#a piece which i dislike with a passion for aesthetic reasons

[anaalnathrakhs]

i feel it's so fucking stupid and ungrateful but it still hurts a little when someone gifts me something i just don't like. i don't know. i know it's dumb and inaccurate to astrain that much meaning to a simple gift, but it feels kinda like they don't know me. i guess it feels like people don't see me, like a reminder that the person i reflect and the person i feel like are incredibly different.

#two fairly recent examples jump to mind #last year my class did a secret santa #the guy who got my name barely knew me so instead he asked our litterature teacher for tips #i was doing an effort to participate a lot in her classes and discuss stuff and i felt like she was an adult i could really trust #and adult who Gets It #and she picked just. the wrong gift. a classical philosophy essay. #stuff i hate reading. stuff i hate thinking about. #i said thank you to both of them and tried to read it during christmas break still. but i was right. i hated it. #and this year's christmas #recently i tried patching things up with my parents and we are a lot more communicative now #so they've opened up that my demand not to receive any gifts was painful to them #so we had an agreement: we write open-hearted letters to each other on christmas. #and they can gift me something if they'd like but no pressure if they don't find anything they feel would be a good gift #bc i myself opened up about the whole ''inaccurate gift'' thing being one of the reasons i dislike receiving stuff #and guess what. christmas comes. they got me a printed card from an artist whose work we saw at a local art thing earlier that year. #that artist does mainly either plants or nice architecture. stuff i love. #they picked the ONE work of hers that doesn't look like that. some reinterpretation of the great wave of kanagawa #a piece which i dislike with a passion for aesthetic reasons #i had promised i'd be honest if their gift missed the mark but tbh i couldn't. it's just an aesthetic thing it's completely begnin. #it's not like they spent lots or tried to pick something that was USEFUL #so i smiled and the picture is hanging with other stuff in my room #and i thanked them and i can't express how genuinely glad i am we have a better relationship #but man i felt my heart break a little under the tree in that moment #idk #i know it's silly but it makes me feel weird. and cold. #broadcasting my misery #vent

[sybilmarlowe]

Since I joined the One Piece fandom, I was asked different times which character I ship with Doffy the most. Given I'm usually into self insert things, I'd firstly go with "my OC, of course 😛"... But let's talk about what I think of Doffy's most famous ships 😁

DISCLAIMER: all of what follows is TOTALLY my own opinion, don't want to judge anyone who thinks differently than me. OP is a fictional world made of fictional characters and anyone can ship whoever they likes!

So, here's the ships:

Doffy x Viola

Ok, let's start with what many people's don't want to hear: this ship is canon. Yeah. Like it or not, it's a matter of fact.

I honestly like them together, they're a weird couple but somehow they work. I like to imagine how could have been the dynamic between the two of them, and I'm more than sure there was nothing abusive from Doffy's side. I mean, sexually at least. I agree with the fact destroying one's whole life and Country is pretty abusive, but I'm quite sure the feelings between Doffy and Viola have been real for a while. Maybe the concept could sound trivial, but no one chooses who to love and Doffy has many characteristics which may definitely make a person fall for him. Not totally sure HE has ever truly loved her, but I like to think so. After all he does have a weak side and Viola might have been one of the few (even thanks to her powers) who managed to see it and knowing him deeply. This surely strenghtened their bond and it might have finally resulted in love...

My vote is a 8/10

Doffy x Cora

This is incest. I know. And it's indeed problematic and controversial. Irl a thing like this isn't exactly acceptable.

BUT as I told before, OP is pure fiction, so... I have to say quite like them tbh. In my opinion, as long as a relationship is adult and consensual there's nothing deeply wrong in it IN FICTIONAL WORLDS. (I know, there are fanfictions in which their relationship is abusive, but since we’re talking about headcanons here I like to think it’s not). Have you watcher GoT? Cersei and Jamie were one of the best written pairings in the whole series, the same goes for this situation imo, we have all the conditions to make this ship a sensible one.

They’re a realistic couple cause they went through a lot of difficulties together and, even if they chose different paths of life, their bond is very very deep. Their love is a desperate one, like “you’re the only one in this world I can REALLY trust”. This from both sides. The difference is that Cora is a pure person who just want to love and being loved while Doffy... well, he’s not exactly mentally healthy and he’s like “all or nothing”.

A lot of angst and stuff, of course, for this reason my vote is 7/10

Doffy x Crocodile

I’m sure someone out there is going to want my head for what I’m about to write, the DoffyxCroco fandom is huge after all... but... 

I don’t like this ship at all. 

Given one can ship two people with no reason or just because they wear matching colours and look good in fanarts (?) imo DoffyxCrocodile has no sense. They interact, yeah, but nothing about their dialogues or shared scenes makes me thing they could be a good couple. Even that most famous encounter at Marineford which made fanpeople scream... They looked just like contenders who quite disliked eachother, nothing less and nothing more :/ and Doffy saying “I’m jelous!” just gave me the same vibes of a childish sacrastic way to piss off a person, pretty much like the stupid classic “you fight like a girl!”. 

They’re aesthetically beautiful, nothing to say, they’re both among the most handsome characters in OP  and have a similar story, so I’m not saying I don’t understand the reasons of those who ship them... Just... I want ships to be stronger and more credible than this :/

6/10 just because they look good in fanarts XD

Doffy x Luffy 

This is pretty diffused, but..... why. 

I mean... what happened between the two of them which could have made them fall for eachother?? D: Have you ever tried to date a person after trying GearFourthPunch them out of the troposphere? °A° (Also, Luffy could LITERALLY be Doffy’s son. This is weird. Not the weirdest thing, but still.)

Srsly... If you like them together I ask you to tell me which dynamics are there behind this ship. Cause I really can’t see WHERE do you see even a little trace of feelings between the two of them D: 

Sorry D:

3/10 

Doffy x Law

Gods, yes. YES.

This ship HELLA works from every single point of view. Doffy and Law are two of the most (if not THE MOST) well written characters in the whole series. They have a complete and complex background, a deep and multifaceted personality and, above all, an extremely strong bond. 

Ship them or not, they’re literally OBSESSED by eachother for different reasons.

 Law is the ONLY man Doffy considers almost his equal, he thinks he’s like the only person worth being his right hand man and I’m quite sure he’s galvanized by the idea Law is the one who’s gonna sacrifice his life to make him immortal. Like... a great life to complete an even greater one? This is insane. And yet beautiful. 

On the other hand, Law’s thoughts have been completely centred on taking revenge on Doffy for 10 years. Like, he was literally obsessed by that man, consumed by the hate he felt for him which obscured anything else, even his maniacal good sense in the end. 

Turning this all into a tragic and tormented love story is as easy as drinking water. A long-term reciprocal hate mixed with a deep admiration for eachother (even from Law’s side, after all Doffy was the one who thaught him almost... everything?) which slowly turns into something terribly different. Imagine the tension between two arch enemies who have to admit their hate melted into passion... and yet still have this latent feeling of wanting the other’s death.......

Don’t know what’s your opinion about this kind of stories, but for me, the self proclaimed Queen of Angst, in love with the most tragical Theatre and Literature... THIS IS GOOD STUFF. 

10/10 HANDS DOWN.

Doffy x Trebol 

What tHE ACTUAL F***K. 

-10/10 

Doffy x Bellamy

Please, no. 

Alright, I hate Bellamy. He’s exactly the kind of character I find terribly pathetic and incomplete. He barely has a personality of his own, he’s a wild fanboy with nothing original (not like Barto. Barto is the best fanboy ever. All my love goes to Barto.). 

Now, he spent all his 34 years of life trying to... imitate Doffy? And yet he doesn’t even manage to truly understand him. So he’s worse than a fanboy, he’s attracted to the idealization of a man who’s not even half of the things he expects him to be. This is sad. Really sad. And call me a sadist, he deserved being humiliated imo. Maybe this helped him open his eyes and getting a life. Seriously. 

It goes without saying I totally can’t see how a relationship between him and Doffy could work. Doffy despises him, the only kind of plot this thing could have is a quite abusive one :/ and since I deeply dislike abuse.... no. This ship is totally out of question.

0/10

Doffy x Monet

This is another ship which barely touches the canon. I sincerely think the "love" between the two of them is pretty much unilateral. Doffy respects Monet, he deeply appreciates her abilities, intelligence and loyalty, she's clearly among his closest subordinates, but... He doesn't love her in a romantic way. As for Monet, she's totally in love with him, she'd kill and die for him. And in fact that's what she does in the end.

Monet is not among my fav characters, but I still feel quite sorry for how things went for her. She gave her everything away for a helpless, almost obsessive, love.

If something between the two of them really happened for real, I think it was merely physical.

For this reason, tough I have to admit they'd actually look beautiful together, I can't ship them :/

5/10

Doffy x Vergo

Ok, I dislike Vergo. He's quite a flat character imo, don't even like his design 😅 I don't ship him with Doffy for this simple reason, but being honest they could perfectly work as a couple.

Vergo was among Doffy's very first "real friends", he was among those who were considered a family by him and, most importantly, he was the only one around his same age. They literally grew up together, likely supporting each other, and I wouldn't be honest if I said this has no chance to be a good assumptipn for a love story. A quite simple and basic one, if you want, but it's the most realistic kind of bond two people can make.

Still not shipping them, my vote is a honest 7/10.

Guess that's all?

Let me know what do you think about this 😆 do you agree with my votes? Or there are some points you totally disagree with?

Well, anyways. I had fun 😂

#doflamingo headcanons #doflamingo #donquixote doflamingo #one piece #one piece hc

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Patricia Highsmith: The problem of good art made by bad people

No writer would ever betray his secret life. It would be like standing naked in public.

- Patricia Highsmith, the novelist writing to a friend in 1940

Patricia Highsmith, who died in 1995 having written a series of psychological thrillers, including The Talented Mr Ripley and Strangers on a Train and the romance The Price of Salt, left two sets of diaries hidden in a linen closet in her home in Ticino, Switzerland.

In one she recorded details about her professional life: plot ideas, philosophical musings and thoughts on writing. In the other she documented her private reflections and memories, including a single sexual encounter with the writer Arthur Koestler (a “miserable, joyless episode”) and her efforts, through psychotherapy, to “get myself into a condition to be married”.

She had no more compassion for men than she did for women. In one entry Highsmith writes that “the American male does not know what to do with a girl once he has her. He is not really depressed or inhibited by his inherited or environmentally conceived Puritan restraints: he simply has no goal within the sexual situation”.

Highsmith’s diaries, which run to more than 8,000 pages, have been pored over by biographers, but have never before been made public, or in this case interwoven into a single narrative of the life of a complex woman who thought deeply about themes of good and evil, loneliness and intimacy.

It was in her diary that she described becoming sexually obsessed with a customer at Bloomingdale’s in New York, whom she later followed to her home, provoking observations about murder and love.

She had an obsession about detailing absolutely everything in her life, very much like Sylvia Plath. And she drew on the diaries for her novels, which explore the notion of obsession, guilt and murder, and reject rationality and logic for the darker elements of human personality.” Dubbed “the poet of apprehension“ by the novelist Graham Greene, who said she “created a world without moral endings … Nothing is certain when we have crossed this frontier”, the Texas-born Highsmith was deeply influenced by European existentialists such as Albert Camus and Søren Kierkegaard, and those influences are deeply felt in her diaries.

She was a lesbian who hated women, totally politically incorrect in lots of ways, and certainly not a poster girl for the feminist movement. She hated blacks, Jews, men, and women. A sort of equal opportunities hater then. In mitigation Highsmith was self aware of her own beliefs and it mortified her and was a source of constant anxiety. She herself was fighting many demons including her mother’s rejection, an attempted seduction by her father as a child, and being sexually abused by two travelling salesmen. She had a tough life.

But there is a question over how far Highsmith can now be assimilated into contemporary culture of ‘wokeness’ and ‘MeToo’.

There is no question in person she could be a monstrous, violent and quite unpleasant woman. Knowing about her life and views could for some make it difficult to read her works. But for all that I think the diaries’ publication could help to again reveal that, contrary to popular imagination, creativity is not necessarily rooted in our best instincts.

These same highly culturally charged debates raged around the controversial French writer Celine in France. In Germany Wagner continues to be a touchy issue. Or back again in France, the recent controversy at the Césars where many people walked out as child minor rapist Roman Polanski was honoured for his latest film.

Going further back Gaugin was a pedophile. Degas was an anti-Semite. Caravaggio killed a man. Where do you draw the line? When do you draw the line?

Some argue art cannot be good or evil. Only the artist can. What he/she presents as art is a different dimension of thinking and somehow not really representative of the artist. I’m not entirely convinced by that argument. If only because great art is never transmitted through an empty vessel but is actively germinated through the life experiences of the artist. But also more importantly most artists don’t separate themselves from their art as they are convinced their art comes from the deepest depths of their being.

We don’t have to be puritans to acknowledge that some henious actions deserve more consideration than historically allotted to a consideration of the artist and his/her works.

But those who are ‘woke’ liberal left activists arguably seem to be advocating a one size that fits all approach. There is no wriggle room for discourse correction or allowing nuance to inform the conversation. And I use the word ‘conversation’ deliberately because such things are nearly always being worked out in real time and also each one of us ascribe different values to different things e.g. Picasso cheats on his lovers and so I don’t like his art, whilst others would say, so what? Grow up. There is a serious slippery slope that if you eliminate the bad artist and writer from the canon and you might as well eliminate art and literature itself. And that’s where we might well end up.

I believe that adjusting personal behaviour seems much easier than enforcing an interpretative cultural lens on a shifting audience and telling them this is how you should enjoy art.

I personally believe it’s a matter of personal conscience and conviction. If you’ve really searched your heart, and found that a piece of art is just that important to you, as many people do without admitting it out loud, then it should be fine to engage with it. But the imperative now is to privately think about why it matters to you. If I can justify that to myself then yes, I will go ahead and ‘enjoy’ that piece of art regardless of how much of a shit the artist was or is.

To me it’s not a question of compartmentalising, of ignoring or suspending my disgust with an artist's personal behaviour so as to concentrate on the art. I'm watching and reading because I expect art to be about moral dangers in a way that is less didactic than essays are. I expect art to be troubling because I expect people to be troubling. I am prepared to like and dislike something in every work. I can also appreciate the aesthetic genius of a moral monster without feeling that I am becoming inured to monstrosity.

For this reason when I for example look at  Benvenuto Cellini, creator of Perseus With the Head of Medusa, was a murderer and a rapist. He killed at least two men and was accused by a model of sexually assaulting her. This does not stop me from looking with great amazement and curiosity at the naked and sexual Perseus With the Head of the Medusa. The knowledge of the immorality of the creator does not distract from my enjoyment of his creation; indeed I am made even more curious to know how beauty is perceived by a violently troubled man.

In the end for me, and I can only speak for myself, contrary to popular imagination, creativity is not necessarily rooted in our best instincts. Nietzsche said, “One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.” I like that.

A human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To the artist, to paraphrase Pearl S. Buck, a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this a cruel overpowering necessity to create - so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating. 

In Patricia Highsmith’s case it’s revealing she said once in a sly backhanded way, “My New Year’s Eve Toast: to all the devils, lusts, passions, greeds, envies, loves, hates, strange desires, enemies ghostly and real, the army of memories, with which I do battle — may they never give me peace.” A true great artist never know really knows peace or contentment for this is the price of creation. The intensity of personal turmoil is the fuel of their creativity.

The Greeks may have believed that they had “muses” whispering ideas in their ears. Or that the Romans believed they wrote with their “genius”. But I suspect the best artists are those that are in touch with and confront their humanity, at their best and at their worst.

#highsmith #quote #art #aesthetics #bad art #literature #nietzsche

[nomadicism]

Now that She Ra is over, what are your thoughts on it? What about that Catradora kiss?

Hi Anon! Thank you for the Ask!

ヽ(*⌒∇⌒*)ﾉ Where to start?

I have so many thoughts on the show, and I’ve had so many thoughts since season 1. I’ve not written much of anything about She-Ra because I keep coming back to this problem of ‘where to start,’ or how to structure my thoughts beyond a +1000 item list. I can’t even pick one or two thoughts to dive into, because they all end up connecting to everything else —> honestly, that’s the mark of a tight narrative, even the big pieces that can fully stand on their own are still leading through to another piece. I fail at every attempt to write something brief.

Section I: Short answer first.

I have a very short and subjective list of media where I not only love (for different reasons) nearly every character (main, secondary, background), but where I also feel that their individual places or moments or arcs concluded in a way that felt right from start to finish. It’s a short list of media where connections and conflict between characters never felt forced, out-of-place, out-of-context, or done for shock value. She-Ra and the Princesses of Power makes that very short and subjective list.

It’s not often that a story hits all the right notes with me, and it’s much more often that a story starts off strong like that, and then turns me off ½-⅔ of the way through. I’ve quit video games during the final boss fight because the story lost me in the lead-up and I wasn’t going to waste 10-20 minutes of my time for something that turned out to be ‘meh’. It ain’t got to be deep, or anything either.

I really loved the voice acting. Everyone is great. A post for another time.

I love the aesthetics, which I wasn’t sure of at first teasers, but won me over in less than 3 minutes of the first episode (season 1) because I love bright pastels, the character designs are fun (can I still gush over variety of body types? YES), so many opportunities to explore stylish takes on the characters, and those Moebius-inspired scenery/background designs are a special interest delight. Season 5 delivered a visual ‘end game’ for the aesthetics in many ways, Section III further down will get into that a bit.

Section II: “What about that Catradora kiss?”

I gotta preface this with, shipping is not my go-to for how I enjoy creative works. It’s not a hobby for me. Sure there’s a few I dig more than others, but I’m otherwise agnostic about ships, unless there is a really bad story-fit (and that’s usually a subjective thing), or involves tropes that are a deal-breaker for me (and those typically relate a lot to the story fit).

With that said, I’m really happy to see Catradora be pulled off so brilliantly, and I think the kiss is a bold and beautiful big deal in a way that might not be obvious when considered in a vacuum. I see it as passionate and heart-felt, but also, it’s achieving(?) a relatable outcome (for me at least) that’s hard to describe. It’s an outcome yielded by a story in which two women—a hero and a villain—are divided and fight bitterly and then reconcile through love, while fighting a purity cult whose founder-prophet-god-king forces subservience through a conversion designed to strip someone of their identity (e.g. names they’ve chosen for themselves), memories-and-motivations, and love for others.

Despite these conversions, love still remains, it can’t just be baptized or therapy-ed away. Controlling puritans and authoritarians wielding religion or peace-panaceas as a weapon have been the villains in the lives of countless women and LGBTQIA people for a very long time. So yeah, I’ve got some feels about that. The last time I felt anything similarly relatable, or as strongly, was the Utena and Anthy relationship in Revolutionary Girl Utena (and really, their kiss during the surreal sequence at the end of the film adaptation).

Section III: Thoughts on Cult Aesthetics and Clones (the rough cut)

(1) In the future scenes at the end, Adora’s white dress with gold tiara and accents have this kind of goddess-like or Pallas Athena feel to it, which is a great mirror of the design choices for the god-like Horde Prime, his Purity Space Cult, mechanics/ship, and flagship interior scenery. Not saying that was the intention, but that’s how it came across to me.

Of course, those colors would be used because She-Ra already wears white and gold with a bit of red accent, which complement how the princesses are bright and colorful (pastels and jewel tones). The bold and bright colors helps signify that Etheria is full of life. Etheria is verdant and magical, and that sets up a contrast to the Fright Zone and the darker colors found in Horde characters (Hordak, Shadow Weaver, Scorpia, Catra, Entrapta, etc).

So the first kind of contrast was with the Fright Zone standing out as a poisoned/toxic against the bright, lively colors of Etheria and the princesses. Season 5 introduces another take on that contrast as Horde Prime is the opposite, or antithesis of Etheria’s colorful life. He’s like anti-life with his shades of light-and-dark grays on white, and only glow-green as an accent. In some cultures and religious traditions, white is associated with purity, and in others it is associated with death.

When Horde Prime ‘purifies’ Hordak for the sins of individuality and emotion (emotion for others, for his own sake), Hordak is drained of the colors he chose for himself during exile. In addition to being a contrast to Horde Prime (and informed by the 80s cartoon design), Hordak’s dark blue (or blue-black) and red color palette reflects the traditional use of red as a color for evil (especially vampirism) from back when diabolism was a stand-in for ‘the Devil’ in many forms of visual media (comics, live-action, animation, etc). In place of diabolic red, Horde Prime has toxic glow-green.

I absolutely love the use of the glow-green accents. Color trends for villains and significations of evil come and go, and I’m glad to see the color green be used again, and used so well. The last time I saw that shade of glow-green used so well was in Sleeping Beauty (re: Maleficent’s magic and the orb on her staff) and as the Loc-Nar in Heavy Metal. In both films, there are connotations of evil as a poisonous and corrupting influence. Green, in the context of evil, almost always signifies poison (and sometimes envy). I also like that the glow-green color is used in ways that aren’t immediately saying ‘this is evil’, such as the green baptismal waters and flames from the purification scene, or the green amniotic protein fluid. The language of piety and trappings of the sacred can cloak a sinister purpose.

I don’t know if any of that was intentional, but Horde Prime feels like the perfect synergy of purity and death (which has additional connotations, but that’s a very personal interpretation).

(2) Horde Prime immediately gave me subtle cult vibes in his first cameo (Season 3), and the follow-through on that was perfect and exactly what I was hoping to see. The background music throughout the scenes aboard the flagship fits well (love the soundtrack), and has the quality of Ecstatic Experience without pulling directly from any specific religion. Horde Prime’s dialogue is a delightful bit of narcissism veiled with the language of piety.

A purity cult comprised of clone-brother-worshippers of the cult’s founder-prophet-god-king reinforces that narcissism and has all the fun-dark feels of shiny-techno-future-dystopias. It is also an interesting use of clones, especially in a story format that usually never has the time to really dive into the complexities of cloning. This is the sort of thing that you’d be more likely to see in a one-off episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation, rather than the basis for a greater scope villain, or multi-season nemesis. (and yes, Star Trek: TNG had an interesting clone episode)

Clones in science-fiction tend to fall into just a few tropes, and I generally dislike seeing clones show up in a story because the execution nearly always feels sloppy (in small ways or big ways). I did not get that feeling from She-Ra, where, the clones occupy the “cog in the machine” trope, but it is not their existence as clones that make them that way, it is the Will of Horde Prime that does. They are simultaneously expendable and sacred in their unity. It’s a nice flip on “stronger by working together” that Adora and the others have to learn (and struggle) to do.

It seems like, despite their religious programming, the clones have a little bit of their own personalities until Horde Prime ‘inhabits’ them to exert his Will. I’m trying not to read too much into it, b/c what comes across as ‘inhabits’ to me (especially with the religious/cult context), was probably meant more literal like described in the dialogue as a hive-mind control kind of thing. The first time it happens—to post-wipe/death Hordak—felt to me like a possession scene from The Exorcist, but without the kind of horror visuals that would scare both adults and children. The quick-and-subtle amount of body contortion and sound is still gross and creepy (because it should be), but it also reminds me of Ecstatic Experience in the form of speaking in tongues, or snake handling, or being a medium for a spirit. Again, I’m not saying any of that is intentional, but that’s how I see it.

(3) Finally, there is Entrapta, Hordak, and Wrong Hordak. Clones rarely get to be ‘humanized’ through friendship or romance arcs. I can think of a dozen or more robots that get to be humanized in that way, but can’t recall any clones that have (excluding doomed clones whose friendship/romance only existed for the sake of selling the tragedy of their death). Hordak gets death, renewal, and romance in a way that worked really well, and the totality of it is unique. I was a bit surprised that they could work in another clone—and I love Wrong Hordak—who pulls triple-duty as (1) comedy; (2) relevant to moving various pieces of the story along; and (3) more humanizing of the clones, which, again rarely happens as most stories take the easy low road when it comes to clones.

For Entrapta’s part, she’s never put in the position of giving up who she is (‘weird’ by many standards) for a romance. Her passion for technology is both an amusing double entendre at times, and integral to who she is. A romance for Entrapta does not replace her passion for technology, she can have both. Dating myself but, I came up in a time where most media (for children or adults) would rob a woman of her agency or passions during the resolution of a romance arc. Maybe times have changed, but it’s still nice to see none of that nonsense happening here.

#catradora #entrapdak #spop #spop meta #spop asks #ask me anything #spop s5 spoilers

[neuxue]

Wheel of Time liveblogging: Towers of Midnight Prologue (part 2)

Questions of morality and how to handle traps, with your hosts Graendal and Galad.

Well hello there, Graendal, fancy seeing you alive.

The goblet had been crafted with drops of blood caught in a ring pattern within the crystal.

I have a need.

I mean, I’d be drinking tea or maybe even hot chocolate out of that goblet rather than wine but that does nothing to change the fact that I need it. Villains, man. You can always rely on them for the aesthetics.

“We should be doing something” Aran’gar said

I’m not sure precisely why this is so absurdly funny to me, but it’s some combination of a) the real world being in quarantine right now, b) villains lounging in a villainous lair like ‘should we be… fucking shit up or something? Or can we really just take a moment to be All About the Aesthetic?’ and c) an oddly self-aware statement from a fictional character who realises that something is amiss if they’re not contributing to the plot.

Oh we’re still in Natrin’s Barrow, so this is before the er. Utter collapse of Rand’s moral scruples and near-destruction of the Pattern and associated fireworks.

Also, Aran’gar, when you fled the rebels, what the fuck gave you the idea that coming to Graendal as a refugee – alliance or no alliance – was a good plan? She will eat you for breakfast, and whether that’s literal or euphemistic probably makes no difference to the fact that ultimately, you will suffer for it.

Life was about feeling. Touches on your skin, both passionate and icy. Anything other than the normal, the average, the lukewarm.

I like this for the way it is both opposite to and yet weirdly the same as Semirhage’s perspective. The difference is mostly whether it is directed outwards or inwards.

And I also like it for the way it plays on how Graendal deals with subtlety versus ostentation. The way she so completely performs that ostentation and lack of subtlety and plays to the extremes, and it’s not entirely performative but it also serves the purpose of masking her capacity for great subtlety and control.

Listen. There’s a lot to dislike about Graendal, yes, but at the end of the day she fascinates me. She’s just such an intricate villain, for all that on the surface she could be played as scenery-chewing and flat. Because there’s something beneath that, and it all serves a purpose. She makes ‘all about the aesthetic’ into a legitimate strategy, without actually detracting from the aesthetic, and it’s just very… disturbingly cool.

Aran’gar is still trying to have a conversation as if she thinks she and Graendal are on the same level. How adorable.

“Excitement is best viewed from a distance,” Graendal said.

And yet life is about feeling, but somehow those are not mutually exclusive, and have I mentioned Graendal is fascinating to me?

I think… I know, I’m just rambling my way into this, but I think one of the things I enjoy most about her is that, for all that she has these different layers and apparent opposites and allows herself to be viewed one way when in reality there’s far more to it, none of it feels like pretence. It’s not like she’s putting on a false front, pretending to be totally absorbed in aesthetics and pleasure, because I think that part of her is genuine. But so is the scheming, and the love of order, and the subtlety. None of it is her pretending, but together it’s a more complex picture than most manage to grasp, and so they just see the surface level of it, and she’s happy to let them. But it’s different to crafting a mask – she’s not really hiding her true motives or her true self; people just may not be able to piece together exactly what that is. Because she’s a rather complicated person, for all that she seems simplistic in her over-the-top presentation.

