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#the great and mysterious sooty
bluestempigeons · 8 months
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Sooty laid a fucking monster of an egg again. Looking like she's gonna be a one-egger old lady! Hasn't had a two egg clutch for about half a year now
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vuulpecula · 3 months
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✖ @mistrdctr inquired: 55
spotify wrapped | always accepting ↳ 55. night channels - foxing
Her fault. Her fault. Her fault. He was going to die, and it was all her fault. Hands pressed desperately over his middle, trying to staunch the bleeding that flowed endlessly, Fox tried to save the life that was already slipping away between her fingers. Shredded muscle and sinew twisted with the tattered remains of his robes, weaving together around her incapable digits like a grotesque mockery of a cat’s cradle. Maybe with medical equipment, earthly objects from that life left behind, his life would be spared—but there was nothing. Nothing she could reach for or grab, no one to call, there was nothing she could do. The great Doctor Strange was dying and the world would be lesser for it.
“Please, please,” her arms were shaking as she begged for that tiny spark of something to appear. Concentrating, digging as deep as she could for any shred of healing power or magic or whatever it was. The shaking became worse. The edges around him, laying prone beneath her unlit hands, began to fade. Melting into a darkness she fought to keep back. Blood dripped from her nostrils, a splitting headache brought forth a spasm of pain, and still she tried. Frantic for anything and lacking in everything. There was no fighting the dizziness that sent the world around them spinning, meshing every color together until all she could see was black.
A deep red glow filled the space and from it walked a woman. Spine straight, moving unhurried to kneel beside the dying Strange. “We clung to our warp weighted loom,” she began softly. “By the time we were done, we were woven in. Such constriction from a self-made trap.” It was Fox and it wasn’t. She was different. Perhaps a little older, confident, oozing with the darkness of power, and looking down upon him with the softness of seeing an old friend. A hand, fingers sooty with darkness, rested over his wound. Again, a glow began, pulsing a deep orange where it had once been gold. The pieces of him that had fallen apart began to weave back together once more. Cells healing in a way that seemed wholly impossible.
With her other hand, she pushed the hair back from his brow. “And on these antlers, dry-rot cracks through.” As if he was crowned or meant to be. This Fox, she glanced to the other beside him. Unconscious and incapable. “I left myself too open for you,” she reflected before turning her attention back to him. “So, by now I know what decay is.” There was a sadness in the way she said it, as if all three had been connected in some mysterious way that had led her down the darker path. The corrupted path. Wanda Maximoff was not the only witch tempted by that which she could not have.
“I’ll lay on waves until the night channels end,” Fox stated, as if telling him where she would be. Where he could find the beginning to the end that would not come for him. Not now, at least. She leaned close to him, his body nearly healed completely beneath her hand. “Future love,” she whispered against the shell of his ear. “Don’t fall apart.” As quickly as she had come, she was gone. Disappearing into the fading glow like a figment of a twisted imagination.
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readerbookclub · 7 months
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Hello everyone, it's time for a new book list! This month, I've made a list of books inspired by folklore. Hope you enjoy! I tried to include stories from different countries and cultures. As always, please be sure to vote using the link at the end of the post :)
Onto the books...
Gods of Jade and Shadow, by Silvia Moreno-Garcia
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The Jazz Age is in full swing, but Casiopea Tun is too busy cleaning the floors of her wealthy grandfather’s house to listen to any fast tunes. Nevertheless, she dreams of a life far from her dusty small town in southern Mexico. A life she can call her own.
Yet this new life seems as distant as the stars, until the day she finds a curious wooden box in her grandfather’s room. She opens it—and accidentally frees the spirit of the Mayan god of death, who requests her help in recovering his throne from his treacherous brother. Failure will mean Casiopea’s demise, but success could make her dreams come true.
In the company of the strangely alluring god and armed with her wits, Casiopea begins an adventure that will take her on a cross-country odyssey from the jungles of Yucatán to the bright lights of Mexico City—and deep into the darkness of the Mayan underworld.
Deathless, by Catherynne M. Valente
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Koschei the Deathless is to Russian folklore what devils or wicked witches are to European culture: a menacing, evil figure; the villain of countless stories which have been passed on through story and text for generations. But Koschei has never before been seen through the eyes of Catherynne Valente, whose modernized and transformed take on the legend brings the action to modern times, spanning many of the great developments of Russian history in the twentieth century.
Deathless, however, is no dry, historical tome: it lights up like fire as the young Marya Morevna transforms from a clever child of the revolution, to Koschei’s beautiful bride, to his eventual undoing. Along the way there are Stalinist house elves, magical quests, secrecy and bureaucracy, and games of lust and power. All told, Deathless is a collision of magical history and actual history, of revolution and mythology, of love and death, which will bring Russian myth back to life in a stunning new incarnation.
Things in Jars, by Jess Kidd
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Bridie Devine, female detective extraordinaire, is confronted with the most baffling puzzle yet: the kidnapping of Christabel Berwick, secret daughter of Sir Edmund Athelstan Berwick, and a peculiar child whose reputed supernatural powers have captured the unwanted attention of collectors trading curiosities in this age of discovery.
Winding her way through the labyrinthine, sooty streets of Victorian London, Bridie won’t rest until she finds the young girl, even if it means unearthing a past that she’d rather keep buried. Luckily, her search is aided by an enchanting cast of characters, including a seven-foot tall housemaid; a melancholic, tattoo-covered ghost; and an avuncular apothecary. But secrets abound in this foggy underworld where spectacle is king and nothing is quite what it seems.
Blending darkness and light, history and folklore, Things in Jars is a spellbinding Gothic mystery that collapses the boundary between fact and fairy tale to stunning effect and explores what it means to be human in inhumane times.
Love in Colour: Mythical Tales from Around the World, Retold - by Bolu Babalola
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A high-born Nigerian goddess, who has been beaten down and unappreciated by her gregarious lover, longs to be truly seen.
A young businesswoman attempts a great leap in her company, and an even greater one in her love life.
A powerful Ghanaian spokeswoman is forced to decide whether she should uphold her family’s politics or be true to her heart.
In her debut collection, internationally acclaimed writer Bolu Babalola retells the most beautiful love stories from history and mythology with incredible new detail and vivacity. Focusing on the magical folktales of West Africa, Babalola also reimagines Greek myths, ancient legends from the Middle East, and stories from long-erased places.
With an eye towards decolonizing tropes inherent in our favorite tales of love, Babalola has created captivating stories that traverse across perspectives, continents, and genres.
A Master of Djinn, by P. Djèlí Clark
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Cairo, 1912: Though Fatma el-Sha’arawi is the youngest woman working for the Ministry of Alchemy, Enchantments and Supernatural Entities, she’s certainly not a rookie, especially after preventing the destruction of the universe last summer.
So when someone murders a secret brotherhood dedicated to one of the most famous men in history, al-Jahiz, Agent Fatma is called onto the case. Al-Jahiz transformed the world 50 years ago when he opened up the veil between the magical and mundane realms, before vanishing into the unknown. This murderer claims to be al-Jahiz, returned to condemn the modern age for its social oppressions. His dangerous magical abilities instigate unrest in the streets of Cairo that threaten to spill over onto the global stage.
Alongside her Ministry colleagues and her clever girlfriend Siti, Agent Fatma must unravel the mystery behind this imposter to restore peace to the city -or face the possibility he could be exactly who he seems…
Please vote for our next book here.
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bluestem-archive · 3 years
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Best pigeon video ?
i have this video of Sooty very delightedly grunting about getting new nest material that i don't think i ever posted. it makes me happy :)
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My ‘unhealthy’ chickens
My blog has a lot of cute chicken photos on it, and sometimes I get comments such as “wow I want a chicken like that!” Which is lovely! I’m glad to spread the chicken love! However I want to take a second to address this. Just like with dogs, there are many breeds of chicken which are unhealthy and have health consequences because of this. I have a couple of birds like this. I just want to make people aware that if they seriously want a bird like this, to take into account what health issues may come with them.
Sooty - Frizzle feathers
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Sooty is a fan favourite, and one of my favourites too. I do admit that I love the frizzle feather gene, it just looks so cool! However frizzle feathering causes some issues and I didn’t intentionally get a frizzle, Sooty hatched from a mystery egg. Her Dad was the only frizzle in the flock, with 13 other roosters, so she was a surprise to say the least!
Weather intolerance: Due to the feathers sticking out like that, birds can’t warm up in the cold since their feathers don’t provide a protective barrier and body heat escapes. This also means they have no natural shelter from rain and wind. Sooty doesn’t have to worry about any of this, it’s never cold where I live and she lives inside. She really struggles in the heat, however that’s likely due to her leg and foot feathering which I’ll discuss later, rather than the frizzle feathering.
Flight: Birds can’t fly well, since their primary wing feathers are curled or brittle. This puts them at risk of leg and spinal injuries if they try to fly from too large a height. Sooty did severe nervous damage to her spine when she was 8 weeks old, causing her to become paralysed in the legs for 3 months. Thankfully, she fully recovered after 5 months of physiotherapy.
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Sooty’s wings look like this. Not all frizzle feathered birds have flights this poor, however it is a potential consequence of the feather type.
Communication: Another issue frizzle feathers cause is communication within a flock. Sooty used to get pecked a lot by her top hen Kath, because Kath thinks Sooty is always challenging her to fight! Chickens use their neck feathers, called hackle feathers, to communicate a whole bunch of things. From fear, to aggression, to even asking another flock member to clean their feathers. Since frizzle feathers stick out like that, the bird struggles to move them into the positions used for communication so can’t talk to their flock very well. Sooty’s curled hackle feathers make it look like she’s always challenging another hen to a fight
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You can see how those raised hackles kinda look like Sooty’s ‘mane’ of curled neck feathers! Thankfully, Sooty is second in command and her head hen, Kath, seems to have learnt that Sooty just looks like that! So she doesn’t get attacked very frequently anymore.
Unethical breeding: The gene which causes frizzle feathers in homozygous form (two copies of the gene) also causes serious issues. These birds are called Frazzles or ‘over frizzled’ and their feathers are very weak, often falling out and leaving the bird naked. It can be painful for them, and if they’re left outside, they certainly wouldn’t survive. Therefore frizzles should never be bred together. To breed frizzles you should use a frizzle feathered bird with a smooth feathered bird. However, this means you hatch only 50% frizzles, so some unethical breeders breed frizzle x frizzle to reduce the amount of smooth feathered birds they get.
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A Frazzle chicken
Heart failure: These feathers have also been linked with enlarged hearts, increasing risk of heart failure. Since the feathers cause loss of body heat, it causes an increase in metabolism and other physiological functions to keep the body temperature at the appropriate level. This means the heart has to work harder, increasing its size and putting more strain on it. Sooty tires out easier, and when she used to be out ranging she’d frequently come inside to sleep on the couch while her flock was still outside having fun. I could see this putting them more at risk of predation, since if they’re already tired they don’t have the same stamina of another bird to flee a predator.
Solo - Heavy foot/leg feathering
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Not the most flattering photo of her but the best one I have to show her foot feathering! As you can see she was quite cranky with me! She’s a Silkie X Pekin, which are both breeds known to have heavily feathered legs. There are many breeds with healthy foot feathering, such as Langshans
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But some like the show-type Pekin bantam, have a number of issues associated with their foot feathering. Here’s a Pekin in comparison to the Langshan above
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As you can see the feathering is much much heavier!
Mobility: Very heavy leg and foot feathering significantly reduces mobility. The large feathers make it harder to move toes, making perching more difficult, and are a tripping hazard. Solo is always tripping over, stumbling, and ‘shuffling’ when she walks since her feet impair her movement a significant amount. I’m probably going to cut her foot feathers off so she can move about easier. They’d never hindered her movement until now, this molt they grew in humongous for some reason. Obviously having a built in tripping hazard isn’t a good idea, since it predisposes the bird to a higher risk of leg injuries.
Thermotegulation: As mentioned above, legs and feet are very important in helping a bird regulate their temperature. Lightly feathered legs like the Langshan has don’t have this issue, since the bird has majority of its foot free to cool down with. Heavily feathered legs like the pekin provide little surface area to cool down with, so the birds can really struggle in hot weather. Solo is one of our least heat tolerant birds, and she thankfully has wattles and a comb unlike poor Silkies!
Cleanliness: Heavily feathered feet get disgusting! They’re more prone to getting dirty and are harder for the birds to keep clean. Solo always has poop, sticks, food, mud, and all sorts of other gunk crusted into her foot feathering. I have to clean them quite frequently so that she doesn’t get bacterial build up.
