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First published October 18, 2022
March: Begin Plutarch’s Lives of Illustrious Men. Remind Islington that he has yet to be included in their number.
As a less than average Christian, I do my best to keep my feelings in the realm of extravagant dislike with a hefty dose of disdain.
“Emma, darling,” she said, “would you like a sandwich, a pear pastry, or a slice of currant bread?”
“Oh, one of each, I should think. Thank you.”
Lady Clifford cleared her throat, and three sets of eyes widened at one another.
In my defence, I was very hungry.
Also in my defence, I was acting on the counsel of my banker.
One’s needs must be met. With the purse of others, if possible.
“Oh,” he paused, half turning back, “I’ve just heard from Islington. He sends his regards and said you’re welcome to steal the direction, if you’d like. The letter is in my studio.”
I brightened. “Wonderful! This allows me to reprimand him by post before I strangle him in person.”
Even Agnes asked why he was so morose.
As remedy, I brought down my own authenticated character assassination and said he should read it over a cup of tea in the kitchen.
“Choose your own chaperone? The idea. You can’t even select proper colours for a drawing room. This place is an abomination before the Lord!”
I gave a half-blank expression as I’d thought we’d progressed from poor taste to abomination _very quickly_.
Islington’s annoyance was giving way to his amusement once again. “You’ve been wanting to add books of substance to your library.”
Turncoat.
“I have, Islington. And when I’m finished, I’ll lend it to you. If I recall correctly, you’ve been wanting to add substance to your character.”
“You most certainly will not lend it out, duke or no duke. This, Emma, is to become your bible.”
“But don’t I have an actual Bible for that?”
“Honestly, Emma. I despair of you. The Bible is good for a great many things, but one can hardly expect to maneuver effectively in high society by taking any of its advice.”
“I’ve always felt the story of Jael nailing that man’s head to the ground to be very instructive.”
“We hated one another for a good many years—as solid a foundation for any friendship, I suppose.”
“Who were you with?”
Hawkes closed his eyes, smiled, then opened one eye at me. “No one masquerading as a priest.”
“Yes, well, sometimes having questionable friends is doing the work of the Lord.”
Cousin Archibald has got hold of a tambourine.
(Where in heaven’s name did he find it?)
Parian, Agnes, and I have formed a pact. The first to find said tambourine unattended is to bury it in the garden.
“Your hands are pink.”
“They are.”
“Dare I ask?” he said, half his attention given to opening his letter.
“I murdered a beloved, albeit already deceased, family pet.”
Pierce nodded absently, then paused. His gaze flicked to my face. “That sentence is problematic in more than one place.”
It can be difficult to truly love February. Out of all the months of the year, it pulled the shortest straw in weather, beauty, and general temperament.
He would develop a head cold.
I would attempt to nurse Hawkes back to health.
Unable to recover, and having been additionally diagnosed as an absolute lunatic, Hawkes would suffer an untimely death.
Pierce was suspect. “Should I ask if you even play on the Sabbath?”
“Religiously,” Hawkes said.
I laughed.
“How is being an adult treating you today, Lion? Have you been managing to act like one?”
“I’ve fashioned a few mature qualities that I carry about, yes. Unfortunately, I’ve left them home this afternoon so as to come down to your level. Snobbery loves company.”