Is it terrible that I would quite like her to survive this scene?

Wait what she can use the True Power? She’s using the True Power? Just beware the lifestyle inflation that goes with a promotion, Graendal.

And there were some weaves that could only be crafted by the True Power.

So speaking of the True Power… here’s the thing. Rand’s use of it was spectacular, and played such a perfectly exquisite role in his descent last book, but it doesn’t feel like that’s the end of it. That’s not the sort of bomb you drop just once for effect; those are the sorts of plot elements that come back. So… I’m curious. I have theories. Which I’ve gone into elsewhere so I’ll leave that for now.

My other immediate thought here is that Compulsion woven from the True Power and wielded by Graendal is a terrifying concept and I sort of want to see it because I’m a terrible human.

But seriously, it’s like the Domination Band in the hands of Semirhage. Sometimes you just want to give a villain their perfect tool and set them loose to wreak beautiful havoc.

(What can I say? I appreciate competence in all its forms).

Whatever the Creator could build, the Dark One could destroy.

Except the whole idea is balance, so that goes…both ways somehow. Not quite sure where I’m going with this but it’s certainly somewhere.

Meanwhile Graendal’s just using the True Power to taunt Aran’gar by almost literally poking her and saying ‘neener neener neener’ and honestly, fair.

Aran’gar and Delana began to exchange affections on the chaise.

Why is this so fucking hilarious to me?

Like okay, sit on the sofa, and one… two… three… go!

I don’t even know, but every time I look at that sentence I start laughing. Maybe it’s just that it’s such an obvious… ‘this is painfully awkward and I can’t write anything more detailed but also it’s happening on-screen so I can’t just pan to the fireplace please send help immediately, yours sincerely, Brandon Sanderson’.

Like. ‘And then sex happened but let’s just avert our eyes, shall we?’

Aran’gar continued her pleasures

I’m DYING. The awkward of writing this just bleeds through the page and it’s. Just. Kind of perfect. And honestly I sympathise. Like this genuinely captures the mood I feel whenever sex scenes turn up in movies or TV or whatever. Not awkwardness, precisely, but just a sense of like ‘okay… we’re doing this now… and we’re still doing this… um… *starts looking around the room for anything interesting*… still exchanging affections I see… ah okay good and now the scene resumes’.

Is that TMI? I feel like it’s almost the opposite of TMI but whatever, moving on.

More importantly, an alarm is going off, and Graendal sees no reason to let that interrupt Aran’gar getting off, so she just leaves.

Ah. Ramshalan. So we are indeed doing this scene from the other side. This ought to be… fun. I did wonder what it would look like from Graendal’s side, especially with Rand desperately trying to do his how-do-you-defeat-someone-smarter-than-you thing. And I’m very curious as to the outcome. Because there would be a certain beautiful awfulness in all that power and destruction, that force of light, not even achieving its aim, in the futility of catastrophe.

Wow, Ramshalan really is… a complete idiot.

But Graendal is not.

Best to be careful. Best to flee. And yet…

She hesitated. He must know pain… he must know frustration… he must know anguish. Bring these to him. You will be rewarded.

Oh, he has known those. He has known precious little else in the last two years, honestly. Though Semirhage played a more recent and telling role in that.

And Graendal’s hesitation, because for all her capacity, she is controlled, as are the rest of the Chosen and Friends of the Dark, by a selfishness none of them can quite overcome.

“Does that Aes Sedai of yours know Compulsion?”

Aran’gar shrugged. “She’s been trained in it. She’s passably skilled.” “Fetch her.”

Wow, for half a second there I thought they were talking about Egwene and was like ‘okay wow there’s one I definitely did not see coming’ but obviously it’s Delana.

Which means that the Compulsion Rand had Nynaeve detect… the Compulsion he used like a canary in a coal mine, the Compulsion whose vanishing he took as evidence of Graendal’s death, was never Graendal’s to begin with.

What an elegant move. Simple and yet perfect.

Also she can apparently see through the eyes of a dove. That’s… a new one. And don’t think I missed you using a dove, symbol of peace, for this.

The world as she saw it and a shadowed version of what the bird saw.

And I see what you did there, too.

But she’s using a dove to serve as her eyes. Not a raven or a rat but a dove, the symbol of light and peace, being used as a servant of the Shadow. Just as Rand, standing on that ridge and wielding a great force of Light, Rand, the champion of the Light, serving the Shadow’s aims even as he never turns from the side of the Light. I love it.

And yeah, she’s using Delana to craft the Compulsion. Graendal may not know exactly what Rand is planning, but she knows he’s planning something, and so she takes precautions. Which Rand knew she would, but for all his care to not underestimate her…

Would he attack? No, he wouldn’t harm women. That particular failing was an important one.

Yet at the same time she’s underestimating him.

Or rather, neither is precisely underestimating the other; they’re both just… thinking along the lines of what they perceive the other to be, and those lines are close but not quite accurate. I love watching these kinds of games play out, where it’s about thinking several moves ahead, move and countermove, trying to know what the opponent will do and ultimately it comes down to a… layering, almost, and the victor is the one who just happens to have laid the last layer. Or annihilated the gameboard; whichever comes first.

Bring him agony. Graendal could do that.

I… yeah.

Because at this point, Rand believes (believed, but relative to the timeline of this scene it’s present tense and argh this is why messy timelines frustrate me; do you know how annoying the grammar gets?) he is beyond agony, beyond feeling of any kind. He has made himself into ice and steel and cuendillar (heartstone, heart of the stone, pray that the heart of stone remembers tears…) and so he believes himself unfettered, capable of any atrocity because he has walled away the agony that would hold him back.

But for all that, what he does at Natrin’s Barrow… for all that he doesn’t let himself feel any of it, on some level it does cause him agony, and drives him further on that path that leads eventually to Tam and Ebou Dar and Dragonmount.

So really, you could say that Moridin’s statement, that ‘he must know anguish, he must know pain of heart’ is true from the perspective of the Light as much as it is from the perspective of the Shadow.

Because it is that anguish that drives him to serve the Shadow even while acting in the name of the Light… but it is also that anguish that leads him, ultimately, to the epiphany that brings him back truly to the Light he serves.

And it is letting himself feel that anguish, along with everything else he tried to push away, that allows him to do that. He must know anguish, yes, because he must learn no longer to push it aside, to allow himself to feel again, and in doing so he can be the champion of the Light as he is meant to be.

It's just a fun double meaning. Or manifold meaning, even. And I sort of wonder if Moridin knew that. It’s the kind of irony he might appreciate, to the extent that he appreciates anything.

“Something convoluted. I want al’Thor and his Aes Sedai to find the touch of a man on the mind.” That would confuse them further.

In this case she’s actually overestimating Rand (&co), but in its own way that’s just as dangerous as underestimating, in this game of each trying to outthink and outmanoeuvre one another before making their moves.

This whole seeing through a dove’s eyes is lovely on a symbolic level but does sort of strain my understanding of how magic works in this world. Ah well, we can handwave it as ‘True Power shenanigans’.

I suppose it’s not really any weirder than balefire or wolf-telepathy or Compulsion or being able to wander through someone else’s dream. Weird, where we draw our suspension of disbelief lines, and how it varies from series to series or system to system. Like, seeing through an animal’s eyes isn’t exactly uncommon in the genre; I just didn’t quite expect it in WoT specifically. No idea why.

The dove flapped out of the window. The sun was lowering behind the mountains

A symbol of peace flying into a darkening sky, a fading of the Light! (Oh, you thought I would let up on the atmospheric imagery when Sanderson took over? How naïve).

There was light up ahead. It was faint, but the dove’s eyes could easily pick out light and shadow

I MEAN. I see what you did there and I appreciate it.

I still sort of can’t believe Graendal was actually watching that whole time. It feels almost like cheating. Then again Rand obliterating half the Pattern also could be considered cheating, depending on which game we’re playing so there’s that.

I think for me it doesn’t quite cross the line into unbelievability, but some foreshadowing would have been nice for the whole seeing-through-the-eyes-of-a-dove thing. And I suppose there is some, in that we know that ravens and rats are ‘spies for the Dark One’, so maybe it’s on me for not realising that was an actual tool that the Dark One’s other servants may be able to use. But it just didn’t really seem set up that way, so I’m a bit on the fence.

The part that does work about this is that it’s Graendal being very, very good at the games she plays, just as Rand was afraid of. He knew she was clever, knew she would very likely see through any plan or strategy he created, and in a way she kind of… has. Or rather, she’s made use of something he didn’t account for, for all that his plan was also clever.

Al’Thor’s tame Aiel

There’s an excellent sort of irony in that phrasing, from one who lived in a time when the Aiel truly were nonviolent servants of the Aes Sedai.

[Nynaeve] would have to die; al’Thor relied upon her; her death would bring him pain.

Don’t you dare. It’s fine, her defeat of Moghedien was a perfect warm-up.

And after her, al’Thor’s dark-haired lover.

You’re forgetting his red-haired lover… and his sun-haired lover… but sure, let’s take Rand’s love life one at a time. That’s…fair.

He acted the same now as he had during her Age; he liked to plan, to spend time building to a crescendo of an assault.

Well, I mean, in this case, you are not wrong.

He’d brought that with him? It was nearly as bad as balefire.

About that.

Ah. And now she sees what his plan was. Hey, when Graendal thinks you’re clever, you should definitely take it as a compliment.

But it also means Graendal’s off for an impromptu holiday – but not before leaving Aran’gar and Delana shielded so that Rand’s plan will appear to succeed. Clever and ruthless and listen, I love her. I know, I know. I don’t know why I’m like this either.

She struggled to dismiss the gateway, and caught one glimpse of the horrified Aran’gar before everything behind was consumed in beautiful, pure whiteness.

The gateway vanished, leaving Graendal in darkness.

I just love the way light and dark (and gateways, actually) are played with in both iterations of this scene. Rand leaving the warm light of the gateway behind, crossing that threshold into a darkening sky. The way he is shadowed, his face in shadow, his eyes in shadow, just before he becomes a blinding, searing, awful-in-its-beauty form of pure Light with the potential to destroy the world. An enemy of the Shadow, yet surrounded by it even as he becomes light.

And now we almost bookend that, with Graendal leaving behind that white light of destruction, crossing back over a threshold and away from that scene, but she is of the Shadow and so while Rand’s gateway led him away from a warm light, this one takes her into the protection of darkness.

Balescream? That’s… a word.

A moment when creation itself howled in pain.

At the actions of the Light’s champion. The Creator’s champion. He must know anguish, and he has. And the Dragon is one with the Land, and the Land is one with the Dragon, and so it is only fitting that the Land knows that anguish as well. The entirety of creation sharing in the pain of near-undoing, brought on by but also embodied by Rand, the Dragon, its Champion, even as he embodies that Light by becoming it in that scene where he appeared more light than man.

This was a disaster.

No, she thought. I live.

And so we come to the question: do the ends justify the means, if they fail to achieve them?

It’s something WoT has played with before: Perrin torturing the Shaido and ultimately not getting any information from them comes to mind. This is just… on an even larger scale. Is the annihilation of a fortress and everyone in it, and almost the world around it, justified if it allows him to kill one of the Forsaken? If so, is it justified even if that is merely the intent, regardless of whether it succeeds or fails? What determines that justification, or lack thereof? Or is it unwarranted no matter the outcome, because the cost is too high?

(I am reminded, suddenly, of Rand in TFoH thinking that Moiraine’s apparent death and Lan’s departure was ‘a high price to pay for Lanfear’).

I just love these questions of morality and of where lines are drawn or should be drawn, precisely because they are so open-ended. And Rand’s… well, in a way it’s not even complete failure; he does kill Aran’gar if not Graendal, but that almost plays into it as well because it’s an unintended consequence. It’s not what he set out to do.

So then we add ‘if he did this to kill a specific one of the Forsaken, and she escapes but he happens by accident to kill another, does that end justify those means?’ But his failure to kill Graendal leaves that question so much more ambiguous: as if the narrative itself hesitates to fully justify or fully condemn his actions. Instead, it lets you ask yourself that question. Whereas if he had succeeded in killing her… the question can certainly still be asked, and that would still be very much part of the point, but it helps weight the scales a bit if you can say ‘well, it worked’. Whereas this… it’s entirely up to you. Was it worth it?

*

From Graendal to Galad? That’s a pivot.

Oh, but I love this image of Galad, the purest of the white knights, untarnished and untouchable, literally mired in a swamp.

Bitemes buzzed in the muggy air. The stench of mud and stagnant water threatened to gag him with each breath

Sometimes, you use atmosphere to highlight aspects of a character. Rand stepping out of a gateway into shadow and darkness. Every word that’s ever been written about Dragonmount. And then sometimes you place a character in an environment that is their precise opposite, and in that juxtaposition highlight those defining traits but also…push against them, I suppose. It’s a great way of showing a conflict of some kind. Galad is now the Lord Captain Commander of the Children of the Light, who are themselves corrupted. And he is fighting that corruption because it is his antithesis, but it’s so present and oppressive around him, and it makes for such an excellent contrast.

Miserable though this as, this route was the best way.

Yeah, see, I know you mean that literally, Galad, but it sort of illustrates my point. His task – redeeming the Whitecloaks, unless I massively miss my guess – is not going to be an easy one. Leading them right now can’t be pleasant. But it’s the best way to see them through this, to do the right thing. And we all know that’s what Galad is all about.

Oh, he’s going to take on Asunawa? First Valda and then Asunawa and damn it I never wanted to like Galadedrid Damodred.

Here and there the sickly greys and greens were relieved by a bright burst of tiny pink or violet flowers clustering around trickling streams. Their sudden colour was unexpected, as if someone had sprinkled drops of paint on the ground.

It was strange to find beauty in this place.

Beauty, yes, but subtlety? Hell no. But – I know I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again – I don’t care that this isn’t subtle. I love the way atmosphere and imagery can be used to this effect. Mired in a swamp with an unpleasant task to do and leading a corrupted force, but there are surprising moments of beauty and colour and promise.

His horse is called Stout and for some reason that amuses me.

This place, with its stench and biting insects, would try the best of men.

You don’t say.

And where Valda – the Lord Captain Commander before Galad – had turned out to be a murderer and a rapist.

So I mean, at least the bar is set pretty low for you there, Galad.

‘Damodred,’ Dain said softly, their boots squishing in mud, ‘perhaps we should turn back.’

NO BACK ONLY FORWARD.

CAN’T REMAKE THE PAST MUST CREATE A FUTURE.

Which Galad pretty much echoes only, you know, more eloquently.

‘But this swamp,’ Bornhald said, glancing to the side as a large serpent slid through the underbrush. ‘Our maps say we should have been out of it by now.’

‘Then surely we are near the edge.’

‘Perhaps,’ Dain said […] ‘Unless the map is in error.’

SYMBOLISM THICKER THAN THE SWAMP. I love this, I really do. I’m just laughing through this entire set of descriptions but this is just so perfectly ‘I Don’t Think You’re Only Talking About The Swamp There, Boys’ and neither of them quite realise it and it’s excellent.

Galad stepped off to the side, climbing a small hill.

While his half-brother is climbing an enormous mountain. Step it up, Galad.

Oh he’s giving an Inspiring Speech.

‘But it is on the deepest nights when light is most glorious.’

Unless it’s Choedan Kal balefire in which case… well okay, in fairness, that was also glorious, for a certain definition of the word.

‘We are hunted by those who should love us, and other pathways lead to our graves.’

Then maybe you should be worthy of their love. As for pathways leading to your graves, you know what they say about the paths of glory, right?

‘We will face this test with heads held high.’

That’s the core of it, really. It’s about choosing to fight, and knowing why you fight. It’s Rand’s epiphany in miniature. That this is going to fucking suck, but they’ll face it not because they have to but because they’re fighting for something, and because they choose to face this.

Byar wants to take a detour via the White Tower for a bit of petty destruction on their way to the Last Battle and Galad’s like nah we kind of need magic on our side. Credit where it’s due, I suppose.

‘but the Children of the Light will be leaders at the Last Battle.’

I mean, you might have to queue for that particular role, but I suppose it’s good to have ambitions.

Oh, he’s not planning to take on Asunawa, because sometimes retreat really is the better part of valour, especially when ‘retreat’ in this case is ‘turn towards a much larger battlefront for the future of the entire world’. Again, fair. And hey, look at that, Galad’s learning to prioritise.

A dead forest with sickly moss and a river full of corpses? Which battle was this? It sounds almost like the Blight, but they’re in approximately the entirely wrong place for that. Perrin’s attack on Malden, maybe? Or Tylee’s force being ambushed by Trollocs?

Galad set his jaw. ‘Can this be forded?’

‘It’s shallow, my Lord Captain Commander,’ Child Barlett said. ‘But we’ll have to watch for hidden depths.’

Not to mention hidden MEANINGS. *Finger guns*

I’m so sorry.

He hiked up his trousers as far as he could

How scandalous.

Likely a village upstream had been attacked for its food.

I think perhaps a village upstream was attacked for its Faile, but I could be wrong.

The ground is uneven! Footing is uncertain! A misstep could mean death! No additional meanings to be found here, none at all…

‘Burn those clouds. I can never tell what time it is.’

‘Four hours past midday,’ Galad said.

In which Galad has taken the Keen Mind feat. (And in which yes, I am a total fucking nerd).

Trom’s like are you sure Andor’s a good idea and Galad’s like it’s fine I have a summer home there.

Light send that Elayne held the Lion Throne. Light send that she had escaped the tangles of the Aes Sedai, though he feared the worst. There were many who would use her as a pawn, al’Thor not the least of them. She was headstrong, and that could make her easy to manipulate.

Galad, when this is all over, you and your sister need to have a talk. And you and Gawyn both need to stop underestimating her.

‘To abandon the Children now, after killing their leader, would be wrong.’

Trom smiled. ‘It’s as simple as that to you, isn’t it?’

‘It should be as simple as that to anyone.’

Galadedrid ‘what do you mean, morality is complicated’ Damodred, everyone. And this is why he continues to by turns bore and infuriate me, despite all his damn then he did dance and his fucking all his grace, turned in an instant to fluid death and fighting Valda in efforts to make me like him. I will NOT.

‘Even if we have to make alliances with the Dragon Reborn himself, we will fight.’

Yeah about that. Also I desperately want to see what happens when he learns about their, uh, relationship. Then again, having grown up in the mess that is the Damodred-Trakand family, maybe it wouldn’t even be a surprise. ‘Oh, another somewhat dysfunctional familial relationship? Yeah, sure, add it to the pile.’

Okay seriously what is with the trees here? We are way too far south for the Blight but the fact that they’re dead and fuzzed with something malignant has been brought up three times now and we all know the rule of threes in foreshadowing.

No, even his memorisation of maps will not endear me to Galad. Nor his ‘pain can be dealt with’. I refuse.

Oh look at that, it’s an ambush.

So about that whole not wanting to face Asunawa…

This march through the swamp had been suggested by his scouts. Galad could see it now; it had been a delaying tactic

And also, you know, symbolic. The traitorous scouts, loyal to the Whitecloaks under Asunawa – the corrupted Whitecloaks, those who ostensibly stand for the Light but whose deeds represent anything but – trying to drag Galad, the white knight and redeemer, through the swamp even as he tries to bring them to somewhere better, to what they should be.

Oh he’s going to try to talk to Asunawa. That’ll end well.

Asunawa was not smiling. He rarely did.

Sorry Asunawa, but Demandred’s pretty much got the market cornered on that one, and he carries it far better than you.

Oh hey, two leaders of rebel factions facing each other down? A parallel drawn between two entities – Whitecloaks and Aes Sedai – who believe themselves enemies.

‘Surely you would not ignore the rules of formal engagement?’ Galad said.

Because surely everyone is as lawful-good as you, Galad. There’s a belief that will cause you nothing but pain. But please, proceed.

And now Asunawa’s calling him Darkfriend, and this really is playing out as a parallel, of sorts, to Elaida against Egwene.

Asunawa hesitated. Naming seven thousand of the Children as Darkfriends would be ridiculous

First (semantic) blow to Galad.

‘I am no Darkfriend.’ Galad met Asunawa’s eyes.

‘Submit to my questioning and prove it.’

Oh.

That uh… is a… not entirely unappealing option, from my own perspective as a reader who enjoys far too much seeing characters put through hell, especially if they do so defiantly or as a sacrifice and anyway my point is I would not be opposed to this.

It's just that Galad, for all that he is Not My Type, is the type of character who could carry torture well. I’m just saying.

‘Tell me, do the Children of the Light surrender?’

Golever shook his head. ‘We do not. The Light will prove us victorious.’

I have to appreciate Galad’s approach here: taking the very principles of the Whitecloaks – as they are meant to be – and using them as weapons against Asunawa. Because it is, in a way, the very epitome of fighting fair. He doesn’t strike, doesn’t threaten, doesn’t even really argue. He lets Asunawa’s men, and the Whitecloaks’ own doctrine, make his arguments for him.

‘You see that I am in a predicament. To fight is to let you name us Darkfriends, but to surrender is to deny our oaths. By my honour as the Lord Captain Commander, I can accept neither option.’

In which Galad fucking Damodred catches everyone else in his moral dilemma of two things that are right, yet opposite. It is, for his character, almost annoyingly perfect.

‘Do you deny that you yourself watched me face Valda in fair combat, as prescribed by law?’

Okay okay okay you know what I love? I love that he’s fighting Asunawa, the leader of the Questioners, with questions.

Because Asunawa isn’t asking any. He’s making accusations and threats, and Galad is parrying them with questions. To Asunawa, to those who stand by him. He arms himself with questions and lets the answers make his point and that? Is brilliant.

‘But I would not call that fight fair. You drew on powers of the Shadow; I saw you standing in darkness despite the daylight, and I saw the Dragon’s Fang sprout on your forehead.’

I feel like there’s a missed opportunity in Galad’s entire character: what if he could channel? That would be so full of interesting potential. Both as an internal conflict, because how would he reconcile being a man who could channel with his utter certainty about doing what is right, but also for his entire role. The leader of the Children of the Light, who hate the ‘witches’ perhaps more than the Shadow itself…

Ah well.

‘Tell me. Is the Shadow stronger than the Light?’

Powers of the Shadow? No. Galad fights with powers of rhetoric.

But again, he’s just asking questions. Perfectly crafted questions to illustrate his point, but he’s still just asking questions of a Questioner and letting the Whitecloaks’ beliefs show him to be the one who truly holds to them. What a play.

‘You have no rights as a Darkfriend! I will parley no more with you, murderer.’ Asunawa waved a hand, and several of his Questioners drew swords.

Because they cannot face Galad’s questions. Galad asks, and they reply with swords. Because Asunawa cannot continue to hear them. He represents everything they should be, and they cannot face it, cannot let themselves recognise it, and so the draw swords and everything about this is excellent.

Asunawa would win a battle, but if Galad’s men stood their ground, it would be a costly victory. Both sides would lose thousands.

‘I will submit to you,’ Galad said. ‘On certain terms.’

You know who he reminds me of here? Loath as I am to admit it? Egwene. Facing an enemy who should be an ally, and fighting not for victory against them but for the entity they both should represent. Fighting for the cause, rather than fighting against the person. Willing even to submit, if it will bring unity and spare bloodshed. ‘I wish the Tower had a great Amyrlin in you’, Egwene said to Elaida. Neither fought for pride or for ego or for leadership – or at least, none of those things were the sole aim. Instead, they are fighting to make an organisation that should stand for the Light but has fallen into corruption and division into what it should be, what it always should have been.

And I do sort of wonder – I can’t even believe I’m saying this but HERE WE ARE – why Egwene ends up with Gawyn and not Galad after all.

‘You swear – before the Light and the Lords Captain here with you – that you will not harm, question, or otherwise condemn the men who followed me.’

There is one very glaring exception in that protection, Galad. I… assume this is intentional and I’m way more here for it than I should be. Carry on.

‘You cannot hinder the Hand of the Light in such a way! This would give them free rein to seek the Shadow!’

‘And is it only fear of Questioning that keeps us in the Light, Asunawa?’

QUESTIONING THE QUESTIONER. I’m still just not entirely over this as a rhetorical strategy – asking questions as a form of attack, sure, but it has that extra layer of being a tactic against the Questioners that just. Really hits me right in my appreciation for narrative symmetry.

‘The Dragon Reborn walks the land.’

‘Heresy!’ Asunawa said.

‘Yes,’ Galad said. ‘And truth as well.’

Oh man, that is a line. He will deny the accusations that he is a Darkfriend, but he does not deny this. Does not deny that it is heresy. But that does not make it a lie.

And Galad can accept that: can accept that even heresy must be faced, if it is the right thing to do. Heresy must be faced and accepted, if it is true. What cannot be changed must be endured, and Galad is… oddly, perhaps, not one for denial. He doesn’t try to turn from that truth, no matter what he may feel about it.

‘If we fight, we will kill good men, Child Bornhald,’ Galad said, without turning. ‘Each stroke of our swords will be a blow for the Dark One. The Children are the only true foundation that this world has left. We are needed. If my life is what is demanded to bring unity, then so be it.’

It is so very like Egwene. So very like what she said to the Aes Sedai who supported her and opposed her alike. They are not fighting for power; they are fighting because they see what is needed – and if their death rather than their ascendance can bring that, they will face that just as willingly as the responsibility of leadership.

I also had to smile a bit at the statement that the Children are the only true foundation – because that, too, echoes the Aes Sedai. If the White Tower dies, hope dies. Neither is strictly true because neither is the only force for the Light out there… but in a way that kind of conviction is needed. They just also need to maybe accept that they have some allies. Or should, at least.

WAIT WHAT ASUNAWA IS ACCEPTING THIS OFFER? OH. OKAY.

‘Take him,’ Asunawa snapped.

Yeah I’m here for it.

‘Inform them that I have taken the false Lord Captain Commander into custody, and will Question him to determine the extent of his crimes.’

Look, Galad’s far from a favourite character but there is something about him that suggests he would suffer rather beautifully and I am so sorry.

‘Return to our men; tell them what happened here, and do not let them fight or try to rescue me. That is an order.’

So very, very like Egwene here. Which almost irritates me because Egwene is one of my favourites and Galad is Not, but I have to give Galad some credit: he has made a truly valiant effort in the last few books.

Oh and just…straight to the torture. Cool. This is fine.

One forced Galad to the ground, a boot on his back, and Galad heard the metallic rasp of a knife being unsheathed.

Turns out there are two situations in which I like Galad Damodred. The first: then he did dance, all his grace turned in an instant to fluid death. The second: …this.

Also now he and Rand can have some quality fraternal bonding over their shared experiences with torture. It’ll be fun!

‘I am not a Darkfriend,’ Galad said, face pressed to the grassy earth. ‘I will never speak that lie. I walk in the Light.’

That earned him a kick to the side, then another, and another. He curled up, grunting. But the blows continued to fall.

Finally, the darkness took him.

How fitting, and awful, to follow his utter defiance here – the one thing he does deny, the one thing he does not turn into a question and the one thing he will not surrender: he is not a Darkfriend – with darkness taking him.

It’s also – again, my deepest but not entirely sincere apologies here – very much a good look on him.

Alright, I’ll see myself out.