Other health ailments: In my experience, heavily feathered feet tend to be a beacon for related leg and foot health issues. We don’t have to worry about this where I live, but foot feathers can get wet in snow and heighten frostbite risk for toes. Although I don’t have to worry about the cold, sadly these foot feathers also have heat related issues! I live in a sub-tropical environment, so humidity levels get pretty high here. Bacteria loves humidity. Solo has had a bad case of Bumblefoot which was really hard to treat due to this humidity. Sweep, another bird with heavy foot feathering, has had 2 cases of bumblefoot now. I’ve never had a clean-legged bird get bumblefoot, so it’s definitely linked to trapping bacteria and humidity. I haven’t had to deal with this parasite myself, but apparently feather-legged breeds are more prone to Scaly-leg mite too.
Cujo - Heavy layer breeds
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Cujo is a Hamburg, sometimes referrred to as ‘Everlayers’ since they have a reputation for reliably laying an egg every day. They rarely go broody, and if they do are very easy to dissuade. I am very against production breeds if they’re not within an agricultural industry, where they have a purpose, since it tragically shortens their lives so much. The Hamburgs lay on average 200 eggs annually, which isn’t too bad and makes them a healthier layer breed, but it’s certainly heavier laying than most of the other breeds I have. Cujo is actually very healthy, I took great care in picking a breeder to get her from and most of his birds are lighter layers than they ‘should’ be. Cujo was laying 3-4 eggs a week before her current molt, much better than the 5-7 her breed has a reputation for.
Heart failure: One of the most frequent ends to laying birds is heart failure. Their bodies are under so much stress to make an egg every day that their bodies eventually just give up, usually from heart failure.
They don’t go broody: A lot of people don’t like broody hens, since they stop laying and sit on their nest all day, however I really like them. A broody hen gets a much needed break from laying eggs! Some breeds continue to lay eggs over winter, and some birds don’t stop laying when they molt if it’s a light one. So broodies give the bird a choice to stop laying and sit on eggs when she wants, if she didn’t get a break over winter or molt. Breeding this behaviour out of production breeds contributes to their issues, since they can’t take that break.
Shortened life span: Due to the strain mass egg production puts on their bodies, average lifespan is 3-4 years compared to the 6-10+ of healthy heritage breeds. I had a utility leghorn as a pet many years ago, her heart tragically gave out on her one day while I wasn’t home. She was dirtbathing in her favourite spot when it happened, so I hope to think it was a peaceful end. She was only 2 years old.
Reproductive complications: Heavy layer breeds are more prone to experiencing issues with their reproductive tract. This includes cancers, tumours, prolapses, egg binding, and egg yolk peritonitis (infection). They’re also more prone to nutrient deficiencies, especially with calcium, since it takes so much out of them to lay eggs. This is easily preventable with a balanced diet, however if calcium deficiency does occur the hen can suffer from brittle bones.
Sweep - Aggressive breeds
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Now Sweep isn’t nearly as bad as this title frames her to be, but it’s still worth a mention. We can only guess what her parentage is since she came from mystery eggs, but we think Sweep is an Old English Game cross Pekin. In Australia, Old English Game are a hyper aggressive breed. They were bred for the cruel sport of cockfighting, where two roosters are forced to fight to the death. Thankfully this sport is now criminalised, but nobody bred the aggressiveness out of this breed.
Injury risk: hyper aggressive breeds pose a greater risk of injury mainly to other flock mates, but also to themselves. These birds often antagonise others despite there not really being a reason to, resulting in more fighting, disharmony, and injury within a flock. If another bird is stronger than them and gets sick of their shit, they themselves could be seriously hurt since they often don’t know when to back down from a fight like non-aggressive birds do. Sweep has to be housed separate from my main flock with her mother, Solo for company. She has tried many times to outrank birds in my main flock but her fighting is very brutal compared to the normal pecking order fights. She aims for the eyes, and came close to blinding a bird once before, I can’t risk that sort of injury.
Mortality risk: continuing on from that first point, some individuals will take their aggressiveness too far and kill fellow flock mates. What might start out as a simple pecking order fight can turn very bloody and very brutal with these breeds fast. Roosters can kill hens and hens can kill hens. This obviously should never happen in well bred, good tempered birds. I do not say this jokingly when I say that Sweep and Sooty would kill each other if I let them. They’re both Pekin X Old English, and although Sooty is good with other birds, she’s terrible with Sweep. I’m hoping Sweep will mellow with age (she’s currently 2) and I can integrate her and Solo as part of Blossom’s flock.
Social interaction: I think this is something a lot of people don’t seem to consider, but having hyper aggressive birds which have to be housed seperate will obviously hugely impact upon their social needs. It doesn’t matter how aggressive the bird is, a chicken is, and always will be, a social animal. They need companionship, and while this can be provided by us, it’s easiest to provide it with other chickens. Keeping a social animal by itself, never letting it interact with others, and not providing that companionship yourself is incredibly inhumane in my opinion. It doesn’t matter if that bird is incapable of interacting without trying to kill the others, the fact is that this animal is still hardwired to live in a social group. By breeding such aggressive animals, it’s very cruel since it deprives them of such a basic need.
Now this post isn’t to say people can’t get a breed if they like it but it has health consequences, because something like those heavy foot feathers don’t cause the bird any harm or pain in itself, it’s just a consequence of poor management. So if you’re willing to do the work to ensure those features don’t hinder the animals quality of life, then excellent! Go ahead and get those basketball-shaped Pekin lads! This post was merely a reminder to think critically and research any animal/breed before you get them, and to make sure you’re prepared for any future consequences or adjustments for that animal/breed. Sooty and Solo need fans set up on their pens during the Summer, Sweep needs a seperate coop, and all three need adjusted perches and weekly foot health checks because of their heavily feathered feet. Once again, the importance of you screening for ethical, responsible breeders is crucial when deciding to bring a new family member home.
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Thanks for reading!
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thefisherqueen · 3 years
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Review of The Green Knight
As a lover of Arthurian legend and medieval reenactment and a once-upon medieval literature student, the new movie The Green Knight of course was on my to-watch list. Especially after reading qqueenofhades’ excellent essay. I finally watched the movie last week. And I have some Thoughts to share.
There are a lot of things to like about this movie. It was delightfully non-sensational and devoid of GoT-like violence and political power struggles. There was some really beautiful cinematography, partly thanks to the beautiful Irish mountains this movie was shot in. I love that TGK not just adopted, but instead reworked the legend. The main moral themes and outcomes, while not a literal copy, felt authentic to the Christian medieval context of the poem, involving questions around honor, courage, hospitality, greatness, humility and what it means to be a good knight, or even a good person. The movie made it beautifully clear that Gawain’s main problem could have been avoided had he just given the Green Knight a scratch, but because he chose to behead the knight while said knight was lying kneeling and harmless at his feet, there is no escaping from facing the consequence of that action, which is neatly echoed throughout the movie. The green knight, the knight with the green belt and the lord who goes hunting in the green. The lover, the saint and the temptress. What you give, you will receive, and the other way around. The cast was great (too asexual to be thirsty for Dev Patel, though, sorry). The messing up of the mistaken image of medieval europe as just white is also always appreciated. I too liked that the film didn’t care to explain some of the wonders and mysteries, like the giants and the saint who lost her head, they just were accepted as part of that world. Being somewhat puzzled and enchanted is sadly rare in media nowadays where everything has to be explained or else it’s a ‘plot hole’. The liberty this movie takes with time, with multiple possible versions playing out and the reoccuring circular motives were impressive. However, the film as a whole didn’t quite work for me and I don’t really care to rewatch it. I think there are two fundamental reasons why.
The first is that the viewer isn’t given reason to care about the main character. I think this choice is deliberate, as we see Arthur asking Gawain to tell a tale of himself to get to know him, and Gawain replies that he has none, and after Gawain takes on the Green Knight’s challenge as an opportunity to gain a tale for himself. Questions about telling and re-telling tales and achieving greatness are a central theme. However, this narrative choice poses a problem, as it results in a movie where we see Gawain wrestle through difficulties on his quest and he’s this strange identity-less puppet, escaped from the children’s puppet show. We as audience are set up to be detached from him, which makes it hard to root for his success or even his survival, despite how pretty and sad Dev Patel may look in a dirty-and-distressed state. This could have been solved without removing those identity themes by giving Gawain, if not great deeds, at least some establishment of his character at the start of the film. He doesn’t have to be likable, but he has to be something more than a drinker and brawler with a faint sense of wanting to prove himself. That is just not enough to make us attached to Gawain’s wellbeing and involved in the quality of his decision making. The rest of the movie doesn't quite build Gawain’s character either. We get that he’s uncertain and afraid, yes, but his actions remain inconsistent, his motivations unclear. His main character arch - that he needs to give up the protection of the enchanted green belt, needs to face fear and consequences rather than to rely on the treacherous protection of witchcraft - doesn’t come off the ground because we only learn close to the very end that the belt is a problem to the completion of his quest. That’s no arch, that’s an exhausting flat march and a sudden steep slope right before the finish line.   
The second problem ties into the first. Namely, you don’t need a strong emotional tie to the characters if there’s a light tone, an adventure with a side dish of some fun and humor perhaps. This movie, however, is anything but light. It’s dark. It���s grim. It’s cold. It’s wet. There’s exactly zero humor. Above all, it’s slow. So slow. Apart from an emotional connection, you also need a sit-on-the-edge-of-your-seat amount of story tension for this kind of dramatic tone and slow pace to work, and the script just doesn’t build that tension. A shot of Gawain riding through the moor after he leaves his home is just that: the confrontation with the Green Knight is still far away, there’s no looming threat we’re aware of, there’s nothing else to be told or resolved. Together with our emotional detachment it makes for a movie that switches between boring and ridiculously overdramatic, while occasionally looking stunning and taking on deeper questions and parallels. Overall it just makes for a frustrating viewer experience that lacks impact. I was left with a thorough “meh”. Which is a shame, because this movie is very interesting and could have been so good. That clever panning shot showing Gawain as a tied up skeleton should have been devastating. I should have been shouting “No DON”T do that, you IDIOT!” at the screen the moment Gawain scares away his adorable guardian fox. Instead, I couldn’t care less. Come on, Green Knight. Off with his head.    
Some final details to note: erotic movie scenes are normally already awkward, but the scenes in this movie take the usual akwardness next level. At least it’s handled consistently - whether straight or homoerotic, it’s basically all a dissapointment. (That cum shot has scarred my brain forever). Which has its own merit, I guess, but does make for an odd contrast to the camera’s loving, even somewhat objectiving depiction of Dev Patel and the way about every character tenderly touches his face. I’m left wondering what the point was of this choice. It tells something about Gawain’s failure to meet chivalry standards, maybe.  
The scenes which show witchcraft was used to make the Green Knight appear were rather cliché and I don’t think they added anything, as the Christian morality and consequences of relying on witchcraft are already addressed in the theme of the enchanted green belt. Also, it’s frustrating to keep seeing scratched-in runes used as literal magic. As far as our limited knowledge goes, runes were a whole writing system, magical only in the sense that writing something down can have a power of its own. Please, movie makers, think of something original.
Also, torches are terrible for indoor lighting. They burn out quickly and are horribly sooty, so it’s lanterns or candles you want indoors. But the use of the pentacle shown as a common talisman for protection rather than a specific symbol for evil or magic was nice. I’m not equipped to comment much on the choice of costumes and they didn't try to be accurate to a specific historic period and place anyway, but would have loved to see more men in long robes like the beautiful ones they gave king Arthur. Somehow, medieval themed movies only seem to go for the pants and knee-length tunic style for men, while long dress-like garments were in fact very common. Gawain’s beautifully patterned yellow mantle was the brightest point of the entire movie.      
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1littleshippergirl1 · 3 years
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@tamaha sorry this took a bit and it's a bit short. I was having difficulty on how to write this but I hope you enjoy it anyway!
--
"Dad, dad!" Molly came bursting through the fireplace, hurling herself into Percy's arms for a tight embrace. And he obliged her, kissing the top of her head and giving her a squeeze. It had been a little too long for his liking since he last saw her.
"Hello, Dear," he smiled down at her. "Did you have a good year?"
"It was the best!" Molly was bouncing on her heels excitedly.
George came out of the fireplace now, his robes all sooty and face a tad pink from the chilly air. His brother had been kind enough to offer to pick up all the kids and bring them home. Percy was grateful; Lucy had caught a nasty cold and for the past hour, he had been trying to coax her into eating at least half of her chicken soup while she kept muttering how she wanted to sleep instead, insisting she wasn't hungry. She wouldn't have made it standing in the frigid temperature, waiting for the train to arrive.
"Weatherby," George greeted with a grin. The nickname didn't bother Percy anymore, now that he could see the humor within it. It was really a term of endearment. He peered past Percy, over to the table where Lucy was still slumped over. "How's my favorite niece?"
