I slumped against a scrubby little apple tree in their yard. My knees buckled and I slipped down into the mud. I would rather die than go home empty-handed to Prim’s gaunt face and my mother’s sickly, unblinking eyes. 

I heard a commotion from the bakery and then the ring of metal on flesh. 

“Feed it to the pigs you worthless creature! No one decent will buy burnt bread!” The witch screeched. There was the boy again, come out the back door clutching two blackened loaves. A bright red mark shone on his cheek and my heart twisted when I realized his mother must have hit him. He looked between me and the pigpen, and then glanced back towards the door. His mother must have gone up to front to serve a customer because then I heard him sloshing his way through puddles to get to me. 

“Take them!” He urged, pressing the loaves into my skeletal hands. “Take them! Go!” As quickly as he came he was gone, back into the kitchens. I watched him disappear. As he closed the door only then did I realize what he had done for me. 

Two loaves of bread! And they weren’t even that burned, really only the crusts had been damaged. I quickly pressed them to the skin under my shirt and hurried home. The searing heat from the loaves roused something within me. I couldn’t die. Not when I had Prim to take care of.

I dropped the loaves on the table and stopped my sister from savagely tearing a chunk off for herself. I sat her down, forced our mother to join us, and then began scraping off the blackened bits. That night we feasted on two slices of bread each, afraid so much food might make us sick. The loaves were hearty, filled with nuts and bits of cranberry. I had never tasted anything so good in my entire life. 

 As I predicted, it was a teacher that found out about our situation. Upon our absence at school, she had come looking for us and found Prim and I living in squalor with a mother that was too sick to care. I thought that was it, that we were to be sent to the orphanage now and our mother taken away to an institution. But a man by the name of Haymitch Abernathy, wealthy and lacking a family of his own, intervened. He had heard of our misfortunes from hushed gossip around the village and had petitioned to adopt us. Our mother was eventually sent to an institution by the sea and we’ve lived with Haymitch, fed and clothed and taken care of, ever since. 

The baker’s boy saved our lives that day. Surely I would have given up and died under that apple tree if it wasn’t for the kindness he showed me. I owe him everything. And because of that, I will never be able to pay him back. 

I take him in now. He's taller than he was before. Much taller. His chubby child’s build has been replaced with an imposing stature that takes up almost the entire doorway. I guess a lifetime of hefting bakery pans and kneading dough has left him broad-shouldered and muscular. 

“Katniss,” he says. I can tell he’s surprised to see me. His voice is deep and I note that his blonde hair curls with sweat. There’s a streak of flour on his cheek and an apron tied around his waist.

“It’s Ms. Everdeen,” I correct him. It’s out before I can stop myself and as soon as I say it I want to bite my own tongue off. How pretentious I must sound. It's only after Prim has begun ordering a sugar-dusted fruit tart from the case that I realize with a start that the baker's boy knows my name. 

His face is flushed and pink when he turns his eyes to me. 

“I'll take four of those cookies,” I get out. “The orange lilies.” My voice sounds weaker than normal. I hate this. I feel fragile under this boy’s gaze. And that's when I realize: he must be waiting for his thank you. For the bread that he burned and took a beating for. But I can't do it, either because Prim is with me and it would confuse her and probably embarrass the boy, or because it's been five years and the time for ‘thank you’ is over. Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he doesn't remember. He probably only knows my name because it was a source of gossip around town when Haymitch adopted Prim and I. He must remember me from then. 

He gives me a timid smile, deftly wraps the cookies in parchment paper, ties them securely with a piece of fringed twine, and hands the package to me. I suddenly feel the need to fill the silence so I blurt: “They’re beautiful. The cookies.” 

He manages to turn a shade pinker. “Thank you, I do most of the frosting around here. I made those this morning.” As I hand him the money for the treats, I assume that's it. That was the end of our conversation. But my tongue is moving again. 

“They look just like the lilies in the woods. I see them on my morning walks.” 

“Yes, exactly,” He grins and reveals a charming set of dimples. “I’ve seen them when I go to the woods to paint.” 

I don't know what else to say and Prim has started tugging on my hand. She’s probably anxious to get home so we can enjoy our treats with tea, so I give him one last look and utter one last thank you before heading back out into the crowded square. 

“Do you know him?” Prim asks as we begin walking towards home. 

“No,” I say, a little relieved to be leaving. I can't catch my breath and my heart is racing like it does when something frightens me. “I don't even know his name.”

“Well, I've never seen you be that talkative with a stranger.” She beams. “Wait until I tell Mrs. Winthrop!” 

Is that what he is to me? A stranger? I shake the thought from my head.

He knew my name. The very least I can do is learn his. 

[artlessmusings]

In 1645 John Winthrop, the governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, noted in his journal that Anne Hopkins "has fallen into a sad infirmity, the loss of her understanding and reason, which had been growing upon her divers years, by occasion of her giving herself wholly to reading and writing, and had written many books," adding that "if she had attended her household affairs, and such things as belong to women...she had kept her wits."

This clearly tells us who actually couldn't keep his wits.

[arprocleaning-blog]

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