Next (ToM prologue pt. 3) Previous (ToM prologue pt.1)

#galad keeps finding ways to push very specific buttons of mine #and i'm mad about it #Wheel of Time #neuxue liveblogs WoT #Towers of Midnight

[afriendtokilltime]

Socionics functions vs MBTI functions vs Jung

So I mentioned Socionics and MBTI functions are different. They both come from the same source, Jung’s cognitive functions, which are rather different, too. Here’s how.

Se

Jung: Perceives in a realistic, concrete way--concerned with facts but not with drawing logical conclusions from them. Strong aesthetic sensibility--even draws moral conclusions based on “aesthetic purity.”

MBTI: Perceives “here and now” or “with the 5 primary senses.” Pleasure seeking, loves novelty, loves beauty. Good in high-intensity situations. Needs freedom, individualistic, fun.

Socionics: Perceives in terms of “kinetic energy.” Knowing what levers to pull and buttons to push to get results. Seeing weak points. Powerful, willful, competitive. Associated with aesthetics but only for their power value--cool, fashionable, intimidating.

Si

Jung: Absolutely fucking epic mythological internal world, but barely any ability to communicate appropriately with the outside world. Would be a great artist but tragically rarely will.

MBTI: Boring. Staid. Your parents. Your boss. Conservative. Terrific memory. Responsible. Level headed. Needs structure. Dislikes change. Nostalgic and focused on the past. Really good at improving at something gradually over time (because muscle memory, etc).

Socionics: Relaxed, cozy, love beauty, strong aesthetic sensibility, good at organizing their environment to produce the best internal sensations for them, carefree, very adaptable and willing to adapt without requiring explanation, poor long term planners.

Fe

Jung: Women be crazy, don’t they?

MBTI: Social and popular, smooths things over, good at blending in/getting along. Focused on finding objective moral conclusions. Tries to find a solution that is best for everyone.

Socionics: Can read and create passions, excitement, liveliness, fun, moods, emotional states. Can calm things down but is more likely to shake them up. Gets emotionally invested, gets others emotionally invested. Dislikes secrets. Focused on the immediate social/emotional landscape rather than the relationships it may impact.

Fi

Jung: Women be crazy but in a different way, don’t they?

MBTI: Personal values, individual morality. Always knows what they believe and puts their own individual opinions over the group. May seem less feeling, “still waters run deep.” Skeptical of conventions and norms.

Socionics: Evaluates relationships and psychological distance. Sense of etiquette and propriety. Does not see a need to be very demonstrative with emotions. Principled and serious.

Te

Jung: The reason nobody takes my ideas seriously. Concerned with concrete facts, data, organization, goal setting.

MBTI: Wants to make the external world more rational, by creating and upholding objective standards. Impersonal, blunt, “to the point.” Might believe that facts don’t care about your feelings.

Socionics: Deals with how things work and how they could be made to work better. Has a need to gather factual information, might love research and books. Really disturbed by saying anything they know not to be factually true, so blunt, not socially graceful.

Ti

Jung: Subjective, uses deductive reasoning, wants to abstract a system to its most fundamental principles. When they have created an idea/structure, they’ll release it into the world like the most negligent parent, letting it sink or swim on its own. Jung was Ti (Ti-S or what potentially might be Ti-Se).

MBTI: Concerned with how things fit together logically and if they “make sense,” not whether they are factually true or false. Wants to understand the “essence” of things. Independent, prefers working alone, potentially rebellious because of being critical of externally imposed structure, sometimes rigid.

Socionics: Can evaluate if things are logically consistent/correct, generate systems and structure, prefer to rely on their own experience/conclusions rather than authorities. Sensitive to redundant information. Dislike practicality. Dislike those who behave “irrationally.”

Ne

Jung: Function of entrepreneurs. In a few respects sounds more to me like how the other systems define Se and/or Te. Brainstormer, flighty, indecisive, focused on potential--in these ways, clearly not Se/Te-like.

MBTI: Wacky and creative, “outside the box,” can always see more possibilities, “looks behind” the data to find new connections and hidden potentials. Loves novelty, needs freedom, might seem scatterbrained.

Socionics: Able to see new possibilities, to accurately assess the talents (potential) of themselves and others, to see parallels between very different types of information. Sees many different ways something could happen. Likes the beginning stages of things.

All of them: Focused on potential, unable to tie own shoes, one of the better types.

Ni

Jung: Pulls together a wide array of phenomena into one, synthesized, image. Difficult to sway from their worldview and the images they perceive, which are often heavily abstracted from the reality that others see around them. With no outlet, is a “voice crying out in the wilderness.” Two subtypes: one for whom the imagery/associations they perceive is the only thing of value, and one who recognizes a moral value in these images and wants to communicate it.

MBTI: May appear “psychic” or have insights that “come out of nowhere” after they subconsciously piece something together. Feel things will play out with certainty according to what they foresee. Interest in archetypes and resolving paradoxes. “About the box” (as opposed to outside). Jung was Ni (INFJ).

Socionics: “Intuition of time.” Sees how things are developing, and where they are going. Focused on cause and effect. Rich mental world. Lazy and inactive. Can thrive in situations where they’re inexperienced or lack data. (However, they do not improve over time, unlike Si types.)

I’m sorry. This turned into much more of a shitpost than it was supposed to be.

I don’t think these definitions are fundamentally incompatible--in fact, I’ve illustrated each with a gif of a character who I think is correctly described by each system--but they don’t overlap 100% of the time.

#socionics #mbti #jung #jcf #cognitive functions #socionics vs mbti #@randomshoes #@dicecast

[battleshell]

THE POSITIVE & NEGATIVE; Mun & Muse - Meme.

fill out & repost ♥ This meme definitely favors canons more, but I hope OC’s still can make it somehow work with their own lore, and lil’ fandom of friends & mutuals. Multi-Muses pick the muse you are the most invested in atm. tagged by: @dansiere whom im care tagging: extremely informative meme for ppl who have lots of cross-over interactions, i encourage u to steal it from me anyway BUT @sternenteile​ @twelvians​ @stellamris​ @grandtales​

My muse is:   canon / oc / au / canon-divergent / fandomless / complicated

Is your character popular in the fandom? YES / NO. [ he is a very, very minor NPC that i’ve essentially wrested from the game with my grubby hands; Gerson is a merchant NPC found in Waterfall, the third area of the game focused with water themes. he has less than 100 lines of dialogue (but jam-packed full of info) and doesn’t even have an overworld sprite. although noted to have a history with multiple major characters, it’s not often i’ve seen him be the main focus of any fanfics or art pieces. ]

Is your character considered hot™ in the fandom?  YES / NO / IDK. [ put that faaaaaaaar away from me please tyty ]

Is your character considered strong in the fandom?  YES / NO / IDK. [ i personally believe that Gerson is a strong and potentially powerful monster with fighting capability that could rival some of the stronger Monsters in the Underground due to his background as a fighter during the Human-Monster War, but since has waned in both reputation and fighting skill. we never fight him in game and as such, will never see how he compares numerically, but it’s clear from his dialogue that he knows how to fight professionally/cleverly and would have given a hard challenge. ]

Are they underrated?  YES / NO / IDK. [ i mentioned before that Gerson has ties with lots of major characters - I hardly see it being put into action or talked about! i also have a soft spot for elder/older characters in general since they seem to be overlooked in favor for younger characters that carry the action of plots - which I understand and totally get, but I still like to put these characters out there for the sake of it ]

Were they relevant for the main story?  YES / NO.

Were they relevant for the main character? YES / NO / THEY’RE THE PROTAG. [ he was a funny merchant dude that said “wahaha” a whole bunch of times and carried a magnifying glass; sure he and Frisk would have been good friends after the golden ending but most people have forgotten about their interaction with Gerson once out of Waterfall ]

Are they widely known in their world? YES / NO. [ as one of the older if not oldest Monsters in the Underground, or from his reputation as the “Hammer of Justice” from wartime. he is also a historian and is noted to have written a few of the books in the Librarby. definitely known in the Underground, but probably only in that community ]

How’s their reputation?  GOOD / BAD / NEUTRAL. [ as mentioned before, a benefactor to the community and maybe even a sagely figure. a source of wisdom (even if cheeky) and a person of stability ]

How strictly do you follow canon?  — ehhhhhhhhhh both extremely canon compliant and then hands off the wheel, let jesus drive me away~ i only have so much canon material to work with so i have milked as much as offered to me, then went off to forge my own path in order to patch up the missing holes then add a few sprinkles. the base of the character is all there, but if you really want to get invested with him (or me) then we have a lot to walk through.

SELL YOUR MUSE! Aka try to list everything, which makes your muse interesting in your opinion to make them spicy for your mutuals.  —  old tortoise (NOT TURTLE) guy sells knick-knacks and cracks jokes, knows everyone’s dirty secrets but thinks they’re just funny to think about them than use them. an elder in the community who has stories to tell and lessons to teach, who has lived through half of recorded history and now spends his time just trying to make things around him interesting. a war veteran who protects his community and understands the horror of the world, but keeps eyes looking into the future even in the face of grimness itself. plays the accordion and harmonica, could probably square dance if he knew what that was. will call you kiddo.

Now the OPPOSITE, list everything why your muse could not be so interesting (even if you may not agree, what does the fandom perhaps think?).  —  little to no motivation to find a passion for himself that would benefit or service just himself; his entire sense of worth comes from servicing others in some way (being a soldier and protecting people; recording history in order to teach future generations; maintaining a shop in order to literally service others) and lack of action due to decrepitude in old age. close-minded compared to other Monsters, as he doesn’t actually take to think of humans or outsiders kindly; judgmental to the point of being racist. proud and dislikes being one-upped that it could lead to pettiness, and despite his positive outlooks, very pessimistic worldview.

What inspired you to rp your muse?  —  funfact: Gerson is my first tumblr RP muse ever, and since i was worried about duplicate anxiety when i first started i specifically wrote him since he was a smaller character with less attention - i’ve since learned i have no anxiety about it so it’s no longer a problem, but what keeps me going today is the challenge of writing someone so different from me. the elder aesthetic along with homely, almost cottagecore kind of vibe is also appealing, and the humor that comes with gerson is a joy to write out.

What keeps your inspiration going?  —  reading literature, music, artwork, pinterest, replaying the game, and doing little hobbies that would embody the character (collecting or sewing, for example) are things i can do by myself, but with other people i have the most drive when i can have friendly and nonpersonal arguments/debates about character motives or about source material like what made a character act like this or that, or about really anything as long as it makes me seriously think about characters critically and force me to recognize flaws.

Some more personal questions for the mun.

Give your mutuals some insight about the way you are in some matters, which could lead them to get more comfortable with you or perhaps not.

Do you think you give your character justice?  YES / NO / I SINCERELY HOPE I DO? [ unfortunately i’m not a tortoise monster who lived for probably centuries if not decades older than myself, but i enjoy writing older characters and hope that other ppl see the potential gerson has like i do ]

Do you frequently write headcanons?  YES / NO / SORT OF? [ you know when you have a concept and in your own mind you can see it clearly, without fuzziness or confusion, but you can’t seem to put it clearly into words without it turning into an essay because you need to connect all the other points that’s in the single concept you envisioned? yea. ]

Do you sometimes write drabbles?  YES / NO [ bro i should.. ]

Do you think a lot about your Muse during the day? YES / NO [ hmu if you got pinterest and i’ll give u tons and tons of boards ]

Are you confident in your portrayal?  YES / NO / SORT OF? [ this is unfair to answer as (AFAIK) i am the only person writing Gerson in... any capacity. despite that i like to think i bring out the humorous side of him, and show ppl that he and other NPCs are tons of potentials and shouldn’t be overlooked because they aren’t popular ]

Are you confident in your writing?  YES / NO. [ i always believed my style and my skill in not only PSDs or aesthetics, but analysis or understanding was always a bit plain, without much flourish or complexity. while that is appealing on its own and has its own merits, i can’t help but feel i can always push myself to do a little more, add a little flavor, or paint an image that could only be done in writing. although i am doing enough to get the job done, i’m searching for a certain voice of writing that i like and want to integrate into creative writing in order to make it more personalized and more engaging. ]

Are you a sensitive person?  YES / NO. / SORTA. [ i despise pussyfooting and will often tell ppl straight up if i have a problem with them or something about them; straightforwardness, honesty, and integrity are some of my core values and that includes being harsh if it comes to it in order to keep order ]

Do you accept criticism well about your portrayal?  —  assuming it’s rooted in goodwill or from a point of analysis, absolutely! it’s one of the direct sources for growth and getting better at any craft, but as Tumblr loves to be.... jumpy, i’m always cautious when its not from someone i know.

Do you like questions, which help you explore your character?  —  YEA BUDDYYYYY

If someone disagrees to a headcanon of yours, do you want to know why?  —  absolutely, i thrive off friendly discourse as i mentioned.

If someone disagrees with your portrayal, how would you take it?  —  if we don’t discuss it as above, in lit any other case i’d say “well there are other blogs to follow” but since i’m like 99% sure i’m the only gerson blog that isn’t applicable lmao; the point still stands that everyone has the freedom to write a character as they wish. there are valid reasons to dislike a portayal but not a lot of valid reasons to attack someone for it - with the exception of ppl being gross. stop that, nasty.

If someone really hates your character, how do you take it?  —  strangely. it’s not my job to make people like a character, you either like them or not. if you dislike them for unreasonable points then, to leave in the previous response, “clowns will be clowns, no matter what you do. I just don’t get why you would follow someone if you hate their character to begin with.”

Are you okay with people pointing out your grammatical errors?  —  of course, as long as it’s polite and all that jazz!

Do you think you are easy going as a mun?   —  depends on the meaning - i like making new friends and i find it easy to talk to new people, be it about roleplay or other things like organizing video game play sessions. however, i also have on multiple occasions have approached ppl privately saying “this is annoying/this is problematic/this is inappropriate, stop” and been met with general disdain for voicing such so Who Knows..... (tm). at least on a private level. here, publicly, i’m pretty relaxed! memes and jokes are abound. as long as a person can be mature and responsible for their actions we can vibe, yo.

#definitely plan to link this in rules or something #as a guide for newcomers #what a nice meme! #* verbatim ⟐ meme.

[scvereignty]

introduction i.

A D E L A I D E  W I N D S O R (  p r i n c e s s  o f  e n g l a n d  )

bespoke houndstooth blazers, watching your mare come second place, exposed lace garters, sipping from a bottle of warm champagne, grey skies, french erotica, a wet slip dress with nothing underneath, white roses, reciting passages by heart at parties, mascara-stained sheets, sitting by open windows despite the cold, black velvet, heavy books by pretentious authors, jewels at the breakfast table, the dirty hem of a long dress, hidden gardens, purple hickeys on pale thigh, smoking in secret, sleeping naked, perfect tennis whites & an immaculate backhand, bows in tangled hair, audrey hepburn films & grace kelly sensibility, placing their hand over your neck mid-kiss and squeezing hard, oversized sunglasses paired with red eyes and dark circles, never wearing the same coat twice, the weight of history, the shot that puts down a lame horse, perfect posture, lingerie and silk in the library, sucking whip cream off of strawberries, making love in the stable, watching the sunrise from the garden in an evening gown.

age: twenty-one

nicknames: di, rosie, little princess

sexuality: heterosexual ( publicly ) / bisexual ( private, exploring )

gender: cisgender female

title: her royal highness

( + ) elegant, graceful, intelligent, clever, intuitive, adaptable, creative, impulsive, sensual, motivated, self-confident, hard-working, mature, modest, reliable, outspoken ( - ) pretentious, aloof, melancholy, judgemental, private, elusive, deceptive, guarded, secretive, unforgiving, sensitive, affected, mistrusting, self-destructive, changeable, indecipherable

UNDER THE CUT : HISTORY, TRIVIA, & CONNECTIONS !

A BRIEF HISTORY ;

the youngest windsor & only princess of england!

i’m currently keeping her actual childhood/family background undecided until i get the chance to plot with her brother(s), but as per the connection description: the siblings were initially v close while their parents were rather absent

notably, adelaide & her brother james had an extremely special relationship. as the eldest and youngest of the brood, from the time adelaide was born, james’s affection for her was almost paternal in many ways — and she loved him to pieces.

literally, like, there are shots of james walking adelaide hand-in-hand into her primary school, and even as they got older, she considered him her best friend and biggest protector. this is highkey inspired by my own grandmother & how she describes her relationship w her own late brother uwu

a charming, odd child, who was labelled as an old soul very early in life. very well mannered and mature, but prone to somewhat unusual flights of fancy 

a lowkey trouble maker -- or rather, incredible adept at being subtle. with at least one wild elder brother, it was both easy to learn from their mistakes and appear innocent in comparison

as adelaide got older, that old soul developed some of the troubles they’re ought to. she craved art, passion, love, justice, intense emotion, experience. she engaged in these behaviours moderately and with subtlety, particularly in comparison to silas. she was/is less about wild partying and more about deep experiences, and as such there have rarely been any stories about the little princess and drinking/inappropriate behaviour

she had always had a changeable nature and was susceptible to bouts of depression, but the death of james hit her in a way she has yet to recover from. while the whole family was devastated, no one took it harder than adelaide, who to this day calls him the love of her life

for the two years since his murder, adelaide has been in a poor mental and emotional place. unable to fully move on despite the time that has passed, she has both retreated further into herself and sought out unhealthy methods of coping ( ie. the usual -- alcohol, travel, and occasionally drugs )

hence she’s chosen to come to genovia, a decision that surprised even her parents. remaining in london has kept her in the throes of mourning, so she hopes to let go of some of her grief by arriving somewhere new and attempting self care

reputation & aesthetics tend to be very immaculate and proper, so it’s often a surprise to those that find out the young princess has that darker, troubled, sensual side to her - that she can drink gin straight without wincing, or has bruises and hickeys beneath her silk blouse

has never had any desire to rule/never considered it an option, but instead focuses her life on the betterment of people but domestic to the uk and worldwide through charity & philanthropy

TRIVIA ; 

the nickname for her in the uk is “the english rose,” or several variants (“the little rose,” etc) due to her fair complexion & nature. her reputation is very princess diana-esque: a modern, classy woman who devotes her time to philanthropy & charity

considered a fashion icon! 

an extremely accomplished horse rider, considered one of the best competitors in britain despite not actively competing in years. she’s down showmanship, jumping, dressage, & eventing. yes, she is the horse girl

despite her tiny height, form, and general fairylike facial features, this girl can drink a surprising amount of people under the table. is this a sign of a Problem? CERTAINLY

if you think you are the most beautiful and/or incredible thing to walk this earth, she thinks you are incredibly stupid. she’ll name 14 pieces of art right NOW that are more interesting than ur looks 

makes a habit of calling out those that are arrogant/rude

she started smoking when she was fourteen. her parents still don’t know.

camilla macaulay, grace kelly, and princess diana are probably her biggest inspos

very accomplished liar - she has an incredible poker face

she wears a locket james gave her every day. he had it specially made with an inscription (either a quote from a little princess or the secret garden, i haven’t decided), but since then she’s had the other side inlaid with a photo of him :c

her favourite disney movie is alice in wonderland, which is also one of her favourite novels

PLOTS & CONNECTIONS ;

the best friend: self explanatory! very open to how their friendship came about and when, but someone who knows adelaide intimately, and one of the few that can still read her even when she’s putting on her otherwise immaculate facade

the no-good: someone that would have been her corrupter, perhaps, or thought to be -- until they realized she was not the delicate thing one would seem. could be friends with benefits, drinking buddies, someone who encourages self-destructive behaviours, or any combination of this.

the counsel: young as she is, adelaide knows herself intimately, and as such knows a great deal about women in general -- this muse is coming to her for advice on how to court mignonette (or another lady)!

the lionheart: a dear friend, and someone similar to adelaide insomuch as her old soul, maturity, devotion to philanthropy, etc. someone to either decry or poke fun at the triviality of so much around them

the skinny love: it’s been the wrong time since childhood. but it’s always been the right time to hold terrible affection for each other. how heartbreaking, to keep on watching but never kissing.

the charged: inspired by this gif set. the true terrible influence, unhealthy relationship, disaster in a glass bottle. they infuriate each other, say the worst things that can be said. then they let it out in bed -- or almost go. getting closer every time

the antagonist: preferably a princess or someone of noble enough birth that they could have attended the same academy in their teen years. alternatively, could just be a pair that runs into each other frequently at those fancy aristocratic events. ( x ) is someone that leans into that queen B(itch) trope, or otherwise is confident to the point of arrogance/is unphased by potentially offending others by saying what they want, when they want. adelaide, blank-faced over her glass, calls this person out for their behaviour. as such, an intense dislike starts to brood between the two

the affair: we talking sex, we talking scandal, we talking familial outrage. we can talk more about specific circumstances, but i am very solid on the aesthetic of That Scene in atonement: aka green dress, up against the library walls during a dinner party, walked in on at the perfectly terrible moment. my initial thought was that these two met for the first time when the windsor’s were hosting a dinner/ball/celebration or something in honour of this royal/important family, and adelaide and ( x ) had incredible chemistry -- or at least sexual attraction. it only takes a few hours and several glasses of champagne for them to end up in the library in an entirely compromising position before someone walks in on them and snitches to the family. the whole evening is absolutely ruined, both sets of parents in disarray, and while the press never hear why the night was the fiasco, there are now rumours of tension between the two families/nations. alternatively, this could have been started some time long ago and wasn’t 100% a one-off

the young love: adelaide’s longest relationship, which began sometime in late high school or early college and lasted several years. preferably someone of royal blood, because this was in many ways - especially aesthetically - the Perfect Relationship. not only was adelaide wildly in love with them, but their relationship was public, and the press considered it an incredible feat that a prince and princess would naturally begin dating. this kind of aesthetic, ja feel? everyone that knew them felt they would get married, including adelaide. but for whatever reasons you like, this little prince broke up with her, and subsequently broke her heart & dashed her dreams. prior to james’s death, this was the greatest pain she ever endured. still do this day if she references “my ex,” or compares a man to someone, it’s this guy. despite whatever time has passed between break-up and now, adelaide still treats him with some disdain -- she’s both still hurt, and still harbouring lingering affection for him.

the exploration: the first woman that made adelaide question her sexuality !! i’m open as to what this is, how it happened etc; whether anything physical occurred or they were merely flirtatious and physically close; if it was one-sided or reciprocated, etc.

#genoviaintro #phew ok we done #allp.a

[theziaries]

Revisiting Wharton’s Tragedies 🥀

I was in the seventh grade when I embarked on a journey to become a “cultured” reader, whose defining characteristic, I presumed, was a conversance in classic literature. The desire to enter the elite literary world of Charles Dickens and Jane Austen resulted in my eventual encounters with Whartonian literature - specifically her two significant works, The Age of Innocence and The House of Mirth. Over winter break, I reread the novels, so it is my intention to analyze the books from a new perspective while considering the meditations I had approximately six years ago. I can immediately acknowledge that the titles are both exemplary, though endeavoring to decide which one is superior is a challenge that I respectfully demur. Instead, I want to juxtapose them in a way that does not diminish their individual significance or merit; they both have a separate majesty that I hope to examine. 

Innocence is the easier read, and that could be a contributor to its higher placement on lists that rank American classics. When I say “easier,” I do not mean that its language is more lucid - both works, though complex in vernacular, are quite comprehensible. What I want to articulate in the usage of that word is the gentleness of its conclusion. It is incontestable that Innocence’s unhappy ending is easier to endure. In it, lawyer Newland Archer - engaged then married to darling debutante May Welland - falls in love with May’s cousin, individualist Ellen Olenska and begins a passionate affair with the latter. Due to familial obligation and honor, however, the couple ends their relationship; though, it is more accurate to state their relationship is ended for them. The ending acts as a palliative, assuaging the heartbreak experienced by readers who hoped for the adulterous lovers by having Newland realize that an elderly reunion with Ellen after May’s pneumonic death is unnecessary because his memories keep their star-crossed dalliance alive and well. Regardless, my seventh-grade self resisted the resolution. Unlike the protagonist, I could not subsist on romantic recollections, so I faintly recall being an emotional wreck after I completed the book. As a 19-year-old, my vision has altered, especially when considering the conclusion of Mirth, wherein the protagonist, Lily Bart, accidentally overdoses on sleeping medication before her true love, Lawrence Selden, saunters to her dilapidated boardinghouse the following morning with a marriage proposal. Mirth is the truer tragedy, though the ending of Innocence still inspires my melancholy. To summarize in medical analogy, Innocence’s injury is a bruise - causing great discomfort but not requiring a prolonged recovery - and Mirth’s injury is a wound - creating a deeper, more lingering pain and mandating an extended path to normalcy. 

What I enjoy about both novels is the elegance of expression and delicious detailing. The qualities evince Wharton’s aristocratic upbringing, proving her frequent overseas traveling and centrality in a sumptuous scene. Innocence, though focused on a male character, retains the fastidiousness of Mirth. For example, the clothing worn by different characters is meticulously elaborated: the stylish stores from which they came are identified, fashion designers who produced them are referenced, and the materials of which they are constituted are mentioned. In Innocence, as in Mirth, style is celebrated, though the former has a greater focus on it. The latter, with international travel playing a more significant role in the storyline, appears more dedicated to saluting scenery. Another reason for such an emphasis on environment is Lily’s protagonism. Her personality - being, simultaneously, a sybarite and an aesthete - accommodates such intense illustration of setting. Also, the language of both books, intelligent but not pedantic, increases their charm. Wharton’s refined diction - almost epic but retaining realism - makes reading a pleasure and nearly glorifies a world that proves detrimental to its inhabitants. While immersed in the pretty prose, a character’s most trivial task casts an aureate glow, yet the ornamentation reinforces the loveliness of Innocence and Mirth. 

In reviewing the characters, I developed a love-hate relationship and engaged in brutal juxtaposition. I admired Newland for his disillusionment with society - or, the more accurate descriptor, “social system” - and for, quite literally, following his passion - as contrasted with Selden’s vexatious passivity. However, I abhorred his constant committing of adultery - with Ellen and with an earlier lover that I missed in my seventh-grade reading. His decision to stay with May to raise a family and restore his remnant honor was respectable, but strangely enough, I still find myself dissatisfied with it. Moreover, I revered Ellen’s freedom but disliked her cousinly betrayal. As for Lily, I identified with her love of luxury and appreciation of beauty but winced at every demonstration of the improvidence that expedited her descent. I can acknowledge that May played an interesting antagonist to Newland and Ellen’s love because her innocence belied the manipulativeness that she was capable of and that Bertha Dorset - a malicious female character whose misdeeds prompt Lily’s expulsion from society in Mirth - is an excellent villainess. Whatever ambivalence I felt about the characters fails to affect my veneration for the titles; my vacillation actually proves Wharton’s literary virtuosity because it shows that she succeeded in complex characterization. 