Molly didn't give him a chance to respond. "I thought I was your favorite niece?"
George bent down to her level, whispering conspiratorially into her ear--but still at a volume that Percy heard. "You are. But you know, your sister and cousins would be jealous. Have to be fair. Don't worry, we know the real truth, right Mol?"
She giggled. "Right."
He stood back up, not reacting to Percy's smirk as Molly rushed passed them to go check on her sister. "So how is the little one? Still feeling crummy?"
Percy nodded, sighing. "Unfortunately. She hasn't eaten a thing but she's terribly exhausted. I just don't know what to do."
George chewed on his lip, contemplatively. "Well, bribery works."
Percy looked at him flatly.
"Oh, don't look at me like that. Just tell her you'll get her a nice new broom and when you go to get it the shop will mysteriously be sold out. Simple."
"You're despicable, you know that?"
"Angie puts up with me," George snickered. "Can't be that bad."
"Goodbye George," Percy shook his head, chuckling.
"Throwing me out already? Didn't Mum teach you how to be hospitable?" George's voice followed him back to the fireplace where he flooed himself away.
Percy turned back to the kitchen where his daughters were. Molly was talking to her sister about her first year-- all without stopping to take a breather.
"Did you know they have a trolley full of sweets?" He was bombarded with the question as soon Molly's eyes set upon him.
"Who does?" He faked puzzlement.
When Bill and Charlie returned from their respective first years, he'd eagerly absorbed their every word, impatiently awaiting for the moment he, too, could head off to Hogwarts for his own adventures. And when that time came, it was the most majestic time of his life. Everything was new and exciting; he wanted to explore and learn.
Naturally, as the time passed and his own school years came down to the last one and the rest of his siblings had surpassed their first year as well, the novelty wore off. It was still wonderful; Percy couldn't deny that. Certainly more interesting than a muggle school. But it just wasn't the same as that first night. He knew about everything now, or practically everything at least.
And now the time had come for Molly. But even with knowing practically everything, he wasn't going to ruin this moment for his little girl.
"The train!"
"Oh," he smiled. "Well, I suppose you bought some chocolate frogs, didn't you?"
Those were her favorite. Molly nodded vigorously. "They were really good. And I got Uncle Harry's card again!"
"Did you?" Percy chuckled again. She was sort of collecting them and had lamented on a prior occasion that she was getting too many cards for Harry and Ron. Then, he asked her, "did you meet anyone on the train?"
Molly beamed. "Oh, yes! This one girl-Emily. She's really nice. We shared a compartment. She's a muggleborn and accidentally did magic in front of her muggle teacher. Locked her right out of the classroom!"
"Did she now?" Percy rubbed Lucy's back, whispering to her that she just needed to take one more bite and she could go lie down on the couch if she liked.
Lucy groaned, her forehead was still resting on the table.
"Yes!" Molly nodded vigorously. "And did you know all the first years get taken across the lake?"
"Really?" Percy managed to look intrigued and hide his smile. "That's fascinating."
"Our boat fell over, too!" Molly informed him as though it were exciting news.
Percy laughed. "Oh, really? How did that happen?"
Molly grinned, looking down. "That might have been my fault."
"Might have?"
"Alright it was," she admitted, giggling. "Cody pushed me first so I pushed him back and the boat fell over."
"I see," Percy said and raised his eyebrows. "And what did I say about pushing people?"
"Not to do it," Molly said, immediately. She was well rehearsed.
"Then why did you do it?"
"He pushed me first," she said, simply.
"Margaret-"
Molly scowled at the use of her given name. "Daaaaad. It's okay. Cody wasn't mad."
"I see," he repeated. "And Cody is-?"
"My other friend," she said in a tone that suggested he should have known such information.
"Oh, of course," Percy nodded. "Were any of you in trouble for your boat tipping over?"
"No," she shook her head. "Hagrid thought it was funny and dried us all up."
Percy sighed fondly. "So long as you didn't get detention."
"Uncle George said he and Uncle Fred got detention on their first day," Molly told him, though he remembered that day well. They'd set off a dung bomb in the Great Hall just prior to their sorting. Professor Mcgonagall had been furious. So was their mum. A howler came in the mail the next morning.
"Yes, I'm aware," Percy said. "What happened after that?"
"Then we got sorted and Professor Longbottom just put a hat on us," Molly said as if she was disappointed by it.
"You look upset, sweetheart," Percy chuckled.
"Uncle George said we had to wrestle a troll. I wanted to wrestle one."
"He got that from your Uncle Charlie and Bill," Percy told her. "They told us all the same thing."
He omitted the part where he'd nearly wet himself when he and his class entered the Great Hall to get sorted.
"Dad, guess what else happened...."
Percy took a seat beside Lucy, rubbing her back soothingly and for nearly an hour or so, he listened attentively to his daughter describe her experience.
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Fantasy Fiction: books to read
The Order of the Pure Moon Reflected in Water by Zen Cho
Zen Cho returns with a found family wuxia fantasy that combines the vibrancy of old school martial arts movies with characters drawn from the margins of history. A bandit walks into a coffeehouse, and it all goes downhill from there. Guet Imm, a young votary of the Order of the Pure Moon, joins up with an eclectic group of thieves (whether they like it or not) in order to protect a sacred object, and finds herself in a far more complicated situation than she could have ever imagined.
Things in Jars by Jess Kidd
Bridie Devine, female detective extraordinaire, is confronted with the most baffling puzzle yet: the kidnapping of Christabel Berwick, secret daughter of Sir Edmund Athelstan Berwick, and a peculiar child whose reputed supernatural powers have captured the unwanted attention of collectors trading curiosities in this age of discovery. Winding her way through the labyrinthine, sooty streets of Victorian London, Bridie won’t rest until she finds the young girl, even if it means unearthing a past that she’d rather keep buried. Luckily, her search is aided by an enchanting cast of characters, including a seven-foot tall housemaid; a melancholic, tattoo-covered ghost; and an avuncular apothecary. But secrets abound in this foggy underworld where spectacle is king and nothing is quite what it seems. Blending darkness and light, history and folklore, Things in Jars is a spellbinding Gothic mystery that collapses the boundary between fact and fairy tale to stunning effect and explores what it means to be human in inhumane times.
An Easy Death by Charlaine Harris
Set in a fractured United States, in the southwestern country now known as Texoma. A world where magic is acknowledged but mistrusted, especially by a young gunslinger named Lizbeth Rose. Battered by a run across the border to Mexico Lizbeth Rose takes a job offer from a pair of Russian wizards to be their local guide and gunnie. For the wizards, Gunnie Rose has already acquired a fearsome reputation and they’re at a desperate crossroad, even if they won’t admit it. They’re searching through the small border towns near Mexico, trying to locate a low-level magic practitioner, Oleg Karkarov. The wizards believe Oleg is a direct descendant of Grigori Rasputin, and that Oleg’s blood can save the young tsar’s life. As the trio journey through an altered America, shattered into several countries by the assassination of Franklin Roosevelt and the Great Depression, they’re set on by enemies. It’s clear that a powerful force does not want them to succeed in their mission. Lizbeth Rose is a gunnie who has never failed a client, but her oath will test all of her skills and resolve to get them all out alive.
Dark Song by Christine Feehan
Stolen from her home at a young age and tormented for centuries, Elisabeta Trigovise is scared to show herself to anyone. Even though she has been rescued and is now safe within the Carpathian compound, she has lived in fear for so long she has no idea how to survive without it. She wants to answer the siren call of her lifemate—but the very thought terrifies her. Before he found Elisabeta, Ferro Arany was an ancient warrior without emotion. Now that his senses have come alive, he knows it will take more than kind words and soft touches to convince the fractured woman that they are partners, not master and prisoner. For now, he will give her his strength until she finds hers, allowing the steady rhythm of his heart to soothe Elisabeta's fragile soul. But even as she learns to stand on her own, the vampire who kept her captive is desperate to claim her again, threatening the song Elisabeta and Ferro are writing together.
Sucker Punch by Laurell K. Hamilton
A brutal murder, a suspect in jail, and an execution planned, but what if the wrong person is about to be killed?⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ When a fellow U.S. Marshal asks Anita Blake to fly to a tiny community in Michigan's Upper Peninsula on an emergency consult, she knows time is running short. When she arrives, there is plenty of proof that a young wereleopard killed his uncle in the most gruesome and bloody way possible. As the mounting evidence points to him, a warrant of execution is already under way.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ But something seems off about the murder, and Anita has been asked for her expert opinion on the crime scene. Despite the escalating pressure from local cops and the family’s cries for justice for their dead patriarch, Anita quickly realizes that the evidence doesn't quite add up.⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ Time is against Anita, as the tight-knit community is up in arms and fear against supernaturals is growing. She races to uncover the truth and determine whether the Marshals have caught the killer or are about to execute an innocent man—all in the name of justice.
American Demon by Kim Harrison
Rachel Morgan is back--and The Hollows will never be the same. What happens after you've saved the world? Well, if you're Rachel Mariana Morgan, witch-born demon, you quickly discover that something might have gone just a little bit wrong. That the very same acts you and your friends took to forge new powers may have released something bound by the old. With a rash of zombies, some strange new murders, and an exceedingly mysterious new demon in town, it will take everything Rachel has to counter this new threat to the world--and it may demand the sacrifice of what she holds most dear
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wondereads · 4 years
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Personal Recommendation (09/13/20)
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Etiquette & Espionage by Gail Carriger
Why am I recommending this book?
This is one of my favorite series of all time. I love it so much I recently bought the books despite having read them multiple times already. I can’t believe I haven’t read Carriger’s other books yet, but don’t be surprised if one of her other series pops up on this blog in the future.
Want something short and sweet? Check out my tiktok
Plot 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10
Sophronia Angelina Temminnick (even she admits it’s a mouthful) lives in a steampunk version of Victorian England where werewolves and vampires mingle in high society. Despite her best efforts, her mother sends her off to Mademoiselle Geraldine’s Finishing School for Young Ladies of Quality. However, this finishing school is not what one would expect. For one, it floats above a moor as a dirigible, and for another, it’s a school that trains spies and assassins. The story mainly focuses on Sophronia’s first couple months where everyone from flywaymen, her teachers, and the insufferable Monique are all after a mysterious prototype. 
I love this setting. The aesthetic alone of this story is enough to keep me happy for a while. The steampunk setting allows for all sorts of interesting innovations, such as mechanical maids that double as an alarm system, and the supernatural elements allow for some wonderful political intrigue.
As for the story, it follows a not-too-unpredictable path, but there are some little details that really sell it and pull you in. For example, if you pay attention, you might know where the prototype is hidden from the very beginning. Also, the concept of a school that teaches young ladies to manipulate society in order to gather information and “finish” others brings me so much joy. Their classes are a perfect blend of what you’d expect a 19th century girl to know and their special curriculum, such as Lady Linette’s class, which focuses on manners, social cues, and manipulation. My personal favorite is the headmistress’, Mademoiselle Geraldine’s, class. Since the headmistress has absolutely no idea what her school really teaches, it’s the perfect setting to practice subtlety and subterfuge.
To put it simply, I’ve never read another book like this. It’s unique, but that isn’t its only appealing trait!
Characters 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10
The main character, Sophronia, is just so likable. It’s nice to have a main character that excels at her field. A common trope is the heroine being unprepared for her situation, but Sophronia revels in it. The main conflict comes from her being rather too overzealous about it. Also, Sophronia’s excellence leads nicely into her flaws; she’s overconfident and impulsive. Her slightly inflated ego is addressed rather nicely in the second book as well.
The two most important side characters are two of Sophronia’s classmates, Dimity and Monique. Dimity was recruited alongside Sophronia, and they’re fast friends. Dimity’s a wonderful character because she’s very traditionally feminine. In contrast to characters like Sophronia and Sidheag, who are more than willing to cast propriety to the side, it’s a nice thing to have a character who takes pride in her appearance, tries to follow the rules, and isn’t always plotting. After all, it’s okay to desire a simple life over a grand adventure. On the other hand, Monique is a character you will love to hate. She represents the main antagonist in the first book, but she’s unfortunately a rather shallow character. She’s vain, egotistical, rude, and self-serving.
In the interest of keeping this review under ten pages, I’ll only address one more character for now-Phineas B. Crow, more commonly known as Soap. Sophronia’s best informer, good friend, and connection to regular people, he’s a delight to read about. His and Sophronia’s dynamic is always so much fun. They’re truly good friends despite the social difference, which tells you something about Sophronia’s character; Soap works as a sootie, the laborers who shovel coal in the engines of the school. He teaches Sophronia dirty fighting and relates all the information he overhears to her. Also, a rarity in historical novels set in Europe, he’s black, and there’s no skimming over it. His and Sophronia’s difference in status and color present issues that are still prevalent today, let alone the 1800s. And he’s adorable.