A motif that recurs in the narratives, of which I was initially oblivious, is flowers. Numerous examples in Innocence and Mirth corroborate Wharton’s floral obsession. In the former, characters decorate their expensive garments with flowers - the peeking of a gardenia from a gown, for instance - and lilies of the valley bring fresh fragrance to their mansions. The opera scene - significant in that Newland sees it as a reflection of his departure from Ellen - features an actress plucking petals as she performs a classic daisy oracle. Wharton’s usage of “efflorescent” presents another demonstration of floral fixation. Most importantly, Newland sends yellow roses to Ellen, whose bravery and brilliance, he believes, is symbolized by them. The prevalence of flowers continues in Mirth, wherein Lily is named after one as well as Simon Rosedale, a Jewish financier obsessed with social ascent. Lily’s movement is compared to a flower, and she even laments the lack of fresh ones during a familial luncheon. Finally, Lily and Selden’s first kiss occurs in a garden felicitously encircled by lilies. Perhaps Wharton’s focus on flowers followed her constant exposure to beauty: she traveled extensively and experienced the elegance expected of an aristocrat, so maybe flowers are representative of that beauty. On the other hand, flowers are fragile and can be connected to the fragility found in the two tragedies. As flowers eventually fade and die, so do Newland and Ellen’s romance as well as Lily’s social prominence and her actual life. I think these interpretations elevate the novels because they correspond to the theme of pretty things - debutantes, designer clothing, love affairs, luxurious lifestyles, etcetera - being vulnerable to destruction. 

I am curious as to when I will read Innocence and Mirth for the third time, though I suspect that a couple years will pass since I want to review them with new eyes in order to espy new insights. If I have not made it apparent, I want to re-emphasize my adoration of the books, whose irresistible unhappy endings make me a kind of literary masochist. As a bibliophile, I am always on the search for another magnificent novel and in pursuit of the ecstasy that a phenomenal book can ignite, but which books will match the power of Innocence and Mirth? It is rare for a piece of literature to activate emotions, convey beautiful or original sentiments, and be worthy of deep dives, but Wharton accomplished all of that with her works. Until I discover another title that achieves those same elements, I imagine I will be chasing the ironic high that Wharton’s beautiful tragedies generate. 

#the age of innocence #the house of mirth #edith wharton #books #essay #ziary #classics #society #beautiful tragedy #culture #fiction

[interventicn-blog]

ngl, i already had this typed up since yesterday bc i just wanted all my ideas out. at first, i had 3 different charas in mind, but then i thought why not combine all ideas into one? without further ado, here’s eleanor richards’ intro + her pinterest! note: i didn’t proofread, so if there’s info that doesn’t line up w/ dad being old money, mom being new money, etc. then my bad.

inspired by the tv show, dynasty (ngl i’ve been watching dynasty & rewatching degrassi lately so) and my love for anime/manga + video games.

‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒FAMILY. ‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒

eleanor is from both old and new money. 

from her dad’s side, the family generations became old money as they worked in banks, politics, and real estate with other wealthy families before her great grandpa decided to work on his own. he started off with real estate then ventured into hotels. her father, mark warner, currently runs the businesses as it was eventually inherited to him. her mother, penelope richards, grew in new money. they got into the fashion business and penelope runs her own clothing and bag line.

they soon fell in love and her grandparents, on both sides, basically pushed them to marry as they thought it was a good deal to have different rich families come into one. however, they eventually divorced. 

penelope became more greedy and showed her true colors. she was manipulative, using people, keeping shady secrets, etc. and more focused on power, trying to make the best deals, and money. her dad just wanted a nice, calm life with someone he loved and hardly recognized his wife anymore. now, her mom’s been married more than 3 times by now, which eleanor became used to.

her dad soon moved back to new york to be with his side of the family and still stays in contact with him. even decided to live with him for a few years for her middle school education before going back to mom. there, she learned money isn’t everything and to be grateful. even now, she stays on contact and visits during summers and sometimes christmas. as for the other men in her mom’s life, she hasn’t been close to them as she wanted to. she just saw no point when they would eventually leave anyway.

growing up, she became used to drama almost everyday and still wonders why she hasn’t changed her last name yet. that meant she was tired of the life her family was living. a reason why she chose to hardly be in the richards’ family business and wanted to work on her own life.

she also has a sister she used to be very close to when they were young, but her sister grew and became just like her mom, a selfish bitch. she would create schemes in school, be the most popular student, think about only herself, etc. eleanor couldn’t stand being with more people like mom and became distant.

‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒HER LIFE.‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒

to deal with anything her mom was doing and to get away from reality, she turned to anime, manga, cartoons and video games. she felt these things kept her sane in her wild family. her room is decorated with anime posters, shelves of manga, and watches anime almost everyday. she’ll also go to multiple cons every year and will cosplay once in a while.

another interest she took up was baking. specifically french pastries and sweets. it made her realize she wants to become a pâtissier and her goals are to be world-known and have her own bakery company someday. she started baking around the age of twelve when she was with her dad. he bought her baking books and supplies. since then, she worked on improving her skills and sharing desserts she made with others around the neighborhood to hear feedback.

although, that’s not the only hobby she decided on. when it came to video games, she would play in arcades and at home with console and handheld ones before going into pc games. one game she fell for was overwatch. she’d end up staying all night playing and getting her rank up. soon enough, she was able to be in a team of professional players.

being into two different hobbies, she became torn because of how much time either one took. she wanted to continue playing overwatch and being able to meet so many new people, but she also enjoyed baking and loved seeing how her sweets made others happy.

she was already in college for baking, but when overwatch appeared in her life, she felt, and still feels, conflicted.

more may be added as i continue to think because the family certainly has a lot of secrets.

‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒DISAPPEARANCES.‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒

she has mixed feelings about the disappearances of everybody else. she’s sad to not see her mom and the staff around the house anymore, not being able to talk to her dad, and not being in contact with the team. however, she feels oddly calm about the situation too. for some reason, she just isn’t freaking out entirely. sure, she finds it strange that everyone else is gone and wants to find out more about the situation, but she feels there’s really not much she can do, so why stress over it?

the reason she’s in kitchen help is because she’s already used to being in a kitchen for so long and feels that’s what her most useful skill is right now.

one thing she truly dislikes is having people sleeping in her home. she feels uncomfortable sharing the space with those she hardly knows and argued about it for a while before giving up. eleanor continues to feel uncomfortable, so she kept a few important pieces in her own room away from others.

‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒MISCELLANEOUS.‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒

traits

ardent, enthusiastic or passionate: she loves anime, manga, and video games so much, she has decorations of them covering her room.

candid, truthful and straightforward: she’ll tell it like it is and isn’t interested in sugar coating.

critical, expressing adverse or disapproving comments or judgments: she’ll give her opinion even though no one asked for it sometimes. she also tends to say things she doesn’t mean.

decisive, producing a definite answer: for the most part, eleanor knows what she wants and is able to make decision easily.

effervescent, vivacious and enthusiastic: she can be seen as a happy-go-lucky person.

impetuous, acting or done quickly and without thought or care: eleanor has her moments where she’ll have an idea and go into it right away without saying another word. especially during matches.

loquacious, tending to talk a great deal: when she talks about an interest, it’s as if she can’t shut her mouth.

obstinate, stubbornly refusing to change one's opinion or chosen course of action, despite attempts to persuade one to do so: if she’s being told something she doesn’t want to hear, she’ll argue about it and try to change the situation. (e.g. having people living in her home)

aesthetics

wearing a school uniform and running out the door with toast in her mouth because she’s late, watching anime in bed and in the dark, pastel pleated skirts, pastel zebra midliner pens, headphones around the neck, strawberry milk, shelves of manga, bedhead, figurines of magical girls, cute animal plushies, vanilla scented candles, colorful wigs, patterned washi tape, taro milk tea in one hand and a manga in the other, a bag full of anime merch from a convention, picking up graphic tees at hot topic to have a better look, placing an anime as completed on myanimelist

her style consists of mostly pink and pastel colors, but denim, anime/video game graphic tees, and a few black clothing items are added onto this.

her overwatch mains

dps: ashe, genji, widow maker.

tanks: wrecking ball, d.va

support: ana, brigitte, moira.

all-time mains: d.va, ashe, widowmaker.

her favorite manga includes jojo bizarre, one piece, fruits basket, and more. some of her favorite anime are my hero academia, fairy tail, sailor moon, puella magi madoka, tokyo mew mew.

she loves watching star vs the forces of evil and steven universe.

she loves studio ghibli movies, but would definitely rewatch your name and a silent voice.

the type of music she listens to are pop, k-pop, j-pop, and sometimes rock.

more hobbies

shopping: it makes her feel better and she just loves fashion.

eating: she’s such a foodie. if anyone brings her food, she’ll be the happiest girl in the world.

sleeping: even though she hardly sleeps, she still loves sleeping. she could doze off anywhere.

self-care: she’s very into hair care and skin care. she’ll watch youtube videos for days about it, has her own skincare routine, and everyday is a different hairstyle.

japanese: because of how much she’s into anime and manga and wants to visit japan someday, she planned on taking japanese classes. she also has several japanese language books

has three tattoos

this one on the side of her left wrist (same place as laurdiy’s)

this right thigh tattoo

this on the back of her right arm. 

she planned on getting a fourth for her 21st birthday, but can’t now.

she’s mostly a closeted lesbian. her mom has always been trying to set her up with boys, but she only pretends to be interested. eleanor wonders what her family will say and keeps her sexuality a secret because she’s afraid news will spread around and it’ll be heard from her family. she’s only told a handful about it, including her sister.

#coldridgeintro

[tothelasthoursofmylife]

“A little village with a little mystery.”

London, England, United Kingdom – February 1846

  ~Cloudia~

 “How often will you come here again?” asked Arthur Randall, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

  When I had wrapped up my Watchdog mission last week, I had been more than ready to return to my manor – but then, a letter from Thomas had arrived in which he informed me that a large part of the manor’s pipe system had broken down and that, thus, the manor was currently uninhabitable. As the remedial maintenance at the townhouse was still ongoing, Newman, Miss Greene, and I kept staying at the Morrow townhouse. The first week I had been with my family, I had my Watchdog work, the gallery opening, and my cousins to keep me busy. This week, I had no Watchdog work, there were no events to attend, and Ceara was ill and Keegan too grumpy and worried to do anything fun with.

Now, all I could do was sit in the Morrows’ library and read or, occasionally, go into the city and accidentally pass by Scotland Yard and overhear some case details.

  “This is the eleventh time this week – and it is only Thursday,” he continued and glared at her.

  Perhaps, it wasn’t quite “occasionally,” but gruesome murders and thievery entertained me more than gossip over tea.

  “It’s also the eleventh time this week that I am passing by the headquarters and you are around to see me,” Cloudia replied. She loosened the scarf around her neck a bit. Last week, it had been devastatingly cold, but now, the temperature had become more bearable – a development Cloudia hoped would last a little while longer. “Don’t you have any work to do, Randall? How does someone like you even become a detective constable? You are barely older than me and only joined the Met three years ago. Could it be that you paid your way up like Police Commissioner Rowan did until he became captain?”

Randall narrowed his eyes. “Says the girl who is only what she is because of her family.”

“You are only partially right, Constable: I am what I am because of my family, yes, but if I was completely useless, I would have been long replaced – or never even instated,” Cloudia said.

  I had met Arthur Randall for the first time nearly two years ago, and every time I saw him, I disliked him a bit more. Despite my dislike for him, I had to admit that he also caught my curiosity: The first time we had met, he had immediately known that I was the Queen’s Watchdog. This was especially interesting because, in the last two years, I had learned that there was absolutely nothing special about him to justify Rowan and Mayne’s decision to let Randall know about the Watchdog secret. So, my question was: Why did he know? The Commissioners couldn’t possibly consider to eventually make him their successor – what other reason could there be?

  “And will you ever stop rubbing my family history under my nose? In a twisted way, we are, after all, colleagues,” Cloudia added, and Randall chuckled. “Colleagues? With the likes of you? Even if it’s the last thing I do, I will stay here and protect this place from your kind, Lady Phantomhive.”

She smiled. “Oh, is that what you have been doing all week? Well, I wish you all the luck in the world that your feet will not die away in the cold before you are fired for doing nothing. If you may excuse me now: I have an appointment and am running a little bit late.”

  ***

  “Arthur Randall is nobody to lose any brain cells for, Cloudia. I have been telling you this for years,” said Cecelia and raised her cup to her lips.

  Scotland Yard was not the only place where I could get my share of crimes: Cecelia was a wonderful source for that too. I had no interest in pointless gossip discussed over tea – crimes discussed over tea, however, was the best form of socialising I knew.

  “I know, I know. But you were asking about my day, and, sadly, I didn’t do much except unwillingly meeting His Moronship,” Cloudia replied, leaning back into her sofa’s soft fabric and cushioning. Cecelia’s Blue Drawing Room was her favourite place in her mansion solely because it had the most comfortable furniture in it. “The manor and the townhouse are still in repair and I am getting more and more bored by the minute – so, thank you, for inviting me.”

“You are thanking me for inviting you? Cloudia, dear, you must be feeling worse than expected. I guess that is the curse of those who cannot sit still. You have too much energy to spare, and if you do not find anything to do, you wither away faster than the plants I had to look after for my father.” Cecelia waved with her hand and leaned back as well. “I, on the other hand, am contemplating about never leaving this sofa again. Or would an even more comfortable one be the better choice? Or a more beautiful one? On which sofa would you rather spend the rest of your life, Cloudia? The beautifully embroidered, immensely expensive one that claimed the lives of three decent men during its transportation? Or the ugly olive-coloured one which you did not intend to buy, but still did because your shoes were killing you, you sat down on the wretched thing, and it swallowed you whole, forcing you to purchase it?”

“You have such a sofa?”

“It’s in the boxroom. I believe it’s possessed, but I do not have the heart to get it exorcised. On the one hand, because I can feed especially annoying guests to it; on the other hand, because I do not believe in such superstitions. It is more likely that the sofa fell victim to an extraordinarily enthusiastic upholsterer.”

Cloudia shook her head in an effort to get rid of her grin. It didn’t work. “Do you really want to spend the rest of your life sitting? After the trip to Bristol?”

Cecelia groaned and took a blueberry tartelette. To uphold the drawing rooms’ aesthetic, she had told her cook to only prepare blue food: the muffins, biscuits, and tartelettes had been made with blueberries, blackberries, plums, and black currants. The sandwiches had been spread with blue jam and the tea service had a forget-me-not pattern. It was a surprise that the tea was not blue.

“What you don’t do for gathering intelligence! I should see Quirino to find a way to rename Duchess Adrianne Royceston to Hysteria Royceston! That woman organises a party spanning several days, including a trip to another town, and what does she do? Decide that we should travel to Bristol by carriage because she thinks trains are the ‘devil’s work’!”

“Still, you are thinking about sitting forever.”

“Cloudia, I have no aversion whatsoever to pass my time sitting. If the world was not like it is and dresses would not crinkle so easily, I would have decided to do this – sit until I die – a long, long time ago. I have always said that, in a better world, you would not have to go out and dirty your hands to get what you want, that you would get everything by simply clicking your fingers together instead. Father deemed this one of my worst traits. To be honest, I had no good traits in his eyes.

“To say it clean and concisely: I could sit for hours and hours with no end in sight, just not with any kind of ‘humpy-bumpy’ nonsense.” Cecelia skilfully cut her tartelette into pieces without even looking at it and said, “So, you have come to hear about some grisly crimes?”

“Yes.”

“Over tea?”

“Yes. And some biscuits,” said Cloudia.

“If Adrianne Royceston was here, she would have already sent for the local priest, his mentor, and the holy spirit itself. Are you sure that you know that things like this – being overly interested in murders and thievery – could get you sent to an exorcist at best and to an asylum at worst?”

Cloudia clutched her hands. “Asylums are worse than exorcisms?”

“Of course. If you end up in an asylum, you may never get out of there. During an exorcism, you are restrained and have to listen to a priest reciting all sorts of prayers for hours. When he is done, you pretend to have been successfully purified and do whatever you did to get exorcised for in the first place more secretly than before. I know what I am talking about: I have experienced it thrice and it is always the same.

“Unfortunately, it is easier to get thrown into an asylum than to be sent to the next certified exorcist. To get an exorcism, you either have to live in a place filled with religious hysterics, have a sudden change in personality and voice, an unusually cold room, have to correctly guess the weather for the next three days, be very moody and aggressive, lie down really weirdly, or hate the Church with a passion. To get to an asylum, all it takes is to drink alcohol or distribute bad whiskey. You could be declared a lunatic for having asthma or getting your son married! Pamela Tracey was sent to an asylum because she asked her mother if she could have a rat as a pet.” Cecelia put down her knife and looked at Cloudia. “I know that you know all this, Cloudia, but sometimes I wonder if you are forgetting or deliberately ignoring it. In any case, I want to remind you to be careful. All it takes is for someone to overhear one of your conversations with Randall or even to see you lingering outside the Yard every single day. I know the last few years were rough for you, but you eventually have to stop being so harsh to yourself and move on, Cloudia.” Cecelia wanted to reach out to her, but Cloudia pulled back.

“I would rather get for what I came here,” she stated.

Cecelia looked at her for a while and sighed. “Here I am, giving you advice for once, and you don’t take it! Then, so be it.” She leaned back. The tartelette was left untouched. “The Met is currently searching for a group of bandits known to hide around the area of manor houses. They wait until the inhabitants are wandering about, and then rob and, or abduct them. The last ones to be robbed were the Kents – poor Mary Louise was so terrified! They say that she still hasn’t left her room. Her fiancé Sean is beyond worried. Anyway, where was I? Oh, I remember.

“Our dear officers at the Yard are, of course, doing a wonderful job trying to find them. To their misfortune, Mary Louise’s mother is not allowing them to interrogate her poor, poor baby! Mary Louise is the sole witness in this case as the bandits have robbed her and her maid while they were taking a stroll. They have even tried to kidnap Mary Louise as well. In this moment, her maid proved to be a true loyal soul, intervened, and got killed while defending her protégée. Afterwards, the bandits ran off. But Mary Louise’s best friend’s sister’s best friend, Felicitas Wernholm, was with me in a carriage to Bristol to continue Duchess Royceston’s damned party. This lady could be Quirino’s long-lost sister, I tell you, because she was talking without any pauses for hours. In-between her chitter-chatter salad, she mentioned that she knew from her best friend that Mary Louise has seen the bandits vanish into the direction where the Beaumont and Croft estates are.” Cecelia raised her cup and took a sip of her tea.

Cloudia frowned. “That’s all?”

“That’s classified information for which the Met would pay me very good money. Not that I am interested in such things.”

“No, I meant it like that: ‘That’s all you have for me? A robbery? Where’s the grisly murder?’”

“I promised you a crime. Robbery and attempted kidnapping are crimes, Cloudia.”

“I know that, Cecelia. But murders are more exciting,” Cloudia said.

“Didn’t you listen to me? There was a murder! Mary Louise Kent’s maid was killed.”

“On accident, not on purpose.”

Cecelia sighed. “You are the reason why I am glad that Michael and I never had any children. Without him, I most definitely would not be able to endure them in this phase. And I endured the carriage ride to Bristol with Felicitas Wernholm.” She rubbed her face. “Cloudia, we both know that if you were truly so intent on hearing about grisly murders, you would go and learn about them yourself. Instead, you linger around the Yard and come to me. And why? Perhaps you want to take some of your agency away from it; perhaps you want to eventually point your finger at me and say ‘She made me do it!’ I don’t know. All I know is that, from now on, you will only get your murder case details from me if you stay away from Scotland Yard and take a break.” Cecelia gazed at Cloudia, a stern look in her eyes. “If Barrington visits me one more time crying and complaining, you are going to pay for my dress and carpet, do you understand, young lady?”

Cloudia sighed. “Yes, I understand. I promise to stay away and take a break. Satisfied?”

“Very,” said Cecelia and leaned back. “And now, let us talk about something more fun.”

  ***

  Cloudia’s favourite places to be had always been the little cosy corners, the alcoves lying in the shadows. If the world around her was fast and loud and messy, those places were always there for her, always giving her the time for herself she needed, the order, the calmness, the minute she required to take a deep breath and collect herself. Before Cloudia had learned about the Phantomhive Manor’s intricate system of secret pathways, those little places had been a blessing.

The oriel window in the library of the Morrow townhouse might not be the most hidden, not the most inconspicuous corner, but its comfortableness and feeling reminded Cloudia of all her secret little corners at home, and, for now, in her ongoing boredom, that was all that mattered to her.

  I could feel it in my bones: I would die here. Yesterday, my visits to Scotland Yard and Cecelia had kept me busy; today, I had nothing to do. “Died of utter boredom” would be scratched into my tombstone and everyone passing by my grave would wonder if this was even possible. This was my legacy, I knew it.

  With a sigh, Cloudia put a finger between the pages of Pictures of Italy and stared randomly in front of her. The library was rather small and the door usually kept open, and from the oriel window Cloudia could see the door and the corridor beyond it – and Keegan walking up and down the floor grumpier than she had ever witnessed him. It was quite a sight, so she kept watching him. She had been unable to concentrate on her book for the last hour anyway.

  Lately, he had been slightly grumpier than usual because Ceara was ill, but she had almost fully recovered. What could have caused the sudden increase in his bad mood?

  “Keegan,” Cloudia said, leaving Pictures of Italy at her seat and going to her cousin when he walked by for the millionth time today. “What is wrong?”

For a moment, he seemed to struggle whether to answer or not before he sighed and said, “I’ve remembered that Geoffrey Bentley asked Father if I could join his hunting party one day and that Father said yes. I’m supposed to go hunting with him and the rest of his party tomorrow.”

  Keegan was an exceptionally good tracker. People would constantly ask if he wanted to join them in a hunt or two, but as he had neither patience, passion, or interest in hunting, Keegan would always turn them down. He only used his skills for more mundane purposes. Growing up, it surely had been no fun playing hide and seek with him.

  “Why would Uncle Aiden even do something like that?” Cloudia asked. “After all, he knows how much you hate hunting and Geoffrey Bentley.”

“Because,” Keegan said with clenched teeth, “Bentley cannot be more of an annoying and loud person, and Father did not even listen to what he said: Bentley started talking to him, and Father simply nodded and agreed to whatever he was saying.”

“I have almost forgotten how much of a nuisance Geoffrey Bentley is. My ears still hurt a bit from the last time I heard him – from the other end of a ballroom.”

Keegan rubbed his temples. “It is not only Bentley. Of all the people who could be in Bentley’s hunting party, it’s Falk Flanagan and Cadell Beaumont.”

  I could not name a more chaotic trio than Cadell Beaumont, Falk Flanagan, and Geoffrey Bentley. They were a notorious group of troublemakers, and their presence at social events was always met with a wave of annoyed sighs. Separate, they were already an imposition; together, they were unbearable. Different as they were, they would always loudly bicker among one another. Everyone could only wonder why they were even friends.

  “No wonder why you are in such a bad mood,” said Cloudia.

“An entire day with those three at Beaumont’s estate… Ramming a fork into my own throat would be more pleasant.”

  The Beaumont estate? Hadn’t Cecelia told me that Mary Louise Kent meant to have seen the bandits run to where the Croft and Beaumont estates were?

There was only a fifty per cent chance that the bandits were on Beaumont land – if they had not long moved on.

 But I was bored and desperate to find anything I could do: Why should I not go a little bit hunting and, maybe, catch a couple of bandits to taunt the Met on the way? I had only promised Cecelia that I would stay away from Scotland Yard – and none of its members would be at the Beaumonts’ from what she had said. Therefore, I would not even go behind her back. It was foolproof.

  Cloudia grinned. “Keegan, cousin dear, I think I have the perfect solution for your problem.”

  ***

  Nanteuil-la-Forêt, Marne, France – June 1848

  It was like a dream.

When we had crossed the Channel, had travelled from town to town, it had felt like I hadn’t been me: that my soul had become detached and I had watched someone else on that ship, in that town, in that carriage. When I woke up today, it took me a while to realise that I was not dreaming, that I was just where I was supposed to be.

It didn’t make it less unbelievable though.

Surely, it was quite unfortunate that I was currently stuck in “only” a little village and that we had had to rush a bit through Lille and Creil, but I was still satisfied. I had always longed to see the world beyond the isle. I would not become picky now.

  Cloudia kicked away her blanket and walked to the windows. Lisa would be here any second and pull back the curtains with a slightly heartfelt “Good morning,” and Cloudia really wanted to pre-empt her. They had arrived very late yesterday, and the hour and general exhaustion had prevented her from taking in her surroundings. Full of sleepy excitement, Cloudia pulled on the cord. The curtains opened. The high windows appeared behind them, and through them, she saw…

… rain. Nothing but rain. It was pouring buckets, and Cloudia could not see farther than a metre.

  I had travelled for so long only to arrive in England again.

  She heard the door opening and Lisa coming inside. “Good morning, Lady Cloudia,” she said and closed the door behind her. “You woke up early today. Didn’t you sleep well?”

“I slept surprisingly well. The carriage drive got the best of me. Fourteen hours are far too long,” Cloudia replied, not taking her eyes off the windows. “And you?”

“I slept well too. It is such a pity that still nobody has tried to make carriages faster or to find a good replacement for them. Do you think Baron Salisbury may be interested? After all, his company developed special train engines for the sole purpose of reducing the transportation time for some beetroots,” said Lisa and went to the bathroom. “I’ve prepared a bath,” she announced when she came back a few minutes later.

“Thank you,” Cloudia said, not making a move to step away from the windows.

“Is it really that interesting outside?”

“It’s just a very familiar sight,” Cloudia answered and finally turned away to follow Lisa into the bathroom. “I doubt that Milton would be interested. His company focuses, after all, on food transport and not on developing machinery for the broad public. We might have a chance if we all were to turn into beetroots overnight.”

Cloudia undressed and stepped into the bathtub. A sigh escaped her lips when she sat down and was engulfed by the warm water. There was nothing better than a warm bath to loosen up tense muscles, and hers were certainly tense after yesterday. The carriage ride had been dreadfully exhausting and dinner had been both pleasant and a complete mess: pleasant because most attendees had been too tired to engage in proper conversations; a complete mess because, for example, Cedric had become so sleepy midway through that he had nearly fallen face-first into his soup, and Kamden had tried to eat his soup with a fork.

“Speaking of the Baron,” Lisa began, pouring more hot water into the bathtub. “Now that we are here, how do you feel about him being here as well?”

Cloudia sank a bit deeper into the water.

“Before, it was only an idea, then a fact lying in the distant future you did not have to pay much attention to. Now, we are here because of Her Majesty and there is this unknowing outsider lurking around.”

“You sound like the Duke. Milton is harmless and won’t be a hindrance,” said Cloudia.

Thin-lipped, Lisa put some flowers and herbs into the water to make it smell nice. “Lady Cloudia, I do not believe that the Baron will be a hindrance because he will bother everyone all the time. I believe he will be a hindrance because you got along rather well until he proposed to you and you declined. Then, he left for a few weeks, only to invite you to his crumbling villa and pretend that nothing happened before he vanished for eighteen months. This sounds like one of the ridiculous romance novels Al likes to read.”

Cloudia groaned. “I know you don’t like the Duke, but sometimes I think you could be the best of friends. This is one of those times.”

Lisa rolled her eyes.

“I saw that,” said Cloudia. “Why should Milton’s presence bother me? He misunderstood something, he proposed, I rejected him and never regretted it. And it doesn’t seem as if it hurt him all too much. Now, please let go of this nonsense and go read something for half an hour. You can ask Newman if he can lend you one of his romance novels.”

Lisa leaned against the washbasin. “Very well. One more thing regarding Baron Salisbury: I have never liked him, to be honest –”

“Who would have guessed.”

“– but even to me it seemed very unlike him to stare at Al like that in Dover.”

“I agree. It was odd, but I suppose Milton was simply surprised. If you see someone who looks like Newman, you usually do not expect them to be butlers. Or, in turn, if you imagine a butler, you do not think of someone who looks like him.”

Lisa shrugged. “Until I get some proper reason for his behaviour out of Baron Salisbury, I will dislike him a bit more than before. How’s the water?”

“Fine. How are the rooms in the servants’ tract?”

“They are acceptable. However, while you and the others inhabit the manor’s actual guest rooms, we sleep where the actual servants sleep. As they are going to return by the end of the month, they left quite a bit, and it’s very compelling to look through their stuff. One maid left her diary.”

“Oh, the temptation.”

“I mean: If her diary was so important to her, if what she wrote in it was so secretive, she would not have left it in the open, would she?”

“She may be a very forgetful maid,” Cloudia suggested.

“She left it in the open, Lady Cloudia! The maid meticulously packed all her other belongings and put them away, but the diary was lying on her desk when I came. That does not sound like she’s a very forgetful person.”

“She may have been angry that she had to leave for a month. Perhaps, it’s going to explode when you open it. Or, a less destructive option: Maybe there are ghosts in this house and the diary is her chaos record and warning?”

“Let’s hope nothing is going to explode,” Lisa said and whipped out the diary from her dress pocket.

“Lisa Greene, didn’t you say that you are only intrigued about taking their things?”

“I said that ‘it’s very compelling’ which it is. I have never said that I still haven’t given in to the temptation. To give me the littlest amount of credit, I have not taken a look inside it.”

Cloudia smiled and shook her head. “Because you wanted to share its contents with me? To make me your partner in crime? Your accomplice in this breach of privacy?”

Lisa raised an eyebrow. “So you are not interested?” she asked, flipping open the diary. “That’s good: no explosion.”

“I want to say that I am not interested, but I would be lying. I’ve always thought that pouring your feelings, thoughts, and secrets into a little, easy-to-steal book is a very idiotic thing to do. Of course, I would not want anyone to go through my things,” Cloudia sat up a bit in the bathtub, “but the possibility of this diary being a ghost record is certainly alluring.”

“I knew that you would say this,” Lisa remarked and paged up to the beginning. She opened her mouth to begin reading, but quickly closed it and skimmed through the diary with a frown on her face.

“What’s wrong?”

“It says ‘diary’ on the cover, but…” Lisa flipped back to the first page and showed it to Cloudia. The first page did not start with Dear diary… or Something terrible is going on in this manor. Instead, the very first page had nothing written on it but The Maid’s Manifesto in beautiful cursive.

“It’s a guidebook?” said Cloudia, and Lisa nodded and closed the “diary.”

“This notebook is filled with recipes and instructions on how to make beds and fold serviettes. There are even notes about the food preferences of every member of the de Charbonneau family. Apparently, Baronne de Charbonneau is allergic to strawberries. It’s a bit insulting that the maid left this for me. ‘I do not think that you know how to make beds; therefore, I have written a manual for you, blockhead!’”

“Very anticlimactic,” Cloudia commented and dived back into the water.

“That’s how it is sometimes,” said Lisa and stuffed the notebook back into her pocket. “And now, let us get your hair washed and this bath wrapped up before you get wrinkly.”

  ***

  Nearly an hour later, I descended the stairs to the dining room. I had dismissed Lisa so that she could join Newman – and perhaps, Wentworth and some other servants – for their own breakfast. Although the memories of last night were hidden behind a veil of sleepiness, I hoped that I was still able to find my way through the corridors on my own.

After I had walked down the wrong set of stairs twice and had to ascend them again, I had to think of the Layton Art Gallery: The château was a godawful mess of a place. At least, unlike the gallery, it would cease to be one when I became familiar with it. No matter how often I had gone to the gallery, I had never been able to figure it out.

  After a few more wrong turns, Cloudia finally found the right flight of stairs – on which Cedric was sitting. Frowning, she approached him and saw that he was grumpily nibbling on one of his bone-shaped biscuits.

“What are you doing here?” she asked and sat down next to him.

“I have taken a glimpse into hell: It is a mansion with an abundance of stairs and doors and no signs,” said Cedric, staring ahead of him with glassy eyes. “My soul has left my body. Forevermore, it will slumber in room 1046 while my body resides here…”

“The dining room is downstairs and to the right.”

He threw the biscuit down. “Dammit!”

“What did the poor biscuit do to you?”

“Nothing.” He leaned forward and picked it up. “I’m sorry, my friend,” Cedric said to the biscuit and stuffed it into his mouth. Cloudia grimaced.

“Is anything wrong?” he asked after he had swallowed down.

“It was on the ground!”

Cedric shrugged. “I’ve eaten worse. So… downstairs and to the right?” He got up and held out his hand for Cloudia. She took it and let herself be pulled up, and in this instant, Kamden appeared at the foot of the stairs and waved to them before walking up.

“There you are! Everyone is waiting for you,” Kamden told them.

“Then we should hurry,” said Cloudia and linked arms with him.

Cedric frowned. “How did you manage to be punctual, Kamden?”

“I wanted to go to Cloudie first, and on my way, I met Miss Lisa who seemed quite mad. She said that she found a handbook in her room that was not what she expected it to be. I asked her if I could take a look. We inspected it and found out that it is not as useless as she had believed it to be: It turned out that the handbook contains a thorough map of every passage and every room of the château,” Kamden said. “Apparently, Baron Lambert de Charbonneau who commissioned the manor was paranoid and wanted his home to resemble the inner workings of the Pyramids of Giza. For the same reason, he ordered for the manor to be built here where his only neighbours would be the birds and the people in the village nearby. He was ridiculed by other noblemen, but, according to Miss Lisa’s handbook, he must have turned in his grave in joy when the revolution happened. When King Louis XIV had ordered for all nobles to live with him at Versailles, nobody had bothered to make sure that Lambert de Charbonneau and his family would come too as nobody had been eager to search for them in this labyrinth. Thus, the Baron’s descendants were saved when the revolution came.”

  This explained the Duponts’ eagerness to get their hands on the château: In the unlikely case that we were attacked, the manor’s architecture would protect us – or work against us if we had not got used to it by then. I should not forget to ask Lisa if she could lend me the Maid’s Manifesto later.

  “Very impressive,” Cedric remarked, and Kamden cleared his throat. “I have found you, but Milton still isn’t there. Has any of you seen him?”

“If Milton is not in his room or in the dining hall, I suppose he is in the library,” Cloudia suggested, and Kamden nodded.

“I’ve passed the library earlier,” said Cedric. “I should have taken a look – especially considering that you might have been there as well, Countess.”

Cloudia’s eyes widened as she suddenly remembered something. “Will you be able to find it again?”

“I guess?”

“I hope so because Milton and rain is not a good combination.”

  How could I forget this? I should have thought of it when I had pulled back the curtains and seen the rain.

  “What do you mean?” Cedric wanted to know.

She looked down the stairs, then back to Kamden and Cedric. “We have no time for explanations. I would like to go with you, but, at least, I have to hurry to breakfast. I need to greet my relatives. And you should hurry to the library to make sure Milton’s all right.”

Gently, Kamden unlinked his and Cloudia’s arms. “I will go with Kristopher.”

She nodded. “Thank you. Now, quick. We have no time to lose.”

  ***

  ~Cedric~

 What was with Milton and rain for Cloudia to get concerned? It rained so often in England; thus, it could not be something too serious, right? Especially considering that Wentworth was – at least, according to Cecelia – Milton’s “shadow,” and if he had not gone to get him or to attend to him, it really could not be very dramatic, right?

More curious than worried, I traced my way back to the library with Kamden. All the way I hoped that I was not misremembering anything, that I would be able to return to the dining hall, and that Milton was actually in the library. It would be quite a waste if he was not.

I was relieved when I found the door with “Bibliothèque” written above it again. I pushed open the heavy door and was met with yet another labyrinth. That Lambert de Charbonneau had truly been very meticulous with his plans. Rubbing my head, I walked inside – Kamden right by my side –, and after a few turns, I felt something tugging at my jacket and had to sneeze.

  Cedric turned around and saw a little girl standing in front of him: She seemed to be between seven and nine years of age, had unruly, red-brown hair, and big blue eyes. She smiled at him, took hold of her lavender-coloured dress, and briefly curtsied.

“Hello, I am Anaïs Dupont,” she said with a slight accent. “Claudette told me that I would find you here.”

“Claudette? Oh, you mean the Countess.” Cedric sneezed again and rubbed his nose. What was wrong with him?

“Bless you,” said Kamden.

“Thank you.”

Anaïs nodded. “Claudette told me that you went to look for Baron Salisbury, Your Grace, Mr Bonham. I offered to help because the library is very confusing, and she said that all I had to do was ‘find the man with the long, weirdly coloured hair.’”

“I want to protest, but I have to admit that she is right.” Cedric tugged at his ponytail. “Anyway, you do not have to be so formal when you are addressing me. ‘Kristopher’ is fine.”

“And ‘Emyr’ is fine to me,” said Kamden.

“Very well, Duke Kristopher, Mr Emyr,” Anaïs said and walked ahead.

“I would say that Baron Salisbury is in the seating area, don’t you think?” she asked, turning her head back to them every now and then.

“I guess so, yes,” Cedric said, trotting after her and sneezing again. Was it so dusty in the library? But if it was, why weren’t Kamden and Anaïs sneezing too? “I have a question, Anaïs: Are you the little sister of that frowning, knife-throwing boy?”

She giggled. “Aurèle? He is my cousin. I have a little brother, Gérard, who is three. There are also Jacques and Arnaud who are Aurèle’s younger brothers. You will meet them at breakfast,” Anaïs told Cedric and Kamden before she jumped up excitedly. “Look, Duke Kristopher, Mr Emyr! Is that Baron Salisbury?”

Cedric followed her gaze to an armchair. It was standing in front of a window; outside, the rain had become even stronger. Milton was sitting on the armchair; there was a pile of papers and a notebook on his lap, but he was not staring at them: He was staring at his left arm while he pressed his right hand to his chest.

Cedric stepped towards him. “Milton? Are you all right?”

Milton flinched and craned his head to him, staring first at him, then at Anaïs for a few seconds; his eyes were wide, his face ghostly pale. When he saw Kamden, Milton shook his head and rubbed his face. When he had put his hands down again, the expression on his face had already eased back to his normal one. “I am sorry if I made you worried, but I am fine,” he said and smiled at Cedric.

He sneezed again and said, “You were not looking fine to me.”

Milton sorted his papers and stuffed them into the notebook. “It’s just… I do not have a very strong heart. It is nothing serious I swear, and nothing has happened since I was a child, but… but the last time something did happen, it rained. And now, every time it rains, the memory of the feeling I had back then returns. It is simply a ‘ghost feeling’ and nothing worrisome,” he informed them, still smiling, but when Milton got up, his notebook in his hand, the movement still visibly strained him. Out of the corner of his eye, Cedric saw Kamden shifting slightly towards Milton, though he did not take any step to him.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting. The next time I do not arrive on time, you can simply start without me. Also, thank you, Kristopher and Emyr, for still having been so kind to look for me,” Milton continued.

“Well, we did not find you though. The little lady over there did,” said Cedric and looked at Anaïs who stared at Milton with glittering eyes.

  Huh? Had I missed something?

  Cedric was about to say something when Anaïs blurted out, seemingly incapable of keeping her words within herself any longer, “Baron Salisbury, are you a faerie?”

The confusion within Cedric grew stronger, his understanding of the situation lessened, and in his perplexed state, he did not know what to say; the events had rendered him speechless, and Cedric was certain that if Cloudia was here, she would be thoroughly amused.

Apparently, Milton did not suffer from temporary speech loss as Cedric did. That’s why he was able to kneel in front of Anaïs and say, “I am afraid that we have not been properly introduced to each other. I am Milton, and I suppose you are Miss Anaïs Dupont?”

Anaïs’ eyes widened. “You know my name?”

“Lady Cloudia has given me a list of all your names in advance. Now tell me, Miss Anaïs, why do you believe me to be a faerie?”

“Because you look like one!” she exclaimed. “In my books, faeries are described to look very fair and delicate and sometimes to have green eyes.”

“Uh, well, you see, Miss Anaïs,” Milton began bashfully. “I have to disappoint you: I am not a faerie. I do not even have green eyes – they are hazel. The light here must tint them more green than brown right now. Kristopher has green eyes though. Did you ask him whether he was a faerie?”

“No, I did not because Claudette said that his hair – and I do not mean to be offensive or unkind; I simply recite what she has told me – is not washed very often, and even though faeries are creatures of nature, they are supposed to be impeccable. Also, he does have very striking green eyes, but they look too unnatural to belong to a forester,” Anaïs said, and Cedric groaned. “I do wash my hair. This is its natural colour,” he said and sneezed.

“I am sorry, Miss Anaïs, but neither Kristopher nor I are faeries. We may have disappointed you, but I do wish you all the best in your search – and so does Kristopher and even Emyr, I assume,” said Milton and stood up, still a little bit shaky. “Also, I think we should hurry to the dining hall. We have kept the others waiting long enough, and Kristopher is in dire need of a cup of tea: He seems to have caught a cold.”

“I was fine until a few minutes,” Cedric said, rubbing his nose.

“Colds can be deceitful,” Anaïs stated with a serious face before she turned to Milton. “Well, you may not be a faerie,” she said, boldly taking Milton’s hand, “but you do look like one, Baron Milton. This alone may convince Jacques that faeries may really exist.” She dragged him forward. “Come! I cannot wait to see Jacques’ face! And, of course, to finally have breakfast and get Duke Kristopher his tea!”

With no protest, Milton let himself be dragged through the corridors by Anaïs, and Cedric and Kamden followed them.

  Something told me that our stay here would be far from boring.

  ***

  “There you are. We were about to begin to believe that the château swallowed you whole,” said Cloudia when Cedric, Kamden, Milton, and Anaïs entered the dining hall. Silently, Kamden went to occupy the chair to her right.

Last evening, the food displayed on the table had been scarce as their hosts had known that, while they had been undoubtedly hungry, they had also been very, very exhausted. Now, it was richly laid, and seeing all the food made Cedric’s stomach grumble. He sat down on the empty chair to Cloudia’s left and briefly looked around the hall, saw Aurèle scowling at him from the opposite side. He, Anaïs, and the spectacled boy to whom she was dragging Milton and who was sitting to Aurèle’s right, Jacques Cedric assumed, had hair in various shades of brown; however, the little boy to Aurèle’s left, presumably Arnaud, had black hair and piercing blue-green eyes. The instant Cedric and the others had come in, he had turned his head to them and fixed his eyes on Anaïs. He was still watching her, and Cedric followed his gaze to see Anaïs talking rapidly to Jacques in French, he answering her, they taking turns looking at Milton, and Milton looking very out of place and fumbling with his stuffed notebook.

It was quite a sight.

“Why did you even make such a fuss about Milton?” Cedric asked, leaning to Cloudia. “He only gets ‘ghost pain’ from the rain after all. I’ve expected something more dramatic. For example, that he is actually a very confused werewolf, changing to his were-form when it rains and not when there’s a full moon…”

“I think you need to eat something,” she said, handing the butter to him. “You always become more nonsensical when you are hungry.”

Cedric took the butter from her. “Definitely. Where are your ‘aunts and uncles,’ the rest of your distant relatives? The Comte and Comtesse? The Baron and Baronne? Will they come later, or at all? Will the enigmatic Marquis come too? And where is Cecelia?”

“What an awful lot of questions.”

“Apparently, hunger does not only make me more ridiculous but also very noisy.”

Cloudia put a raisin roll on her plate. “Anselme, Sylviane, Amélie, and Firmin have already eaten. They like to get up early, and because they do not want to disturb their children, they eat breakfast separately. If possible, they usually eat lunch and dinner together. About the Marquis… I told you about his condition yesterday, don’t you remember?”

“Frankly, I don’t. I’m not even sure if I was anywhere else but in that damned carriage yesterday.”

She sighed. “The Marquis is eighty-six years old and not in the best condition. Amélie and Anselme were against him coming here, but he did not want to hear any of it. He is the only one who knows where the Clockmaker is, and he does not want anyone to find out as long as it’s not absolutely necessary: He has not even told his own children. The Marquis will entrust the Clockmaker’s location to one of us, presumably me, and that’s it. Considering his state, I doubt he will leave his room during our stay.”

“How unfortunate. I really wanted to meet him even if I think that he is scary. And what about Cecelia?”

“She needs more time to collect herself. Cecelia has a bit of trauma regarding overly long carriage drives,” Cloudia told Cedric who nodded and looked away from her and ahead, seeing Aurèle still staring at him while he layered white cheese on bread.

“Do I have something on my face?” Cedric asked. Aurèle ignored him.

  At least at breakfast, I had been free of Miss Greene and her piercing stares; now there was her male French counterpart to irritate me.

  Apparently finished with their argument, Jacques returned to his breakfast while Milton hastily sat down next to Kamden, and Anaïs took place next to Arnaud, albeit a little grumpy. Her mood instantly turned around when she sat down. “Gérard!” she exclaimed, jumped up from her chair, and vanished beneath the table.

A few seconds later, she reemerged with a little boy with slightly tousled light brown hair and blue eyes. Anaïs said something to Aurèle that Cedric could not understand before she seated her little brother and a servant came to help her clean his hands and comb his hair. When they were finished, Anaïs clapped her hands together.

“It’s a bit late – you have already started eating after all – but have the others, apart from Aurèle of course, introduced themselves to you, Baron Milton, Duke Kristopher, Mr Kamden? If yes, I have not noticed it.”

“Well, I would have introduced myself to His Grace and Mr Bonham if you had not hindered me with your faerie business, Anaïs,” Jacques pointed out before he briefly bowed. “I am Jacques Beauchene, nice to meet you,” he said. Unlike his brother or cousin, he had no accent at all. “The boy next to Aurèle is my younger brother Arnaud.” Arnaud waved at them.

“And my fiancé,” Anaïs added, beaming. “Finally, that’s” – she pinched Gérard’s cheek – “my little brother Gérard. He is usually with Maman or our governess Josseline, but I begged for him to join us because we were unable to see you yesterday.”

“Hello,” Gérard said in his little voice and waved.

“So, as we are all here,” said Anaïs, her eyes shining with something ill-boding. “How did you all meet Claudette?” She turned to Kamden. “Mr Emyr! Can you start?”

Kamden stopped in his movement and very slowly looked up. In this moment, he reminded Cedric of a fawn that was seeing a train for the first time: scared, shaky, and not knowing what this thing in front of him was and what the hell he was supposed to do with it.

“She came into my bookstore,” Kamden said when he regained his voice.

“That’s everything?”

He nodded.

“Oh. Very well… Baron Milton, what about you? How did you meet Claudette?”

Milton put down his knife and clutched his hands together. “Her aunt is a patron at an art gallery where my father used to be one as well. A few years ago, a new exhibition opened. Lady Cloudia accompanied her aunt, and I attended the opening in my father’s stead,” he told her.

“That’s all?” Anaïs pressed.

He smiled. “That’s all,” Milton said and took up his knife again.

Still hopeful to get a wonderfully long and exciting story, Anaïs turned to Cedric. “And you, Duke Kristopher?”

  “She was killing a man in a dark alleyway, and I happened to be there because I had to collect his soul. I told her that I was a Grim Reaper, and she still insisted on starting a partnership with me.”

This was exactly the kind of story Anaïs was seeking – insane and entertaining. Unfortunately, it was not one Cloudia or I could ever tell her.

  “Well, it was incredibly unspectacular,” Cedric began instead. “We were at the party of a noblewoman whose name I have already forgotten – that’s how unspectacular it was.”

Anaïs let her shoulders sink. “I see.”

“That story may be wholly uninteresting,” he continued with a grin which earned him a frown and a glare from Cloudia, “but I have better stories about the Lady to tell.”

Anaïs’ eyes glowed. “Oh, please tell them, Duke Kristopher!”

“If I may have a word,” Cloudia said, her voice carrying loudly through the hall. She looked at Cedric. “No.”

“All that build-up for a simple ‘no’?”

“Brevity is the soul of wit. If you want me to elaborate, I will.” She cleared her throat. “No.”

“You did not elaborate on it at all.”

“Of course, I did. I elaborated on the intensity. The stress. The pronunciation.”

Anaïs giggled. “You two get along so well! Claudette, please, one harmless little story?”

“If she does not want to, you should respect her wish and stop pestering her,” Jacques said and stood up. “It’s not very polite. And if you may excuse me for a few minutes, my glasses are slightly dirty and I have forgotten my special handkerchief in my room.”

“I know… but are you not curious?”

“Curiosity should never lead to a breach of privacy, Anaïs,” said Jacques and left the dining hall.

“But…”

Aurèle groaned. “We should let Cloudia decide. If she is fine with one… uh… short harmless story, that will be all we will hear. If she is not… then we will talk about something else. Cloudia?”

Cloudia was silent for a while before she ultimately sighed and said, “Only if he tells me beforehand which one. And only one.”

“That will be enough!” exclaimed Anaïs happily. “Duke Kristopher, which story do you pick?”

Cedric looked at Cloudia who raised an eyebrow at him expectantly. There were many stories he could tell, but most he wanted to share were intersected with Watchdog work – their charade in St Margaret’s Chapel, how they were standing on that ledge outside the Salisbury Villa, how she took him to meet the Queen, how she killed Maven von Brandt… – and, thus, were not ones Cedric could tell in the presence of Milton. Then, there were the ones that were too ridiculous to tell: tracking down Dahlia Duke, how they sneaked into a Christmas party, how they hid zucchinis on the Lincolns’ porch…

Fortunately, Cedric had never intended to share any of those events.

“The picnic in Wales,” he answered, smiling at the memory.

“I hate you very much for this, but please go on.”

His smile widened. “Last year, the Lady and I were in Wales and, one day, I decided that it was the perfect day to go out into the wild and have a picnic. And while we were eating, I managed to make her laugh genuinely – by, you will never believe it, telling her one of the worst jokes possible.”

“What joke was it? Please, please, Duke Kristopher, what joke did you tell Claudette?” begged Anaïs.

“As I have said, we were having a picnic in Wales,” Cedric continued. “I asked the cook of the place where we were staying to prepare a few things for us. One of them was Glamorgan sausage. It is some kind of sausage which is not made out of meat but of cheese. The cook was very talented; therefore, the sausage tasted really delicious – and I jokingly said ‘Ah, I would like to marry him but I can’t.’ The Lady wanted to know why I couldn’t marry him after I told her that it wasn’t for the reason she believed it was – and I answered: ‘Because I found out that he’s a really cheesy guy.’”

Arnaud and Anaïs chuckled. “You made her laugh with that?” she said.

“Only because I had a terrible headache at that time,” Cloudia defended herself.

“No headache in the world can make someone laugh so hysterically at a pun as you did back then,” Cedric countered.

“Of course, it can’t. You may recall that, at that time, I did not only have a headache but was also on the verge of having a sunstroke because of a certain someone who insisted to take me out for a picnic when the sun was at its zenith in the middle of summer – and I hope you haven’t forgotten what happened afterwards.”

“What happened afterwards?” Anaïs wanted to know.

“He nearly got me killed, and I had to spend most of our time in Wales in bed recovering.”

Milton choked on his food, and Kamden clapped him on the back while staring at Cedric. Aurèle scowled at him with an intensity so fierce that it might surpass Lisa’s scowls. Even little Gérard could not believe what he had heard and looked at Cedric with wide eyes.

“What is going on?” Jacques asked when he re-entered the dining room. His glasses were now polished and nicely reflected the light from the chandeliers.

“Duke Kristopher once murdered Claudette!” Anaïs answered.

“You forgot to say ‘almost,’ Anaïs,” Arnaud told his fiancée.

“Oh, yes, right – he almost killed our Claudette!”

Jacques looked at Cedric. “How could you even try to harm our cousin?” Then, he let his gaze wander to Cloudia. “And why are you still talking to someone who almost got you killed?”

“I did not actively try to get her killed,” Cedric protested. “We went picnicking, and she carelessly put down her hat and didn’t put it on for hours – and she neglected her health again by not drinking enough.”

“Are you trying to blame me for what happened?”

“I am trying to defend my honour here. Unlike you, I have to do this all on my own, Lady Phantomhive. After all, I don’t have an army of cousins. To be honest – do you have more cousins hidden somewhere? The next time, you make Milton, Emyr, and me accompany you to Latin America because your great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother’s favourite aunt was Paraguayan, and you have a million more cousins there.”

“He’s ridiculous,” Aurèle said.

“We should get rid of him,” Jacques added.

“I once read a book about how to make murder look like an accident,” Arnaud proudly told them.

“I read it to him!” Anaïs happily exclaimed.

“Murder!” Gérard yelled, raising his fork into the air.

“I am so glad that you don’t have any Phantomhive relatives,” Cedric said to Cloudia who ignored him and chuckled at her cousins. “You are too sweet, but I cannot let you kill the Duke,” she said, taking a sip from her tea. “Because that is my privilege.”

Aurèle grinned. “Of course, Claudette. But if you… if you need help, you can count on us.”

“Always,” Anaïs added.

“Aren’t you forgetting the Earl, Kristopher?” Milton remarked after he could breathe again and had thanked Kamden.

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course, the Earl. His presence is so thin that I keep forgetting that he exists,” Cedric replied and he hoped that his words had not come out of him too hastily.

“Also…” Milton started, paused, opened his mouth, and closed it again.

“What do you want to say, Milton?” asked Kamden.

Milton cleared his throat. “I want to say that it was a really nice story, Kristopher.”

Aurèle raised his eyebrow but did not say anything. “It was?” said Cedric.

“Yes, of course,” Milton replied, fiddling with a serviette. “Sure, it was unfortunate how things turned out in the end, but at the beginning, you looked so happy to tell us about the picnic. You must truly cherish this memory despite its ending, don’t you? I think it’s good that you can still enjoy thinking about that time. Bad things often overshadow the good ones – and you two seemed to have had such a good time in Wales; it would be so sad if you only ever focused on the one bad thing that occurred. Especially as it was not the fault of neither of you.” He made a pause. “No… simply forget that I have ever spoken if it does not bother you too much. I am sorry.”

“Uh… well…” stammered Cedric before he gave up on saying anything. He had no idea what to respond to Milton anyway.

For the rest of the breakfast, Milton did not say a single word although everyone else was talking boisterously and over one another; and every time, Cedric glanced into his direction, he also saw Aurèle scrutinising him.

  ***

  ~Cloudia~

 “Well, that was probably the most chaotic breakfast of my life,” said Cedric. Right after they had finished eating, Anaïs and Arnaud had gone to bring Gérard to Sylviane, his and Anaïs’ mother, and to see Babette. Jacques had announced that he would head to the library now, and Aurèle had vanished to go outside – presumably to practice throwing in a much safer place than in the corridor. Kamden and Milton had left with Cloudia and Cedric to go to their respective rooms but were walking a few paces behind them because Milton had been the one to close the door.

“That means a lot considering that I am not the youngest anymore,” Cedric continued.

“Really? You have never experienced even more chaotic breakfasts?” Cloudia said. “The bread did not go up in flames? A servant did not triple and spill a whole can of milk over your grandmother? Nobody ever bit into a roll so hard that they lost a tooth? The cook was never so tired that he misunderstood ‘croissants’ as ‘cross’ and ‘saints’ and prepared a very holy breakfast surprise?”

“You cannot tell me that you have actually experienced these things.”