Writing Style 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10
Historical novels always have a distinct tone to them. After all, you can’t have your characters walking around saying slang words from today while wearing petticoats. I’d say Carriger does a great job of holding onto the voice of an upper class lady while still giving Sophronia a distinct dry and sarcastic attitude that definitely is a part of why I love the main character so much. Also, there are times when you can tell Sophronia wouldn’t be the most reliable narrator, she has a lot of strong opinions, but Carriger skirts around that neatly in the third person.
Meaning 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10
I’d say this book appeals to me so much because it has one my favorite messages. Most young reader’s and YA books have a message of being true to yourself even in face of adversity, and this book strays from that and not in the most ethical way. Etiquette & Espionage is all about hiding your true self while using the skills you have to make your way in the world. And if you have to poison a couple of your husbands along the way, it’s only a crime if you get caught. (Maybe don’t let impressionable young children read this book.)
Overall 1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10
As I said before, this is one of my favorite series of all time. I love when characters, instead of being the most powerful, use what they have at their disposal to manipulate the most powerful. This book is practically written for Slytherins. The characters are fun and interesting, the setting enriches the story wonderfully, and there’s never a dull moment. It’s full of sneaking around the outside of a floating school, framing classmates with perfume, and flying cheese pies. I would recommend this book to people who like steampunk, spies and assassins, and their favorite characters outsmarting everyone else.
The Author
Gail Carriger (aka Tofa Borregaard):https://gailcarriger.com/
The Reviewer
My name is Wonderose, and you can learn more about me here!
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lawrenceop · 4 years
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Holy Land Retrospective - Day 2
Reminder: clicking on the link for each photo (links are all in red text) will take you to the Flickr page where you can see the photo in larger sizes.  Start with DAY 1, or read on!
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PHOTO 4: Here at Gethsemane, in the place of the olive press, at the foot of the Mount of Olives is the ‘Church of All Nations’ where our Lord was pressed down by the sins and burdens of humanity. Within this church is an area of rock where Our Lord knelt and prayed in agony on the night before he was betrayed. And on this rock is the altar where we celebrated Holy Mass; the principal celebrant was Fr Donald Calloway MIC. Throughout the Mass, those pilgrims who were seated at the front were touching the rock, some placing their Rosaries on it, and some in tears. The sorrows and needs of the many are rightly expressed here for in this place the Lord underwent the agonies of all humanity ranged across all of time. 
So the letter to the Hebrews says: “Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears, to him who was able to save him from death, and he was heard for his godly fear.” (Heb 5:7) These words are inscribed in Latin beneath the mosaic on the facade of the church: Christ kneels before the Father, offering up prayers and supplications, suffering in his own body for the sake of humanity. And we see ranged on either side of Jesus representatives of all of Mankind, brought low by sin and the consequences of original sin: Because of the sin of Adam, Man is now subject to death, war, pestilence, ignorance, and suffering. (cf Gen 3:16-19) But the merciful immortal God assumed our humanity, our mortal condition, even, in the person of Jesus Christ. Thus God, through the human nature of Christ, is able to suffer as we do, even though he is innocent of all sin. And he, who is the second Adam, freely chose to suffer even the ignominy of the Cross for our sake so as to free us from the most profound effect of sin, which is death. So Pope St Leo the Great said: 
“God’s compassion for us is all the more wonderful because Christ died, not for the righteous or the holy but for the wicked and the sinful, and, though the divine nature could not be touched by the sting of death, he took to himself, through his birth as one of us, something he could offer on our behalf. The power of his death once confronted our death. In the words of Hosea the prophet: Death, I shall be your death; grave, I shall swallow you up. By dying he submitted to the laws of the underworld; by rising again he destroyed them. He did away with the everlasting character of death so as to make death a thing of time, not of eternity. As all die in Adam, so all will be brought to life in Christ.” 
Here, in this place of Gethsemane, the Lord Jesus manifested his will to suffer and die in order to “wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning nor crying nor pain any more, for the former things have passed away." (Apoc 21:4)
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PHOTO 5: Every Good Friday, the Passion is sung according to Dominican chant in our priories, and since 2005 I have sung the part of the Evangelist who begins with these words: “Jesus went forth with his disciples across the Kidron valley, where there was a garden, which he and his disciples entered.” (Jn 18:1) These steps mark a route, dating to the time of Jesus, that would lead from the site of the Upper Room on Mount Zion (where the Last Supper took place) down into the Kidron valley, and across to the Garden of Gethsemane; these steps run just along the periphery of the house of Caiaphas the High Priest where Peter denied his Master. As I stood here contemplating the view – the Kidron valley down below, and the Mount of Olives in the distance – I heard the music of the Passion, and this year when I sang those lines again, this scene flashed through my mind. 
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PHOTO 6: Beneath the white structure on the right, which is shaped like the lid of a jar and continually cooled by jets of water, lie the first seven scrolls of the Bible discovered at Qumran in 1947, the “Dead Sea Scrolls”. Called ‘The Shrine of the Book’, it is part of the Israel Museum where we also viewed a wonderful model of Jerusalem at the time of the Second Temple. The model helped us to locate and situate the events of Jesus’s Passion and Resurrection in relation to the geography and orientation of the holy city; the ancient scrolls of Scripture helped us to situate Jesus, the living Word of God made flesh, in the context of the culture and sacred history into which he was born. 
“Rolling up the scroll, he handed it back to the attendant and sat down, and the eyes of all in the synagogue looked intently at him. He said to them, “Today this scripture passage is fulfilled in your hearing.””– Luke 4:20-21.
Photographically, I liked the contrast of the smoothly curved modern surface of the Shrine juxtaposed with the deeply-carved curls and swirls of the ancient capital in the foreground. It spoke to me of the antiquity of the lands we were in and its history and culture that continued into the present time. 
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PHOTO 7: Barely fifteen minutes from the Israel Museum is the village of Ein Karem, the ‘Spring of the Vineyard’ where St John the Baptist was born. The village is nestled in verdant hills, in the “hill country” of Judah as St Luke describes it (cf Lk 1:39). We prayed the Joyful Mysteries of the Rosary as we climbed up to the church of the Visitation. It was to this place that Mary went with haste after St Gabriel had left her. It was here that the infant John was sanctified in the womb by the Holy Spirit; here that the baby leapt with joy as the Redeemer in the womb drew near; here that the two cousins met and the ‘Magnificat’ was first sung. To honour this, I sang the Magnificat outside the church. In the crypt of this church is this well which many believe is where the Visitation took place, a well near the house of Zechariah where the Baptist was born, and also a well that Our Lady would have come to daily to draw water. At  this place, therefore, Mary, who might well be called the well of salvation from whom the living waters of the Saviour was drawn, came to draw the waters of Ein Kerem.
The name ‘Ein Kerem’ is fitting, for the waters of the spring, which bubble up in this place of many wells, are indicative of fecundity and new life. For it is here, in the person of St John and his parents, St Elizabeth and St Zechariah, that God’s vineyard, Israel, learns of the coming of the Saviour who refreshes it. But not only Israel but the whole of God’s creation is renewed and made fruitful by the coming of Christ, so that from henceforth, all may now drink of the new wine of divinity that unites Man to God. (cf Jn 2:10-11) 
O God, you are my God, for you I long; for you my soul is thirsting. My body pines for you like a dry, weary land without water. – Ps 63:2
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PHOTO 8: A particular joy and privilege of staying in Jerusalem throughout this pilgrimage, and being so close to the Holy Sepulchre, meant that I could visit this place, the centre of the world, every day. So, almost every evening, I rushed straight from dinner to the church of the Holy Sepulchre. The doors would shut at 9pm, so I usually had just under an hour to explore the church, to enjoy the relative calm of the evening when the hordes of pilgrims and tourists had gone home, and to sit and pray in the shadows. Looking down from Calvary just before the doors are shut, this is where the entrance to the church is located, and here is the stone of anointing surrounded by pilgrims who are kissing it, touching crosses and Rosaries and handkerchieves to it, and kneeling in silent prayer. 
I love this church because all of Christian history and cultures and peoples, with their rich diversity and confusing variety – and our disagreements, too – seem to converge on this sacred place. It is fragrant with the smell of incense, burning wax, and sooty olive oil, and it embodies the antiquity of the Christian Faith. Above all, it reminds me that Christianity did not originate in the West, and is not our possession, even if the Vicar of Christ ended up in Rome. Rather, in a sense, Christianity belongs here or at least it has its roots here, in the exotic ‘Middle East’, which comes alive with keening Byzantine chant, bearded monks in long black robes, and the hubbub of languages more ancient than Latin. For many centuries the universal Church looked to Jerusalem and its liturgies and rites for inspiration, for here, in the church of the Holy Sepulchre was the central focal point of the one true Faith, and thus, the centre of the world. During my one week in Jerusalem, how could I fail to come here daily and stand atop Calvary and beside the Empty Tomb?
How good and how pleasant it is, when brothers live in unity! It is like precious oil upon the head running down upon the beard, running down upon Aaron's beard, upon the collar of his robes. It is like the dew of Hermon which falls on the heights of Zion. For there the Lord gives his blessing, life for ever. – Psalm 133.
Tomorrow: Nazareth and Mount Tabor.
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bluestempigeons · 10 months
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Pictures of baby Sooty that my phone keeps shoving at me. Of course you came into the house for the first time during pride month 🙄
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morallygreyprompts · 5 years
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Oh could you please write a snippet where the hero saves the villain and lets them stay with them, they both already are very fond of each after knowing each other for quite sometime. That the villain practically follows them around like a cute puppy as well as commenting and complementing them causing the hero to blush? Sorry if its wordy or too much and I understand if you can't but thanks anyway.
Ask 24
*breathes deeply* I smell fluff. You worded it just fine and I shall do my best!
The apartment fire was rapidly growing out of control. Hero had managed to come with a little preparation, a small mask that gave them a source of clean air. Almost everyone had been accounted for, Hero had head from outside that someone had been pulling people to safety, but that person hadn’t been accounted for, neither had a little boy. So hero had hurried inside to try to find them. The firefighters searched the lower floors but Hero went higher, into the room the little boy and the mystery person had last been spotted in before rubble had meant they couldn’t climb out of the window.
Even though Hero could breathe the smoke was blinding. But they could hear a noise, a never-ending beep. Hero followed it as best they could, looking in each room of the apartment. The Hero almost tripped over something, no someone. They were holding a rolled up duvet. Hero pulled the duvet away, unwrapping it slightly to see the little boy wrapped up, alive but struggling. Hero covered the boy back up and sent a blast of energy at the wall, putting a great hole in it. The building shuddered. They had to act fast.
The fire service was already moving a great ladder towards them with a man on top. Hero lifted up the boy and passed the little boy to him, getting him to safety.
“I’ve got another one here,” Hero called out. They went back for them but Hero could sense the building was weakening. They couldn’t get to the window. They waved the fireman away. “Go! Go!”
Hero went back to the other and checked for a pulse but as they did shock coursed through them. It was Villain. Hero took off their mask and out it onto Villain, giving them the air they desperately needed. Hero tried to hold their breath as best they could as they draped Villain across their shoulders and carried them downstairs, so many stairs. The floor Hero walked on was melting, burning. Hero’s eyes watered with the smoke and the heat.
Hero sent another blast of energy out on the same side that they had before. Hero peered down the gap to see they were low enough to jump on the massive inflatable they’d put down. They had to jump. After slipping the mask off Villain’s face, they threw them down. A sudden explosion forced Hero out the hole before they could wait for Villain to be moved. They tried to aim away from Villain and narrowly managed.
For a second, Hero lay there in surprise. Then they rolled off the sinking inflatable, turning their attention to Villain. Villain was coming around. Hero stayed with them all the way to the hospital, barely able to take their eyes off the movement in their chest and their blistered sooty face.
___
“They’re letting me out today, but I’ve lost everything. Even the car got crushed with debris.” Villain said from their bed. They were lucky that no one knew their face, no one other than Hero. Hero hadn’t left their side since the fire. Villain had almost died in helping other people out of the building. Had it not been for Hero they might have.
“Then stay with me,” Hero said as they handed them a glass of water for their scratchy throat.
“I can’t ask that from you,” Villain said. “Offer the place to someone else. I’ll find a hotel.”
“You didn’t have insurance, did you?”
Villain shook their head. “It’s a means of getting followed by the law.”
“You’re staying with me,” Hero decided. “I’m not giving you a choice. Other people will have that support- you don’t.”