She shrugged. "I don’t have to. Poor John can tell you how he was fired after angering Grandmother Hortense. Clarissa can tell you how she lost a tooth – thankfully it was only a milk tooth – to a centuries-old roll that somehow sneaked its way into the bread basket. If he was still alive, Maynard could tell you how he was fired after he was out with his friends for so long that he was too sleepy to work properly the next morning.”

“You are making this up.”

“I could never. All I said was born out of breakfasts had during the annual three-day family gathering at Grandmother Hortense’s. Do not get me started on stories concerning lunch or dinner!”

“Hah!” Cedric exclaimed and jumped up and down. “You are lying! I have never heard of an annual family reunion of yours! Last year you did not attend such a thing!”

“Grandmother Hortense is not particularly fond of me and only ever invites me every other time. Sometimes I cannot go because I have Watchdog duties to attend to.”

“That does not prove any–”

“Lady Cloudia, there you are,” said Lisa when she approached them. “I guess Mr Emyr has already told you about the Maid’s Manifesto?” She took it out and opened it. “Hah! What I thought to be completely useless and outright insulting ultimately turned out to be very, very helpful. This place is an architectural mess and without a map or having become fully familiar with the building due to haunting its floors for years, you would be lost. I doubt anyone would ever be able to find your corpse in here.” Lisa sighed. “Unfortunately, the Maid’s Manifesto was more of an exception than the starting point of a new surprising rule,” she added with a sideways glance at Cedric.

“Very funny, Miss Greene.”

“How was breakfast with the other servants?” asked Cloudia.

  I had already a bit of a headache; I did not need it to become worse.

  “It was fine. The servants of the Duponts and Beauchenes do not speak English, though. The only exception is, according to Mr Wentworth, the governess Josseline Manaudou, but she does not eat with us. This creates a bit of a barrier – at least, for me. Still, Al, Mr Wentworth, and I ate together while the others where bundled among themselves.

“Al and Mr Wentworth talked for quite some time and they get along very well. It surprised me a bit as Al usually shies away from conversations, and people shy away from him. Mr Wentworth does not seem to mind though – unlike his charge.”

“This again? Simply ask Milton about it. He is right behind us.”

“Oh, yes. I doubt that he would refuse to answer or that he would give a dishonest response,” Cedric said. “Milton strikes me as the kind of person who would gladly answer all your questions as truthfully as possible. Of course, only if he knows the answer and as long as it’s not too intrusive.”

“Nobody who is in their right mind would answer such questions. This says absolutely nothing about his character.”

“May I interrupt?” Milton suddenly said, having approached them as silently as a cat. “I am afraid, but I involuntarily overheard bits and pieces of your conversation. I am very sorry, but…” He turned to Lisa. “Miss Greene, are you referring to the incident in Dover? I did not mean to stare at Mr Newman; my surprise got the best of me. I am very sorry. I truly did not mean to make him uncomfortable in any way. Being stared at for such things is awful. I know that.” Milton sighed. “I will apologise to Mr Newman as soon as possible. I will definitely do so sometime today. I should have done it sooner. I am very sorry.”

“I… I think Al will appreciate it,” Lisa replied, clearly taken aback by his words.

“I do hope so,” he said. “Now, with the whole day ahead of us…” – Milton put a hand on his chest and smiled – “and the rain ceased, have you already made any plans for today?”

  No matter what I had said to Cedric and Lisa, Milton was a bit of a hindrance. Nanteuil-la-Forêt was a small village and every new face would instantly become subject to gossip. We were a large group of people, and if we went there together, it would be even more eyebrow-raising than when only one or two of us go. The same would apply when we took turns going to the village.

And even more, if we went there looking like nobles.

The latter part should not be a problem with Milton – he would certainly be fine with disguising himself. The first part, however, might be tricky. Keeping an eager traveller and explorer away from Nanteuil-la-Forêt could not come without problems.

Under different circumstances, I could not care less if he went to the village or not – but if we caused too much a stir, it might alert Townsend and endanger the mission.

  “Have you already made any plans for today?” Cloudia countered.

“Bram and I were contemplating exploring the nature around here a bit. Apart from that, I have a lot of work to do before my meeting in a few days. I thought about doing my paperwork in the salon or library.”

  Evidently, I was absolutely wrong. Milton was as easy to handle as I had claimed.

  “Are you not afraid of getting lost?” asked Cedric.

“Not quite. Are you interested in coming along?”

“Oh, no. I get lost all the time, and I am not a fan of forest strolls.”

“You could ask Firmin – Baron Beauchene – if he wants to accompany you,” Cloudia suggested. “Amélie said that he is very interested in the wildlife here and that he has been here once before. And I believe Emyr would like to join as well.”

She looked at Kamden, and the gaze he returned to her told her that he had understood: Milton had said that he and Wentworth would only walk around the forest, but if they were to change their minds, it was his job to stop them.

“I would come myself,” Cloudia continued, “but I promised His Grace to pay a visit to Nanteuil-la-Forêt with him. It is a little, unremarkable village, but even such places can have some hidden charms tucked somewhere in their two streets, I suppose.”

Milton smiled. “Villages always do, not only hidden between two streets. Maybe we will head to the village as well later. Until then… Emyr, do you want to ask Baron Beauchene with me whether he is interested in joining us or not?”

“Sure,” Kamden replied. “Let us talk later, Cloudia, Kristopher. Miss Lisa.”

Kamden and Milton said their goodbyes and walked back to a staircase they had passed earlier; Lisa had consulted the Manifesto, and, apparently, that was the best route to get to the Beauchenes’ rooms.

“What a splendidly useful guide you have there, Miss Greene!” Milton had said before he had wished them a good time in Nanteuil-la-Forêt and gone away with Kamden.

“So, my dear Duke,” Cloudia said when they arrived at her room and she pushed open the doors.

“It is time for us to get changed. We will meet here in thirty minutes. Not a second later, you understood?”

  ***

  “Thanks for taking us with you, Mr Cuvier,” Cloudia said in French against the wind when, thirty-five minutes later, they were driving from the château to the village.

“You are welcome, Lady Cloudia!” Denis Cuvier replied. Cloudia had partially anticipated that she and Cedric would have to walk all the way to Nanteuil-la-Forêt. To their luck, Denis had been ordered to go down for shopping by Anselme Dupont – the Marquis’ son, Amélie’s older brother, and the father of Anaïs and Gérard. When Cloudia and Cedric had gone downstairs to head out for their little adventure, they had stumbled over Denis, and he had been so friendly to drive them. At first, he had been unsure whether he should or not as his wagon was not exactly made for the transportation of humans. Cloudia had convinced him that it was fine, and now they were being transported like goods in the back, and Cedric screamed his lungs out, holding on for dear life to the wagon’s side.

“Is His Grace fine?” Denis asked, glancing at Cedric.

“Oh, yes,” said Cloudia. “Undertaker,” she continued in English. “If you do not stop screaming, some passing-by villager may believe that there is a howling monster in the woods and break out a panic. If they catch you, they may try to dissect you.”

Cedric was silent for a moment. Then, he started to whimper.

With a sigh, Cloudia slid down next to him. “What is wrong?”

“This bastard there is driving too damn fast. Why are you fine with it?”

“I had worse carriage drivers. One time, some maniac managed to get me from Quaker Gardens to Soho in twenty minutes. Never tell a hansom driver to go as fast as he can and that he may cross others on the way,” Cloudia told him. “The better question is: Why are you not fine with it? What are you afraid of? You are already dead.”

“First of all, I am very capable of dying again. Second, I would not describe myself as ‘dead.’ I may be a Grim Reaper, but I still have to eat and sleep and do all other essential things humans have to do; I can even get ill – and you know that! If I were dead, I could jump off this damned wagon and come out unscathed. But I am not. I would die again and land before the Great Grim Reaper who would only sigh and say, ‘You again?’”

Cloudia held out her hand. Cedric stared at it.

“Come, take it, and tell me a story. We have already established that you like telling stories after all.”

He glanced one more time at her hand and then at her before he finally took it.

“Wonderful! And now to the story. Tell me whatever you like and what will distract you from Denis’ questionable driving skills.”

Cedric whimpered one more time before he cleared his throat, squeezed her hand, and focused his eyes on Cloudia.

“It started with a desperate man. Once upon a time, that man lived with his wife in a wonderful little cottage. They had wished for a child for a very long time, and when they were finally expecting, they had to face a great problem. As you see, there was a little window at the back of their house which overlooked their neighbour’s garden, and that garden was filled with the most wonderful vegetables and flowers…”

  ***

  “Thank you, Denis,” said Cloudia. They had not quite reached the village now as she thought that it would be better if Cedric and she walked the last few hundred metres on their own. Nobody had to know that they belonged together after all. “Let us meet here in five hours. Is that fine for you?”

“Of course! Goodbye, Lady Cloudia! Your Grace!” And like lightning, Denis was gone.

“What is he feeding his horses?” asked Cedric, leaning against a tree. Her method to distract him had worked – he had gone through the entire fairy-tale without whimpering once –, but now that they were on solid, unmoving ground again, his queasiness had returned.

“I should inquire about it. Thomas may be very interested in it. ‘Power food! Makes your horse run so fast that even Death would rather die than chase it!’”

“I for my part am very interested in keeping my breakfast inside of me. I do like nature, but nobody benefits from it when I share the dozens of croissants I ate with it.” Cedric took a few deep breaths and closed his eyes for a moment before he shoved himself off the tree so that they could resume their journey to the village.

“Do you think Denis will slow down when we have to return?” asked Cedric, circling a puddle. “He has to think of the cargo after all.”

“Earlier, we were the cargo, and you know how it was.”

“But the other cargo, the actual cargo, cannot hold on to something. It would topple out and be ruined.”

“Let’s see what will happen later, okay? Let us focus on our work now.”

“Very well. What do you even mean to do in the village? Question every resident if they are Nicodemus Townsend?”

“Do not be ridiculous, Undertaker,” said Cloudia. “I plan to see the mayor. We say that we were sent from Paris to catch a criminal and that we need his help in this task which will require his absolute discretion. If we are in a particularly bold mood, we may tell him that he will receive a medal if he helps us. People are like magpies – hopelessly attracted to everything that shines.”

“Are you sure that this will work? I don’t think I can pass for a Frenchman if I cannot even speak French.”

“I will say that you are embarrassed about your voice and have to whisper all you want to say into my ear.”

“Cannot we say that I am a foreigner and need a mediator?”

Cloudia looked at him. “The world is slowly shifting together, Undertaker, but villages like Nanteuil-la-Forêt are not very affected by that shift. The people living in such places are not used to foreigners and often do not trust them. If they don’t trust us, how will they aide us in our investigation? Also, Townsend may be a foreigner here too, but it would still seem suspicious if the Parisian police send foreigners to do their job for them. The mayor and nobody else would believe us.”

“But can’t we say that I am… I don’t know… mute? I know a bit of sign language; it might work.”

“I don’t know sign language, though. You need to teach me one day. Until then, we have to push back this charade idea.”

Cedric sighed. “Very well. Then, I will be the detective with the embarrassing voice. Are you happy now?”

“Definitely. How do you want to be called?”

“Hm?”

“Undertaker, we need false names. I don’t want to have to think of ones on the spot. I am, I have to admit, not very good at naming anything, and it will be better if you already know to which name you have to respond when I call you.”

He sighed again and pondered over it for a while. “Jeanne Gauthier for you. Alexandre Vidocq for me.”

“Interesting choices. Wholly unexpected. Why did you choose them?”

Cedric smiled. “I had no particular reason.”

  ***

  After ten minutes, they finally arrived at the village. At first, they kept to alleys, tracing the village more than entering it, but a place like Nanteuil-la-Forêt did not have many dark corners to begin with and soon, Cloudia and Cedric wandered rather openly through the streets.

It was a perfectly ordinary village and every now and then, people stared at them and put their heads together. The gossiping had already begun.

“Do you smell this?” Cedric asked into Cloudia’s ear, sniffing the air. “Cake.”

Cloudia rolled her eyes. Very well. But only because we need to ask someone for the way, she thought, touching her skull pendant necklace.

  I followed Cedric’s keen nose. If one of us should be called a dog, he should be it. It fit more.

  They entered a little bakery, and Cloudia ordered a piece of cherry crumb cake for Cedric.

“Hello, my companion and I are looking for the townhall,” Cloudia told the baker in French after she had handed the cake to Cedric. “May you be so kind as to tell us the way?”

The baker wiped the counter and narrowed his eyes. “I have meant to ask: Who are you? I have never seen you here before, and I am one of the only three bakers here. I have practically seen everyone.”

She smiled at him. “We are simply two strangers passing by.”

For a moment, the baker scrutinised her, and then, he said, “Follow down the main road; then go left. You cannot miss it.”

“Thank you.” Cloudia gestured for Cedric to come, and they quickly walked down the path to the townhall. There, they had to wait quite a while. Not because the mayor was so busy, but because the staff was wondering who those two persons they had never seen before in their entire lives could be.

  Gossip. Cecelia loved it because she could get a lot of information out of it, and I could see its value in this regard, but it was far too tiring for me. Cecelia could handle it. I did not want to have to do anything with it.

  “The mayor will see you now,” the secretary Alain Descombes, a tall man in a well-worn suit, told them. “If you may follow me now.”

Cloudia and Cedric followed their guide to the first floor, and in front of the room at the very end of the corridor, he halted and opened the door for them. He bowed when they entered and closed the door behind them.

“Welcome, Monsieur Vidocq. Monsieur Gauthier,” the mayor said. He walked up to them and shook their hands. “I am the mayor of Nanteuil-la-Forêt, Mathieu Guilloux. What can I do for you?”

  After we had parted to get changed, I had put on trousers, well aware that with them and my hair up and hidden beneath a cap, I could pass as a man. It was easier to walk through the streets like that: People were already talking about us, and I did not want them to fantasise over the “unmarried pair walking around the streets solely on their own” too. But when I had told the secretary that I was Jeanne Gauthier, I had not put any effort into lowering my voice. The trousers were a disguise for the street; I had not meant to continue the charade here. However, if they saw pants and apparent short hair and instinctively believed me to be a man…

Part of me wanted to continue this masquerade, wanted me to be “Jean” instead of “Jeanne.” I had done this before and it had gone well. Why not do it again? The rest of me, though, had no interest in pretending to be a man. And, for once, this larger part was louder than the smaller one.

  “It is Mademoiselle Gauthier,” Cloudia corrected him with a smile.

Mathieu Guilloux frowned. “I knew that you were an odd pair – marching into my village and heading straight to me – but now you have become even stranger. A girl in pants!” He shook his head. “Anyway, please take a seat and tell me what you want.”

Cloudia and Cedric exchanged a glance before they followed Guilloux to his desk and sat down on the chairs in front of it. Guilloux himself sat down behind the desk.

“Monsieur Vidocq, why have you come here?”

“Monsieur Vidocq and I have come to Nanteuil-la-Forêt on order of the Parisian police,” Cloudia answered him, still smiling. “Vidocq is a renowned detective there. Unfortunately, he is very embarrassed by his voice, and because of this, he needs me: I am the only one who is allowed to hear his voice and recite what he is saying.”

“So you are his secretary?”

“We were sent here for a highly important case,” Cloudia continued. “A criminal from England has caused quite a riot in Paris and before we could catch him, he fled. We assume that he is hiding somewhere around here.”

Guilloux frowned. “He is hiding here? In Nanteuil-la-Forêt? Unbelievable!”

Her smile widened. “That’s exactly the reason why he is here. Nobody expects a wanted thief to be here.

“Mayor Guilloux, we have come to inform you of our investigation and to ask for your aide in finding the thief. We are certain that with your help, we will be able to find him in no time. The sooner we find and catch him, the sooner Vidocq and I will be gone.”

Guilloux said nothing for a while before the neutral line of his mouth transformed into a grin Cloudia did not like at all. “Mademoiselle Gauthier, so you are saying that Monsieur Vidocq is a renowned detective in Paris?”

She nodded. “Very famous, very talented. Day after day, his brilliance adorns the title pages.”

Guilloux leaned back. “I see, I see. Mademoiselle Gauthier, you may not have noticed it while coming here, but we have our very own criminal lurking around here. In the last two days, two persons have been killed. It is the first time something like this has happened here and my people are in a panic.

“I will help Monsieur Vidocq in finding his thief if he agrees to help me with my murderer. Is this a deal?”

  ***

  I hated this bastard so much. I had tried to argue with him for a while – I had even told him about the prospect of receiving a medal, but it had not helped –, but soon figured out that it was in vain. Guilloux was one of those people whose mind you could not change no matter what you did. After briefly “consulting” Cedric – he had only whispered into my ear how much he disliked the mayor – I had agreed. However, I had made a condition as well: Under no circumstances should he tell anyone that I was, in fact, a woman. It would ruin my disguise on the streets after all.

  Still furious, Cloudia left the mayor’s office with Cedric. Outside, a young woman with light brown hair in a long braid and a gentle face waited for them.

“I am Yvette Guilloux, the mayor’s daughter,” she introduced herself with a curtsy. “I am to guide you through Nanteuil-la-Forêt. Very pleased to meet you, Monsieur Vidocq, Monsieur Gauthier.”

“We are very pleased to meet you as well,” said Cloudia, and Cedric nodded.

“Please follow me down,” Yvette said and led them to the stairs. “I hope Père was not too unfriendly. He can be rather rough sometimes. I hope he did not offend you?”

“Not at all,” Cloudia dryly replied.

Yvette nodded. “Did he tell you something else I have to do? Apart from showing you around?”

“Your father said that you would inform us about the murder case – Vidocq is a detective and agreed to help. What happened?”

She paled. “It is absolutely horrible! Traumatic! Two days ago, Madame Nadia Allemand, an elderly seamstress, was found in her tailor’s shop – with thousands of pins stabbed through her skin! It was an awful sight and nobody knows who it was. It was a shock to all of us. And then, yesterday…” Yvette shuddered. “Dominique Duhamel was found hanging from the church’s roof. He was hanging there with a rope around his head, but his heart had been pierced by a knife…”

She showed them to the backdoor and out. “And, well… We do know who it might have been, but we have no idea who he is exactly.”

Cloudia frowned. “Oh, very interesting. Could you please tell us more?”

“Two days ago, a stranger came here and checked into Maxime Guilbert’s pension. He checked in and vanished on the same day: On the day Madame Allemand’s corpse was found.”

Cloudia leaned towards Cedric so that he could whisper something into her ear.

“What is she saying?” he wanted to know.

“Vidocq would like to see the pension,” said Cloudia, and thought: I will tell you everything later, Undertaker.

  ***

  Maxime Guilbert’s pension was right next to the bakery they had visited earlier. According to Yvette, the baker Basile Duhamel was the father of the second victim.

  It was certainly odd for him to continue working after his son’s gruesome death. Was it because he was dependent on the money or because of something else?

  Guilbert heartily greeted Yvette and after a row of small talk and introductions, he gave her the key to the apparent murderer’s room and told her, Cloudia, and Cedric its number: 245.

“I am a friend of his daughter Marie-Claire,” Yvette told them while they climbed the stairs to the second floor. “She and I used to run around these halls all the time. Now, all we do is drink tea and converse in the kitchen.”

She put the key into its hole when they arrived in front of Room 245. “Maxime said that he did not touch it: Everything is exactly like the stranger has left it. Maxime was afraid to touch the room after what happened, and he stopped Dominique’s mother from destroying it. Poor Solange. Now that you are here, Maxime is especially happy that he has protected the room. He got a few scratches from the fight. At least, now he knows that they were not for nothing.”

The door swung open, and Cloudia and Cedric stepped inside. They walked around, searching for something useful.

The room was ordinarily decorated: There was a rug, a bed, a small desk, a slender wardrobe. From the window, Cloudia could see the façade from a house, and there was a chamber pot beneath the bed. No manipulated tapestry, no loose floorboards.

The wardrobe was empty. The bed was untouched. There was nothing on the desk, not even faint lines that indicated that the stranger had sat down and written something there. The rug was glued to the floor so masterfully that it was impossible to move.

The window was intact and closed. There were no holes in the ceiling and walls, no cracks as well.

The room was absolutely blank.

  ***

  ~Cedric~

 On our way back, Cloudia explained everything to me, but it sounded more like she was talking to herself than to me. After we had gone to the pension, Yvette had led us to the church and to the tailor’s shop. At each place, Cloudia’s frown had deepened, and when Yvette had invited us to tea, I had been able to hear the gears turning inside Cloudia’s head over my chewing.

The case was clearly bothering her. Still, in my eyes, this was no excuse for ditching me as soon as we had arrived at the château. Denis had actually driven slower this time, relieving my soul and stomach, but when Cloudia told me that she would retreat to her chambers now, I still had not the strength to protest.

 The hours passed and after doing nothing in that time, I decided to go out and find out whether she would like to see me now…

  Cedric walked down the corridors, crossing his fingers that he was actually taking the right path when he was promptly grabbed and dragged into an astonishingly beautifully furnished and decorated room.

  Wrong way.

  Very unceremoniously, Cedric was thrown onto an ottoman.

“I would appreciate it if you were to stop doing this,” he said to Cecelia and shifted into a better seating position.

Cecelia shrugged and sat down on a large sofa opposite him. Today, she was wrapped in black silk. From the exhaustion that had apparently been plaguing her earlier was nothing to be seen.

“Rather, you should consider becoming less lost-in-thought and more observant and cautious. Under widely different circumstances, I might have been an intruder sent to cut off all the heads of the residents here. Imagine it! Someone whose sole talent and purpose in life is cutting off and collecting people’s heads! And he was sent after us! How tragic for the world it would be to lose my lovely countenance!”

“I thought you were talking about my head.”

“I will talk about your head when I want to play ball like the shepherd’s children.”

“Cecelia, why am I here?”

“Do you remember the promise you have given to me? Back in April? Please do not say you don’t: I will be tremendously disappointed.”

“It was not a promise when I said that you could ask me another time whether I would like to drink with you.”

“You remembered!” Cecelia exclaimed. “Wonderful. Splendid. Marvellous. Today will be the day you will redeem your promise.” She stood up, walked to her dresser, and inspected her face and hair which sat perfectly.

“I have asked Newman if he was so kind as to organise some beverages and prepare the salon for us. Of course, he was. A very dutiful man. If he was not so devoted to our dear Cloudia, I would take him for myself.”

Cecelia turned towards Cedric and held out her arm to him. He sighed. “Did I ever have a choice?” he said, taking her arm and guiding her out of the room.

“Did anyone ever have one?”

  ***

  “Is there not something you would like to ask me?” said Cecelia, leaning towards him and speaking in a low voice, while she led him to the salon.

“How are you able to navigate through the château so confidently even though you have spent the entire day in your room? This place is a mess!” Cedric replied, shuddering at the hundreds of different staircases they passed. Who was the architect Lambert Charbonneau had employed? Had he gone wild when the Baron had said to create “the most dazzling building” or had he been insane?

Cecelia laughed. “I may have spent my day in my chambers, but I talked to Newman, don’t you remember? I ask him about the way to the salon, and he went to ask Lisa about it. Apparently, the one whose room she currently occupies left her a very remarkable little book. I keep saying this to Cloudia, and now I will say it to you too: I could very well spend the rest of my life in a single room or stitched to a bed or sofa and still be able to acquire all the information I want.

“Now, when I asked whether you have a question or not, I did not prompt you to give me this question. While entertaining, I doubt it is all you have in mind.”

Cedric was silent for a while. “While we were travelling, why were you being so weird towards Milton? For example, why did you make the Countess withhold from him that you would accompany us as well?”

Cecelia tugged on his arm to make him bend down and poked his nose. “I am slowly training you to ask the right questions, and it is working fantastically!

“Well, you have to know, dearest Not-Kristopher, that I do not travel with anyone I have not researched before. When I had to cross the Irish Sea to get to England and marry Michael, I requested him to find out every man’s name who would be on the ship. I had never been on one before, and I did not want to take any risks. Michael gave me all the names and I spent an afternoon finding out everything I could about them. One of them was a wanted axe-murderer who planned to kill everyone on board and steal the ship to escape to mainland Europe. Michael and I reported him, he was arrested, and we could calmly take our journey. Never trust anyone – that incident cemented this for me.

“When Cloudia first began to meet with Milton, I was very eager to dig out everything concerning him. She was not very happy about my plans though and made me promise that I would, as long as they would keep meeting at least, not research Milton. Now, their relationship has not exactly soured, but it took quite a turn after his failed proposal – a very fortunate circumstance because it allowed me to research him now when it became important. I would have never set foot on his damned ship if I had not dipped into the waters of his past and secrets before.”

“So… and why exactly were you being weird towards Milton?”

“How impatient! Is it because I am not Cloudia that you cannot listen to me for more than two sentences?” Cecelia shook her head. “Anyway, while I conducted my research I came across a tiny, but highly interesting rumour.

“As you know, Milton owns a trading company which is primarily focused on food and whose profits significantly increased upon him inheriting it. The other heads of trading companies despise him for that; this hatred infamously peaked in Flavian Hunt conspiring to kill Milton. A few people believe Milton’s success is founded in some dark business.”

Cecelia inspected her fingernails. “He is a weapons smuggler.”

Cedric stared at her. “What?”

“Milton’s innocent, overly friendly aura could not be real; not a second, I believed his little act. Surely, it is only a rumour, a very tiny ember which seems to be going around for a little while now, but still has not sparked a fire.”

“What if it is only a rumour? A rumour planted by some envious rival?” Cedric suggested.

“Of course, this is a possibility. But what sounds more plausible? Nobody has a white soul, and I doubt that Milton has one. If only I could get anything out of Baroness Salisbury…”

“Baroness?! What Baroness…” Cedric interjected, but Cecelia kept on going.

“… and then there are all the other highly suspicious things about Milton and… Oh, look! We have arrived!”

A servant opened the door for them, and they stepped into the salon. Apart from them, only Milton – of all people – was there, hunched over piles and piles of papers in a corner. Cedric had almost missed him.

“Speaking of the devil,” Cecelia whispered to Cedric before she let go of him and headed straight to the table and seating area Newman had prepared for them.

  There was no reason for me to believe Cecelia. Still, I hesitated before I approached Milton.

  Cedric had made only one step towards him when Milton lifted his head. From the door, he had looked far more submerged in his work.

“Hello, Kristopher,” Milton greeted him with a smile when Cedric sat down on a chair opposite him. “I am sorry for the mess.”

“It’s no problem,” Cedric said, glancing at the “mess” he was referring to: There were many large piles of documents, but each pile had been neatly put together. The only thing that was “messy” about them was the fact that they were covering the entire table.

“What brings you here?” Milton wanted to know.

“Cecelia is forcing me to have some drinks with her.”

“I see. I hope you will enjoy yourselves.”

“She certainly will; I, on the other hand, am not sure I…” Cedric glanced at the paper on the very top of the pile closest to him, and for a moment he was confused because of it and did not know why before it dawned upon him that he could not read anything written on it. Not only wasn’t it in English – it did not seem to be any other language.

“Uh… Milton? What is this gibberish?”

“Oh, that…” Milton fumbled with the pen in his hand. “These documents contain classified information. Only those who concerns them should be able to read them, and to make sure that really only the right people can do something with these papers, they are written in code."

  Dammit, Milton. I did not want to believe in Cecelia’s words – I wanted to trust you, but you were not making it easy for me.

  “It is only a silly little security measurement. I guess everyone could break the code if they were dedicated enough…” Milton trailed off.

“Well, I certainly am not. In the end, all I would get would be boring numbers, right?”

“Oh, yes. They are not exactly interesting to everyone…”

Cedric nodded. "So if anyone ever tells you I was stealing your corporate information, you know that they are lying and only want me to look bad.”

Milton chuckled, and to Cedric, it sounded genuine. If he was really a weapons smuggler, shouldn’t his laughs be more pressed? “I will keep that in mind.”

“Very well.” Cedric stood up. “I think I will leave you alone now. You seem to have a lot of paperwork ahead of you…”

Milton looked down on his lap and twisted his pen in his hands. “Uh, not exactly…”

Cedric frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Well… I am almost finished for today.” Milton picked up the single piece of paper that he had been balancing on his lap.

Cedric stared at him. “When did you come back from your stroll?”

“Two hours ago.”

“These are like a million papers! And you have worked through them in two hours? How did you even get them in here?”

Milton shyly smiled at him. “A butler, Alphonse Batteux, was so kind as to help me. I think the next time I will work in my room…”

“This is insane. Don’t you have a secretary to help you?”

“No. Even if I had, they would not be here anyway, right? Also…” Milton looked down at his last file. “I like doing paperwork. It’s very calming.”

“Baron, as you are free in a minute, do you want to join us?” Cecelia asked, coming over to them with a grin on her face.

  Her words reminded me of something Milton had said after breakfast: that he would either work in the library or the salon. Who had Cecelia made spy on us for her? Or how had she found the random passing-by servant who had overheard exactly this crucial piece of information on which she could base her entire crazy plan of making me redeem my “promise” to elevate her chances of getting Milton to agree to have some drinks with her so that it would be easier for her to get the pieces of information she wants out of him?

A spy it had been. Definitely a spy.

We were here for barely a day, and Cecelia Williams had already wrapped the staff around her finger.

  “Friendly afternoon drinking does always sound marvellous, and, as we will be having dinner soon, the drinking will not become too heavy. It’s unfortunate, but we have to be presentable after all. The Comte and Comtesse, and the Baron and Baronne will join us, I have heard. We would not want to leave a bad impression, would we? And, Baron, as far as I remember, we have never really talked, and like this, you can continue your conversation with His Grace as well!” Cecelia said without making any pauses to breathe that could allow Milton or Cedric to protest.

Milton put his pen down and clutched his hands together. “Very well. I am not much of a drinker, but if it is only a little bit…”

  Rest in peace, Milton. It was good to have known you.

  Cecelia’s grin widened. “Oh, how wonderful.”

  ***

  “It has come to my ears that you, Mr Bonham, Baron Beauchene, and Wentworth went out into the forest today,” Cecelia said when they were all seated and the butler Batteux had poured each of them a glass of wine.

“Yes, we did,” Milton replied, taking up his glass. “Aurèle joined us as well. Baron B… Firmin was quite happy about this development because, seemingly until now, Aurèle never wanted to accompany his father to one of his nature studying trips. Firmin studies wildlife and plants, you see; he is especially interested in birds.”

  How did someone like Firmin even manage to marry a Dupont? From all Cloudia had told me, it would have made more sense to me if Firmin had been rejected. Or, perhaps, bird-watching was just his hobby?

  “How very interesting.” Cecelia raised her glass to her lips and took a sip. “Your Grace, what are you saying about it?”

“It must have been very nice to have an expert in your group,” Cedric said and glanced at his damned glass.

“It definitely was. Firmin was able to continue filling out his notebook on the nature of Nanteuil-la-Forêt, and we were able to get a university-level lecture on it.”

“Have you ever been to university, Baron?” Cecelia asked.

“I would have loved to, but I could not. I had to help with the company and this took up all my time.”

“How unfortunate. Don’t you think it’s unfortunate, Your Grace?”

Cedric numbly nodded.

“However, with your title and company, a degree would be superfluous. Why should you do something you do not need to do?”

Milton nodded briefly and after twirling the glass in his hand for a while, most likely he was debating whether to drink the wine or not, he raised it to his lips – and drank everything at once.

Cedric stared at him. Even Cecelia was baffled.

Bashfully, Milton put the glass down and clutched his hands. “I am not very fond of the taste of wine – or any kind of alcohol – and prefer to finish it all at once so that I do not have to endure the taste for too long…”

“Are you not hurting yourself in the process?” Cecelia said. “Drinking an entire glass of wine at once is no easy task for many because of this.”

“It does hurt. Like with the taste, I prefer to have to withstand the pain for only a short while though…” Milton paused. “I can drink it normally if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Oh, no, do not bother. It is tremendously fascinating. Can you do this with something stronger as well?” Cecelia inquired while pouring whiskey into his glass.

“Uhm… I suppose I could, but I thought we were only drinking lightly?” Milton remarked.

“Oh, one or two glasses of something stronger will be fine! Trust me.” She held his glass to him.

Milton stared at his glass before he hesitantly took it and drank everything at once again.

“Milton… are you fine?” Cedric asked when Milton had put down his glass again. He itched to throw it out. Part of him did want to get closure on the question whether or not Milton was involved in some illegal dealings, but he did not approve of Cecelia’s method of getting this piece of information out of him. Cedric was still sure that Milton would answer that question normally, but how could you embed “Are you an arms smuggler?” into a casual conversation without it becoming awkward?

“I’m very well,” Milton replied, and judging from the look on his face, he was telling the truth. “Thank you for asking. I have just remembered something: How did your visit to Nanteuil-la-Forêt go, Kristopher?”

“It was fine. The Lady and I have not found its inherent magical component, though we did have some cake.”

Milton smiled at him. “You still have time. I hope you will find it eventually.”

Cecelia handed Milton his refilled glass. This time, Cedric had not seen what she had poured into it – and to be honest, he did not want to know.

“It seems as if you are greatly amused by my drinking habits, Marchioness,” Milton said, taking his glass.

“It is a truly fascinating talent and gift. A gift I would love to have to amaze the Ladies of the Gossip Table,” said Cecelia. “Have you shown this talent of yours to others as well, Baron?”

“Please call me ‘Milton,’ Marchioness. And while there are others who know about it, I have never put it on public display.”

“You should! It would stir quite the talk at parties.”

“I do not doubt that it would, though I am afraid that this is not something I would ever do,” he stated and gulped down his glass of unidentified liquid.

Again, when he put it down, he still seemed completely unaffected.

  I had no idea what Cecelia had put into that drink, but she seemed to have had great hopes for it because her face fell momentarily. Something told me that her mixture would have even knocked me out – and I was a Grim Reaper! What was Milton then?

  Cedric stood up. “I think this was enough. Cecelia��” However, before he could get any further, a footman entered the room and bowed. He said something in French that Cedric could not understand, but part of it had sounded like his name…

Whatever the footman had said, it managed to surprise Cecelia for the second time today.

“What did he say?” Cedric wanted to know.

“He said,” Milton told him, “‘Duke Underwood, The Most Honourable Marquis Dupont would like to see you.’”

  ***

  I asked the footman if I could speak to Cloudia first. He said no.

I asked him if he had made a mistake. Again, a no.

I asked if it could wait – the Marquis was an old man, and it was so late. Surely, he would rather rest? No.

I asked if he knew why he wanted me and not Cloudia, his grand-niece? He said no.

I asked if he knew what the Marquis wanted to tell me. No, again.

And then, he stopped answering any of my questions.

 It was highly unnerving. Over and over again, I recalled all the bits and pieces Cloudia had told me about him because I wanted to know who I was about to meet. It did nothing to ease my nerves; instead, it only made everything worse. When the footman opened the door to the Marquis’ rooms and shoved me through it, my nerves were frazzled.

I whispered to the footman that I would refuse the meeting – why had I not done this before? – but he only closed the door behind me.

  The Marquis’ room was decorated like all the others. All was ordinary; only he was not.

He might have been lying on his bed, multiple cushions lifting up his upper body and head, but he might as well have sat on a throne.

“What is your name?” the Marquis asked. Despite his age and ill countenance, his eyes and his voice were still full of strength and subtle malice.

  Thank God, Cloudia did not inherit this.

I hoped.

  “Not the one you use to introduce yourself to others,” he continued. “I do not want the lie; I want the truth. The one you gave to my sister’s granddaughter.”

Cedric could not help himself and flinched.

“My servants are my ears and eyes in a world I cannot explore on my own anymore. However, they can only see and hear, not observe and listen. They also do not speak a single word of English; I always make sure they do not. Certain words are not meant for the ears of many.

“So, tell me, what is your name?”

“How do you know that ‘Kristopher Underwood’ is not my real name? Why don’t you assume Cecelia Williams is lying about her name?”

“I do not have to assume anything: I know that both your names are not your real ones. In her case, she changed it upon marriage. You have never officially changed your name; you illegally bear a name that is not yours. ‘Cecelia Williams’ is her name now; ‘Kristopher Underwood’ has never been yours.

“I know the names of all who have arrived yesterday except yours. I know that Wallace Underwood never had an heir, but I do not know who you are. However, seeing you in front of me now, I have a suspicion. My servants described your appearance to me. Say, when was the last time you have washed your hair?”

Cedric groaned.

  Yes, he was definitely related to Cloudia.

  “It is such a pity,” the Marquis said, “that you are neglecting it so much – your impressive silver hair.”

“What do you want with me?”

“I want your name. I already know enough – why are you still hesitating, son?”

Cedric took a deep breath and looked him into the eyes, but the Marquis did not look into his. “And what is yours?”

“I,” he spoke, “am the Marquis.”

  He was giving me an aneurysm.

  “I am not quite sure why I am even here – don’t you want to speak to Cloudia? She is your sister’s granddaughter, as you have said, and you have never met her before. Don’t you want to talk to her?”

“I have told you what I want.”

Cedric sighed. “Marquis, why are you so fixated on names?”

“Names hold power, son. They hold power and contain stories: of marriages, of favouritisms, of adoptions, of great tragedies, of love and joy and sadness and many more. I have always had an interest in stories. ‘Duke Kristopher Underwood’ tells me the story of how you met my grand-niece and came to work with her. What does your real one tell?”

  Something told me that, if I were to try to escape, I would find the door locked or the corridor full of ready servants – or both. The windows would be unbreakable; the walls impenetrable.

This château had been built to protect its inhabitants from the outside world, and what was to be a safe haven could easily become a prison.

  “My name is…” His heartbeat grew faster. “Cedric Kristopher Rossdale.”

The Marquis smiled. “As I have expected: another tragedy. And such a sad one. Rossdale is such an old name.”

Cedric sucked in his breath. “Now that you got what you wanted, tell me where the Clockmaker is. That’s the main reason why you have called me, isn’t it?”

“I have never said such a thing.”

“But that’s the reason why we are even here!”

“But not the one why you are here. You have come to tell me your name.”

Cedric clenched his fists. “Can’t you give me the location anyway? We do not have much time, and I am already here.”

“I will give out this piece of information when the time is right and I will only give it to the right person. This is not now. This will not be you.”

“If this is all, can I go now?”

“Nobody shall hinder you, son.”

Cedric turned around and when his hand touched the doorknob, the Marquis spoke again.

“People grow into the names they are given or take. I have not always been ‘the Marquis.’ For a brief time, I had been someone else. ‘The Clockmaker’ has not always been his name either: He grew into it when it was given to him.

“Amélie told me that my grand-niece is calling you ‘Undertaker.’ When do you think you will grow into that name?”

  ***

  I could not stop thinking about my conversation with the Marquis.

Dinner had passed and, afterwards, we had all retreated to our rooms. Most were already asleep. Only I turned back and forth, unable to fall asleep myself.

Cloudia had still been pondering over the murder case at dinner; if she had not, she surely would have noticed that something was wrong with me. Of course, I would talk to her about it – just not now. Now, it was time for me to process the conversation myself. Now, it was time for it to haunt me.

Something greatly unnerved me when I thought back to the meeting, but I could not put my finger on it. It was on the tip of my tongue but I could not taste it.

It was horrible.

  With a sigh, Cedric rolled out of his bed. This night, sleep would not find him, and he would not find sleep. At least, he hoped to find some peace while wandering through the silent corridors.

Cedric lit a candle and grabbed the clothes he had worn during the day, and when he shrugged on his jacket, a bundle of papers fell out of it. Frowning, Cedric picked them up and unfolded them. My dearest Not-Kristopher… it began and he cursed under his breath. When had Cecelia put the papers in his pocket?

Cedric was about to scrunch them up and throw them away when the word Milton caught his eye. His heart beat faster.

  This was the summary of what Cecelia had learned about Milton.

I should not read it. It was a breach of privacy. I liked Milton, did not believe that he could hurt a fly, let alone be a smuggler. And still, there was his file in my hands…

No, it was not right. Who knew what was written in there? Nonsense, I guessed. It came from Cecelia after all. And still…

And still…

  Cedric shook his head and put the papers on his desk. He adjusted his jacket and went to the door, but right in front of it, he stopped.

For a minute, Cedric lingered there, staring into nothingness, and then, he turned around. With sure steps, he walked to the desk, sat down, and smoothed out the papers.

My dearest, Not-Kristopher, I hope that you are aware that after you have read these papers, you have to tear them apart and burn them in different fireplaces…

  ***

  Somewhere, United Kingdom – May 1843

 ~Cloudia~

 A chuckle came from behind the door. “How amusing for Simon’s daughter to come to visit me,” said Oscar Livingstone, former Met detective, now incarcerated Yard Ripper.

  My heart beat louder in my chest. So I had been right; it had been true.

  Cloudia took a deep breath to slow her heart again; in the empty corridor, it sounded so loud in her ears, and she did not want her excitement to be so obvious.

“How exactly do you know my father?”

“Is that all you came for?”

“No, but it is a beginning.”

“I have no reason to answer any of your questions.”

“You would not even do it for the sake of friendly conversation? Your voice sounds rough – nobody talks to you, right? I must be the first one in about six years to start a conversation with you.”

For a while, it was completely silent behind the door, and then, Oscar said, “Simon and I worked on multiple cases together. His partner was gone for two years, and during that time, I was Simon’s primary aide. We worked together later as well, but not as frequently.”

“That was a surprisingly long answer,” Cloudia remarked.

“Is that everything?”

  Now or never, Cloudia.

  “As you know, my father died nine years ago,” she recited the words she had rehearsed all the way to the asylum. “He died under very mysterious and perplexing circumstances. Until today, nobody knows what happened, and Scotland Yard has long ceased its investigation.

“I was there when my father died, but I lost all my memories of it under similarly perplexing circumstances. This is haunting me every single day – this uncertainty. Barrington does not want to tell me anything, and Father’s other Aristocrat of Evil is in America where I cannot reach her. There are not many people who were close to my father, and when I found your portrait in Father’s sketchbook” – Cloudia held it out even though Oscar could not see it – “I worked to find out who you were.”

“And it did not stop you from coming here when you did.”

She nodded. “It did not. It only added yet another riddle for me to solve. And now, I have found you. You were friends with my father…”

“I would rather describe our relationship as ‘close acquaintances’ or ‘colleagues,’” Oscar interjected. Apparently, it had not taken much to revive his joy for talking.

“… You knew him better than many others, and I thought that because of this you could help me find out what happened.”

“I am not exactly capable of helping you right now,” Oscar said.

“This is not a problem: If you agree to help me, I will get you out of here. I have a letter personally written by the Queen which says that, if I want to take you with me, you are free to go. Even your servants will be released.”

Again, silence fell inside the cell.

“If I am to help you, you will help me as well.”

Cloudia frowned. “I will already help you get out of the asylum.”

“But does it not benefit you as well? Finding out the truth about Simon’s death is a part of the bargain that is solely for you. I want one as well.”

“Wasn’t Father your… your close acquaintance? Are you not eager to learn the truth too?”

“Curious I am, but I am neither as haunted by it nor as invested in this matter as you are. Not finding out the truth will not steal my sleep.

“Don’t you believe in balanced deals? Why should anyone agree to a deal from which only one party benefits?”

  He was not in a position to discuss this with me. By any means, I should be leading this conversation, but I did not. He was right. Who was I to demand something and not be willing to return the favour? Who was I to assume that anyone would agree to this?

But was it really wise to have to owe a favour to the Yard Ripper?

  Cloudia took a deep breath and pressed the sketchbook close to her, holding on to it as if it was her anchor.

  I hoped this would be worth it.

  “Very well. If you agree to help me, I will help you too.”

“You will not ask any questions or back out?”

“I will not ask any questions or back out. I promise.”

When Oscar spoke again, Cloudia could hear the smile in his voice and she wondered how it looked like.

“Then the deal is done, Lady Phantomhive.”

“Then the deal is done, Captain Livingstone,” she replied, uncertainty and utter relief and joy warring inside of her.

“I will go and tell the warden to release you,” Cloudia said, but right after she had taken the first step back to where her guide had left her, she halted. There was a question she should ask; one she should have asked before and had to do it now even though it did not matter anymore. She had already given her word.

“What is it that I have to help you with?”

“Do not worry about it. I will tell you when the right time has come.”

#Watchdog of the Queen #main chapters #please tell me all is working well #i feel like puking #edited all day #where is the damn line you could add tumblr??? #fanfiction #kuroshitsuji #undertaker #cloudia phantomhive

[happymetalgirl]

Albums I Missed in 2018

Alright, already halfway through the year, and the time has come (as I said I would last year) to acknowledge the albums from 2018 that I didn't last year before getting onto the second half of 2019. Yeah, that's it, no need for more intro. Here are my thoughts on some albums from 2018 that I didn't talk about.

Yob - Our Raw Heart

I heard so much hype over this album last year and saw it ending on so many year end lists, yet for some reason I just didn’t have the time or energy to give it a worthy try so it slipped by me. And honestly, after finally hearing it, I can’t say I’m all too heartbroken about missing out on it. It's honestly some of the most derivative modern doom/sludge metal that I've ever heard hyped up to this degree. When the album isn't meandering through the types of thick soundscapes that hearken a bit too much to early Pallbearer, it's "resting" amid cheap drones that sound like unaltered Sunn O))). The band are closer to achieving their goal on the more dirging doom songs on here like the title track, but when they try to get heavier like on the unbelievably annoyingly repetitive "The Screen", they sound very out of their capacity. I don't know what so many saw in this album last year beyond its occasionally convincing imitations of Bell Witch or Pallbearer.

Craft - White Noise and Black Metal

I don't know why I didn't talk about Craft's 2018 album, maybe because it wasn't all that different from the band's previous releases, but either way, the Swedisg crew came through with a strong fifth offering of straight-up modern black metal. That band has always had a knack for the grim and sardonic, and they carry that energy well onto White Noise and Black Metal. Again, it's hardly the most unique black metal I've ever heard and it's really not all to different from Fuck the Universe or Void, but for what the band are doing, there's really not much else to complain about. Sure, it could be a little more varied or come with a few more memorable grooves or something, but for nasty, snarling black metal with nothing else in mind, Craft continue to be on of the genre's steadfast pillars.

Convulsing - Grievous

I stumbled across this album earlier this year because I recognized the visual handiwork of Leviathan's Jef Whitehead gracing the cover art. Convulsing is apparently somewhat of a one-man solo project that seems to have started out pretty recently (around 2016 or so) and the music is as harrowing and demonic as I would expect from a Jef Whitehead endorsement. The low-tuned guitar work on Grievous is pretty in line with the type of playing that made Scar Sighted so powerful, and the bellowing death growls give it a furiously cavernous atmosphere. And it is indeed an atmospheric type of listen despite being so thick in its death metal elements, but the gravitation pull of those elements are well-harness to really suck one into the deep dark it provides.

Hoth - Astral Necromancy

On no other album last year did I hear quite the smooth and well-balanced overlap of technical death metal speed, blackened death metal menace, and thrash. Hoth really has it all and is not afraid to show it; this album really has everything: a variety of melodic guitar leads, sinister growls, and intricately hyperactive drumming. It’s this impressive juggling act that makes Astral Necromancy such a unique listen, and one that I wish I had talked about and dissected more thoroughly the intricacies of last year.

Bad Wolves - Disobey

Despite actually not totally disliking the band’s alt metal power ballad cover of The Cranberries’ “Zombie” (which goes over much better than their original balladry), the combination of the band coming up largely by way of a cover song and their close association with Five Finger Death Punch unfortunately kept me at bay from the very label-propped band’s debut album. After having heard the rather familiar djent-influenced groove metal style that the band has to offer, I can't really say the channeling of what Whitechapel and Upon a Burning Body have tended toward into formulas that Shinedown would work with is really all too offensive or inoffensive either. Sure, some of the fence-sitting political commentary, while well-intentioned, is a bit beyond the band's lyrical capacities at best and ham-fisted at worst. But really there isn't really anything the band are doing or saying that's at all new. They're simply one of the newest voices contributing to servicing the Five Finger Death Punch fan demographic, and it really does sound like if Shinedown decided to go djent-groovy in an attempt to bring back their old fans, which I will say does sound better than what Five Finger Death Punch are offering these days.

Hyperdontia - Nexus of Teeth

This one only really caught my attention because of this dental theme, which I think needs to be a theme more prevalent in metal music. More bands need to create musical horror stories that push for encouraging better dental health. But really, this album isn’t exactly the most ground-breaking of modern death metal releases, but if it’s an itch that needs scratching and the usual helping hands like Morbid Angel, The Black Dahlia Murder, or Bloodbath seem worn out for the time being, Nexus of Teeth will get the spot just fine.

Sarah Longfield - Disparity

Brilliant YouTube-based guitar shredder Sarah Longfield had been putting out albums before this one, but I didn’t hear about Disparity until the year was over, and while it’s certainly not a terrible project, I’m not really all too upset about missing it. Longfield takes the album as an opportunity to dive into smooth, semi-jazzy atmospherics that don’t always highlight her technical talents the way they needed to to make the album more engaging. Again, it’s not awful and it’s not like she’s stuck playing back-up the whole time, but Longfield seems subdued on her own album, and it’s disappointing given how magnificent it could have probably sounded if her guitar playing got more time at center stage, which was quite possibly her intent being that she already makes so much content focused on her guitar technicality.

The Black Queen - Infinite Games

Though not quite as overtly raucous as the now retired The Dillinger Escape Plan, Greg Puciato’s second album with this new electronic rock-focused project does generate its own kind of energy that could arguably bear a thread connected to Puciato’s former band. But the appeal of The Black Queen and Infinite Games is rooted more in the textures that the band bring to the table and the more fully opened expression of this calmer side of Puciato’s voice over new-wave-inspired electronic ambient pieces, which, to be clear, bear no resemblance to anything metallic. What’s clear about this album though is that it’s something that Puciato has wanted to do for a while and has genuine passion for rather than a ploy for the “metal singer doing no-metal project” novelty. I didn’t hear about it until earlier this year, but I will definitely be keeping an ear out now for any upcoming The Black Queen releases.

Violet Cold - Sommermorgen (Parts I, II, & III)

I came upon Violet Cold through a friend of mine turing me onto their Magic Night album around the time Deafheaven's brand of bright, cathartic blackgaze and post-metal was sweeping the black metal landscape. While I had kind of forgotten about the album for awhile, I really liked the main opening song to that album, and I was hoping to maybe hear a little more from the band along those lines with their three-part album. Sommermorgen's three parts, while not offering what I was hoping for, fall nicely in line with the occasionally metallic post-rock ambient music of Hammock, If These Trees Could Talk, and Explosions in the Sky, providing at least a sufficiently soothing atmosphere with enough compositional dynamic to keep it from being a total bore.

Slugdge - Esoteric Malacology

How I missed Slugdge’s fourth album and transformation into a fully fledged performing band last year is beyond me. I promise this has a point and that I’ll get to it, but since its inception, one of the most baffling things about Slugdge is how upset some people seem to get about something about either their theme or their puns or their aesthetic. It baffles me because this is so clearly an innocuous side project (or at least it began that way) for its founders to just put out some death-y sludge metal without the kind of self-imposed rubric that often comes with a main project. Slugdge’s music is also so accessible (free if you choose) that complaints about it kind of bear that whiny quality that often underlies complaining about free content. And for fuck’s sake, it’s music about a celestial slug deity; could there be a more obvious signal to not take this too seriously? Because that’s clearly exactly the point of this project. I bring this up because it has clearly been this apparent liberation from needing to create in a super serious context that has become the compositional strength and the appeal of Slugdge. And sometimes freedom from expectations for a band’s music to fall within a certain framework can really unlock artists’ full potentials, which has definitely been the case for Slugdge. Even to some of the band’s fans, Esoteric Malacology felt like a bit of a loss of this non-serious charm the band had operated under, which I think was just inevitable as the members continued to see such success from Slugdge. But any sense of lost charm hardly comes through in the actual compositional content of the album, so either I’m missing something or others are reading too much into contextual aspects of the bands rise to death metal’s upper echelons and applying them to the enjoyment of this album. Personally, I find Esoteric Malacology to be a fine continuation of the refined combination of sludgy and deathly styles that characterized Gastronomicon and were expanded upon on Dim & Slimeridden Kingdoms and one I wish I hadn’t arrived to so late.

Lingua Ignota - All Bitches Die

This did technically come out in 2017, but I will take it's re-release through Profound Lore last year as an excuse to talk about it here because goddamn! Along with her visceral live performances that truly earn that descriptor, Kristen Hayter has seen quite the outpouring of deserved support and respect for her work on Lingua Ignota's Let the Evil of His Lips Cover Him and All Bitches Die. On both these albums (both released in 2017 orginally) Hayter channels her personal experiences as a survivor of domestic and sexual abuse into both classically sung, mournfully gorgeous lamentations and venomous shrieks of anguish, rage, and vengeance. It's hard to say I enjoy this album in the traditional sense, and knowing how real it all is to its creator and performer, I honestly don't feel right just putting either of these albums on in the background while I do other things without giving them my attentiveness. But what Hayter does so powerfully through Lingua Ignota absolutely deserves to be appreciated not just for her musical capacity and artistic uniqueness, but for how it expresses the voice and emotions of the victims of such abuse that aren't heard too much in this field.

#Yob #Our Raw Heart #Craft #White Noise and Black Metal #Convulsing #Grievous #Hoth #Astral Necromancy #Bad Wolves #Disobey #Hyperdontia #Nexus of Teeth #Sarah Longfield #Disparity #The Black Queen #Infinite Games #Violet Cold #Sommermorgen #Slugdge #Esoteric Malacology #Lingua Ignota #All Bitches Die

[lanx-reads]

DNF Review: Throne of Glass

Final Rating: */***** or 2/10

After serving out a year of hard labor in the salt mines of Endovier for her crimes, 18-year-old assassin Celaena Sardothien is dragged before the Crown Prince. Prince Dorian offers her her freedom on one condition: she must act as his champion in a competition to find a new royal assassin.

Her opponents are men-thieves and assassins and warriors from across the empire, each sponsored by a member of the king's council. If she beats her opponents in a series of eliminations, she'll serve the kingdom for four years and then be granted her freedom. Celaena finds her training sessions with the captain of the guard, Westfall, challenging and exhilarating. But she's bored stiff by court life. Things get a little more interesting when the prince starts to show interest in her ... but it's the gruff Captain Westfall who seems to understand her best.

Then one of the other contestants turns up dead ... quickly followed by another. Can Celaena figure out who the killer is before she becomes a victim? As the young assassin investigates, her search leads her to discover a greater destiny than she could possibly have imagined.