Villain gave a wet smile. “Thank you,” they said. Hero moved closer and gave them a reassuring hug. “I’ll help you get back on your feet.”
___
Hero let Villain sleep for the first few days, looking after their burns and keeping them comfortable. Hero didn’t mind. They’d earned the rest, Villain hadn’t liked the hospital enough to get a full night’s sleep. Once they were rested there was no keeping them down.
Hero was busy trying to find Villain a place of their own again, but their favourite part of the day soon came to be as they made dinner. Villain always did their best to help out. The radio would be on and the conversation would flow. Sometimes a good song would prompt a quiet sing along.
“You’ve got a lovely voice,” Villain admitted quietly as they chopped an onion. Hero turned their attention to the empty pan as their cheeks flushed red. “You’re not that bad yourself.”
“No? My [relative], always said I had the voice of an operatic seagull.”
Hero laughed “Tough crowd, huh?”
Villain grinned. “Yeah, man, the stories I could tell about them.”
Hero loved their talks more and more as the evening went on. Villain had a skill for slipping kind words in towards them, no matter the story, getting chased by cows, barbeque disasters, anything.
When they sat down together for their meal, Hero found themselves getting reluctant to tell Villain there was an opportunity for them to get their own place.
“This is delicious,” Villain said. Hero smiled and thanked them. No, they didn’t want them to leave. Villain seemed to notice. “Everything alright?”
“Of course, great in fact. A friend contacted me today. They said they might have a place for you to rent.”
“That’s great,” Villain smiled. “I can get out of that pretty hair of yours.”
Hero smiled. “I’ll take you to see it tomorrow- but if you don’t like it feel free to say so. Having you here has actually been nice. Don’t think I’m forcing you out.”
“Of course,” Villain smiled. “I’ve loved the last few days too. I’ll have to visit if I do like it.”
That prospect lightened Hero’s heart.
___
Hero shouldn’t have been so happy when Villain didn’t like the place, but they were. It meant they had more time with Villain. Villain just seemed to glow with gratitude and kindness, of course, they always had been kind to them but living with them had made things even better. They’d learned things about Villain that they never thought they would.
“This is probably stupid,” Villain said as they walked back towards Hero’s place, “but I don’t think I’m… comfortable, with the idea of living by myself just yet, not after everything that’s happened.” That dashed all of Hero’s happiness, replacing it with guilt.
��Then you don’t have to leave until you’re comfortable,” Hero said. They couldn’t stop themselves blurting “Stay forever.”
Villain smiled. “I couldn’t disrupt your life like that. Our friendship is complicated enough as it is. But… I’ve never been more comfortable until  I stayed with you,” Villain admitted.
“That means a lot, [Villain].” Hero was a little surprised when Villain reached for their hand. Hero let them take it.
“I know I’ve said it a lot but you really are amazing.”
Hero blushed.
Hope I stayed on track and I hope you like it!
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anne-aerwyna · 5 years
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Anne ~ Chapter 16
Roy lead Anne and Dawn through Maerinia in quite a similar fashion to the way they first explored it. He managed to avoid going through back alleys, but any other street was fair game. The three went down main roads, side roads, narrow hidden roads that anyone else would easily mistake for dead ends; Roy took them anywhere and everywhere that wasn’t where they wanted to be. Anne, who was just happy to be out and about in the city, was grinning while walking behind him, listening to the Maerinia facts that he was constantly spouting off any time they passed by a building. She couldn’t tell that they were completely made up, so Roy enraptured her with tales along the lines of ‘one time a Lagiacrus destroyed this very cafe’ or ‘some of the stones in this street are actually Gravios scales!’. Dawn, bringing up the rear, futilely tried to tell Anne that there was no way any of those things could be true.
“How can you stand to listen to this stranger’s unbelievable lies? You know that none of these things ever happened, don’t you? He’s just speaking to be heard, nothing more.” Dawn chided as they crossed a stone bridge ‘that a Gobul jumped all the way over, almost eating a passerby’. Anne, who was walking heel-to-toe along the parapet, spun around and started walking backwards, arms outstretched to keep her balance.
“I just love a good story. My village is full of retired hunters, so when I was growing up I heard amazing things about weapons and monsters. Those stories are what inspired me to be here today, so even if something is a little crazy or different, I can’t help but want to believe it.” Even while scolding her, Dawn was surprised that Anne could hold a conversation while moving the way she was.
‘I thought she was supposed to be a clumsy girl with social problems. “Sometimes people can do unexpected things,” huh?’ she thought, as Anne’s words took root in her head. Even still, Dawn wouldn’t be backing down without sharing her important wisdom. “You will only be fooled and taken advantage of if you believe everything you hear.”
“Well,” came Anne’s thoughtful reply as she hopped off the parapet, still walking backwards. “I think that’s why I met you! I can believe anything and you need facts, which makes us a great pair, don’t you think? One of us is optimistic, the other is calculating; one of us i-”
“Alright, that’s enough idealism for one conversation. I believe it’s time to get back to reality. I don’t feel like shouting ahead to that man, so can you go ask him if he’s ever going to take us to the shops?” Anne’s smile faltered for a moment.
“Y-you want me to do it? Yelling really isn’t something I want to do... I don’t have a choice here, do I? Well, just know th-” She was abruptly cut off when her back collided with Roy’s, nearly sending both of them to the floor.
“Woah!” he exclaimed, staying upright thanks to the weight of his armor. “I knew you’d fall for me eventually, Dawn!... oh, it’s Anne. You alright?” Anne nodded quickly, using all of her willpower to not cover her face with her hands.
“How could you let that happen?!” She hissed sideways at Dawn, completely flustered. “I know you saw him stop!”
“Oops.”
“What do you mean ‘Oops’?!”
Dawn looked like she was having fun. “Anyway,” she said, changing the topic, “why did you stop, Gilderoy? Surely you aren’t lost in your own city?”
He looked down at her with a wide grin. Dawn only noticed now that he was a good six or so inches taller than she was. “Of course not! Come on, how could you think so little of me?”
“Easily.”
“Well then, feast your pretty green eyes on this!”
He stepped out of the way, allowing Dawn to see beyond. The relatively narrow street they were on opened up into a large perpendicular avenue, on the other side of which was a monstrously out of place building. Breaking the normal white and brown dress code, this building was an iron nightmare complete with smoke and flames. It could hardly even be called a building; two of the ominously black walls were missing entirely, with a twisted wrought iron bar supporting the roof where their intersection would be. The floor was covered in sand, and in the middle of the building, as the centerpiece of it all, was a remarkable forge that rose through the ceiling, constantly releasing a sooty haze into the air. Roy gestured towards the building, smiling as proudly as if he had built it himself.
“Welcome to Ironman’s!”
The smell of coal and steel caught Anne surprisingly off guard. She had short flashbacks to the armory back home, and to her blacksmith father who was probably hard at work on some piece of equipment right now. She shook her head, once again clearing away thoughts of her village.
“And look,” Roy continued, making his way across the wide road ahead with Dawn in tow, “I got you here so quick that hardly anybody is around! Can I get a ‘Roy is the best’, team?”
“No.” Dawn’s negative replies were becoming shockingly fast.
“That trip was quick?” Anne asked herself, following the two across. Roy ignored the abuse.
“Let me introduce you to my good friend Ironman. I’ll tell you now though; he’s not too hard to understand, but nobody knows where he’s from. He’s a big town mystery, but he does his job really well and hey, what more can you ask for?”
“A competent guide.”
“Oh, there’s my man! Ironman, it’s me, Roy Gilderoy!” The person Roy was referring to was sitting behind a counter, chair leaned back with his feet crossed on the tabletop. He had shoulder length grey hair, the entirety of which was flecked with coal dust and soot. Upon hearing his name, Ironman slowly put his chair in its proper position and stood up. To the girls’ surprise, he was an absolute giant of a man; at least seven feet tall with broad shoulders and the muscles to match.
“Oh,” he said in a deep gravelly voice, looking the three shoppers up and down. “If it isn’ Gilderoy. D’you fin’lly have someth’n’ else y’ need smithed?”
“We won’t be doing any smithing today, Ironman. I brought these two lovely ladies here to take a look at the fine selection of beginner armors you have. They need to get equipped before we head out, you know?”
‘Did he say “we”?’ Dawn looked towards Anne to see if she heard the same thing Dawn did, but Anne was already lost to the sets of armor hanging on the wall.
Ironman headed to that same wall and pointed at the first four sets of armor hanging there.
“These four ‘r’ th’ cheapest. Made ‘f good Kelbi leather. Supple ‘n’ tough.”
Every movement he made was slow and heavy, as if gravity was affecting him a hundred times more than normal people. Even the way he spoke was drawn out and tired. Dawn couldn’t tell if it was because Ironman was old or if that was how he always was, but the slowness annoyed her a little. Anne was totally unbothered; she was too busy examining the first of the four sets, which was the one that caught her eye the most.
“Blue isn’t really my color,” she pondered, looking over each piece carefully, “but this one looks like it has the best mobility. No loose fabric, tight and comfortable material... I think this is the one!”
“This black one is suitable for me.” Dawn had picked out a set similar to Anne’s, except it was jet black and had an interesting little cloak that terminated at the elbows. “It’s a shame that most of this is tight leather; I prefer having some flow to my clothes.”
“I’m sure the black will look great on you! I’m just glad we could pick something out quickly, we have so much more to do today.”
Ironman took the two sets in question and put them in cloth sacks, one for each girl. Surprisingly, being with Roy actually earned them a decent discount. Dawn knew better than to question savings, but as soon as Roy was distracted she just couldn’t resist asking Ironman why he of all people got a discount.
“Well,” said Ironman with unbearable slowness, “I’ve only forged th’n’s f’r ’m one time, but he brings ‘n so m’ny cust’mers that he d’serves ‘n’ anyway.”
“Just once? He doesn’t come here to repair that gaudy armor of his?”
“Ev’rytime he goes out ‘n’ comes back, ‘s arm’r’s ‘n’ perfect c’ndition. Very strange. Same w’th that lance.”
“Thank you for the information, Ironman. I’ll have to keep a closer eye on Gilderoy.”
Having heard his name, Roy turned around and called out. “Come on, Dawn, we need to get going to the next store! Just like an Uragaan, we don’t stop rolling!”
‘That was surprisingly decent,’ she thought, slightly horrified that she didn’t have anything bad to say to him. Reluctantly, she followed Roy and Anne out of Ironman’s and into the steadily-brightening gaze of the sun.
“Next stop, Penny’s!”
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bluestem-archive · 3 years
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just got Sooty new hay for her nest and she's very excited about it
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qqueenofhades · 6 years
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Starlight & Strange Magic, Chapter 1: In Which Lucy Preston Makes An Entrance
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Rating: M Summary:  Lucy Preston, a young American woman, arrives in England in 1887 to teach history at Somerville College, Oxford. London is the capital of the steam and aether and automatonic world, and new innovations are appearing every day. When she meets a mysterious, dangerous mercenary and underworld kingpin, Garcia Flynn, her life takes a turn for the decidedly too interesting. But Lucy has plenty of secrets of her own – not least that she’s from nowhere or nowhen nearby – and she is more than up for the challenge. Available: AO3 Notes: I made this edit a few days ago. We all knew this was going to happen next. I regret everything. Sort of.
From the air, London resembles a vast, sprawling clockwork curiosity, a city of wheels and gears and steel and steam, the gothic towers of Westminster Abbey and the Houses of Parliament rising through the mist alongside the capacitor and telegraph aerials and the murky, coiling line of the River Thames spanned by new ironwork bridges. There is not much green, aside from the neat rectangle of Hyde Park and the smaller isosceles of St. James’. It is a world of bronze and brick and brass, stone and soot, burning coal to such a degree that faint yellow fog lies over the city even on clear days (and this being London in any century, there are not that many of those). But the yellow is mixed with the finer gold of the aetherium, which burns the brightest at sunrise and sunset and casts an eerie, lovely sheen over the crowded rooftops and old church steeples, the dome of St. Paul’s and the narrow crookback lanes that lead to forgotten medieval cemeteries and shops that murmur of magic. There is plenty about this London that is not at all beautiful, that is deprived and crammed and brutally poor in tenements and workhouses, opium dens and sleazy dancehalls, but when the aether falls on it, you tend to forget.
Lucy Preston sits by the isinglass window as the airship starts its final approach, firing its thrusters and easing down toward the Greenwich docks rapidly taking shape below. This is a comfortable passenger liner that nonetheless has made the transatlantic float from New York in only four days; its owners, the Great Western Airway founded by Isambard Kingdom Brunel, will be taking out advertisements in the papers to boast of speed records. Lucy has traveled second class, somewhat shockingly unaccompanied, and she glances at her faint reflection in the window. She is dressed for traveling in a striped-silk gown, belted overcoat, and broad-brimmed hat, parasol propped by one gloved hand and matching clutch held in the other. Women in 1887 require an obnoxious amount of accessories.
There are several bumps and jerks as the zeppelin’s crew throw down mooring lines and the well-dressed passengers get to their feet, preparing to disembark. Lucy subsides inconspicuously into the crowd and waits her turn in the queue like a proper Brit, feeling the cool, damp September air on her face as she starts to file down the ramp. Porters in caps and shirtsleeves are pulling the luggage off, trunks and portmanteaus and hatboxes, crates and birdcages and what looks like an entire household. Lucy waits until she is reunited with her own modest movables, pressing a penny into the porter’s sooty hand. She hasn’t gotten more than a few steps from the looming airship before a boy in a grubby neckerchief comes speeding up. “Carry your bags for a bob, mum? Fetch a hansom cab for you, mum?”
Lucy is aware that if she starts handing out too many tips, she will have half the urchins in London following her around (to say nothing of pickpockets) and she’d prefer to maintain close control of her possessions until she gets her bearings. She politely but firmly shoos him off, has to repeat the process five seconds later, and finally reaches the street. She could go by river, as there are plenty of small craft bobbing along the Thames, but decides she is not quite brave enough to step onto any of those. She hails a hackney carriage, climbs inside onto a hard velvet seat and a dim, musty interior, and gives the driver an address in Bloomsbury. He shuts the door, climbs up behind the horses, and with another jolt and a jerk, they roll off.
It turns out that it would definitely have been faster to sail. It’s a miserably slow, stop-and-start journey into central London, the cobbled streets crammed with horses, carts, broughams, hansoms, costermongers and their barrows, a reeking tarlike slop six inches deep that should barely be dignified with the name “mud,” and here and there one of the new clockwork carriages, running on steam and driven by automatons that almost look human until you get close enough to see their blank metal faces and spinning-gear hands. Strictly speaking, they don’t need to look like that, but the wealthy Londoners who can afford the carriages have a certain expectation of what they should look like. Still need to show that they have underlings doing their bidding, mortal or mechanical.
It’s getting dark, the gaslamps striking on in small islands along the street, by the time they reach the boarding house in Bloomsbury, not far from Russell Square, and the hackney rolls to a halt. Lucy accepts the driver’s hand down, pays him, and allows him to carry her bags up the front walk as she rings the bell. After a few moments, a maidservant in a starched black dress and pinned apron comes to answer it, and Lucy, with a final thanks to the driver, steps inside.
The boarding house is suitable, if plain, and the landlady, one Mrs. McBride, seems friendly enough, if clearly confused why Lucy is traveling alone. “Are ye meetin’ your husband then, mum?”
“No,” Lucy says. “I’m here to take a lecturer’s post at Somerville College, in Oxford. I’ll be traveling up there in a fortnight, when Michaelmas term starts.”
“Oxford, is it?” Mrs. McBride clearly is not sure how to react to that. She seems to decide that since Lucy is, after all, American, that may explain some of her more outrageous peculiarities. “They’re taking on ladies now, are they?”
“Not all of them,” Lucy says wryly. “Or most of them. But Somerville was founded for women, I’ll be teaching history there.”
Mrs. McBride nods cautiously. “Your husband will join you up the country, then?”
Lucy starts to open her mouth to explain that no, in case it wasn’t clear, there is no husband anywhere in this equation. But given as she is thirty-four years old, and spinster status starts anywhere past twenty-five, that seems likely to provoke an outpouring of sympathy as if she has a terminal illness, or askance looks as if there must be something seriously wrong with her to stop an otherwise eligible young lady from getting married (is it the books? It must be the books) or more questions than she feels like answering. “Yes,” she says. “He’s coming to join me later.”
This momentarily settles the issue, though it leaves Lucy wondering if she’ll have to invent a husband, and Mrs. McBride summons her son, a strapping seventeen-year-old redhead named Seamus, to carry Lucy’s things up to her room. It has a narrow bedstead with a brass headboard, a wardrobe and side table, and a roll-top desk with a chair, as well as a filament lamp. The lavatory, Seamus informs her proudly, is just through the door there, and they’ve got a toilet done by the same chap who’s done the Prince of Wales’ at Sandringham House, holds a Royal Warrant. None other than the famous Thomas Crapper.
Lucy chokes a little at this, though she manages to avoid letting him see, and goes in to look. The hot water is not unlimited, so there will be no long showers, but there’s a claw-footed bathtub, a sink, and a pull-chain toilet, CRAPPER emblazoned over the back in raised porcelain letters. Lucy thanks Seamus, assures him that it’s suitable, and waits until he’s gone. Then she ensures that the door can lock, glances out the window to check the sight lines, and draws the curtains. Goes to her suitcase, undoes the catches, and looks to see if the knots she did up in a certain way have been undone or changed at all, or if there’s any sign of her things having been rummaged through. She doesn’t think anyone could have gotten to it on the airship, but she needs to check.
As far as she can tell, everything looks the way she packed it, and she’s kept the most sensitive bits in her valise, which never left her possession during the whole trip. Lucy digs through the skirts and petticoats and jackets, stockings and garters and blouses, takes them out and hangs them in the wardrobe, then opens the valise. She removes a six-shot Colt “Peacemaker” revolver and a box of bullets, loads it, and spins the chamber with her thumb. There is also a smaller one-shot, pearl-handled derringer, a gun barely powerful enough to do more than threaten cheats at cards in a smoky saloon, and a disassembled Winchester Model 1886 lever-action rifle, the heaviest thing she’s got going. It should be enough to drop anything coming at her, as long as she doesn’t miss. And depending on who – or what – is coming at her, it is an essential precaution.
Lucy pauses, then hides the Colt in the side table drawer, assembles the Winchester, and stows it beneath a loose floorboard under the bed, finishing her unpacking and stifling a yawn. The bunk in the airship cabin was not particularly comfortable, she was close enough to the droning engines that it was always loud, and she had to maintain the same level of vigilance on the crossing, which means that she’s starting to run in a permanent state of sleep deprivation. That is not useful for the kind of work she is going to be doing, so perhaps she should try to catch up. Supper first, however. She doesn’t exactly have anyone to cable about her safe arrival.
Lucy changes out of her traveling clothes into a plainer shirtwaist and buttoned skirt, peering into the small mirror to tidy her messy bun. She briefly wonders if she should bring the derringer, then decides that if she really thinks she’s going to get murdered over dinner in the boarding house, she’s doomed from the start and all of this is a waste of time anyway. A bell rings to call the lodgers to mealtime, and she goes back downstairs.
Mrs. McBride dishes up portions of her hearty Irish cooking (Lucy has a feeling that potatoes in some shape or form will constitute a large part of her culinary experience over the next fortnight) for her current boarders: Lucy, a pale, wheezy young parson on his way to a new living in Hampshire, and a slightly self-important-looking fellow from Cambridge in the city to present a paper on aetheric science at the Royal Aeronautical Society. Lucy is the only woman, so after the parson has said grace (Mrs. McBride tactfully overlooking the fact that it is Protestant grace), the men both turn their feelers on her. The Cambridge fellow patronizingly congratulates her on a post at Oxford (the implication being that of course Oxford is a suitable place for someone of her second-tier intellectual caliber) and the parson wants to know about when her husband will be joining her. Lucy apologetically says that Mr. Preston is very busy in America and it may be several months. God, she hopes she doesn’t have to suffer through too many pleasant dinnertime conversations with these planks. Or perhaps she should search their rooms and –
No, no. She is getting too relentlessly paranoid (she has some reason, but still). Lucy makes a compromise with herself that she’ll look into them further if they do anything suspicious, but they’re both due to be gone by the end of the week. Neither of them have any particular reaction to her name or American accent, aside from the usual oh-dear expression of Brits confronted by expats from the colonies, and if she is going to suspect every condescending Victorian man of being a Rittenhouse agent, it will be a very long stay indeed. At least her polite fuck-you smile will get a lot of use, but that’s nothing new by now.
With that sorted, Lucy makes it through the rest of dinner, then graciously excuses herself and heads upstairs. As she’s reaching the top landing and about to turn down the corridor to her room, she pauses at the window, pushing the lace curtain aside for one last glimpse. She’ll just look, settle her mind that there’s nothing, and –
There’s someone standing just out of sight of the streetlamp, cast in shadow. They’re wearing a trench coat and bowler hat, initially looking like any other Londoner out for an evening stroll, but as Lucy looks harder, she can see the flat bronze gleam off its face that means it’s not a person, it’s an automaton. This one is entirely in a different mold from the ones that were driving the carriages, and for just as obviously a different purpose. Clockwork servants have been advertised as the new fashionable modern innovation (almost makes you wonder if the British Empire, currently at its height and owning a literal quarter of the earth’s landmass and population, would stop exploiting it, but nah) but this automaton has not been designed to scrub laundry boards or sweep floors. It is huge, square, and solid, has pneumatic pistons for arms and some kind of broad-barreled blunderbuss strapped on its back. Its head turns to either side with eerie, mechanical slowness, as if scanning the street and passerby. Back and forth, back and forth, for as long as it keeps ticking. It will need to return to its clockmaker to be re-wound at some point; most automatons can’t manage more than twelve hours independent, so they are still vastly inefficient for long-term operations. But who does Lucy know that got their – got his – start as a clockmaker? Who would be very interested in this new technology?
Rattled, she jerks the curtain shut, and speeds to her room, shutting the door and turning the key. Not that the door would be much deterrent if the automaton suddenly bashed its way in, and even her Winchester is not likely to drop a murderous metal giant that doesn’t feel pain and is operated according to esoteric scientific principles. God, she wishes Rufus was here, but even he is not likely to be much help. This is entirely different from anything he has ever studied.
Right, Lucy thinks. Risk or no risk, she needs to go out tomorrow and see about acquiring herself a weaponry upgrade. It could just be a coincidence that a skull-crusher of a mechanical soldier is stationed right outside her boarding house, but that is really pushing it, and it unfortunately seems to vindicate her fear that Rittenhouse is already on the lookout for her here. Is that thing going to be there every night? Don’t risk pushing curfew or coming back too late after sundown, or – squish? It can’t stand there all the time, the neighbors would notice, and as noted, it needs to get rewound. It has to leave eventually.
To say the least, however, this is not a recipe for peacefully catching up on lost sleep, and after she’s undressed and shrugged on her nightgown, she makes sure the Colt is in reach and warily closes her eyes. Opens them every time the floor creaks, of course, but it’s an old house and it does that often, and one advantage to the automaton being so godawfully huge is that it would definitely make a lot of noise breaking in. Not exactly a stealth operator.
Lucy manages to doze off, though it takes a while, and wakes in the morning without having been crushed into pulp by the rise of the machines. She washes in the small amount of hot water she can get, dresses and does her hair, and puts on her hat and gloves and boots. It’s grey and drizzly outside, so the parasol will function for more than just the aesthetic, and she looks out the window on the landing before venturing any further. The spot by the lamppost is empty; there’s no sign of the automaton anywhere. A solitary hansom cab clatters by, iron-shod wheels making a racket on the cobblestones. Otherwise, the street is quiet.
Lucy decides she’ll buy breakfast while she’s out, checks that the Colt is snug in its inner pocket in her belted tweed overcoat, and takes a deep breath. All right. She can do this.
She pushes through the door and out into the mist, adopting a confident stride as she heads south, toward Covent Garden. London at least looks mostly like she remembers, with the streets and neighborhoods in the same place, though there are of course countless new side lanes and unfamiliar buildings and no other familiar points of reference. But she has a good sense of direction and she doesn’t get lost, or at least too much. Covent Garden Market is just opening for the day, butchers hanging fresh-slaughtered pig carcasses, bakers and greengrocers and cheesemongers and milkmen setting out their goods, and all of it smells very good, but aside from paying a halfpenny for a hot roll, Lucy doesn’t stop. Makes her way to the back of the market, and the dusty door there, set down several steps and barely visible among the slimy bricks that surround it. Here goes nothing, probably.
Lucy finishes off the hot roll and then digs in her purse, pulling out a small bronze obelisk and fitting it into one of the carvings on the door. It briefly seems to glow of its own accord, casting the alcove in burnt-umber shadows, and she turns it, hearing a whirring of gears clunking and clicking behind the door. After another moment, it slides open to the side, as if running on a track, and reveals a steep, narrow staircase that descends out of sight under the earth. The steps are cracked and mossy, uneven underfoot, and Lucy keeps one hand on the wall as she starts down. The last thing she needs is a dramatic facer into the Croft.