Throne of Glass isn’t the worst book I’ve ever read, but it certainly was one of the most infuriating, which is why I was only able to read about 50% of it.

Since I didn’t finish it, I am only going to review the issues and things I disliked within the first half I read of it. 

I also wanna note that I did read spoilers for the ending to confirm some thoughts I had and will be touching upon those. 

Since this is my first DNF Review, I am gonna discuss why I picked up this book in the first place, the writing style (which is something that, for the most part, doesn’t really change from beginning to end), the premise (rather than the plot since I didn’t finish the book), the things I liked about the book, what I disliked about this book, and finally why I put it down. 

Why I Picked Throne of Glass Up

So. A year or two ago I wanted to get back into reading. Due to a lot of issues and things in my personal life, I completely stopped reading for pleasure during my Sophomore year of high school, which meant I had stopped reading for... about 4 years? Which made me really upset as I had always been an avid reader! And since I was getting really passionate about writing, I figured I should get back into reading.

So I made a post on tumblr asking what YA books people recommended. I had been reading YA when I stopped reading (well... a mix of YA and MG, but mainly YA) so I figured that’d be the best place to start. 

Numerous people recommended me different things, but one anon recced Throne of Glass to me. It was a fantasy (a genre I mentioned liking in my post) and they told me that though they hadn’t read it themselves, they had a friend who adored the series and that it was really popular so it was probably pretty good. 

The. Really popular bit made me nervous, but nevertheless, I went onto Amazon. Bless me, actually, because I decided I’d try and read the little promo Amazon gives you before buying it.

I DNF’d it after half a page. I had never DNF’d a book so fast and so hard. The first time, what made me DNF this book was Celaena complaining about her looks while being in a prison. Like... girl...... priorities.... 

Months later, I started seeing people talking about this book a little as I got back into reading. Getting curious, I read some reviews, both bad and good, and decided to give this book another shot.

It was as bad as I thought it would be, if not worse. 

The Premise (What was this?)

Honestly, I still don’t really know what I read. What even is Throne of Glass? What is life, in fact? What is the universe? I don’t know, but I feel like I’d figure out the latter two questions before I figured out the first. 

So. The premise, or basic story idea of ToG is basically... Cinderella... mixed with Assassin’s Creed... mixed with the Hunger Games.... I dunno about anyone else but when people describe a piece of media to me as a mix of two or more random-ass things, I start getting nervous.

But honestly I have no idea how else to describe Throne of Glass. I couldn’t tell what this book wanted to be! And that was really what fucked me up. It wanted to be a big epic fantasy. It wanted to be a mystery. It wanted to be about girls in pretty dresses kissing pretty boys and having to choose between them. It wanted a princess aesthetic but with a character that has to be nasty to be an assassin. ToG, to me, is a long book of wants that didn’t deliver. 

But said that, nothing was as poorly thought out as the plot. The plot is what confused me most, ground me to a halt, and said, “wait, what?”

Okay, the plot is basically Celaena joining this competition to win her freedom to become the king’s champion. Only issue is... a king’s champion is a real thing. And is something for mainly knights if I recall.

Back in the olden days of yore, when kings needed to fight against one another, or if someone wanted to challenge the king to a duel, they would have a champion to fight in their stead. If you’re a king, you don’t wanna fight your own duels, that’d be nuts! What if you died?! Then what would happen to your kingdom? That’s what a champion was for. 

The champion is basically chosen/hired by the king. The thing is, what Celaena is... describing is well. Not a champion. Not really. I mean... I guess it’s kinda champion-like? It’s really vague in the book and it boils down to “you do dirty work for the king” so basically a hitman?

Thing is... the king is a king... why doesn’t he just hire an assassin? One who hasn’t been caught (looking at you, Celaena!). I mean, in the long run, that would be a lot cheaper than hosting a giant competition with a bunch of criminals who aren’t loyal to you, who will turn on you at any moment, and can’t be trusted? I mean, just ‘cause he has them swear to be loyal to him don’t mean jack shit, c’mon. 

The entire plot of this novel falls directly apart as soon as you know what a king’s champion is! And honestly, the fix to this would be so easy. You could still have the competition, but instead make it between knights or wannabe knights or something. Have Celaena be a knight instead. She acts like it anyways; being all brash all the time and desiring the center of attention 24/7. Or if you really want her to be an assassin, fix her fugly personality and have her be an assassin pretending to be a knight.

And the king being “”crazy”” isn’t an excuse. Using crazy as an excuse is... one kinda insulting and gross and two, lazy. It means nothing and is a cop out at this point. Also, he did nothing in this book to seem crazy to me, really. He’s an asshole and abuses his kid but... besides that he’s basically nothing. He’s an evil king. He doesn’t even have an actual name. That’s how bland he is. There was no thought put into him at all. And again, this too could have had an easy fix. Rather than saying he’s crazy to excuse his nonsensical actions, all that had to be said was: he and his court want entertainment. That’s it. That would have given the competition the perfect excuse to exist in the first place. Sure, it’s not the most interesting of reasons or anything, but it’s better than the book being completely silent of why there’s a competition in the first place. Why does a king need a competition? Why between criminals who will stab him in the back? It’s never explained and it’s dumb. 

God. There are SO many ways where ToG could’ve been better. Just. Better in general. There is so much lost potential here with the plot, which is where half my frustrations come from. 

So. The premise falls apart after thinking about it for over .2 seconds. The second part of the actual plot of the novel (well, at least what’s described on the back of the book, not what I actually got) is a mystery. But... this mystery is really cliche. Someone taking out the competition. Wow. Never seen that before. 

Also, I did spoil myself the ending to see if my guess of who it was was correct and welp. Winner winner, chicken dinner! It was indeed Cain. As soon as he swaggered on stage, and the narration hated him, and Celaena hated AND was a lil racist towards him, I knew it was him. His detailed magic ring and the fact he kept getting bigger apparently every time we saw him also clued us in. There was less foreshadowing in this book and more “beating you over the head with a Cain.”

Also, none of the other members of the competition really got... anything? Most were unnamed or Celaena dismissed them right away. Why even have these characters in the book if they aren’t even gonna be named? I get it’s a big cast, but still. Hunger Games was able to do the bare minimum of this, I mean at least all the tributes had names. Big casts are hard to write, so why not shrink it down a little? It won’t affect the story, in any case. 

So instead of a cool mystery and badass competition, the premise of the competition fell apart, was mainly summarized and not seen from what I read, and in general the tasks were boring. No real fighting, nothing with a lot of tension or excitement. Just boredom. The mystery wasn’t even lukewarm. It was ice cold. I don’t even really know what the pages were filled up with... random bantering that told us nothing more about the characters than we already did. Celaena not knowing what guy to choose. Her wearing pretty dresses. Her reading and playing the piano. Her shittalking about girls with this other chick. Just. the most random stuff. It was fluff. Which is fine. I like fluff! I like pretty dresses and romance and all that!! But not in a book that promised me a MURDER MYSTERY and ACTION. 

Maybe the action would’ve picked up if I kept reading. But something tells me... not so much. If excitement doesn’t happen before the rough halfway point of your book, something is wrong. At least, to me it is. 

The Writing

A lot of people thought the writing was pretty it seemed. Numerous negative reviews praised the writing. I admit, there were some pretty quotes in there. But most of it was clunky and reminded me of Eragon (not good) or just. Laundry list. I can’t pull up the quote right now, I don’t have the book, but I remember when the library was shown to us, the narration just listed everything inside in a sentence with commas. The same was done in the king’s chamber besides a little extra detail on the fireplace. None of the descriptions of the settings were any good.... and neither were the pretty dresses! It was just “this dress is cut bad” “the fabric is ugly and feels bad” and such. What was the fabric made out of? What cut was the dress? There were so many little things like this that bothered me throughout the writing. 

Lots of filler paragraphs that led to nothing were everywhere too. Sentences that danced around world building were common too. Again, don’t have the book, but at one point Chaol and Celaena were discussing books they liked and instead of name dropping some titles, giving us an idea of what sort of books these two like to read, it was just “Chaol listed some titles to Celaena. Celaena nodded approvingly” or something like that. Lazy. Boring. Pointless. Filler. 

There was so much filler writing in this. And so much... passive writing. Especially when Celaena was traveling to the castle and beyond. “Celaena felt” was used so often that I nearly started counting how many sentences began with that. Sometimes, yes, telling is alright. But SHOW us how she feels! Don’t tell us she finds the castle breathtaking but daunting or whatever! Show us! What’s her expression look like? Her body language? What is she thinking?  The moment she saw the castle was supposed to be powerful and tense but it wasn’t because the writing was passive when it shouldn’t have been. Passive writing isn’t the worst thing ever, but where the writing would’ve benefited from being active, it was passive instead, which also made the book a kinda bland read on a technical level. The writing stayed the same throughout. Sentence length wasn’t played around with much, sentence type didn’t change much. The only stand-out pieces were mainly dialogue.  

I like active writing. I like an active writing style. Throne of Glass was passive. And you know what? I get it. I write in third person too. It’s hard.

But writing is hard. Publishing is even harder. This is a published book and I expected better, especially with how popular it is. 

And yes, this is a debut novel. I kept telling myself that when I was reading this. But... I’ve read better debuts. I’ve read better fanfictions online. This is a New York Times best seller and a favorite of many. It should’ve been better.

The (little) Things I Liked

Gonna bullet point all this, hope none of you guys mind~

Celaena being feminine and proud of it. Haven’t really read a character like this yet and as someone who is writing several proud feminine characters, it was nice to see

Chaol. Just him in general. Best character and I loved him. 

SOME of the banter was pretty fun.

That one scene with Celaena working out in her room was A Good TM

Some of the one-liner descriptions were pretty good and I enjoyed them. 

I actually liked some of the traveling bits in the beginning. I thought it would skip straight to the castle but we got to savor a little in the journey there. It was nice (tho it went on too long and got annoying and boring to read)

The (many) Things I Disliked

A longer bullet point list, hope you all are ready! I’ll try and go in a somewhat chronological order

The plot made no fucking sense

Dorian. The only Dorian in my heart is Dorian Pavus and also he was so one-note that I almost cried. 

The world building? The little world building that was like. Actually present was so bland... it read like Typical Fantasy. Listen. If I wanted Typical Fantasy I’d go play one of the many re-releases of Skyrim, okay?? 

Celaena was just unlikeable and her entire character was contradictory. She acted more like a mercenary for hire or a thug than an assassin. Assassins wouldn’t wanna be in the center of attention, people!

Also Celaena acted really dumb in parts and it made me cringe. 

Chaol as the captain of the guard made no sense. He’s too young!

In fact, Celaena as the best assassin made no sense. She is also too young. Also, if she got captured and is KNOWN, she is hardly the best. The point of being an assassin is...... being unknown... c’mon..... 

The tests. The back of the book made them sound really cool but they were just? Running around a track? Some softcore parkour? The archery contest actually made sense I guess but it would’ve been cooler if they were hitting like. Actual moving targets rather than just. Bulls-eyes. 

Also most the tests were just kinda brushed over? At least The Hunger Games was....  well most the book took place DURING the Hunger Games so like. 

The king had no fucking name what the shit who doesn’t name their fucking VILLAIN?!

Cain. Like. He was so stereotypical. I looked up to see if he would end up as the villain at the end and I was right, how disappointing. Also, naming your villain Cain is like.... idk... literally is there a single protagonist named Cain? Genuine question 

The girl hate. Like, I get that girls are people and not all girls are gonna get along or anything but like. There were throwaway lines that just made me roll my eyes and scrunch up my nose.

THE FUCKING GLASS CASTLE MADE ME SO MAD OH MY GOD WHY WAS IT THERE. And if the castle looks the exact same on the inside in the glass part as the stone part, what’s the point then? How is this nation, which is at war, have a glass castle? That thing is gonna shatter. How did they make it? Why did the king make it? The most we get is the implication is that he’s crazy but that’s.... gross for one and two, lazy. You know what would’ve been cool tho? If the king was just a zealot who worshipped his human gods to the point where he wanted them to always see his victories and be able to see him wherever he went, so he created the glass portions of the castle so he could be seen by his gods the entire time. I thought of that idea in the span of 10 seconds. Sigh. 

AND I AM STILL ON THE GLASS CASTLE SHIT listen. If this was a whimsical fantasy and everyone went with it, I wouldn’t have SUCH a huge problem with it, tho it would still be kinda dumb (mattering on context...) but legit. Having your characters point it out doesn’t make them look smart, it makes the author look silly. “It’s a dumb idea, I know it’s a dumb idea, but I am going to write it anyways. For The Aesthetic” listen. We’re past the age of aestheticism. Let’s get our heads outta the 1800s, k?

Honestly there were descriptions but I couldn’t ever get a good image on what was going on, which is weird. All the descriptions were for like. More finer details? But the overall look of the entire world was just blank in my mind. I dunno how else to explain it.

So. Much. Filler. Celaena! Get outta your room and let us explore some! I can sit alone in my room myself irl, I don’t wanna read some chick do the same!

Same with the book shit. Like we could’ve gotten some amazing world building just based on the books Celaena read but whatever that was brushed over too??

Honestly a lot of reading ToG was like reading a textbook where words go through my eyes and their meaning seeps from my ears and I find myself 20 pages in but no idea how I got there and don’t remember a single word of what I read. 

The writing style for the fighting. When you write fight scenes or tense scenes, you want your writing to become choppier usually and sharp. It changes the mood and tone of the scene. The author just used the same flowing prose she had for the rest of the book, which was kinda dull. 

I wish we had seen the murders. I mean, the book is in third person and does switch POV at times! I wanna read some good blood, guts, n gore!

L O V E  T R I A N G L E  O F  H E L L 

I thought Celaena was supposed to be sickly?? But like after a few chapters in the book that’s like, forgotten, besides her throwing up after running? Why only after running? Why doesn’t she worry about this or her health much? Seriously her physiology makes no sense. 

Celaena’s mental health is also questionable. She’s completely fine after being tortured for a year and in a death camp and only has bad nightmares every once in a while?? That ain’t how PTSD works. Seriously what was going on in her head? What was the author trying to portray? You don’t do this shit half-assed. Either throw yourself into the research or go the Harry Potter route. 

There is one character who is fat and he is ofc, a terrible person (I am talking about Dorian’s younger brother, ofc. Sigh. And yikes)

Celaena sometimes talked and acted like she was younger than what she actually was?? I think being childish was supposed to be part of her personality but it doesn’t mesh with her being an assassin. Unless she was doing it on purpose as an act. But she obv wasn’t so......

Yulemas. Honestly, I put the book down around when it was mentioned. It’s a dumb name and I can imagine what sort of celebration it is. 

The timing and pacing of this book is weird. The king needs to learn what an itinerary is. I think it’d help him out. 

 Why I Put Throne of Glass Down

Mainly for two reasons: one I had just bought some books at the library and wanted to read those instead. I just wanted to read a good book again. The second reason is just as simple: I was incredibly bored. 

There was just so much filler for me. Characters talking about random stuff, walking around, trying to figure out a mystery I figured out as soon as the first murder actually happened. It was all so boring to me. 

And then... Celaena started suspecting Nehemia. Her only friend in the castle.

I dunno why that did it in for me. I think it’s because I didn’t wanna sit through at the very least 50 pages of one of the poorest red herrings I have ever stumbled across. I can (somewhat) deal with a book that promised me action and gave me bad romance with pretty girls and boys. I’ll complain a lot, give it a bad rating most likely, but I can finish books like those. What I can’t deal with is a clear waste of my fucking time. At that point, I was already 99.99% sure Cain was the bad guy. I was already tired of Celaena in general since she is such an unpleasant character for me to read. I did not wanna sit through a plot point that just insulted my intelligence and made the book all the more longer than it has to be. I have no idea how someone can make a book this bland and boring so long. I honestly cannot understand how I got pretty much 50% of the way in, and feel like I have moved nowhere when it comes to the characters and the plot. I don’t know how I could be pretty much halfway through this book and feel like not a SINGLE action scene has happened. (Yes, I know there have been actions scenes, but I didn’t like them or the way they were written. They weren’t exciting for me.)

All this realization just kinda came crashing down on me with Celaena suspecting Nehemia. And I was quite done with all of it.

Maybe the book would’ve picked up. Maybe the entire premise, story, characters, and writing style could’ve changed in a single page flip. But I seriously doubt that. 

I’m tired of wasting my time with books I am not enjoying. If I’m gonna read a bad book, I at the very least want it to be entertaining.

And Throne of Glass by Sarah J. Maas wasn’t even that. 

#bookblr #Throne of Glass #Throne of Glass Book Review #DNF #one star review #My Book Reviews #DNF review #long post #fandom hate #book hate #negative review #what a queue-t

[mesaylormoon]

Film and Fluff Blogging: A Review of Call Me By Your Name

With the plight of the LGBTQ community being as significant as it is today, Call Me By Your Name is certainly an appreciable film. Although many films with gay characters and stories have been released in recent years, few of them have offered the subtlety, tone, and artistic merit of Call Me By Your Name. In addition to this, the romance in this picture suggests something sweet, heartfelt, intimate. While all of this holds true to an extent, I unfortunately found the film to be unmemorable and lacking in the elements needed to make it more impactful and moving.

Call Me By Your Name recounts the love shared between Elio, a musical prodigy living with his father in Italy, and Oliver, an American doctorate student interning for Elio’s father. Although they originally annoy each other, the two share their interests in the academics and the arts, eventually forming a bond precious and deep. Both only have a limited amount of time to grow closer, however, as Oliver is only able to stay with Elio in Italy for one summer.

Despite the film’s affectionate portrayal of Elio and Oliver’s relationship, the two lack the chemistry and personal interactions necessary to make their bond truly amarous. The couple do share a great deal of conversations, commonalities, and moments of closeness; however, they are not fully realized due to the performances of Armie Hammer and Timothee Chamalet.

Hammer and Chamalet possess the same acting deficits: both our leads appear cold and disinterested on camera, deliver their lines in detached and monotonous manners, and display little to no emotional range in their facial expressions until later in the film. Although Oliver can be clearly defined by his love of humor, athletics, intelligence, and attentiveness as a lover, all of these traits are not properly communicated because, again, of Hammer’s minimum immersion in the role. Elio’s character suffers in a similar way. He is curious, timid, a playboy, and fascinated by Oliver, but Chamalet’s performance does not carry enough substance to make Elio more sympathetic. But these issues are, fortunately, remedied in the film when Elio and Oliver share their closer moments.

As Call Me By Your Name progresses into the second and third acts, Elio and Oliver are not only allowed to grow closer, they are allowed to share more tender, intimate scenes. Not only do these provide more insight into Elio and Oliver’s characters and their feelings toward one another, Hammer and Chamalet are able to truly humanize the people they personify. In any scene Elio and Oliver draw nearer to each other, the expressions and exchanges they share are alive, charged with passion and love. Every gaze is deep and full of longing. Every touch and caress is filled with gentleness, care, and serves as an encouragement for the other to come closer. Every kiss is full of emotion and excitement, and these emotions can be felt by anyone watching. All of this culminates in the redemption of the actors and main characters, and results in a deeper relationship to be seen by audience members. However, because most of the romance seems more believably derived from physicality and not more personal interactions (e.g., the sharing of emotions, identification with another’s problems, conversations of likes and dislikes, etc.), the main characters’ relationship suffers greatly and feels less real. This holds true of any romantic relationship in film, be it between heterosexual or homosexual characters. If physical interactions are the only quality that appear to make the romance genuine, it won’t feel as deep nor heartfelt. The relationship is ironically weakened by its greatest strength, and this does damage the weight of the more sorrowful moments the two have near the end of the film.

The pacing of the film is incredibly slow—more so than any film I have seen in quite some time. This, of course, benefits the story by setting a tone that allows the romance between Elio and Oliver to blossom in the time and feel necessary, but the length at which Call Me By Your Name runs is unnecessarily long. Most relationships in film, independent or not, can easily develop a connection between characters in an hour or two. This film is given a full half-hour longer than most, and the extra time does not help to add much of value to the piece. Because the bond of Elio and Oliver is firmly established and is built upon in a reasonable amount of time, it leaves for far too much screen time to be left to conversations between supporting characters, scenic shots, and interactions between the main characters. While none of these elements detract much from the quality of the film, they don’t quite feel as necessary, and this results in what could be considered a boring experience for viewers. But that is just one person’s opinion. Perhaps this slow pace and peacefulness can only help to build character relationships more, as they might in similar films.

The cinematography is of particular notablitity in Call Me By Your Name. Not only is the environment of the film scenic and beautiful, the naturalistic and urban shots create a peaceful and nostalgic feeling among viewers that would be pleasant and welcomed by all. The scenes in which Elio and Oliver ride their bikes together, or simply talk with one another, are especially aesthetic, with the camera either panning across a tree-lined, sun-filled countryside, or holding still on an environment of aging buildings, bustling city life, and cobblestone streets. Visually, the film is a marvel, and certainly contains some of the best examples of camerawork in 2017 cinema.

The soundtrack of Call Me By Your Name is also quite beautiful. The classical and quieter sound of the score sets a tone befitting of the subject matter and romance of the film, and develops a backdrop full of grace and serenity for Elio and Oliver’s interactions and intimate scenes. Whether they’re speaking with each other in private or enjoying time with locals/friends, it is certainly pleasant to listen to, and suits the artistic merit of the film.

The last noteworthy element of Call Me By Your Name can be found in the ending. It allows the audience to witness Elio’s relationship with his father becoming more developed, and it imparts a sense of heartbreaking reality for anyone needing to say goodbye to a friend or lover. Upon Oliver’s return home, Elio’s father comforts his son with the reminder of how beautiful his relationship with Oliver was. He contends that, although it is disappointing to have to let go of a person or bond with someone, that does not mean that what was created is meant to be forgotten—only to be cherished. Elio’s father then ends with an encouragement to his son to live as he wishes, before he finds himself regretting not having seen a pleasant life. This message holds value for people universally. Saying goodbye to anything or anyone precious and dear is one of the most difficult realities for anyone to face. However, that doesn’t detract from the beauty of the relationship a person had with another, nor does it disallow people from forming new connections with others. There is sorrow in saying goodbye, but there is joy that can be found in looking to the future. I certainly find this lamentation to be one of the moving and inclusive moments in the film, and it can be appreciated by everyone who hears and sees it.

Despite the better elements of Call Me By Your Name, I still found it to be quite disappointing and boring. Although the visuals are stunning, the score is beautiful, and the romance has its genuine and tender moments, the stylistic components of the film ultimately outweigh and define the quality of this cinematic piece. I certainly understand why people enjoy this film, but the underdevelopment of the relationships, characters, and interactions, do limit it from being everything its meant to be. But that may not be your experience. I’d encourage anyone who hasn’t seen Call Me By Your Name to see what it has in store; the amount of care this film is made with is apparent, and can certainly be appreciated by many, many filmgoers. You may even find yourself connecting with Call Me By Your Name in a way you weren’t expecting.

#call me by your name #call me by your name review #timothee chalamet #armie hammer #2017 films #independent films #lgbt movies #lgbtq

[creativitywithtomas]

How Game Design uses Aesthetic and Affect to generate Vigilance in players

A vital power of art is to create an emotive experience for the person engaging with it, it enables a more vivid experience and connection with the artistic piece itself. Although this doesn’t mean the goal of art is to control the affect, feeling or emotion of the person engaging with it but instead to present material that allows the performance of these functions within a person. When these functions are allowed to perform, things like the suspension of disbelief are easily enabled and an immersive and impactful experience is generated.

When creating, an artist can use aesthetic experience to interact with the viewers' affect which then starts this function chain resulting in an emotive response and engagement. An aesthetic experience is qualitatively different from everyday experience, it takes the principles relating to nature and appreciation of beauty and uses them to influence an exceptional state of mind (Taylor, 2020). The nature of beauty is highly subjective and elicits different reactions from different people but there are consistencies that can be worked within to produce the intended affect and in turn emotion.

The emotion I’m exploring in this blog is described as vigilance in Plutchik’s Wheel of Emotions (Six Seconds, n.d.) an emotion that exists in between joy and anger striking a balance. In Game Design this state of Vigilance is commonly referred to in regards to Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi’s Flow State (Cskiszentmihalyi, 1990) a state enabled by presenting content for the player that is a high enough level of skill that the player is challenged but not so high that they feel frustrated. Also being called the difficulty curve it is a level of polish that can make or break in regards to whether or not a player continues with a game.

When developing a game it’s quite easy to get caught up in the Ludological principles that enable vigilance and it is a strength of medium but narrative, visual aesthetic and general textual aesthetic are tools to further bolster the intended affect. I see vigilance as quite unique as it can be seen as a tentative emotional construct built upon stimuli that both enables joy and anger. Joy can be described as an emotive reaction to receiving some level of satisfaction from something, socially it enables us to communicate appreciation and physiologically it can reinforce behaviours. 

Opposing this anger can be described as an emotive reaction to being presented with something we dislike, this can be for many reasons whether we feel it is unjust or is openly harmful to us. Socially this emotive response communicates your opinion of something and physiologically anger can be a motivator to evoke action. The relationship between these two emotive states brings about vigilance, where something is presented that brings forth anger and a desire for change and the potential for that change is presented enabling satisfaction and joy.

In the design of a game there needs to be opportunities for satisfaction and motivation mixed with opportunities for resistance to player investment. A game I’ve been playing recently Monster Hunter: Rise (Capcom, 2021) pairs these opportunities well creating a gameplay loop that enables vigilance.

It interacts with vigilance on both a macro and micro level. To quickly explain MH:R it is a game in a series centered around hunting monsters; players choose from a variety of melee and ranged weapon to master, the weapons themselves can feel quite clunky when starting out but as players get more skilled and learn the nuances there is a large potential for what can be achieved with each weapon. The monsters in the game are usually more than dinosaur sized and a key aspect to hunting them is to learn their patterns and behaviours.

On a micro level when hunting a monster the player is not just presented with the obstacle of the monster but the resistance generated by each of it’s behaviours, the player must learn how they can properly avoid a monster’s attacks in a way that enables them to strike a decisive blow with their weapon of choice. The attack of the monster acts as the source of an anger emotive response creating an obstacle to the players goal driving a level of passion and if the player can correctly land that decisive blow then enables a joy emotive response driving player satisfaction and hitting the balance which is vigilance. When a monster attacks it is designed to be read presenting tells for the player to learn and when the player lands a highly damaging blow there is a mix of audio and visual feedback that helps cement that reward.

Then on a macro level once a monster is defeated the player is able to harvest materials and use it to create stronger weapons and armour. This harvesting phase is a reward for the preparation and long term investment of performing the hunt. From there the player goes to the blacksmith to see what they can craft with their loot, this phase acts both as an enabler of joy and anger emotion. A player may have all the materials they need for equipment or this may tell them that they still need to continue. This all drives a player to continue on more hunts to either use their new equipment or to work to acquire new equipment.

Monster Hunter is a series that has iterated on it’s original design and fine tuned generating aesthetic to lead to an vigilant emotive response.

References:

Capcom. (2021). Monster Hunter: Rise. [Video Game].

Csikszentmihalyi, M. (1990). Flow. 

Six Seconds. (n.d.). Plutchik’s Wheel of Emotions: Exploring the Emotion Wheel. https://www.6seconds.org/2020/08/11/plutchik-wheel-emotions/ Taylor, J. (2020). Aesthetic Experience and Affective Media [Google Slides]. CIM402, SAE.