The door rumbles shut above her, sounding like a tombstone, and for several moments, the way is entirely dark, so Lucy has to feel with each foot for the next step. The Croft is not the Night Market, which was raided, destroyed, and put out of commission thirty-six years ago, and it is much more prosaic in its goods and services on offer, but it’s the only place in London she’s going to find heavy automaton-killing weapons without immediately drawing unwelcome attention. Everything sold here is, strictly speaking, terribly illegal, but that is a trifling account in Lucy’s life now, and it’s not like any of its denizens are very fond of coppers (or peelers, she thinks that’s what they’re usually called right now, after Sir Robert Peel, founder of the Met). Especially if enough money is involved, nobody should be talking.
After a few more minutes, Lucy can see weak grey light ahead, reaches the bottom of the stairs, and steps out into a long, low hall of indeterminate placement whether above or below ground. There are windows, but it’s not clear if those correspond with any particular light from outside, and the water that drips on the walls looks as if they might be in one of the countless old tunnels under London, near the Thames. The Croft, like Covent Garden, is a market, with stalls set up and sleepy-eyed proprietors boiling coffee in tin pots and pulling colored scraps of cloth off their wares, but everything you can get here should not be tried at home.
Lucy glances around, spots something that looks likely to cater to her needs, and starts off in that direction. It takes all of two minutes, however, for the usual problem to return. “You want what now, mum? If it’s a lady’s pistol you’re looking for, I’ve some handsome ones here, fit into a handbag and not too heavy for a – ”
“I have a derringer,” Lucy says impatiently. “I want something that could take down an automaton. I assure you, I know what I’m about.”
“Something that could do for a tocker?” The proprietor does a double take that would almost be comical in other circumstances. “The bloody hell would – sorry, sorry for the language, mum, sorry – a lady like you need something like that for?”
Lucy senses that the fuck-you smile is going to get a lot of use indeed, but she still needs to convince him to sell to her. She’s just wondering if she should casually pull out the Colt and twirl it like a gunslinger, when the faded bit of calico in front of the stall is pushed aside, and a man comes strolling in. He’s slightly weaselly-looking, with a sandy mustache and a pocket watch chain looped across his dirty waistcoat. “Morning, guvnor. You got the guns ready?”
“Ah – ” The proprietor shoots a guilty look at Lucy, as if a lady should really not have to witness this grubby transaction. “Got as many as I could get me hands on. Given the trouble of collecting ‘em, I really think it should be another guinea on the price? Or – ”
“It’ll be two, like we agreed.” The man glances at Lucy. “Didn’t know you had your trouble visiting today, eh? Looks much too good for you.”
“No, not mine, she just – ” The proprietor is clearly hoping that Lucy will remember some pressing business and clear out on her own accord. “This bird turned up and wanted a piece as could do for a tocker, would you believe that?”
“Did she?” The man’s attention is now fully on Lucy. “Why’d that be, mum?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this was the Spanish Inquisition.” Normally she might just go off and come back later, though she’s not certain that attitudes will have become progressively more enlightened in six hours, but now Lucy’s mad, and she isn’t leaving here without that gun. “Why exactly are you here, Mr. – ?”
“You can call me Karl.” He shrugs. “Don’t think I’ve seen you in the Croft before, Mrs. – ”
“You can call me Lucy.” She stares at him narrowly. “I’m new in town.”
“Apparently.” Karl raises an eyebrow. “How about you run along, then?”
“I want to buy a gun, and if that’s too – ”
“Can’t,” Karl interrupts, looking smug. “I’m here to buy all of them. None left for you anyway. Nothing against you being a lady, I’m sure, but – ” He reaches into his trouser pocket and after a brief interlude of digging, removes two tarnished but still-good golden guineas. “Go on, Dooley, there’s a good man. I’ve got the lads just outside, waiting to carry them off.”
There is another uncomfortable pause as Dooley, as the merchant’s name apparently is, glances between Karl and Lucy. Then he gives her an apologetic shake of his head and disappears into the back of his stall, reappearing in a few minutes with the first of several crates. Karl whistles, and several strapping-sized men troop in, crowding Lucy back against the plywood wall with no more notice than if she’s a wax figurine at Madame Tussaud’s (currently a highly popular attraction on Marylebone Road). There are three crates of guns, and these are not just polite little pistols that shoot ordinary bullets. Lucy catches a glimpse of highly modified stocks with aetheromagnetic receptors, electrical filaments and broad-bore muzzles, until it looks as if Guy Fawkes has turned up almost three hundred years later and really does not intend to fuck around. Who the hell needs this many guns? You could take down a whole airship. Or blow up the Tower or London, or –
It is obviously a less than advisable idea to be standing here as a clearly identifiable witness to a large-scale illegal arms deal, and unless Lucy is going to drive a private bargain for them to skim one off the top, she should in fact get out. She ducks out of the stall as Dooley is bringing the last crate out, but she has only gotten about a dozen yards when someone grabs her arm. “Where’re you off to in such a hurry, ma’am?”
Lucy turns and glares icily at Karl. “Let go of me.”
“In a minute.” Karl does not appear in any hurry to do that, until Lucy reaches up and pries his fingers off. He looks momentarily startled at the strength of her grip, and adopts an obnoxiously ingratiating smile. “Just thought – no need to make any trouble for anyone, now, is there?”
Lucy continues to stare at him coldly. She knows that no good can come of asking him flat-out why he’s buying so many guns, and she searches his face, trying to decide if he looks Rittenhouse. Not that Rittenhouse is so obliging as to wear a sign around their neck, but she does have some practice at it by now. Finally she says, as neutrally as possible, “Big party?”
“Something like that.” Karl shrugs. “Look, I’ll sell you one of the guns, if you really want. As long as you keep your mouth shut and don’t get in our way.”
Lucy wonders exactly what that means. Nobody is buying this amount of high-powered weapons just to put them into a cellar somewhere, and it seems more than likely that things are about to get very interesting, whether in London or outside it. She does need the gun, but she’s left unsure if this is a bargain she should be making. Is Karl a noted underworld figure? That is currently a thriving element in London, mundane or otherwise, and the Croft is, as noted, the hub for the extra-legal activities that spread their feelers through this strange steam-powered Victoriana. He doesn’t look like a feared crime kingpin, but that means nothing. They never do.
“Oy, Karl.” Right on cue, one of the henchmen pops up, gun crate in his beefy arms. “We got to get moving. Boss won’t be happy if we’re late.”
Karl turns to shoot an annoyed glance at his associate, even as Lucy notes that down with interest – Karl himself isn’t the boss, they’re working for someone else, though Karl seems to be some sort of trusted, arms-procuring consigliere. With a long look at Lucy warning her that he is definitely going to remember her face, but now is in a hurry to blow this joint, Karl opens the crate, pulls out a midsize, short-barreled musket with a heavy stock and an aether coil, and hands it to her. “On the house,” he says. “This time. Like I said, you better not arse it up.”
With that, and no apology for his coarse language whatsoever (not that she needs it, but still a decided contrast to Dooley), Karl jerks his head at his trio of muscle-bound thugs, and they make a smartly paced exit. Lucy is left with a gun that she doesn’t really know how to operate, a hundred more questions than when she entered, and a lingering sense that she might have just made (another) powerful enemy. Who, she has no idea, and after a long pause, she stuffs the gun into her valise and ducks back into Dooley’s stall. “So who were they? Regular customers?”
“Wha – Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you scared me.” Dooley was clearly hoping very badly that he was done with unexpected visitors for the morning, and Lucy does feel for him, but she also needs some answers, and she’s willing to play a little dirty to get them. “Mum, you just saw – they bought my whole stock, I couldn’t sell to you even if I wanted.”
“I believe you,” Lucy says pleasantly. “You clearly had prepared their order, though. Admirable service. Who in London is buying that many guns, though? Any chance someone might know that they all came from you?”
Dooley’s eyes flicker back and forth. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, mum.”
“I’m fairly sure you do.” Lucy folds her arms. She is definitely going to take the opportunity to make misogynists squirm. Though it isn’t really something outstanding or personal in any case, not that that excuses it, but just what polite Victorian society has taught them from the ground up. The National Society for Women’s Suffrage was founded twenty years ago, and Emmeline Pankhurst lives and works in Russell Square right now, but still, change is going to be slow. “You’re frightened of whoever Karl works for, aren’t you?”
“Be a bloomin’ idiot if I wasn’t, wouldn’t I?” It’s hard to place Dooley’s origin – his surname is Irish, his accent is generally working-class London, though at that, it turns broad Cockney. “You want to get in trouble with that maniac? Be my bleedin’ guest.”
“Maniac?” Is this some notorious local bruiser and small-time mafioso that Rittenhouse has recruited to terrify the London underworld and coordinate some of their incidents? Lucy leans forward. “What maniac?”
Dooley looks as if he very deeply does not want to be having this conversation, but out of an apparent charitable desire to help prevent her from getting herself killed, he sighs and begrudgingly spills the beans. “Name’s Flynn. His lads come along, it’s just better you do what they say, easier for everyone. Only been in London a few years, but he’s taken down big fish already, bigger than ‘im. You want some advice, mum, stay away from all that. And please, for the love of Christ, don’t go telling anyone about. . . all this. I’ve got me the three nippers.”
“I’m not going to tell anyone.” That, at least, Lucy can promise him. But since it is readily apparent that he owes her a favor, and she still hasn’t quite forgiven him for making it so difficult and inadvertently getting her entangled in this when he could have just sold, she pulls the gun Karl gave her out of the bag. “I need cartridges for this. And anything else it takes. I expect you’ll give me a good rate on the price?”
Dooley cringes, but can clearly tell that he has made his own bed with this, and busies himself in fetching the required items. Its bullets are an inch long and half as wide, looking heavy enough to take down big game on safari, and there’s a hand pump that activates the electrical current if it is to be used on, as Dooley calls them, tockers. Since the only legally owned military automatons are those belonging to the Army and the Met, it is plainly obvious that anyone buying this weapon is going to be getting into trouble with important people. And the mysterious Flynn sent his henchmen to buy three crates? Clearly, he is taking no chance that there is any important person in all of Great Britain that he might accidentally neglect to piss off. No wonder Dooley doesn’t want his name anywhere near it.
However, this fact is still gnawing at Lucy’s head as she leaves. Flynn could very easily be Rittenhouse, just because they like to have a monopoly on force and/or weapons of any kind, and certainly don’t give a Thomas Crapper whether or not it’s legal. But they have also always preferred to go the shadow-in-the-halls-of-power route. Recruit important people in high-ranking positions, get the system to work for them, turn the institutional wheels to their own advantage, rather than operate as rogues or outlaws. Rittenhouse is the law, that’s their strength. They make it, they are its organization and its enforcement. They’re much more likely to be using the automatons as their lethal weapon, in other words, rather than getting guns to destroy them. Flynn could be buying up the guns on Rittenhouse’s behalf in order to get rid of them, thus making it harder for the masses to oppose the tocker takeover, but it’s just strange enough that Lucy frowns. No matter what Dooley has said, she wants to know more.
By the time she climbs up the stairs from the Croft and emerges into Covent Garden, it’s midmorning, and London is awake and teeming with noisy, dirty, colorful life. Dodging past taverns, tenements, general stores, guildhalls, gentlemen’s clubs, booksellers, banks, hurdy-gurdies, townhouses, telegraph offices, tea shops, cemeteries, churches, more churches, insurance companies, statues, streetlamps, sideshows, park squares, museums, and houses of ill-repute, not to mention the countless boys flogging the Times or the Telegraph or other bastions of considerably yellower journalism, Lucy tries to think how to do some more digging without being totally obvious. She can’t get too far off track with her other little project either, but she can’t walk straight into Westminster and ask if anyone here is an agent for a dangerous American secret society. It’s always been hard hunting Rittenhouse, but here she feels like she’s doing it with a blindfold on and both hands tied behind her back.
Lucy stops to get a hot pasty for lunch, eats it while strolling down the Mall, and glances at the square grey oblong of Buckingham Palace at the end. Victoria has been queen for fifty years now; in fact, they celebrated her Golden Jubilee in much style and expense this past June. After a dip in popularity resulting from her decades of mourning and withdrawal from public life following Prince Albert’s death, she is once more a beloved, grandmotherly figure, prone to forming deep attachments to younger men – first John Brown, her Scottish equerry, and more recently to Abdul Karim, the Indian “Munshi.” If Rittenhouse was making some sort of play for her and her vast empire, wanted to make sure it was their sun that never set, would they send in a new favorite, a good-looking young fellow instructed on what to say and do to draw the aging queen’s attention? Disrupt Victoria’s attachment to Abdul before it becomes too deeply set (they only met a few months ago) and provide a more suitable (read: whiter) candidate for the tastes of the deeply starchy, conservative, and racist British court? It seems possible, at least.
Lucy tries to think if William Gladstone or Lord Salisbury is presently prime minister, as it changed back and forth several times during this decade, and that assumes that everything happened the same way here. It is obviously very close, with the addition of clockwork men and flying airships and other minor differences, but surely some things have changed, events nudged one way instead of another. How consequential is that? As well, it shakes up her usual rule of thumb for dealing with this. She doesn’t know what has happened, or what is going to happen, and that leaves her without any frame of reference for what she should or should not try to save.
After a pause, Lucy tosses the rest of her pasty to the ravenous pigeons, hails a hansom cab, and rides back to Bloomsbury, where she heads to University College, London. It started admitting women nine years ago, but that does not mean that the human fossil who peers down at her from behind a high wooden desk is happy to see her. “Can I help you, Miss. . .?”
“Professor.” Lucy smiles pleasantly. “Professor Preston. I would like to go into the Royal Historical Society’s library, please. I hold a position at Oxford – Somerville College, I’m on my way to take it up. So if you’d just – ”
She can sense herself about to be taking about her tenth Misogyny shot since landing, when there is a loud tut-tutting noise from behind her, and a small silver-haired woman, possibly in her seventies, appears from around the corner. “For goodness’ sake, Hubert,” she snaps. “I did promise I’d ensure you got the sack if I saw you being obnoxious to the lady students again, and I can entirely see to that happening. Surely you would prefer to avoid that? Otherwise do let me know, and we can make life altogether simpler for everyone.”
The porter – Hubert, apparently – opens and shuts his mouth, comes up with nothing, and is posthaste browbeaten into admitting both Lucy and the old lady, who is carrying a bronze-clasped case in one hand and her walking stick in the other, into the RHS archives. Lucy glances sidelong at her, feeling obliged to thank a fellow female academic, and someone who clearly has considerable standing around here to just sail in and shut people up. “I do appreciate it, ma’am. I’m Lucy Preston, by the way. I’m taking up a lectureship at Somerville in October.”
“I heard that.” The old lady regards her with a shrewd dark gaze, head slightly to one side. “Mary Somerville was my tutor and teacher, I knew her well. I am Ada King, Countess of Lovelace. She taught me mathematics as a young girl, and we were quiet close.”
“You’re – ” Lucy’s jaw drops. “You’re – oh my God, Ada – Countess Lovelace, I’m – I’m honored, I’m very honored to meet you. I just thought – well, never mind, I – I didn’t know you had – had a post here?”
“I don’t,” Ada says aristocratically. “I do stop by on occasion to tweak the Analytical Engine, though. It does need a terrible lot of fiddling, and I’m still really the only one who knows how to do it. Will you have read any of my papers, then?”
“I – yes, I’ve – I’m familiar with your work. You and – and Mr. Babbage, you managed to actually build the Engine, then? I didn’t think you did.”
“It was quite a trial.” Ada glances around the library, then starts toward a door from behind which a faint whirring and clicking is emanating. Lucy trails worshipfully after her – after all, it is Ada Lovelace, only legitimate daughter of Lord Byron, mathematical genius, and essentially the first computer programmer, in partnership with the great inventor and eccentric Charles Babbage. She has clearly lived well past the age of thirty-six, enjoyed a successful career, and become a respected intellectual powerhouse in the age of steam. Ada pulls a key out of her case and unlocks the door, revealing a room containing a large, clattering machine. Treadles stamp, cards are punched, pistons spin, gears clank, and keys slam, and it smells like oil and hot metal. “Don’t stand too close, dear. It can tend to spit.”
Lucy takes a precipitate step back as Ada forages in, removes a pair of goggles from her case and puts them on, and takes a wrench out, regarding the machine like a doctor preparing for a complicated surgery. She expertly ducks as it throws a bolt, shakes her head at it, and levers it back into place, tightening it a few turns and checking the cards that come chittering out. Then she tips her head at Lucy. “Here, give it a try. Ask it to find something in the library for you.”
“Is that what it. . .” Lucy supposes there must be several operable Analytical Engines, designed for different tasks, and that University College owns this one, at enormous pride and expense, so its students don’t have to dig through card catalogues like everyone else. Wary of any more bolts, she steps closer. “Do I just ask it out loud?”
“Yes. Just there.” Ada points at a bronze speaking trumpet. “Nice and clear.”
“Er.” Lucy glances reflexively over her shoulder. There’s no one there, but she feels nervous anyway. As quietly as she can, she says, “Rittenhouse?”
“What was that? Don’t mumble, dear, I can’t abide mumblers. The machine won’t understand you, anyway.”
Lucy raises her voice. “Rittenhouse.”
There is a corresponding clack and whir from the Engine, riffling through punch cards, but it does not last for very long, or spur a second phase of operations. Ada shakes her head. “Nothing on that topic, I’m afraid. What on earth is Rittenhouse?”
“It’s better if you don’t know.” Lucy considers, then clears her throat. “Flynn?”
This time, there is a louder and longer flurry from the machine, and a trapdoor bangs open, a tray comes rattling through, and then another, containing several stacks of newspapers and a few books. Lucy, after a glance at Ada to confirm that is what she is supposed to do, takes out the papers and carries them out to the reading room, spreading them on one of the tables. They are all the articles or other items containing the word Flynn, and Lucy quickly discovers she should have been a lot more specific, as it is a common Irish surname and there are apparently five hundred Patrick Flynns in the city, to say nothing of all the other names. Just as she’s about to give up, she comes across an article in the Times from last year, condemning the disruption and mayhem of one Garcia Flynn, and the lawlessness he has brought to London’s underworld (not, one has been given to understand, a particularly lawful place to start with – they probably don’t even take tea at four o’clock, the hooligans). It is the opinion of the Editorial Board that he is riffraff, and a gipsy to boot. They really cannot wait until some public-minded citizen gets him chucked into the Old Bailey where he belongs. Newgate gallows are not out of the question.
Lucy stares at it for a long moment. She can’t be sure, but this sounds like her man. She was figuring he was Irish, and a gipsy could mean that, as it’s used to refer to Irish Travelers, but it could also mean an Eastern European more generally. Garcia isn’t an Irish name, though, and the blurry, three-quarters photograph affixed shows a tall, dark, sharp-featured man, face turned away from the camera; he is obviously not about to sit still for the several minutes it takes for a full exposure. He is wanted for questioning in regard to several unexplained incidents of a violent nature. A substantial reward is offered for information.
Since this article is from August 1886, and it’s presently September 1887, Lucy can assume, given her run-in with Flynn’s boys this morning, that they have not in fact caught him. Dooley said he’s been in the city a few years – was this just the first time he brought himself to the attention of the authorities? Either way, he doesn’t fit the profile for a likely Rittenhouse mole, not if his name and (most of) his picture are in the paper urging the public to turn him in. Who the hell is this man? She’s heard of a lot of people, but she hasn’t heard of him.
Having sifted through the rest of the papers and not found much else, Lucy carries them back and puts them in the tray, pushing them back through the trapdoor. Ada is continuing her tinkering, and Lucy supposes it’s best to leave her to it; besides, she’s nervous about cutting it too close with getting back to the boarding house, in case the automaton returns at dark. It’s only midafternoon, but dusk comes increasingly early in London in autumn, and she can make a few stops beforehand. She tells Ada once more how amazing it was to meet her, and hurries out.
The rain has stopped, though it’s still murky and cool, and Lucy weighs up where she wants to try next. She’ll probably have to venture to the rougher parts of the city at some point, and even with a good deal of heavy weaponry, that will be a gamble as a woman alone. Her feet are getting sore in their fashionable buttoned boots, and she wants to sit down, so she crosses the road to a coffee shop and goes inside. The faint reminder of home briefly makes tears sting at her eyes. It’s been a long time, after all. In more ways than one.
Lucy drinks her coffee from a porcelain cup and saucer with a white-gloved waiter solicitously at her service, spaces out for a while, and then, hearing the nearby church bells call four, decides that she should definitely get a move on back to the boarding house. It isn’t far, since she’s still in Bloomsbury, and should be a swift walk, but the air is pink and blue and grey when she steps out, and it makes her hurry her steps. The automaton didn’t turn up at sundown last night, but if it – or rather, its masters – know for a fact now that she’s there –
Lucy is waiting at a corner for a trolley car to pass when she hears a murmur from around her, which quickly deepens into a shocked hiss. Fingers point upward, necks crane, and people stare at the sky. It is generally well-trafficked with airships – passenger cruisers, pleasure barges and tourist flights, cargo freighters, Royal Navy aeronauts, and steam balloons – but at the moment, there’s only one that has caught everyone’s attention. It’s a zeppelin about the size of the one Lucy arrived on, in fact might have been making its way to the Greenwich docks for a scheduled touchdown, but that will remain a mystery. It’s on fire near the tail, coming in hard and low, and there’s an alarmed outcry over the instinctive fear that it will crash directly onto their heads. As soon as that fire reaches the hydrogen supply – but while accidents are not uncommon, a world that relies so much on airships should have found a better way to –
At that, a dark, unformed suspicion crosses Lucy’s mind. She really does hope she’s wrong, and she will happily eat any amount of crow if she is, but she personally saw all those guns being bought this morning, and even had the thought that that was enough firepower to take down an airship. She should definitely get out of here, but she stares up at the burning zeppelin, hesitates a moment longer, then starts to run.
The airship swerves and veers overhead, almost close enough for Lucy to hear the flames crackle, as she tries to fight her way through the crowds running, sensibly enough, in the opposite direction. It’s not going to make it much further; it looks like it’s going to crash in Regent’s Park, which at least has a lot of open space for it, though it’s surrounded by expensive villas and has the possibility to put a lot of rich people unhappily out of their houses. The zeppelin is burning in good earnest now as it plunges, and there’s the sound of breaking glass as passengers decide to smash windows and jump out rather than wait for the crash. Lucy dodges as someone falls out of the sky in front of her and hits the paving stones with a gruesome sound, but doesn’t stop running. She doesn’t even know what she’s going to do or what she’s looking for, just that if this is what she thinks –
The zeppelin blocks out the sky above the street, its pilot house scraping on the gate with a massive fountain of sparks, as it does a half-somersault and plows nose-first into the green expanse of Regent’s Park. Lucy can feel the heat lashing her face, and skids to a halt, staring, at the oiled-silk skin charring away to reveal the bones of the frame. People are still stumbling from the wreckage, coughing and gagging on the smoke, and the distant sound of alarm bells means that the London Fire Brigade is on its way – there is nothing that Lucy can do to help anyone, and she needs to go, she needs to go, she needs to go. But for some inexplicable reason, her gaze is drawn up as if by a lodestone, across the way to where a tall dark figure is just turning as if to run for it. For a horrible moment, she thinks that it’s the automaton from last night, that it has somehow followed her here, or even that it downed the airship itself – but why?
And then, a gout of violent firelight falls on half of the figure’s face, and Lucy sees that it’s a man, not a tocker. A man that, even from distance and from a bad newspaper photograph, she somehow recognizes at once.
Garcia Flynn.
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leanstooneside · 3 years
Text
John Jay
themes of universal admiration
like of me
death of jacob
power of his
piles of filberts
mention of his
heaps of rusty keys
perversion of humanity
him her opinion of it
people's opportunities of innocent enjoyment
masses of corrupted
ghost of christmas
idea of peter's
group of handsome girls
glass of mulled
their can of grog
kindnesses of life
burial place of giants
great deal of steam
end of his
thick gloom of darkest night
vast quantity of snuff
den of infamous resort
saucepan of potatoes
great compactness of their
encompass them of its
word of warning
deprive them of their
nothing of high mark
frightful range of rocks
sunniest pair of eyes
mysteries of wonderful creation
great round pot bellied baskets of chestnuts
hour of night
sprinkling of his
space of time
handle of his
man of business
mere relief of scrooge
all kinds of good little dots
blended scents of tea
satisfaction of thinkingha
piece of my
wall of mud
ray of brightness
notion of his
younger members of my
shadow of its
murmur of delight
his usual time of day
feet of comforter
credulity of human
waistcoats of jolly old gentlemen
left nothing of it
consequence of his
secret joy of scrooge's
deal of work
streak of fiery
noble adjustment of things
shower of sooty
foldings of its
great heaps of sea
sight of heaven
little knot of business
heavy wheels of carts
fresh roar of laughter
monstrous masses of rude stone
feint of endeavouring
sticks of cinnamon
conduct of his
their deeds of passion
fatness of their
quartern of ignited
men of business
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